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2020-06-29
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Appetence

Summary:

Appetence: defined as an attraction, a natural affinity, or an instinctive desire. In other words, it's a cosmic sort of bond that clouds the mind until all thought is consumed by that singular point of infatuation.

When Voldemort divines what Harri Potter truly means to him in the graveyard, a festering obsession begins. His horcrux. A part of his wayward soul, crafted from his marrow, magic, and might— his very own damning appetence.

He knows what has been kept from him, what rightfully belongs at his side, and now?

Well.

Now, he wants her back.

Chapter 1: Irony is Harri Potter's Best Friend

Notes:

Hello, everyone!

I have been toying around with the idea of a femHarry story for quite some time now and I am beyond excited to finally start posting these chapters. This is the first fanfic I have written so if you have any comments, constructive or otherwise, I would love to hear them! Currently, this story is also without a beta— while I do make an attempt to reread several times to catch any errors, a few are bound to pop up.

There are also a few things I just want to bring to your attention:
- This is a femHarry story so if you aren't a fan of the genderswap trope, then please take note of this! I have also aged her age up to be 15 at the beginning of the plot rather than 14.
- We begin at the end of the Triwizard Tournament and there have been a few tweaks I have made to the canon to better suit the overall story.
- I have tagged this as 'Explicit' and with 'Eventual Sexual Content'. There will be no actual sex, however, until Harri is 'of age'. I have only used the 'Underage' tag to conform with the American standard that the actual age of majority is 18— in the Wizarding World, it is 17 but I wanted to avoid any issues that may arise from that discrepancy.
- What I am writing is not meant to be pure smut or porn without plot, despite what the rating and tags may say— there will be some scenes of that nature but they will be far later into the story! I just wanted to cover all bases possible.
- Also, as a fair warning, this fic will get rather dark and there are sensitive topics mentioned, such as abuse and trauma stemming from it.

And as always, Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling in every which way! I hope you guys enjoy this story and thank you for clicking on it!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



If Harri Potter had been forced to sum up her entire existence into a single word, she felt that “ironic” would be most appropriate. 

Ironic in the way a fire station is burnt to the ground. 

Or, perhaps, in the way a man's car is hit by an ambulance on his way to the hospital.

And the more she reflected on the word, the more ascertained she was that it was her perfect, lifelong companion. The ever-present theme to all of her experiences; a seemingly private joke she was not privy to understanding. Because even now, huddled behind a crumbling gravestone, her dirt-caked fingers trembling about her wand, she could find it reflected in her current situation: the irony  

After all, Hogwarts, widely deemed to be the safest place for young witches and wizards, chose to host a competition designed to torture and maim its competitors— the very same students the school was supposed to be protecting.

Lord Voldemort, a man who sought to evade death at every turn, chose for his rebirth to take place on the Reaper's very own front doorstep— a graveyard.

And Harri— the naive girl she was who simply yearned for just one uneventful school year— found herself unwittingly spitting on the solemn declaration she'd made to Hermione and Ron at the beginning of term: "Nothing will go wrong this year, I just feel it."

Though in hindsight, and considering her past track record, she wondered how she'd even been capable of such a hope to begin with. Or, for a different matter, why she verbally expressed such a desire in the first place? A fool, that's what she was: in reality, she had more likely jinxed her fifth year instead of blessing it. 'There's a reason why Muggles don't say their wishes aloud,' she thought sullenly, glancing down to her jagged fingernails and frowning at the fact each one was now broken and dirty from scrambling in the mud. 

Yes, there was no other way to look at it: she had jinxed herself. Because instead of being in her beloved common room and in front of a roaring fire, steadily nursing a mug of hot chocolate and wiggling her toes in garishly coloured wool socks, she was here. Hidden behind someone's decaying grave— their memory as faded as the name etched into the stone— crouching in the damp earth and shivering from the cold as the Dark Lord was brought into existence once more.

Oh, the irony was abundant.

"Wormtail. The girl,” Voldemort's hissed command came without warning; a drawn-out sort of whisper that caused her skin to crawl. It yanked her from the safety of her thoughts, her introspection, reminding her of just who, exactly, was waiting on the other side of the tombstones. 

Her breaths devolved into shallow bursts, quiet by all means but somehow still thunderous to her ears. They were as loud as she dared to let them be— as loud as necessary to keep herself from passing out— too afraid to draw attention to her hiding spot by inhaling, exhaling, too deeply. After all, while Wormtail had been busy marvelling at the frothing cauldron— enraptured with the resurrection of his Lord— she'd managed to slip his flimsy bonds. Was it perhaps a bit cowardly to run? Sure. But all the same, Harri felt no shame in taking advantage of his distraction— nor of relying on her particular skills to hide.

Yes, hers was a talent acutely honed over the years, developed out of necessity for survival: how to learn to make herself small. Insignificant. Unnoticeable. In a household where too-loud steps were readily punished and the phrase 'children should be seen, not heard' was taken to a literal degree, she had long since discovered the importance of not drawing attention. How to slip under the radar to avoid heavy hands; to seek out the best hiding spots on a moment's notice. Such a talent especially came in handy during bouts of her cousin's favourite pastime: Harri-Hunting. But oh, how vindictive was her glee when she'd spend hours watching the boy search high and low, colouring purple with his frustrations before eventually giving up.

Of course, Dudley was just a Muggle. Dudley didn't have magic. He couldn't weasel her out with location spells or conjured fire, couldn't search for her signature or potentially hear her thoughts. And the threat of him wasn't real. He never sought to kill or irreversibly maim— and how his antics paled in comparison to her current situation. Mere child's play.

A cry of thinly-veiled horror suddenly resounded between the dilapidated tombstones. Her absence, it would seem, was finally noted. 

Harri's fingers flexed about the wand as she cradled it to her chest— the press of warming holly against the dulling beat of her heart. A drawn breath was held, refusing to be let go despite the burn in her lungs. No, this time she dared not to exhale. 

“M-my Lord, she’s gone,” Wormtail stuttered.  

A beat of silence ensued.

The dampness of the spring night clung to her exposed arms, the fine mist of the fog a chilling shroud. Her ears strained to make out what was happening past the scattered symphony of the crickets, their relentless chirping floating from somewhere beyond the iron fence. It was too quiet, otherwise.

Too still.

That lethargic pulse of hers had given rise to a flighty cadence— adrenaline spiking as her heart thudded against the confines of her ribs, too much pressure attempting to pass through too thin veins. 'This is it.' Her mind readily supplied the sound of nearing footsteps; of a skeletal monster outfitted in tattered robes looming ever so closer. Maybe he had found her. Maybe he already knew and was just toying with her and—

Reedy screams fractured the quiet.

Green eyes blinked in the darkness, alarmed when the screams morphed into wet, gurgling noises— and then the grating wails of a man in pain. Harri instinctively shrank back against the rough stone, ignoring the way it bit into her bare shoulders and scraped her skin raw. Despite some shred of morbid curiousity, she couldn't quite bring herself to look over the gravestone's edge, the bravery such required eluding her. But then again, her mind was imaginative enough in that regard. Oh yes, it was conjuring images on its own that made her want to retch. Terrible, gruesome images.  

Trembling hands clamped over her ears as she tried to block out the sounds, simply praying for the quiet to come back; a mercy when it finally did. 

“It is no matter. She is still here somewhere, I can sense it. Your arm, Wormtail.”

There it was again— the chill ghosting through her, goosebumps prickling over her clammy skin at that voice. 

His voice.

For reasons that completely escaped her understanding, Harri found there to be an odd sense of familiarity in the way he spoke. She knew she could blindly pick it out from a crowd if asked to do so, despite having only heard it twice— but that's all it took. All it took for it to become forever imprinted into her memory.

Two times hearing it and she remembered

And it wasn't for the distinct sibilance it possessed, or the way the vowels were carried with an irrefutable authority. No, it was more so that there was a quality to it that resonated deep within her— an instinctual recognition. Such a thing defied all rhyme and reason, especially when considering that their previous interactions had been limited to a face on the back of Quirrell's head or an afterimage of Tom Riddle— both of which weren't even truly him. No, those were shells. Empty husks. Poor imitations that paled in comparison to the very real monster standing a few feet away in the dew ladened grass.

This was different

It terrified her. 

Squinting into the darkness, she sought another exit, the need to escape only heightening. However, much to her growing dismay, there appeared to only be one— and it was clear across the cemetery, a good yard or two of exposed lawn. Even with the training she had been put through to become a Seeker, the endless laps she ran around the perimeter of the Black Lake in preparation for their upcoming matches, Harri doubted she would be quick enough to make it unnoticed. Her gaze narrowed to reconfirm the distance to the wrought iron gate— a groan when she arrived at the same conclusion. 'Brilliant. Just brilliant.'

Slumping down against the grave's marker, the crown of her head bumped absentmindedly against it— a desperate attempt to spark some ideas through the repetitive motion. Options raced by at a dizzying speed, bitterness bright on her tongue when the best plan— the only plan— she managed to come up with was catching Voldemort by surprise.  

'Merlin, help me.' It was a reckless idea; one that far surpassed even her standards for what was excusable. But she would be damned if she was to be slaughtered here with only crickets and moss-covered names to bear witness to her final moments.

The muscles in her calves tensed— the coil of a spring tightening— ready to bolt. A Stupefy had already formed on the tip of her tongue, her jaw ticked in determination.

“Stupefy, then run. Stupefy. Run. Stupefy. Run,” she chanted under her breath, a holy mantra.

Wand clamped between her teeth, numbed fingers double-knotted the muddied laces of her worn sneakers for good measure. 'Stupefy. Run. Simple enough. You got this, Harri.'

Drawing in a shaky breath, she searched to find her centre, her calm— to summon forth the adrenaline that would lead her into a blind charge. However, just as she was ready to leap out in true Gryffindor fashion— to go down in a blaze of glory— several rather distinct 'pops' gave her pause.

An unusual sound, it had defiled the hush of the cemetery and interrupted the melodic chorus of the crickets. Brows knitting together, her locked knees went lax. 'What was that?'  For the first time all night, Harri chanced a glimpse over the edge of the tombstone.

What greeted her was disconcerting, to say the very least.

Several wizards, outfitted in austerely cut robes and silver masks, were now loitering among the graves. It took her a second to fully piece together what had happened. ‘He summoned his bloody Death Eaters.’ She cursed silently— a slew of such foul words that would have made even Ron blush— as the heels of her dirty palms pressed unkindly into her eyes. Unable to help it, a lump formed in her throat as the only plan— albeit it wasn't the greatest one— she'd been banking on fell apart before it could even come to fruition. The golden window of opportunity had passed and what was left was an embittered understanding that she was now, undeniably, trapped. 

“Shit,” was her frustrated hiss as she forcefully tossed her holly wand to the ground.

Maybe if it had been just the Dark Lord and herself, she could have had a fighting chance— but even her luck was bound to run out when faced with six, maybe seven, capable and grown wizards. Especially considering that she'd yet to complete her own schooling with grades barely passable at the best of times. And admittedly, it was moments like these when Harri couldn't help but wonder what Hermione would do if she was dropped unexpectedly into a similar situation. After all, she was almost certain her friend still wouldn't be here, cornered like a muddied rat. 

'That damn cup.' Her gaze slid towards the night sky, holding no small amount of contempt as it fixed mutinously upon the flickering northern star. 'I wouldn't even be here if I hadn’t bloody touched it in the first place.'

Wait.

A slow blink; another to follow. Her mouth— the bottom lip split from a rather nasty fall in the maze— parted as the revelation hit her in full force. How did she not see it sooner? How did she not possibly realise there was magic imbued into the cup? Distantly, there was a chiding voice in her mind— the clipped pronunciation eerily similar to Hermione's— telling her that the head on her shoulders was there for a reason.  

“Merlin, I'm an idiot,” she mumbled, pressing her chilled hands to her forehead. “It’s a portkey.”

And if it was a portkey?

Well, that meant it went both ways.

Boldly sparing a second to peer around the tombstone, her eyes cast wildly about the grown-over graves and unruly weeds in search of the trophy. Even with her, admittedly, rather limited vision, she should be able to see its brightness, its beckoning light. And there— on the other side of the winged statue and a few feet from the cathedral's arched gate. The warm flush of triumph filled her to the brim and, were it not for the fact there were a number of questionably dark wizards occupying the cemetery, she might have cried out in relief.

Finding herself somewhat apologetic towards the star, she mouthed a rushed out 'thank you' to the sky before snatching her discarded wand from the mud.

A deep breath in.

A controlled exhale out.

She tried to recall the motions for the summoning spell, her green eyes fixed determinedly on that distant, blue light. "Accio cup!"

Nothing happened.

The trophy remained in its casted off position, unbothered and unheeding her call. When a second attempt yielded the same result, she swore under her breath at the conclusion that it was probably too far away. 

She would have to get closer. 'Things can never be easy, can they?'

Her head snapped to the left, tilting slightly as she strained to listen in on Voldemort's continuing speech. He was still droning on about his inevitable triumph over death, about his prowess and might. 'What a narcissist,' she scoffed. In a way, he almost reminded her of those poorly written Bond villains— the ones so obsessed with the deliverance of their monologues that they failed to notice when their nemesis slipped right past them. The sort that Dudley was enamoured with, glued to the television set on Saturday nights while the channels looped black and white reruns.

Reaching up to tighten her fraying ponytail, her hair matted with dirt and sweat, her shoulders rolled in an attempt to loosen the tension held in them. ‘You got this.’ A shaky breath; an exhale through chapped lips. The hand not holding the wand had curled into a fist in a bid to stop its trembling. 

And then she bolted.

Ducking behind the closest gravestone, heart set into a punishing tempo, Harri paused for an anxious moment to see if anyone had noticed her. 

One. 

Two. 

Three seconds passed.

No sounds of alarm were raised. ‘Maybe this is going to work, after all.’ It was a hope she knew she shouldn’t have dared to entertain, at least not right now, but one she indulged in all the same. Breaths shallow and a pulsating drum in her ears, Harri counted down from ten. Her lips moved soundlessly as she did so, muscles taut in anticipation— ‘Now!’

Scurrying onto the next, attention fixed resolutely on the trophy, it had taken her entirely by surprise when the headstone to her left erupted without warning.  

There was the deafening crack of stone splitting, a stray piece clipping her calf— a cry of shock as she dove the last few inches to safety.  

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” Voldemort’s voice was soft, casual— unbefitting of the situation. “I was beginning to wonder where you had disappeared to.” 

Harri hadn't even fully registered his words, the sharp throbbing in her leg demanding all of her attention in his stead. 'Shit, shit, shit.' A shaky moan bubbled past her lips as she dared to glance down; a belated sense of regret. Oh, she really shouldn't have looked. Below her knee, a considerable gash had been torn through the fleshy muscle, the wound deeply set and— Merlin, that wasn't her bone, was it? Sourness rose in the back of her throat, the taste of bile sickly-sweet in her mouth.

It took considerable effort to look away— but she knew she had to if she was going to keep her wits and, more importantly, the contents of her stomach down. 

Mercifully, the focus on her leg was siphoned when her arm involuntarily spasmed and a burning pain shot along to her shoulder. In her haste to duck for cover, the cut from Wormtail's knife had been reopened; a profuse well of scarlet that wept at an alarming pace. The sting radiated out from her flayed skin, making it difficult to manage a proper hold on her wand. Rather, all she could do was cradle her injured arm to her chest as the coldness of panic seeped in. 

“Come now, Harri. Do you know how rude it is to ignore someone when they are speaking to you?”

That was the only warning she received before another tombstone shattered.

Flinching at the unexpected display of violence— at the thunderous sound of stone exploding and the resulting quake that rippled through the earth below— she bit her lip to keep from crying out. But even as the spell ended, that yellowed light lingered as flickering sunspots behind her lids— superimposed afterimages of destruction. And it was the slow understanding of what he was doing, of what he was trying to achieve by destroying the graves, that caused her blood to chill: Voldemort was flushing her out.

Teeth sank deeper, worrying her split lip until the taste of copper overpowered all else. She needed a plan, a way out, now. And yet, her mind was content on remaining disparagingly quiet.

On her periphery, the trophy pulsated— a beacon of hope, of freedom. It was so close. Just a little further and she could reach it. Just a little further.

Damn it, there was no helping it, was there? She had to run for it. It was either that, or— no.

No, she couldn't dare to entertain that possibility, not now. Not when she was this bloody close. 

With a resolute nod for her own benefit— trying to convince herself it was a solid enough plan— Harri tentatively rose on shaking legs. Blood began to flow in earnest from her calf as she did so— warm rivulets slipping down into her sneakers, her socks.  

“Well, don’t you know how rude it is to ruin someone’s grave? Honestly, have some respect for the dead," she sniped back, squaring her shoulders in what, she hoped, would appear to be a brave gesture.

Emerging from her hiding spot, time seemed to suspend itself for a moment— a minute of weighted appraisal, stretched and drawn-out. 

Harri shamelessly took the opportunity to study the pale monster before her, curiousity rooting her in place. His robes, loosely tailored and cut from a cloth so black that they blended into the night, were almost animated with a mind of their own, curling and kissing his feet in reverence. And there was an odd stillness to him, his silhouette rigid as the barest signs of life came only in the way of his magic. Magic— it rolled off of him, so dark, so twisted that it was practically palpable to her. His skin, she noted with some revulsion, was stretched too far over his skeletal frame, revealing every blue vein, every filament, and every sinew that composed his newly-constructed body. And rather than having a nose— the feature sacrificed in the process of his resurrection— two snake-like slits remained to serve as an indication of where it once had been.

‘Sweet Merlin, he’s tall.' A numb sort of horror gripped her as her eyes raked over the Dark Lord’s towering form. Even the wizards standing closest to him were dwarfed in comparison. 

But the most striking detail were those burning eyes— as red as the blood trickling down her leg. Slitted pupils punctuated them, contracting and dilating in the darkness as they stared unblinkingly into her own— a testament to his lost humanity; of the brimstone and hellfire that he was, most certainly, crafted from.

This Voldemort was nothing like the pathetic husk on the back of Quirrell's head, or the ghost of a handsome young boy from a diary. No, this Voldemort was entirely too real. Too solid. Too unnerving. He was in his own league, the other forms he'd once possessed a waned juxtaposition to the one standing a few feet away. And though Harri tried her best to suppress her shiver when that burning gaze trained itself upon her, she couldn't. The look held there was unreadable. Calculating, assessing. 'A monster from a nightmare', she thought grimly, uneasily shifting the weight off her injured leg.

And just as Harri studied him, Voldemort did the same.

Taking in the battered girl before him, he thought she was a peculiar sight to behold. Smaller than he expected, her frame was a touch too slight, too delicate even for a fifteen-year-old. From the few sparse spots where mud had yet to collect, or where bruises weren’t blooming in sickly purpled shades, he also noticed that she was quite fair— almost cream-coloured in complexion. Her auburn hair— a few shades darker than her mother’s, from what he could recall— was wild and frayed from the ponytail atop her crown. Yet, strangely enough, it suited the girl. She was utterly defiant, down to the fiery strands. It was a truthful sentiment when he considered that she might be viewed as conventionally attractive when the filth was wiped away— or when those tattered Muggle clothes were replaced with something more proper. After all, each one of her features were refined, pointed and elegant; undeniable evidence of the purposeful breeding her lineage had sown. 

However, it was her eyes that ultimately drew him to her in the end: an unearthly shade of green.

Her eyes were what startled him, as ethereal and vivid as his own; a rebellious glint in their depths that made them glow under the moonlight. They served as a mocking reminder of his failure— an echo of the killing curse that should have gotten rid of her when she was nothing but a child. Unwittingly, it was those eyes that conjured up images from the night he had been reduced to a wraith— had lost everything he had worked for and built up throughout the decades. 

It was those eyes that inspired his wrath— and a fear he refused to openly acknowledge.

The Dark Lord studied the trembling girl only for just a moment longer; a second of prolonged silence where his gaze dragged in a slow, purposeful rake— a vain attempt to commit her to his memory once more.

And then hell was unleashed.

Notes:

As always, feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr!

Tumblr: elysian-drops

Chapter 2: The Cup Finally Listened

Notes:

A quick little note that Cedric is alive in this fic and wasn't with Harri in the graveyard!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Her only warning came as a blur of movement and the streak of a bone-white wand cutting through the night. Voldemort's wrist snapped forward— a wordless spell of electrifying purple.  

Harri had barely managed to avoid it, diving out of its path at the last second to land heavily on the ground. Despite the stinging in her shin from the impact— an ache felt down to the marrow— she nonetheless forced herself to roll up onto her right side, too aware of what resting for even a second would earn her. And not for the first time did she bless the existence of Quidditch— for all of those seeker-honed instincts and hard-won reaction times that she’d learnt from the gruelling sport. A silent vow was made, as she glanced over her shoulder and saw the aftermath, to never complain about her practice drills again.  

The spot where she had been standing in prior was now charred, sizzling violently against the dew. It smelled terrible— a distinct burning scent that lingered in the crisp air, acrid enough to make her eyes water. And though she had no clue as to what the spell might have been, seeing as he’d done it nonverbally, it was easy enough to guess that it was not Light in nature— and that it, most certainly, was designed to cause a good deal of suffering.  

Drip. Drip, drip. 

The sound reached her ears before her body could process the sensation of pain— bright red little droplets hitting the ground and clinging to the blades of grass. A languid path of heat slipped down her forearm, steady and trickling and coating her fingers. Uneasily, Harri examined the jagged cut, its gore bright against the smattering of mud on her skin. No doubt further jostled in her attempts to dodge Voldemort’s spellfire , it looked ghastlier than before. More serious. The skin, already irritated and stretched too thin, had split from a mere cut to a gash, its flayed edges doing little to keep it closed. ‘Well, shit.’ 

Teeth nearly cracking in her reflexive attempt to ignore the sting and the way the cool breeze served to agitate the wound, Harri tried to get a firmer grip on her wand. But then again, it was best to feel pain. Pain, she figured, at least meant she was still alive, and surely that had to count for something.  

Twisting half on the ground, her own spell was aimless and wild in its trajectory. “ Expelliarmus !”  

The corkscrew of light ended up missing its target entirely. Disintegrating uselessly against a headstone, even she knew it was a pitiful attempt. Definitely not her finest moment.

Voldemort hadn’t countered right away— a moment of reprieve for her to gather her bearings. He could have, of course. Kill her, that was. Right then and there , sprawled on the ground, he could have outright slaughtered her like an animal— ended it all with one simple spell. But yet , for some reason, he didn’t . Instead, he paused and allowed her this— allowed her to scramble back up to her feet, the hurried action causing the ground to tilt precariously; a hiss from behind clenched teeth. Her calf was all but screaming in protest.

Gingerly, Harri tried to shift some of the weight off it, her heart hammering when those burning red eyes flickered down and narrowed almost thoughtfully.  

Silence. 

It was almost unbearable, the wait for him to move again. To speak. To do something. Unbearable if not for the fact it gave her mind the chance to focus on something other than her pain and her adrenaline— to focus on thoughts she’d rather not. Like how, for instance, she hadn’t even seen his hand move. Hadn’t heard him utter a single, damnable whisper before casting. That he’d done it nonverbally. Above all, that startled her the most. Wordless casting , after all, was usually reserved for their seventh— sixth, if you were lucky enough to be advanced— year, and even then, most couldn’t do it properly. Hell, it was rare for adult wizards to even manage. And yet, here she was, duelling a man that’d done so without struggle— had done it naturally as breathing. Didn't even blink or given it a second thought.

Meanwhile, she could barely direct a proper disarming spell at him. ‘Lord, help me.’

In comparison to herself, Voldemort appeared entirely too calm, too relaxed, his skeletal fingers twirling and twisting his yew wand absentmindedly. Eventually, he looked up again, and she was paralysed by the look in that glowing gaze— assessing. Disappointed, almost, with her attempts to fend him off. Why she felt nearly ashamed, she couldn’t quite say— but she did, nonetheless.

The holly wand started to slip through her slickened fingers, forcing her to readjust her grip in order to keep a decent hold.  

Unable to stand his quiet staring any longer, she thrust her wand forward again. “ Expelliarmus !”  

Satisfaction, bright and welcomed , served to bolster her when the spell was more direct this time. It barrelled towards the center of his sternum, blurring in its speed ; a direct hit waiting to happen.

But then that sense of pride vanished entirely seeing how easily he had batted it away. Little effort, no fanfare— as if it were nothing but a mere nuisance.  

A disdainful smile pulled taut his thin lips— a row of sharpened teeth befitting a predator. “Come now, Harri, I know you can do better than this. Or has Hogwarts suffered to such a degree under Dumbledore that you cannot manage anything more than a simple disarming spell?”  

His words were belittling— a purposeful goading that made her temper flare and for shame to pinken her cheeks. And while there was a small voice that encouraged her to ignore him— to understand that he was attempting to rile her into making a mistake— it was drowned out by the stronger desire to punch him. To lash out physically if she couldn’t do so with magic. The idea was tempting, despite the fact that he, undoubtedly, would have an advantage in that area as well. After all, he was the one who towered and loomed in stature.  

The one who hadn’t spent most of the night sprinting through a maze intent on maiming him.

The one who wasn’t currently saturating the grass under his feet with his own blood. 

She shifted restlessly, trying to swallow down the spiteful retort and rein her anger. 

Around them, the scattered Death Eaters let out their jeers of support— a cacophony of thunderous voices. So focused was she on Voldemort that Harri had somehow forgotten their presence entirely— phantom spectators bearing witness to their Lord’s one-sided battle. Some were agreeing with Dumbledore’s insufficiencies; others cried out for her suffering and for their master to end the Girl Who Lived once and for all . And a few were content to comment on her own personal shortcomings, deeming her unworthy of a wand and demanding it should be snapped before her death.  

Green eyes darted about, taking in their silver masks— the fine whorls and intricate details that concealed their identities— and found herself momentarily sidetracked by the urge forcefully unveil each one. To demand the courtesy she was owed: at th e very least, they should show their faces if they wished to mock her.  

Bitterness on her tongue, it was only the flickering glow on her periphery— the beckoning of the Triwizard Cup— that grounded her. Focusing on it was enough to let all their spite and provocations fall away into mindless chatter.  ‘Just a little further and then we’ll see who can manage.' The thought was born out of indignation and a healthy dose of vitriol as she refocused her attention back on the Dark Lord.

Harri limped a few paces back, favouring her left leg to keep the weight off her injured one. Sweat trickled down her spine— beaded at her temples— when Voldemort mirrored the movement; a step forward to match her step back, striving to close the gap between them. He seemed entirely unaware that she was leading him in a dance across the cemetery, positioning herself to be closer to the trophy.  

Crimson eyes glinted in their delight; a thrill held in them at her nonverbal agreement that their temporary armistice was over.

Her tongue darting skittishly over her chapped lips, her mind turned over rapidly to recall the appropriate spell . “Incendio!”

Flames, blinding and passionate, shot forth from her wand’s tip as they consumed the expanse of grass that separated them. The heat was welcomed against her chilled skin, crackling in its anger and unspoken mission to protect its caster. And swiftly did a thick veil of smoke begin to settle, curling out in concealing plumes that drifted upwards to the night sky.   

It was all the opportunity Harri needed.

Victory surged and granted tired legs the newfound ability to pump harder and to block out the pain in order to carry herself to safety. Harri ignored the steady path pouring down her calf and soaking into her socks, each footfall wet and leaving a trail behind her. In fact, it barely registered that the blood was flowing at what was probably a dangerous intensity. Rather, all her attention was consumed by the soft blue light in the distance and the future it represented.

If she reached it, she could live.

With some difficulty, the girl managed to dodge the haphazardly placed tombstones and uneven divots in the ground, the roar of the fire at her back serving as fuel to keep moving.   

‘I’m going to make it.’ Hope, a warming buoyancy spread out through her limbs. It made her footsteps lighter, as though they'd been blessed by Hermes himself— flying, soaring, a flutter in her chest; a sheer, overwhelming amount of relief that made her vision blur.  

The discarded cup was nearing, her fingers spread wide and outreaching.

It was so close, ready for the taking.

The winged statue guarding it was suddenly prompted into action— a grinding screech as stone turned animate.

The reaper had used the handle of its scythe to catch her about the waist, pulling her towards itself with a crushing force and caging her in. Her vision dimmed— not with relief, but with a creeping blackness that eclipsed all else. It became impossible to breath fully and to replace the air robbed from her lungs— a wheezing gasp. And it was almost instantaneous with how the lower set of her ribs smarted— a telling sign that they were bruised, if not broken.  

It took a few seconds for Harri to overcome the daze— to blink back the stupor and to regain her wits. And then she was struggling in earnest, doubling her efforts to break free of the stone prison she found herself in. The statue simply tightened its embrace, refusing to relinquish its prize before its master could arrive.

A frustrated scream tore from her when her arms were pinned down and her battered legs flailed, kicking at the empty air.

And all the while, the cup lay at her side, mocking, taunting with how close she had been.  

“Better, Harri. Much better,” Voldemort mused from beyond the curtain of smoke, his eyes flashing with a warped sense of approval. A slight wave of the bone-white wand led to the flames parting— the Red Sea bowing to his might. The fire trembled before willingly submitting to him. “But not quite enough.”

Following the Dark Lord through the dying fire was the fluid form of a snake— one far larger than any Harri had observed in the glass cages at the zoo or even at pet stores. Its triangular head was flat and the golden eyes, keen in their shine, pierced through the darkness as they fixated on her.

Seeing the creature was enough to make Harri’s stomach lurch and renew her efforts to flee. Broken fingernails scrabbled along the scythe’s handle, desperately seeking purchase and to pry it away— all doomed attempts. Ever since the Chamber, she had made it a point to avoid any and all serpents, having found that her parseltongue abilities did very little to quell the basilisk’s innate desire to kill. Just because snakes understood her doesn't mean they actually listened.

Her wand, she needed to—

A belated realisation ; a pit of dread: she didn’t have it. It had been dropped somewhere between her unanticipated capture and her struggles to get free. And there it was now: on the ground near the statue’s base. Harri spared a glance towards it, brows drawn together as she silently begged for it to fly up into her splayed palm— to come to the rescue of its master. Such concentration, however, was broken when a thick coil of cool muscle brushed up against her uninjured leg. The snake was languidly beginning to wind its way about her thrashing body, slowly moving upwards. Up, up, up, Harri felt herself grow faint at the feeling, her dread only sharpening when any efforts made to dislodge the beast turned feeble. The weight of the snake was making it nearly impossible to move.  

Oh, sweet Merlin.’ It was twisting past her hips now, those yellow eyes practically shining in the darkness and never once leaving her own. 

“Ah. I see that Nagini has taken a liking to you,” Voldemort noted in passing amusement, as if he could sense the girl’s anxiety. “Consider it an honour . She usually is off-put by strangers. Then again, you are not really a stranger, are you, Harri?”  


Voldemort stalked closer to her prone form, his robes fluidly curling about his bare feet in a whisper— almost kissing the ground he walked upon. He paid no mind to the coldness of the night, or the damp chill of the grass against his bare feet. No, rather all of his focus was elsewhere at the moment

Scarlet eyes flitted across the girl's waned face, searching for what, exactly, he did not know.

But then they landed on that infamous lightning scar peeking out from behind her auburn strands.

The raised tip of the yew wand to gently, almost lovingly, part her hair to fully reveal the curse mark— the very reason for his defeat. For his supposed death. Even among the dirt, the mud and the sweat, it was still visible against her skin. Raised and never fully healed over, a constant reminder of that night— her misfortune— that she had to forever live with. Part of him wondered what she must feel upon looking in the mirror every morning, only to see the irrefutable evidence of their history together. Was it anger? Or despair? Perhaps even both? 

The quiet hitch of a breath broke his contemplative reverie, causing his attention to drift. The girl’s chest was rapidly rising and falling— an uneven tempo marked by shallow, stilted inhales. It would appear that she was hyperventilating— was trying to greedily gulp in air where none was to be found. As simple of an action as it was, it entirely betrayed her true fear— the terror at having him be so near . The false bravado she’d put on had been stripped away, and she was left bare to his eyes. Raw, vulnerable. Weak. And, oh, how it filled every inch, every crevice of his being with a rush of accomplishment— a vindictive pleasure that in seeing the famed Chosen One reduced to such a state.  

All because of him.  

“I remember when you were just a babe." The look in his eyes hardened as he critically raked over her bruised body. "Oh, how very brave Lily Potter was, standing in front of your crib and pleading with me to take her life instead.”  

Something unsettling and dark was unfurling in him as unwitting memories recollected the very minutes leading up to his downfall. “To spare yours in turn.”  

That night replayed in the forefront of his thoughts. That night when he was reduced to nothing, to rabble, to squalor— brought to heel by a child not even two-years old and who couldn’t wipe the drool from her chin without aid. It was the grandest joke Fate had ever seen fit to play on him, a jest meant to mock and humble. Too bad he was never one for humour. 

“I also remember what it felt like to be adrift for fifteen long years, lacking a physical form and having to leech off others to remain sentient,” he sneered, lip curling distastefully. “Do you know what that is like, Harri?”  


Harri shuddered at his question, his voice— his confession— trying to puzzle out where he was possibly going with this— or what his end goal might possibly be . Part of her wished that he would kill her already if he was planning to do so. To just get this all over with and stop dragging it out needlessly with the detail s of an event she barely possessed an awareness of. 'But that's exactly what he wants, isn’t it? To make me suffer first.'  

A sharp gasp tumbled past her chapped lips at a new sensation. She had been distracted by those burning eyes, and much to her horror, the snake had gotten higher without her realising it. It curiously flicked its forked tongue over her bare thigh— an unnerving feeling that made her squirm.  

It was no small relief when the creature finally unwound itself from her legs, apparently having discovered something else of interest. 

“Master,” Nagini hissed, curling at the base of the tombstone and trying to gain the Dark Lord’s attention.

Harri looked on in bewilderment.

It was so jarring to hear a snake speak after having spent the past three years decidedly avoiding their company. And it would appear, despite her preference and wish to do so, her ability to understand them hadn’t disappeared— a curse disguised as a blessing, she figured. The language was just as slippery as she recalled, as smooth and fluid in its inflections. Completely different than when she spoke it herself, her tongue was far too accustomed to English to possibly sound like a native speaker. Nevertheless, there was the oddest urge, a curious desire she couldn’t quite understand, to try to mimic the snake’s exact accent— to attempt to force her palette to replicate the sounds.  

But then she was jolted back to the monster in front of her when he shifted forward.

The Dark Lord had deemed it appropriate to lean in even closer. And at this distance, all of the gruesome details that had gone unnoticed from afar were revealed— the little traces that betrayed his lack of humanity. Like how, for example, there was the faintest shimmer of scales on the curve of his cheekbones, the bone structure alien and far too sharply pointed. The cheeks did little to soften his face and, rather, accentuated the sloped planes with their hollowed gauntness.  

Or how, for a different matter, his teeth were impossibly white, razorlike in sharpness and set against pale gums— the threat of a predator.   

Entirely disquieting.

His tone had taken on a maniacal delight, pitching and very nearly bordering on parseltongue in his excitement. “Fifteen years and unable to eat anything, drink anything, touch anything. Well, Harri Potter." 

A fervid look— one that relayed how many thoughts were rifling through his mind— glinted in those hellfire eyes. His gaze flickered restlessly over her features— over the bruises and grime, over the damaged heart-shaped face and quivering lower lip. It was as though he was trying to drink her in, to internally capture her in his mind’s eye. To savour and record this moment to relive at a later date— his ultimate triumph.  

To remember the seconds leading up to her final demise and the day in which he would finally vanquish the Girl Who Lived— would prove to all she was nothing more than a mere teenager.  

Harri shrank back against the stone, the rough texture scraping the skin raw and its gravel finding purchase in the soft angles of her shoulders. However, she would endure the burns, the bleeding, the stinging any day— so long as it meant earning some distance from the Devil before her. He was truly horrifying up close, a monster by all rights, and his eyes did little to help to inspire any sense of ease. They were scorching in their heat, almost worshipful as they glazed over, unfocused.

Helplessly, she tore her attention from him to stare longingly at the cup, desperately praying that it would come to whisk her away. To allow her another chance to live, and , maybe, make this all out to be a bad dream— for her to wake up in the safety of the hospital wing, rendered unconscious by the maze’s sentient hedges and to assure her that this was all an elaborate figment of her overactive imagination. ‘Please, please please .’ The chant was endless, an unspoken prayer that beseeched the universe to finally trade in her good karma. Surely she had to have earned a decent amount by now? After all, she never maimed or murdered, went out of her way to do the right thing even when it was at her own expense.  That had to count for something? Right?  

“How things have changed since that Hallow’s Eve. In fact, I dare say that I can even touch you now.” A depraved glee entered his voice. Those slitted eyes blew wide in their rapture as a skeletal finger hovered over the lightning mark just above her brow.  

For the first time all evening, Harri found herself to be actually taller than the Dark Lord, the latter having to resort to standing slightly on his toes.

‘Please please please,’ she begged every deity, every god she knew of, to listen— to heed her and send her the portkey. 

To help her escape. 

To understand that fifteen years was not nearly long enough— that it was far too short and too cruel to end a life that had barely begun. There was still so much she wanted to do, to accomplish , and see out in the world. So many words that remained unspoken, so many experiences, both good and bad, that were still yet to be had— so many people to make acquaintances with, and , perhaps, become something more together.  

TThe world about her suddenly exploded as he pressed down onto the scar, the pressure unyielding. Cruel.

White-hot, searing, blinding agony   she was unable to focus on anything else. Unable to see past the neon- coloured bursts erupting behind her closed lids. A scream, too raw and real in its suffering, tore from her, the taste of copper slipping down the back of her throat and settli ng in her stomach. She had thought that , perhaps, if she closed her eyes tight enough, there would be an escape awaiting her in the cooling darkness— a chance of reprieve.  

It was pointless.

Of its own accord, her spine had arched away from the statue, thrashing and inflicting further damage onto her already abused ribcage. But she didn't care— she just needed to find a way to cope. Scorching tears trailed down the curves of her cheeks, a branding iron shoved down into her lungs that made every breath become searing. She had thought that she knew what true pain was before this moment— that it was her most intimate companion; a friend that shadowed her every step. But this? This was something else entirely. It was acrimonious. Ungodly. Infinite. ‘Please, please pleasepleaseplease ,’ she chanted, clinging to the strung together mantra and the vivid image of the glowing goblet when the agony refused to abate.   

Fingernails splintered and peeled as they tried to sink into the stone to channel the pain elsewhere. And dimly, she registered the unhinged laughter from Voldemort as he revelled in the suffering he had sown— at the sensation of touch finally being restored after drifting as a wraith for far too long. 

His delight was abruptly cut short.

The sound had been clipped in half, his mouth closing with an audible snap as he withdrew, rearing back and cradling the hand to his chest as though it’d been burnt. Confusion gave way to a pinched expression, those glowing eyes darkening in their dismay as though he couldn’t quite believe what he had stumbled upon.

“Impossible,” he seethed.  

Harri slumped in relief when their contact was broken, drained even as a spasm convulsed through her tired muscles. They jumped sporadically— a minute twitch as they sought to process what she had been put through. And admittedly, some distant part of her was morbidly curious as to what he had done— why he had stopped when nothing w as apparently hold ing him back and to understand the strange magic he apparently h eld over her.   

But then another part was just thankful the pain was gone and that she could see again— albeit in a haze. A tinge of scarlet trickled into her line of sight, the cemetery turning red as a result. She blinked hurriedly, frantic to clear it away. ‘My scar,’ she thought numbly. The mark was weeping, angry and disturbed.

When her vision was mostly restored, it was to see the stormy countenance of the Dark Lord hovering mere inches from her, his eyes narrowed in outrage— and almost fear? 

"You,” he hissed.

Voldemort had tentatively taken a step back from as though observing her. A new gleam, one of contemplation, had lit up his crimson eyes from within, and those slitted nostrils flared ever so slightly as though he were breathing in her scent.  

Harri didn’t know which was worse: his unbridled wrath and demented elation, or his purposeful dissection. The way he was staring reminded her of how a scientist might look upon an unknown specimen under a glass slide. How they would increase the magnification with every pass in hopes of unveiling its mysteries— of spotting something entirely game changing. Like she was a curiosity, a wonder to be held; one that left him bewildered, puzzled, and without an answer. Her stomach lurched at the thought.  

“I tried to tell you. She's familiar,” the snake said reproachfully, its flat head nodding sagely and forked tongue flicking out to taste the crisp spring air.

The drawn-out sibilance of parseltongue was hard for her understand through the ringing in her ears. That pulsating drum made the world sound too far, too distant —  as though she were being held underwater, drowning and forced to watch on through a bubble. Every inch of her ached, smarted and throbbed, stealing away her breath as delayed sensations were finally catching up.   

Green eyes glanced towards the goblet again. Tears clung stubbornly to their fanned lashes, earned both from residual pain and her frustration. 'Please, please, please.’

Without warning, a roar resounded from the Dark Lord, a tomb nearby shattering in the face of his anger.  

The magic rolling off of him had turned heady and twisted, coating Harri’s tongue and settling over her like a second skin— a clinging, insistent weight that refused to part from her. And how that only served to petrify her further. Whatever he had discovered about her was apparently fit enough to inspire a more extreme displeasure, an uninhibited kind of wrath. 

Overhead, clouds were gathering ominously, obscuring the stars from view. 

The snake dropped from the statue’s base, its muscular body skimming Harri’s ankles in the process. Hurriedly, it wound its way up to Voldemort’s shoulders — a susurrating whisper encouraging him to calm before he could cause irrevocable damage. It seemed to have worked for he paused , the crook of his index finger reaching up to trail down his familiar’s scaled back.   

And then he spun on his heels, his chest heaving with effort and burning gaze darting rapidly over her face.

“It can not be,” his voice was uncharacteristically emotional as he spoke Nagini, parseltongue spilling from his lips.

"But it is," Nagini responded bluntly.

For once in his life, Voldemort, a man who thought he knew almost everything and who had cheated death— who had performed feats that lesser men could only ever dream of— was at a loss. By all accounts, and by its very own definition, it should have been inconceivable. A living human as a horcrux? One who already possessed its own soul, its own personality— but forced to house another’s soul? It was paradoxical— a mystery that left him speechless.   

Adrift. 

And yet, the proof rested in front of him. 

In this mere slip of a girl with hair like fire and eyes an echo of a curse, there was a sliver of himself.  

His own horcrux.

As the Dark Lord turned away from her once more, busied with his companion— their heads bowed together in a plotting she wasn’t privy to— Harri craned her neck towards the cup. Her entire world had tunnelled down to the tropy , begging endlessly for it to move. She figured it owed her that at the very least, seeing how she had been put through hell and back for its damn competition.  

Brows pinched , her mind turned towards projecting her will outwards. It was difficult to even remember the last time she had desired something so intensely— had felt it so viscerally that it made her heart twinge and caused an insatiable itch to writhe between her ribs. ‘Please!’  

The goblet twitched, fidgeting for a split second on the ground in response. 

In the background, Voldemort was restlessly pacing and vaguely addressing his followers through doled out commands. 

Green eyes widened at the jump, the rattling of its handles and vibration of magic made only for her ears. A sweet melody; a dulcet refrain that promised freedom. 

A sheen of cold sweat broke out across her back, her mouth parched— the tempo of her pulse a punishing speed.

“Please!” she urgently whispered to herself.

The cup, apparently having had enough of her pleading, finally flew into her outstretched palm just in time for the Dark Lord to whirl around.  

“No!

It was the last thing she had heard, the yell competing with the crash of thunder above. His face, illuminated by the ensuing flash of lightning, was one that was marked by horror. A skeletal hand darted forward only to grasp at empty air. 

The graveyard bled from her view in a dizzying whirl of colour. 



A soft groan slipped out as she landed unkindly back into the recessed stadium, a swell of jovial music heralding her arrival.

Feet swaying unsteadily, her s plit lips quirked into a smile upon seeing Hogwarts in the background. It was as beautiful as always.  

Blinking against the twinkling lights, and resigning herself to the safety its halls could provide, Harri only half-heard the cheers morphing into screams as her vision dimmed—  an encroaching darkness and a sweeping tide of dizziness before she fell.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 3: Sugar Quills and Red Eyes

Notes:

Hey guys! Thank you for all of the comments, kudos and bookmarks so far! I really appreciate it 💕

For this chapter, there are some things I've changed around:
- Cedric isn't dead in this version
- Harri was declared the winner of the Triwizard Tournament

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



When Harri had finally reopened her eyes, it was to see a place dreadfully familiar to her— the hospital wing.

The girl had spent a good portion of her Hogwarts career here, surrounded by foul potions and sterile chemicals, tended to by an uncompromising mediwitch. In fact, she would probably dare to venture that her patient file was longer than the one that housed the history of her detentions, every school year earning at least three separate visits with the stern Madam Pomfrey.

Though, to say it was all bad wouldn’t exactly be fair. It was a well-guarded secret, after all, that the infirmary had the softest beds in the castle, far downier than the ones in the dorms, and usually attracted the greatest company. Plus, having an excuse to miss out on some classes was always welcomed.

The small smile couldn't quite be helped. Nor could the burst of warming contentment as she wriggled further under the duvet— the nest of pillows and the way the plush mattress conformed to the curve of her spine was something to be relished. After spending an entire year fighting for her life in a competition, one that she originally had no intention of even participating in, Harri felt that the cloudlike pillows and the moment of respite were all well-earned. And, for once, it was nice to be able to relax, to sleep a full night without planning and plotting until the hours before dawn in worry over what the next event could possibly bring. 

What she would give to stay in the hospital wing forever— in the peaceful quiet afforded to space, surrounded by luxuriously smooth sheets and the soft chirps of birdsong for companionship.

‘I can’t. Not when—.’ Her stomach lurched, a sense of dread rising as flashes of the graveyard replayed at a dizzying speed. The sibilant voice. The towering frame. The pale skin stretched too tightly— hellish eyes alight with fury, with desperation and bewilderment. Her helpless, pressed against the statue in searing agony while raw-throated screams pierced the night.

Harri sat up abruptly, plagued by the vaguest urge to retch and heart set into an erratic tempo as it all came back.

Voldemort was alive.

He had been brought forth from the void with a new body fashioned from the darkest of magic— he was back.

The Dark Lord had been made whole again, risen from the grave and it was, indirectly, entirely her fault. And now, he was roaming around Merlin only knew where, sowing destruction and death in his wake. 

Unbidden, memories of a boy emerging from a diary came to mind. A seraphic beauty that belonged in the Heavens and not made for mortal eyes to gaze upon, the ominous warning: ‘Lord Voldemort will return very much alive’. And oh, how right had he been.

Her head swam, the blood running cold in the forks of her veins, thoughts sluggish and scattered. She needed to warn someone. Perhaps she should tell Dumbledore? Or the Ministry? To alert them, anyone, to the danger that was now wandering freely about their world. She needed to— and the adults would know what to do. They always did— right?

But just as she was about to call for Madam Pomfrey, intent on negotiating with the strict matron into releasing her early, an odd sight, one that had escaped her earlier attention, caused her to pause. Slumped over the mattress and near the foot of the bed was a mass of brunette curls rising and falling with each relaxed breath— an image Harri was entirely too familiar with. After all, it was one that she had spent the past 5 years watching and sleeping next to when the long hours of the night became plagued by demons— her own personal shield. 'Hermione.' 

Warmth blossomed. It was an overwhelming relief that seemed to quell the strung nerves ever-so-slightly, to lessen their bite and mollify the internal panic. The other Gryffindor had apparently fallen asleep in the infirmary, the rosy light of the dawn seeping through the sheer drapes indicating that the girl had arrived sometime late in the night. It was a touching show of loyalty, of care and love. Something writhed about her heart.

Harri reached down, displacing the duvet as thin fingers gave a slight squeeze to the sleeping girl’s hand. She attempted to plaster on her best 'I’m-fine-even-though-I-may-not-look-it' smile.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” a soft whisper to avoid startling her friend awake.

Relief gave way to fondness as Harri noted the minute movements— the telling signs that the girl was slowly stirring. Hermione lethargically came back to the land of the living, blinking back sleep with dazed confusion. It took a second for those honey coloured eyes to regain clarity, for her to understand her surroundings. Harri smiled a bit at that, not at all surprised— Hermione always took forever to get up in the mornings.

And then brows had furrowed. The witch launched herself across the bed with a spray of wild curls, arms throwing wide about narrow shoulders. Harri winced slightly at the tightness of the embrace, at the desperation behind it— nonetheless, she tried to accept it with all the grace she knew how.

“Harri Potter! What. Is. Wrong. With. You!?”

The taller girl leaned away, lower lip quivering in an obvious sign of her distress. “Can you not go one year without attempting to get yourself killed!? I swear! I’ve never met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy! When you showed up looking like that—.”

Hermione trailed off, stubbornly wiping away the first signs of her tears with the back of her hand. It was a struggle to regain her composure, a distant voice chiding herself to act more mature. After all, it wasn't like this had been Harri's fault entirely— that she hadn't purposefully gotten herself harmed. But how else was she supposed to react upon seeing her best friend suddenly reappear in the stadium bruised, battered, and bloodied? She could have sworn her heart had stopped when she witnessed the girl collapsing. How quickly she had dropped to a lifeless heap— so small. So unmoving. It was moments like those that always reminded her that, while Harri Potter was brash and brave, her friend talented and overflowing with raw magic, she was still human— that she could die just as easily as any of them. That, in spite of the feats the girl had accomplished in the past, extraordinary things most in their year could never do, she still had weaknesses. Vulnerabilities 

An entirely discomforting revelation.

Harri frowned as guilt replaced that warmth, unnerved by the fact that she had reduced her friend to sobbing. Reaching forward, she pulled the teary-eyed girl back into her arms. "Hey, I survived, right? No loss of limbs or anything— I still have the 'Potter luck' on my side. So, please, 'Mione, don't worry about me."

Before Hermione could find it in herself to reprimand her roommate, to claim she would always worry about the girl and her recklessness, 'Potter luck' aside, the heavy oak doors swung open. A pale boy with carrot-orange hair and a smattering of freckles stood sheepishly on the other side.

His arms were stuffed with various sweets, his posture almost sheepish as he shuffled into the infirmary. There was an understanding that he was encroaching upon a heartfelt moment between the two girls, an apologetic smile tossed their way.

“They said you were awake. I wanted to come earlier but I got, ya know, held up.” Ron gestured with a shrug to the armful of candy before depositing the haul onto a chair. “This is from everyone. They wanted to be here too but Pomfrey’s only letting two in at a time.”

Green eyes lit up as Harri marvelled at the mountain of gifts, unable to contain how touched she felt at the generosity of her friends— an effervescent spark of joy that lightened her mood. With a free hand, the other arm still wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, she motioned for Ron to come closer. Awkwardly trying to manoeuvre without letting go of the girl, she managed to give the boy a fleeting side hug.

“It’s okay. Tell them I said thank you,” she mumbled as he withdrew, wincing at the soreness in her shoulders.

Hermione reared back in apology, brows still knitted together in worry but the tears, mercifully, dried. She scooted closer to make room for Ron, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled near the foot of the bed. He reached for a few handfuls of candy, tossing some onto the bed as Harri drew up her knees.

The trio sat in silence for a second, idly rifling through the assortment when Ron finally cleared his throat. “So uh, that was a wild way to end the year. What, uhm, even happened? Back there, I mean.”

Harri slowly blinked up at him, fingers stilling in their action of lightly trailing over the sweets. It hadn't escaped her notice that Hermione had nudged the boy, a sharp look directed his way and mouth pulled into an exasperated frown. 

Setting aside the red sugar quill she had been admiring, green eyes drifted down to marvel at the newly fixed fingernails, their jagged edges made whole again. ‘Is there anything magic can’t do?’ An absentminded thought as she examined the cream coloured skin of her forearms, the trace of Pettigrew’s cut completely gone. Any physical evidence of the man forcefully stealing her blood to resurrect the one intent on murdering her had been vanished. Healed. Hidden. ‘It’s as though it never happened,’ the passing thought was grim, wishing vainly with all her might that it was the truth— that the entire ordeal had been a vivid figment of her imagination.

But no.

No, Harri could still hear his voice, the hissing a persistent pressure popping in her ears. She could still see the glow of crimson pinpoints superimposed behind closed lids. Could still viscerally feel the frigidness of his lingering touch upon her. All of that couldn't just be a product of her mind, no matter how much easier it would be to say that it was.

“Voldemort's back,” she stated bluntly, not in the mood to talk about it when she, herself, was still trying to come to terms with the idea—there was a pleading note in her voice for them to drop it.

Truthfully, Harri didn’t want to reflect on any of it. Not what caused him to be so upset and perplexed after touching her scar. Not Nagini referring to her as familiar. Not the pain he had caused her or his dismay when she had fled. It seemed sacrilegious to the safe space she was currently in, an irrational fear that, if she thought too much about him, Voldemort would reappear— a monster crawling out from under the bed to turn her nightmares into a reality.

And her friends, bless them, didn't even question the validity of the statement or accuse her of lying— nor did they ask how it was even possible. Rather, they simply fell silent, a soft 'oh' sound escaping Ron as he somberly picked through a stack of Bertie Botts. Hermione looked a touch pallid as she glanced towards the glass panes of the arched windows, no doubt processing the implications.

Harri plucked at a frayed thread on the sheets, content enough to let the silence reign on.

It was Ron who saw fit to break it first, a shaky grin as he valiantly attempted to liven up the mood. “W-well, on the bright side, you made history. Again.”

Green eyes fixed on him with blatant confusion. Hermione frowned as she half-twisted to look back at Ron, waiting for the boy to elaborate. 

“You won the Triwizard Tournament. Like, legit won! Blimey Harri, and you’re only fifteen too. The only one to ever actually enter and win.” He shook his head in amazement, eyes glazing over in wonder. “Is there anything you can’t do, mate?”

It took her a second to process his words. And then Harri sent him a roguish grin, leaning forward to ask in a conspiratorial whisper, “How did Diggory take the loss?”



The trio had stayed together for a few hours longer until the sun had begun to set and the chirping melody of the songbirds trailed off into quiet. It was a blessed distraction, a sense of normalcy that she so desperately needed and craved. In the glow of their company, it was almost enough to make her forget about the Dark Lord. To ignore the inevitability of him seeking her out to vanquish his greatest foe. To ignore the looming countdown— that Sword of Damocles hanging by a precarious thread.

With their laughter and jokes, their bright smiles and light-hearted banter, it all seemed so distant— a nightmare she could temporarily leave behind. And, truth be told, Harri was more than looking forward to going back to her dorm room, to suffer Lavender’s gossip and preening concern, to start catching up on the homework that she had been neglecting— to settle back into the usual routine and bury the memories of the graveyard. 

Madam Pomfrey had other ideas.

The mediwitch managed to sink her claws into her charge, refusing to let her go until the following morning.

“Just in case,” the healer said with finality before ushering the two other Gryffindors out of the room, unfairly determining that visitation hours were done for the day.

Ron had shot Harri an apologetic look before the wide doors closed with a resounding click, leaving her to sink back down into the downy bed in defeat. 

And, just like that, the spell was broken.

Left alone with her thoughts, everything suddenly seemed too real, too concrete to brush off as anything other than such. Part of her desperately wished for them to come back, to help distract her— to let her play the game of ignorance for just a few minutes longer. 

She knew they couldn't.

An unfocused gaze turned towards the ceiling as the day's events played over in her mind’s eye— a film she was starring a passive role in. A mere bystander without any control. ‘They said I was out for three days,’ the thought was laced with numb detachment. ‘Three days but they didn’t even know he was back.’

Sometime in the late afternoon, Dumbledore had wandered in with Mad-Eye in tow, politely informing her of what had happened in regards to the tournament. Of course, she had been publicly declared the winner— but that was it. There had been nothing in the papers. No indication of the Dark Lord’s return, no murders or government overthrows as she had feared. It was all too normal. 

Too quiet.

‘The calm before the storm,’ a grim assessment that made her shudder. She couldn’t even fathom what he was planning, feeling too lost, too adrift, to even hazard a guess.

But it was the encounter with the professors that only added to her mounting concern— how greedily Moody had watched her, soaking in every possible detail she could remember about Voldemort's resurrection. How Dumbledore's eyes were critical, his posture relaying how apprehensive he was, how on guard. But, apart from that, they hadn't said much else— hadn't offered up a plan of action or verbally expressed their thoughts.

And there was no doubt in her mind that the two would have questioned her further, would have continued to press for information were it not for Pomfrey’s hawk-like staring and constant hovering. And truly, Harri found herself grateful and indebted to the healer when she finally ushered the adults out without any mind paid to their disgruntled disagreement. 

It was exhausting to relive it all. 

Thankfully, a moment's reprieve had finally come. As the sun had set, the moon replacing it in the sky, Harri was alone— but sleep was decidedly evading her, taunting and jeering by remaining just out of reach. Which, in all honesty, was entirely fine by her as she spent the next few hours unproductively attempting to figure out the reason as to why Voldemort had yet to make a move. Why hadn't he made his resurrection public? Why hadn't he openly staked his claim on the title of  'Dark Lord' once more? After all, it was only logical that he would.

A hand strayed to gingerly touch the scar above her brow, frustrated when no sensible answer came that could explain his lack of action.

With an agitated huff, annoyed at how useless her frenzied mind was, at how incoherent and scattered her thoughts were, Harri pulled the duvet over her head in a foul mood. Rolling over onto her side, she peered listlessly into the filtered darkness under the covers.

‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she thought groggily, suppressing the yawn in an attempt to fight off the beginning pulls of sleep. 'Perhaps he should stay hidden for now.’ A part of her already knew what would happen when he eventually came forward into the spotlight. Everyone would expect her to rise up against him, to defeat him with some fluke like she had when she wasn’t even 2 years old. To become their saviour, their mantle for a war she wasn’t even prepared for. Their bringer of peace— and how the thought filled her with incomprehensible dread.

A shiver ghosted through her at the unbidden images of how tall he had been, how many wordless spells he had used— how easily he had trapped her. ‘I still managed to escape though,’ a small voice supplied, a bitter smile sliding the corners of her mouth upwards as her eyes closed.



It was well past midnight, the silence of the castle heavy and weighted, when she had been jolted awake.

The windows of the infirmary had allowed for a healthy amount of moonlight to seep in, illuminating the furthest corners of the room in various shades of silvers and blues. However, despite the presence of light, oppressive darkness also thrived as stretches of lengthening shadows. Dread, overwhelming and foreboding, had been the culprit to wake her— a disquieting sense of being watched, of being studied. 

The awareness of such buzzed relentlessly in the back of her mind.

And as Harri squinted into the darkness, she couldn't help but puzzle over as to why the room suddenly felt so sinister. During the day, the infirmary had been welcoming enough. Pleasant even— but now it was almost hostile.

Something was off

Blinking to strengthen her night vision, Harri stared determinedly into the corner where the medicine cabinet rested, an instinctual understanding that something was hidden there. A presence had yanked her from her dreamless sleep— it was the kind that robbed her breath and incited a chill to clam over her skin. Absolutely unnerving.

Reluctantly glancing towards the wide, double doors and seeing they were still firmly shut, Harri propped herself up onto her elbows. 'There's nothing here. Go back to bed,' her mind rationalised as it begged her to heed the exhaustion of her body.

But, just as she was about to listen to the sensible advice, she saw them.

There, in the darkness, blood red and narrowed— they were silently watching in contemplation. 

Those eyes were ones she would know anywhere, their colour, their intensity, everything about them betraying an absence of humanity— they were his.

Harri attempted to jump out of bed, ready to scream, to warn the others that Voldemort was in the castle— to grab her wand in hopes of a defense. But her legs wouldn’t cooperate— they were seemingly pinned down by an invisible force. Panic welled, a mute scream clawing up her throat in a horror that was unable to be voiced.

The girl could only watch, paralyzed and in thinly-veiled fear, as those eyes moved closer and into the light.

Her hammering heart nearly stopped— a twisting pit in her stomach. Warning bells were going off in rapid succession as the shadows dripped, fluid and writhing, from his form to slowly materialise into something more solid. More real.

'Tom Riddle.'

It was the only coherent thought she had, the one word in a sea of white noise. He looked just like he had when he emerged from the diary all those years ago, intact and without bright spots of light puncturing his body. The same aristocratic jawline, the same porcelain skin. The same perfectly kempt hair, an air of casual grace clinging to the lines of his silhouette. 'But I killed you,' she thought hysterically, heartbeat jumpstarting again as he stalked closer.

There was an almost-predatory gleam in that burning gaze, his movements unhurried, languid— as though he were entirely in control.

A smirk appeared, the left corner lifting slightly higher than the right— it was as though he could hear her alarmed inner-monologue. He cocked his head, amusement flickering across his face as he dissected her— studying, observing, but refusing to speak. 

Harri knew he was taking some delight in the way she was struggling to fight off the unseen weight forcing her limbs down. And she also knew he could hear her flighty pulse, that he was enjoying watching her ribcage expand and collapse rapidly as she gulped in shallow breaths. Everything about him practically screamed she was giving him the exact reaction he had been angling for— but she could care less. 

Even if this was her mind playing a sick joke on her, there was an overriding need to escape— and to do it now.

“Oh, but you didn’t,” a simple response, the rich baritone of his voice lilting at her obvious disbelief. "If you had, would I be here now?"

Harri willed her legs to work, for her arms to move, for someone to come bursting in to release her from whatever spell this was.

The purposeful clicking of Oxford shoes filled the silence as he drew nearer. Each step was thunderous as he crossed the room with long strides.

He had paused at the edge of the mattress, glowing eyes roaming over her face, her body— there was something unreadable in them. Something entirely too starved. 

At this distance, Harri could make out all of the small, individual details that he was composed of. How, for example, those dark lashes fanned over high cheekbones— though they weren’t nearly as sharp as Voldemort's had been. How his skin was so smooth that it appeared to be cut from marble. The pronounced shape of a cupid's bow on a sultry mouth, the almond shape to his eyes— all details to a visage she had seen repeatedly, time and time again, in her memories since her 2nd year.

Wide eyes darted across his face to discern why he was possibly here— why his ghost had decided now was the perfect time to come back to haunt her. 'It's just a stress dream. Probably sleep paralysis,' she tried to rationalise. 'It has to be— just relax and he'll go away.'

A low chuckle, breathy and deep, escaped him as though he found her obvious discomfort to be the most entertaining thing in the world. He suddenly bent a knee, lowering himself closer to her, an elegantly shaped hand reaching for her forearm. Harri noticed, belatedly, that it was the same one that Pettigrew had carved into a few days prior for the resurrection, the one from which her blood had been forcibly taken.

It was a mesmerising sight— one she knew she should have been unsettled by— to watch how easily those fingers wrapped about her. 

Lips pressed to the inside of her wrist— a chaste kiss placed right over the blue fork in her veins. Those hellfire eyes held nothing short of a fierce promise as they locked with her own.

His voice was a soft whisper, a vow made with only the moon to bear witness, “Soon, Harri. Be ready.”



Her eyes flew open with a strangled gasp.

Harri glanced wildly about the room for any evidence, for any trace of what had just occurred— for the proof that it had been more than just a dream.

None was to be found.

It was entirely empty in the hospital wing, save for herself.

Tentatively moving her legs, content with the fact she could, a trembling hand was placed over her frantically beating heart in an attempt to calm it.

“He’s not here, he’s not here,” she chanted under her breath.

Harri tried to silence the pulse ringing in her ears, the pressure behind it making everything else sound too distant— too far away, too murky and muddled. Part of her was sorely regretting having turned down Pomfrey’s suggestion for a sleep potion as her head buried itself in a cradle of shaking hands.

After a few minutes, she blew out an uneven breath as her rational side attributed the encounter to heightened nerves— a hallucination brought on by the lethal combination of stress and an overactive imagination. 

Yet, as hard as she tried to ignore it, she could still feel the warmth on her arm where his fingers had curled possessively around her. Could still feel the lingering press of a velvet-soft kiss, the way his mouth had moved against her skin with a solemn promise. Could still see those burning crimson eyes that made her stomach clench uncomfortably.

Harri stubbornly screwed shut her lids, attempting to banish all thoughts of a long-since-deceased boy from a diary. Tried to find solace in the concept that it hadn't been real— to comfort herself that it was a dream. 

Completely fake. 

She had been mostly successful until one traitorous thought whispered in the back of her mind. The greatest possible betrayal— ‘Riddle never had red eyes.’

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 4: All She Wanted Was A Bath

Notes:

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone that has commented and left kudos thus far! It means so much to me that you guys are liking this story that much.

Thank you again for your support and enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Once Harri was released from the infirmary, much to Pomfrey’s reluctance, the remainder of the school year went by in a blur; a dizzying kaleidoscope of strung-together days and long nights passed in the library.

She had spent the last three weeks in a frenzy, attempting to cram in any last-minute studying she possibly could before the upcoming O.W.L.S— all while juggling the occasional swarm of the press and their eagerness to get an exclusive with history’s youngest Triwizard Champion. Why they were even still allowed in the castle was beyond her understanding, the relentless flash of their cameras only serving to induce a headache and earn her irritation. Though, in truth, her sour mood had more to do with her current situation and less with the reporters themselves— even if she did find herself on more than one occasion wanting to hex them.

At an alarming rate, the last few weeks of her 5th-year were derailing and devolving into a tiresome routine. 

Eat. 

Study. 

Interview. 

Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

And with each passing day, Harri found herself more and more eagerly anticipating the bliss summer would provide— the chance it would give her to breathe and recharge. It went without saying that her poor mind, frazzled and wearing thin, barely had the strength to even consider the clothes she was going to wear the next day— nevermind plotting strategies to overthrow a rising Dark Lord moving through the shadows. Though mercifully, ever since the afterimage of Tom Riddle had appeared in the hospital wing, it had been suspiciously quiet in that regard. 

No further apparitions. No public appearances. No ensuing battles— not that she entirely minded, of course. Nightmares and uneasy dreams seemed to be her constant companion these days, and if she could find some respite in her waking life, something her dreams wouldn’t provide, then Harri would gladly take the win.

Trudging up the stone steps from the dungeons, the fumes from the potions clinging insistently to her robes, all Harri found herself desperately wanting was a bath. A long, hot, luxurious soak with bubbles and a piping cup of chamomile on the side. One that could remove the obnoxious smells and scald her skin clean, relax her tense muscles, and give her a momentary sense of peace. 

Such an idea sounded absolutely heavenly.

The corridors of the castle were emptied, shadows cast long by the flickering flames on the walls’ sconces, and as disinclined feet carried her towards the dining hall, a thought crossed her mind to entirely skip the evening meal. ‘Hermione would have your head,’ a reprimand whispered— she grimaced at the truth in the statement. Somehow, she could already vividly picture blazing brown eyes, an Oxford accent pitched in dismay as it delved into a lecture on how important it was to eat balanced meals. 

Best to avoid that fate altogether— she didn’t have the energy to endure it.

The softest groan spilled past her lips as pale hands reached up to, absentmindedly, twist the auburn strands into a bun— the replacement wand was jabbed through the center to hold it in place.

Truly though, all she wanted was her bed. To sink down into the plush mattress and catch up on some much-needed sleep. But it appeared that wouldn’t happen— at least, not for another couple of hours. And most certainly not before she had a chance to bathe.

It had been an instinctive reaction, her nose wrinkling as she rubbed her fingers together, the traces of oil heavy on their pads. Harri nearly gagged at the film. The residue had been imparted onto her from the vapours of too much time passed over a bubbling cauldron. ‘No wonder Snape’s hair looks like that,’ she thought with blatant disgust. ‘Officially noted to cross ‘Potions Master’ off as a potential career path.’ At that very idea, however, she couldn’t quite help but chuckle to herself, twisting her spine as a symphony of pleasant cracks chased away any lingering discomfort. Potions, certainly, wasn’t her strongest suit— and judging by the way Snape always looked constipated whenever she turned in her “masterpieces”, he would be quick to agree.

Lighthearted chatter floated out from the cracked doors of the Great Hall and, despite the exhaustion, Harri felt her spirits lift somewhat at the sound. Everyone was equally relieved the year, and most importantly their exams, had finally ended, the lazy stretch of summer vacation laying before them a sea of endless opportunity. And she knew she wasn’t the only one who was looking forward to sleeping in, to not having to get up before noon for classes— well, at least that was until she went back to the Dursleys.

A bitterness coated her tongue and she tried to stamp down the mounting resentment— to forget about the impending housework, the gardening, the endless meals she would have to cook but never get to eat. ‘Back to being a slave,’ the inner voice was laced with venom and vitriol that soured her mood.

That darkening aura only persisted as she plopped down onto the long bench with an agitated huff. All Harri mustered was a mumbled 'hello' as she spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate, the sound a disheartening plop. And if her appetite had been lacking before, it was utterly nonexistent now. 

Hermione frowned as the redhead slid into the spot next to her, the air of her upset nearly palpable. Though, she considered, it was warranted— after all, her roommate had barely been sleeping to catch up on a year’s worth of studying. A soft tsk and she dipped a napkin into her water goblet, reaching forward to gently wipe away a smudge of charcoal from the girl’s cheek.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered, fretting over the disarray of her friend’s appearance and obvious weariness. “I don’t understand why they couldn’t give you an extension for your O.W.L.S. Especially considering all that has happened this year—I mean, look at you!”

Ron had finally glanced up from his chewing, brows drawing together as he observed the bruising circles under his friend’s eyes and the way her auburn hair seemed to be a bit on the wild side. It was hard to miss how her thin shoulders were slumped by an invisible weight, normally vivid eyes just a touch too dull, too glassy.

“You look like hell, mate,” he supplied unhelpfully, nodding to Hermione in a show of agreement.

At the fretting of her friends, Harri couldn’t quite help but roll her eyes. She knew, of course, their intentions were well-placed— they always were. But, at the moment, she didn’t really care for sympathy or platitudes— she just wanted a bath and one night’s worth of sleep without nightmares. One night without having to relive the graveyard or gasping awake in a cold sweat because she had imagined crimson eyes peering out from the shadows. 

But, most of all, she wanted a summer without having to return to Privet Drive— to not sleep in a cramped room with bars on the window and sliding bolts on the door.

‘Don’t begrudge them. They don’t understand,’ rationality reasoned. She despised that her own mind was fighting against her emotions and was, unfortunately, correct.

Stubbornly pushing the peas around her plate, Harri muttered, “Geez, thanks, Ron. That’s exactly what a girl wants to hear.” 

But just as the boy was about to defend himself, to argue that he hadn’t meant anything bad by it, a piercing noise flooded the space of the Great Hall. It was a shrill note carried for too long— a vibration that Harri could feel down to her very teeth.

The students around her abruptly dropped their forks, their glasses of pumpkin juice spilling over and napkins fluttering to the ground as they attempted to cover their ears— startled yells manifested in pockets about the room that demanded to know what was happening. The professors seated along the head table scanned the crowd in alarmed confusion and tried to discern where the noise was possibly originating from. 

And then, as soon as it started, it stopped.

In the absence, a ringing silence ensued— a hush settled over the dining room's occupants as bewilderment flashed on their faces. It was a moment where no one dared to speak, to move— to so much as try to upright their knocked over glasses or pick up their fallen utensils. 

A universal understanding that something else was to come.

The lights had begun to flicker ominously, a unified movement as several heads lifted up to the enchanted ceiling. What had been a pleasant scene of a late spring night, wispy clouds in front of a waxing moon and a smattering of twinkling stars, was now a swirl of mist. Darkness. Tumultuous clouds swirling in a vortex, the previously comforting glow now obscured and eclipsed as a storm began to brew.   

A noise of pure, uninterrupted static quickly replaced the horrendous screeching, the fog quivering slightly in the wake of the sound.

And then a baritone voice filled the entirety of the space from somewhere beyond the haze, a bodiless spectre. 

An omniscient god.

Harri stilled in her seat, the blood draining from her and turning the tips of her fingers numb as she recognised who it belonged to— how could she not? After all, it was one she had been hearing in her dreams. It was the one from the chamber, from the impromptu hospital visit. There was a richness to it, a smoothness, the clipped and posh British accent that commanded attention without being outright forceful. It reminded her of a siren’s song, one that just begged to be listened to— to be obeyed. ‘It’s him.’ 

Green eyes darted around wildly to her classmates, looking for any signs of recognition. However, all of them remained blissfully ignorant as to who was currently addressing them. Who it was that had managed to slip past their wards— who could already very well be hidden somewhere in the castle.

She felt nauseous.

A quick glance was spared to Dumbledore. Blue eyes were glinting in apprehension from behind half-moon glasses, his mouth pressed into a thin line. ‘So he knows who it is.’ It was somewhat reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only one— or that, for once, she wasn’t left in the dark. Uneasily, her attention drifted down the line of the professors, the silhouettes of their bodies tensed. Rigid. McGonagall appeared to have aged 50 years in a split second, shock written so clearly on her lined face. Snape wore a pinched expression that made it appear as though he had smelled something unpleasant. And Mad-Eye was bordering on demented excitement, vaguely looking like he was rearing to fight, to leap from his seat as the magical eye whirled in its socket. 

With reluctance, her gaze returned to the ceiling’s portrayal of a night’s storm, watching the flashing lights with suspended trepidation. ‘Please, let this be a dream,’ a beg, a prayer to an unknown god that she had just fallen asleep somewhere— that this was just another nightmare she had managed to conjure. But a portion of her logically knew that she was completely awake. And how that scared her beyond all reason— because that meant he got in.

Somehow, he had invaded her safe space.

Her home.

That he was proving even the mighty Hogwarts wasn’t spared from his influence, his power. That the castle wasn't untouchable.

She was close to retching.

“For far too long has our world been left to go stagnant,” the voice began, the source originating from the ether. “Magic has been oppressed by those who are inferior, too afraid to understand its potential and too weak to seek it. Entire branches have been denied to our youth and mislabelled as ‘dangerous’ or ‘immoral’. We actively condemn those who desire to harness the power rooted in our old ways, threatening their very livelihood for even wishing to practice such arts.”

Here the bodiless voice had paused as students and professors alike stared, wide-eyed, in attempts to comprehend what was being implied. Hermione chanced a side-long glimpse over to her best friend, taking note of the girl’s stiff posture and waned face. Hesitantly, she reached out to wrap her fingers around the redhead's chilled hands, pulling them from her lap with a reassuring, quick squeeze.

Harri barely noticed it, however, her left leg bouncing restlessly under the table as she clung to every word, every inflection, every hidden meaning.

“And for far too long have we let lesser wizards dictate the rules of our world. This ends now,” the speaker continued after a moment of silence. “A new era is beginning. If you do not revolt, you have nothing to fear from us. If you cooperate, you will find yourself greatly rewarded and a place secured within our new order. Fail to do these things and you will find no mercy.”

Sobs interrupted the broadcast as a clump of first years at the end of the table had begun to react. Emerald eyes slid from the sky to them, impassively taking in their huddled forms.

Harri tried to find sympathy for the children, truly she did— had attempted to find the humane part to her that could understand their terror. But it was difficult to do so as she numbly observed McGonagall rising from her seat to hurry over.

There was a bitterness blooming in her heart, something dark writhing around the constricting muscle— a spark of jealousy.

When she was their age, she had been left to battle a troll, to face Quirrell and Voldemort in front of the Mirror of Erised— had even killed the man by merely touching him. But yet, she hadn’t been allowed to cry like that. To break down and, for once, act her age. To show she was weak, upset, and plagued by what she had done, to rely on someone else to console her— ‘The Chosen One’ doesn’t have that privilege. Dumbledore had all but explicitly told her that when he reminded her to be 'strong' and to 'carry on'— right before shipping her back to her relatives for the summer. ‘So why should they?’ 

Harri blinked once, then twice, shaking her head in a futile attempt to drive away the needlessly hateful thoughts. It wasn’t fair to have that expectation of them, to resent them for crying— to not show that they were unsettled and scared. After all, not everyone had to be saddled with the same burdens she did.

Jaw clenching, she snapped her gaze back to the ceiling, striving to forget their presence, their existence— to block out their soft cries. Peering through the agitated billow overhead, brows knitted together as she attempted to puzzle out if he was done or if he had something more to say. 

Prolonged silence, fingers slipping from Hermione’s hold to drum in a nervous tic against the wood grain of the table. ‘Maybe that’s it?’

But just as she thought that he had run the course of his speech, the voice had two final words to give as a parting. “Be ready.”

There was an uncanny understanding that he was, specifically, addressing her now and how it felt as though her soul had left her, entirely too powerless to stop the uncontrollable shiver that racked her frame. Her throat had become too dry, too parched. ‘He said those exact words to me.’ The guilt was abundant as she frantically scanned over the professors’ table. ‘A month ago, he gave me that exact warning'— cold dread seeped through her upon realising that it, most certainly, had not been a dream.

Students began to scrabble in panic, unsure how to process the information and properly react. It was understandable, of course, as a mysterious voice had all but declared there was to be a forced revolution upon their world, threatening to overthrow their entire existence. The mist began to evaporate, the normal night scenery slowly filtering back into view. ‘Maybe if I told someone, maybe if I told Dumbledore, he could’ve done something.’

But, instead, she had kept quiet while practically inviting the monster into their home.

It was a dreadful conclusion to arrive at— she should have warned more people of his return. Should have said something more than to just two teenagers and a pair of teachers who, most likely, hadn't even fully believed her. A bitter laugh almost escaped, a dawning revelation as to why Voldemort had yet to make a public move—he wanted it to be a surprise. He wanted to make it so no one would listen to her even if she tried to prematurely alert them to his rebirth.

‘But even now,’ a resentful assessment as she took in the chaos. ‘He still chose to keep his identity a secret.’ Part of her was impressed by his foresight in remaining hidden just a tad longer. After all, even if she wanted to speak out, who would believe her if she claimed that the bodiless voice just now was that of Lord Voldemort? A wizard that she had, supposedly, killed over a decade ago? And where would be her proof of such claims? All she had were memories, things that were already considered to be unreliable in a court of law due to their flighty and impressionable nature.

Prefects began to helplessly try to order their charges around, to demand they remain seated— they were completely out of their depths. Their power and training, apparently, was rendered useless when it came to dealing with a Dark Lord and his declaration on turning the wizarding world into a dictatorship. ‘Go figure.’

“Silence!”

Harri flinched as Dumbledore used a Sonorous charm to project his voice over the hectic din of the hall.

A blanketing hush followed as the students looked to their headmaster for guidance, their faces holding nervous hope and tentative relief.

"Prefects, please escort your students back to their common rooms. Until you receive word from your Heads stating otherwise, stay in your respective houses.” Removing the wand tip from his throat, the headmaster gravely glanced towards the seated professors in a bid for them to follow.

Those periwinkle eyes spared a moment to scan the crowd before landing firmly on Harri— the slightest tilt of his head the only indication that she was meant to come along as well.

Untangling herself from Hermione, much to the girl’s protests, Harri mouthed a quick ‘I’ll explain later’ before darting off— it was an upstream battle to make her way through the incoming throng of students.

‘Well,’ she thought grimly, letting out a frustrated groan as she pushed on the trophy room’s door, ‘there goes my bath.’



Slipping past the inconspicuous wooden door, Harri squirmed at the uncomfortable reminder of what had transpired at the beginning of the year. Flashes of her peers’ suspicious glares as she trudged shakily past the long rows of benches, of the way Dumbledore had looked at her in thinly-veiled disappointment, of the bitter accusations that she only put her name in for the promise of glory.

Tentatively stepping down the dimly-lit stairs into the cellar below, quarrelling snippets floated upwards, voices pinched with tension and blatant nerves. Pausing at the bottom, rather unsure of herself, Harri awkwardly cleared her throat as seven pairs of eyes simultaneously snapped to her slight form. They appeared mildly taken back by the sudden appearance and equally unsure of how to react. 

Out of everyone in the gathered half-circle, Dumbledore had been the first to recover by plastering on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Harri, my dear girl. Please, sit.”

He motioned towards an empty chair across from his, the barely-hidden pessimism in his voice doing little to bolster confidence.

And if he was already this way— it didn't bode well.

Harri spared a glance over her shoulder towards the stairwell, a small part of herself wishing to return to the Great Hall— to leave behind the awkward tension and to seek out the comfort of her friends. But she had already made up her mind that this was important, that she needed to be here and to know what was going on. She couldn't afford otherwise. Not now.

A shaky sigh and unwilling feet carried her further into the room, sinking down into the offered seat. She had become all too aware that her movements were being tracked— an animal behind a glass case. The pity reflected so clearly in the eyes of the hovering adults set her on edge, teeth instinctively grinding at their misplaced sympathies. ‘At least Snape’s in character,’ the errant thought somewhat lessened the spiteful wariness, the potions master resolutely tossing her a sneer before turning away.

“I am afraid that these are grave times.”

Her attention retrained itself back to the headmaster, a stinging retort dancing on the tip of her tongue and a sharp acidity in her mouth.

How badly she wanted to say ‘No shit’ to him, to tell him in explicit detail what had happened in the graveyard when he, the man who solely existed to protect his students, failed so miserably in his only job. ‘Grave times doesn’t even cover it. Voldemort practically just declared war,’ a venomous inner monologue pointed out. 

She swallowed down the retaliation, resigning herself to a curt nod instead. As much as she would have loved to throw a tantrum, to act irritatingly pettish, to accuse Dumbledore of his missteps, she had enough awareness to understand that there was a time and place for it— after all, the headmaster may decide to shut down and remove her entirely from the conversation if he suspected her unable to handle it. And, as it currently stood, she knew that she just couldn’t stand being kept out of the loop this time around.

“Do you know whose voice that was, Harri?” Dumbledore questioned, fingers steepled in front of him as he leaned forward in the chair.

The way his eyes sparkled made Harri’s shoulders tense. It seemed as though he wanted to shock her with an answer she already had, as if he were wishing that she were completely clueless and was stumbling around in the dark until he saw fit to enlighten her. 

But of course she knew. 

She would be able to recognise that voice just about anywhere— it was far too imprinted on her memory at this point to be ignorant. After all, how many times had she heard it in her dreams since her second year? How many times since he had first appeared in the infirmary, the words ‘Soon, Harri. Be ready’ causing her to become unfocused throughout the day? For her adrenaline to randomly surge in anticipation that he just might appear out of thin air, ready to divine his vengeance? 

Attempting to keep her voice as level as she could, Harri lifted her gaze to meet the headmaster's evenly.

“Voldemort’s,” she stated as plainly as she could, hoping to portray the air of nonchalance she so desperately wished that she had— to embody some of the composure she was trying to fake.

She refused to show Dumbledore how much it had rattled her upon hearing that voice outside of her head for once. 

From somewhere behind her, several professors drew in sharp gasps to relay their disapproval at the casual usage of his name. But Harri considered that, out of everyone, she had the most right to it and was the most entitled to speak it aloud. After all, she was the one he was trying to kill— their connection, their tale, spanning the entirety of the blight of her existence. And she refused to use the ridiculous euphemism of ‘You-Know-Who’ after being subjected to such intimate bouts of violence from him.

On her periphery, Moody was shifting against the wall and looking strangely ill at ease by the turn of conversation. She wondered, idly, what he was nipping from his flask, the strangest idea crossing her mind to ask him for some. ‘I hope it’s firewhiskey. Merlin knows I could use it.’ 

“Unfortunately, you would be correct, my dear,” Dumbledore said.

The girl was about to say something else, to demand to know what they intended to do, how they were going to react, when the fireplace abruptly lit up with brilliant green flames.

Stepping forth from the ashes was a sight for sore eyes and Harri stubbornly refused to let the tears well up as the crackling fire dwindled.

One minute she had been seated and then the next, the teenager was launching herself at the man that had emerged from the flames, the faint smell of motor oil and cinnamon, an oddly comforting combination, rolling off him. “Sirius!”

“Harri! I came as soon as I could,” the older man responded apologetically, wrapping his arms around his goddaughter in a tight squeeze before stepping back to critically eye her.

“You’re looking pretty good, despite the tournament. Not a limb missing in sight.” He shot her a toothy grin and exaggerated his wince when she had playfully punched him in his bicep.

“If you two are finished,” a monotone voice abruptly drawled from the corner, breaking their reverie as Snape stepped into the light.

The professor had wrapped the black cloak tighter around his wiry frame, disapproval pinching his features in a clear sign of where his thoughts were heading— ‘Why does he have to be here?’ was practically written across his heavily lined forehead. Coal eyes danced in the residual glow of the fire, pinpoints of unearthly green flashing in their depths— Harri was faintly reminded of a bat-like demon.

“We were just discussing the urgent matter of the Dark Lord’s return,” Snape said, arching a brow. "So if you would mind refraining from your childish antics for just three seconds longer."

Sirius looked as though he wanted nothing more than to retort with something petty, to tell the potions professor to come down off of his high horse— he bit his tongue instead when he caught the warning look from his goddaughter. Shrugging off the leather jacket, he slumped down into the armchair angled towards the mantle.

“It wasn’t just Hogwarts that he broadcasted to. He managed to get his message into the Ministry and across pretty much every open channel in Britain. The slimy git,” Sirius reported dully, eyes glazing over for the briefest of a second as though his mind had turned distant. “It’s a complete mess out there.”

At the news that the school hadn’t been the only place to be affected, the quarrelling among the professors resumed in earnest— save for Snape whose hawk-like gaze was trained solely on Mad-Eye. The headmaster had to clear his throat several times before the room turned calm enough for him to get a word in otherwise.

“Regardless, the safety of our students should be of utmost importance. One in particular.” Dumbledore levelled his gaze on Harri, the girl entirely too busy staring in fascination at her teachers openly bickering. “I know it’s earlier than you would have liked but I believe it is prudent for you to leave as soon as possible.”

At that, Harri blinked owlishly. 

'Leave Hogwarts? Right now?’ It was a bewildering notion considering she still had almost a week left within its halls, hadn’t even gotten her exam results back yet— hadn’t packed or gone through the usual list of goodbye routines. If she was to leave early, then she wouldn’t have the time to get Hedwig’s care in order for Hagrid, wouldn’t be able to visit Hogsmeade one last time to stock up on emergency rations for the summer— wouldn’t be able to make plans with Hermione and Ron to meet up at the Burrow during the latter half of the holidays.

With knitted brows, tongue heavy and fumbling, she managed to ask. “Where to?”

But then the strangest idea overcame her, a flicker of hope as a green-eyed gaze slid over to her godfather. ‘Does he mean with Sirius?’ It certainly was a delightful prospect, one that made her want to sing, to cry out in unbridled joy. No more Dursleys—her summers free from weeding her aunt’s dreadful garden, from the endless lists of chores. Unhampered by torment and unkind hands, by cleaning chemicals that made her nose sting and a too-small bedroom with a barred window impossible to open. Judging by her godfather's expression, he seemed to be just as optimistic, as eager and all too ready to say ‘yes’ the second Dumbledore would ask. 

And, after all, staying with another wizard, one who could freely use magic without the limitations of the Trace, only made sense when a Dark Lord was suddenly at large.

“We need to get you back within the safety of the blood wards.” 

Her hope went down in flames, a pit settling in her stomach and a lump clawing its way up her throat.

“Hogwarts is no longer safe at the moment, Tom has proven that tonight. Your best chance would be with those who can camouflage you," the headmaster explained. 

Silence followed the proclamation— and then arguing erupted, a cacophony of voices overlapping with one another. The loudest was that of the transfiguration professor, spitting and hissing as though she were currently in her animagus form rather than her human skin.

McGonagall lept from her chair, the piece of furniture wobbling precariously at the sudden upset, eyes bright as her accent bled into a Scottish drawl. “Albus! Surely you can’t be serious, sending her back to those— those muggles!”

Harri found herself, reluctantly, having to give Dumbledore credit where it was due upon seeing how relaxed he was in the face of an unbridled and furious Minerva McGonagall. The headmaster hadn’t even so much as flinched at the flared temper or the abruptness of her movements. And even though she knew, logically, that the anger wasn’t directed towards her, she still found herself shrinking further back into the safety of the armchair. In all of her years spent in her classes, in having her as her Head of House, never once had she seen the woman this upset. Part of her found it touching to see her professor so adamantly defending her, so vehemently protesting on her behalf— an unwavering show of loyalty.

‘Though, we all know who’s going to win in the end,’ a bitter thought, an irrefutable truth in the statement. Nervously, emerald eyes flitted between the two, a morbid curiosity to see how Dumbledore would react to such an outward display of defiance.

“Minerva,” Dumbledore stated calmly, “I understand your concern but Harri will be far safer behind the wards than she will be here.”

He spared a glance over to Sirius, head dipping apologetically at the man’s crestfallen expression. “Or with her godfather.”

An awkward silence stretched between the occupants littering about the trophy room, their minds distant as they tried to figure out their own plans and what to tell their students. 

Harri let her attention shift down in the lull of conversation, her fingers interlaced as a thumb rubbed pressured circles on the opposite's palm. A nervous habit that she never seemed to fully break herself of.

“When.” She attempted to swallow around the lump in a dry throat, trying not to show her disappointment at how easily Sirius bowed to Dumbledore’s whim without so much as a fight—or that she’d have to spend more time at the Dursley’s than expected. “When should I leave?”

The headmaster’s eyes glinted knowingly and he gave a subdued sigh, leaning back in contemplation as though he hadn’t already made up his mind regarding her departure. “Tonight, Harri. It is for the best, I hope you can understand. The rest of the student body will soon follow.”

Pale eyes flickered with grave seriousness as they darted about the somber faces in front of him, clearing his throat. “She’ll need someone to take her.”

Moody suddenly spoke up from the corner of the room, tongue darting to the corners of his chapped lips. “I’ll do it. Best to ‘ave someone used to dark wizards for this.”

He sent a resolute nod towards Harri, the single good eye fixed determinedly on her— a shock of electric blue against a sea of white.

And she was unsure if he was always this intense, her time around the man having been limited to preparation for the competition that was, by default, already high-stakes. But the energy coming from him, his eagerness, felt off. She looked down at the wiry muscles of her forearms, the cream-coloured skin prickled with goosebumps.

“Perhaps,” Snape suddenly interjected, coming to stand next to Mad-Eye as his hands folded together— a jump of muscle above his brow.

Harri blinked in mild surprise, never quite realising how tall the dark-cloaked wizard was until he towered over the auror—a looming wraith of a man.

“It would be in Potter’s best interest to have two wizards to accompany her. Just. In. Case,” Severus punctuated the last portion of his sentence, sending a meaningful glance over at the scarred wizard by his side.

Harri hungrily clung to the interaction, desperately trying to decipher what it could have possibly meant. For the briefest second, she could have sworn that Mad-Eye glared back, looking like he wanted nothing more than to curse the potions master within an inch of his life.

Dumbledore picked a stray thread off of his buttercream yellow robes before clapping his hands in finality. “It’s decided then. Harri, my dear girl, pack your things if you would please. And Sirius, I will need a full report as to what is happening.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 5: He Always Has To Ruin Things, Doesn't He?

Notes:

At the end of this chapter, there's also short POV from Voldemort's perspective. Starting in the next few chapters or so, there'll be more of him to come so let me know if you like how his section is written! (I'm still toying around a bit with how I want to write him).

A bit of canon divergence but Sirius is still alive in this and has been pardoned by the Ministry.

As always, thank you for reading and for all of the love you guys have shown the story so far! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri had left the trophy room in a foul mood and intent on making someone feel just as terribly as she did— to let the entire world know of her frustrations and plight.

The vaulted halls were emptied, devoid of the usual signs of life, and the ensuing silence only served as dry kindling to her anger. ‘It’s like he’s punishing me for something that's not even my fault,’ her thoughts were resentful, carrying a bite as disinclined feet marched up the stone steps. And while she knew Dumbledore was only acting in her best interest, rationality attempting to jump to the headmaster's defense, it was hard to think of this all in less than personal terms. After all, he was making her leave Hogwarts and was forcing her to go back to the one place that she had constantly begged to be spared of. 

Plus, it was difficult to see the sense in condemning her to a purgatory where she couldn't even rely on magic should anything go awry— and Dumbledore would have to forgive her if she didn't fully trust something as simple as 'blood wards' in being effective at keeping the Dark Lord out.

Hermione and Ron were seated on the couch in front of the fire, heads huddled together as they exchanged low, contemplative whispers. Most of their housemates had decided to wander back up to the dorms, unsure of what else to do— but they had stayed behind to dutifully wait.

When the portrait door swung open, they glanced up in alarm to see the thunderous expression on Harri’s face, her burning gaze fixed unseeingly ahead.

"Harri?" Hermione called tentatively, twisting among the pillows when the girl had stormed past them without acknowledgement.

"Harri?!" 

When she still hadn't responded to the second call, it was Hermione first who had uneasily lept from her spot to trail after the girl— Ron followed suit. A nervous look was shared between them when Harri had yanked the bedroom door open with more force than necessary—  the hinges creaked as the wood banged dully against the wall.

A well of irritation was bubbling inside of her chest, a writhing sort of anger that had her fingers twitching with the need to hold something— and just smash it. It was only belatedly that Harri had noticed the tensed quiet, Lavender, mercifully, absent from the dorm. And just on her periphery, she could see the pair of her friends hovering in the threshold, all too ready to flee should the need arise.

Of course, it was impossible to blame them—  to fault their twin looks of apprehension, the way they were nonverbally daring the other to speak first. After all, Harri was entirely too self-aware that her temper could be a wretched ordeal— a bestial thing that was difficult to tame once unleashed. And a part of her considered that they were blessed souls for even wanting to provide comfort whenever those little moments eclipsed her control— when all she truly desired was to induce suffering. 

Chaos. 

Destruction. 

But yet, even armed with that understanding, it still irked her how they consciously lingered back. How they were looking for the nearest fire exit and treating her as though she were a ticking bomb laid at their feet.

The trio ended up settling into a prolonged silence that was only punctuated by Harri aggressively shoving her belongings into a worn trunk. Somehow, the act of throwing things, of carelessly tossing clothes about without any consideration if they ended up wrinkled, was a soothing enough balm— free therapy in all sense of the word.

“Mate, you okay?” Ron finally questioned from the bed, his legs tucked under himself as he nervously tracked the girl's disorderly movements about the room.

Harri paused midstep, opening her mouth to respond— to snap out that no, she was far from being 'okay'.

She closed it instead with an audible snap when tears stung the back of her throat— that creeping pocket of air that made it difficult to swallow. The concerned faces of her two best friends started to warp, to obscure and melt away. ‘It isn’t fair,’ a sullen thought. And it wasn’t that she was upset with having to, eventually, return to the Dursley’s home— no, she was far too used to that disappointment. It had been her very own limbo for as long as she could remember— her purgatory until the next school year could begin. But it was more so the fact that her freedom was being snatched away so quickly, like smoke curling away before her very eyes as she rushed to capture it in a jar. A list appeared in her mind’s eye of all the things that she had still wanted to do during the remaining week— all the things she wanted to accomplish and the memories that needed to be made to tide her over for the long summer months ahead. 

But now? 

Now, it was all pointless.  

Stubbornly swiping the back of her hand across her eyes, she managed to rush out, “I’m fine. I’m leaving tonight for the Dursley’s. You’ll follow soon too, I imagine.”

She shoved the Weasley knit jumper into the trunk, an oversized thing made from rust coloured wool— a fond memory of her very first Christmas present. Harri eyed it resting haphazardly on the top layer of her clothes, a twist of longing seizing her heart as reality sank in. Instead of going to the Burrow, a place of warmth, of late nights with hot cocoa and stargazing, of bustling mornings and home-cooked meals, she would be returning to her aunt’s sterile house. Too pink and too unfriendly, a place where anything freakish was hidden under lock and key and never to be discussed or permitted. 

An extra 6 whole days— almost an entire week added to her sentence.

“Oh,” Ron muttered, glancing over to Hermione in uncertainty. 

At a loss for words, he could only watch as the redhead closed her trunk with a final snap, her face collapsing inwards with defeat.

“I almost got to stay with Sirius,” she muttered, more so to herself than to them, eyes tracing over the worn brass-lock of the school trunk in an attempt to distract herself from the hollow ache. “But he just had to ruin that too, didn’t he?”



The last hour of her 5th-year ended in a blur of goodbyes.

She remembered hugging her friends and wishing for them to stay safe while Ron promised that she would come to the Burrow the minute Dumbledore had deemed it to be okay. Something, she considered, that would never happen. The headmaster had been reluctant enough to let her leave when things had been good. But now with Voldemort lurking about? The chances were next to zero and nonexistent— far too slim to even count on. 

But mostly, she recalled clinging to Sirius, refusing to let go. Harri obsessively replayed her godfather’s vow over in her head that he would visit, her lifevest amidst a tumultuous storm, the barest flicker of hope— ‘ Dark Lords be damned.’

She knew that promise was probably never going to come to fruition either.

Because, as she stood shivering from the misty night on the Dursley’s front doorstep, Snape hovering insistently at her shoulder, it all seemed like a lie. ‘You know it is,’ a voice whispered morosely as she pressed the doorbell. ‘None of that is ever going to happen.’ Instead, she was to be banished—exiled to a life of servitude until it was deemed she had attained enough atonement to warrant her salvation.

Vernon Dursley had been the one to open the front door with an agitated huff, already claiming some nonsense about refusing to buy their papers or whatever they were attempting to peddle.

However, when he saw Harri Potter standing on his ‘welcome mat’ in the late spring fog, he nearly had a heart attack. By all accounts, this was not what he had envisioned for their relaxing evening— it was supposed to be a night of packing before their flight in the morning. One passed by with a few episodes of their favourite English soap opera and microwaved tv dinners before tottering off early to bed. Having his wife’s niece suddenly appear out of thin air, drenched and sullen, went against every carefully laid out plan he had concocted. An unexpected hiccup.

The man’s mouth gaped unattractively as he floundered for words, the flab around his jowls quaking with the effort. 

Petunia appeared at his side a moment later, thin brows drawn together.

And Harri couldn’t quite help the grimace as her aunt’s expression morphed from shock to pure rage, hateful eyes taking in the wizards loitering about her perfectly manicured front lawn. It was a look that screamed there were to be consequences later. 'Wonderful.'

“What is the meaning of this?!” Mrs. Dursley hissed out.

Wiry fingers reached up to clutch at the door, pushing it slightly inwards to limit their view into the pastel pink living room. The thin-necked woman towered over her husband, Petunia's knobby knees locked as though she were a sentinel of the threshold— a silent refusal to allow the wizards to pass and defile the sanctity of her home.

The cacophony of laughter from the vintage tv set drifted out, muted and distant— a testament that they were disturbing a quaint, domestic scene. 

Harri shifted awkwardly.

“How lovely to see you again, Petunia,” Snape drawled, a single brow arched at her obvious discomfort. “There has been a breach at Hogwarts. Potter is being returned early as such.”

Petunia's lips pursed, shrewd eyes narrowing at the term 'breach'. 

Harri half-twisted to fix the professor with a mutinous glare, indignant at the way he had referred to her as though she were an unwanted pet or a piece of lost property being returned. But, then again, if the Dursleys would refuse to let her in, perhaps she would have no choice but to go to Grimmauld Place? It wouldn’t be quite out of her aunt’s character to flat out refuse, to turn her away with a sniff of her upturned nose. In fact, it was almost a miracle that the woman had yet to do so— or that she had tolerated her niece's presence for 15 long years already. ‘Might as well let it play out,’ she thought, the words holding a bite as she toed the concrete steps with worn sneakers. A downturned gaze idly tracked the path of an ant crawling over the side and into the shrubbery.

“No—absolutely not! No, no, no, we refuse!” Vernon had finally regained his ability to speak, spittle flying as his face turned an ugly, and frankly alarming, shade of purple. “We agreed to house her for the summer, which starts next week mind you, and not a moment longer! We will not tolerate her freakishness ruining our vacation plans!”

Her face heated up of its own accord in the wake of his adamant denial, a mortified shame flooding through her. Green eyes refused to lift from the front steps, acid on the tip of her tongue and just begging to be spewed. ‘Don’t. You’ll only make things worse,’ reason cautioned, the little voice in her that always seemed to arise whenever faced with the darkening waves of her displeasure. 

Of course, it was right. 

After all, speaking out against the Dursleys, her uncle in particular, typically manifested in lasting reminders— usually in the form of blooming impressions across her skin and a hollow ache in her stomach. Harri figured it was best not to rock the boat too early, especially so since her time around the muggles had just grown by an extra week.

And it wasn’t that she was personally offended by the rejection from her so-called ‘family’— oh no, she was plenty used to that by now. But it was more so the fact that they were openly revealing to complete strangers about how much they despised their adopted charge— how much of a burden she was in their lives. That they were just being so public in their distaste, her private shame broadcasted in front of not one, but two, of her professors. That they were confirming she was, by all accounts, a plague and a scourge. A curse— unlovable.

There was a blur of movement and then Mad-Eye was on the doorstep before anyone could think to move, his wand out in a tight grip as the magical eye whirred with a grating sound.

In spite of being as stooped as he was, the professor still towered over Vernon, the grisly sight of his scarred face making the muggle man blanch. Harri couldn’t actually ever recall seeing him so pale, the usual blotchiness drained from his fattened cheeks and beady eyes wide with terror. 

“I’d suggest, Mr. Dursley, for your own wellbeing, that you let Miss Potter into the house,” Moody said.

His usually gruff Scottish accent had begun to bleed into a posh British one, a far cry from the rough exterior that Harri had come to expect from him.

Images of McGonagall came to mind, how her typical prim inflections gave rise to a rugged drawl in the wake of her anger. An amusing thought crossed her mind that Alastor Moody was the exact opposite to the woman in that regard.

Harri looked over to Snape, wondering if he would intervene. The man was blissfully ignoring the entire interaction in favour of eyeing Petunia’s honeysuckle, lips pursed in deliberation. Apparently, he was more than content to do nothing, choosing, instead, to pinch a few of the budding ivory flowers and dropping them into a glass vial that had been fished out from his robes. ‘Well, if he’s not stopping it,’ a wistful thought as she turned back to watch her uncle being cowed into submission, perhaps finding just a tad too much enjoyment, too much satisfaction, at the sight.

“And you’d do well to remember, Vernon, that we are always watching.” As Mad-Eye stepped back from crowding the muggle, he sent her a quick wink and a rueful grin.

If asked about it later, Harri could have sworn that she saw patches of sandy-brown hair peeking through his normally blonde roots— that the lines thatching his face weren’t as heavy or as engraved into the freckled skin. But as he took a hurried nip from the flask and the brown streaks altogether disappeared, she could only attribute it to seeing things. An illusion played on her eyes by the dim lighting of the lone street lamp at the end of the sidewalk.

And then she was ushered inside before she could even blink.

Shoved past her quivering uncle and petrified aunt, a dumbstruck glance was spared over her shoulder just in time to see the two wizards apparate away from Privet Drive.

Harri stood there for a second, hovering in the narrow foyer, a longing, a yearning, gnawing the inside of her chest raw. How badly she wanted to scream into the night for them to come back, to take her away with them— to not leave her alone among the muggles. To not keep her away from magic, from her friends. From the world she had come to love more than anything else. But she figured it would have been pointless— the pair were already gone, their bodies melted away to become one with the encroaching mist.

Dejectedly closing the front door, the girl watched impassively as her relatives tottered off down the hall, still reeling from the threats.



A blink and an agitated sigh, Harri set herself to the impossible task of wrestling her luggage up the steep staircase and resigning herself to the tender mercies of the Dursleys once again. Kicking open the door to the spare bedroom, noting critically how the spartan space hadn’t been touched since she had left last fall, she made a note to clean later. 

Dust was heavy about the furniture, the air stale and the linens on the bed unturned. ‘I’ll be 17 soon and then the blood wards can be damned. I won’t ever have to come back,’ a resentful thought as she tried to find the light in her situation, the bright spot that could make this summer just a touch more bearable.

Roughly shoving the trunks into the room, noting how much space they occupied on the floor, Harri found herself, not for the first time, wishing desperately for her dorm. It was a depressing thought, a dismaying one, to realise that she had been in her four postered bed just last night. 

But now?

Now, she was back in her own personal hell. 

She had been attempting her best to skirt around the pile of scattered luggage to open the window— the iron bars still firmly attached to the sill—  when something gave her pause. There was the queerest feeling of the air shifting behind her, a feat that should have been impossible considering how stifling and stagnant it was without the cross breeze. Of its own accord, the tempo of her pulse quickened, a hammering in her chest as she felt the thrum deep within her bones— magic.

“Just a little while longer, Harri. Be patient.”

The lines of her body went taut, a high strung tension at her core as a pair of lips brushed against the shell of her ear— they mimed the phantom words. There was an insistent press of hands about her shoulders, a settling and firm weight. Emerald eyes widened in disbelief at the familiar voice, at the timber and accent, and she whirled on the spot out of some irrational fear that he had managed to slip past the wards.

When an empty space greeted her in turn, no demon breathing down her neck and demanding more of her blood until it was sated, Harri nearly collapsed in relief. ‘Well, what did you expect? You've barely been sleeping and your poor mind is probably exhausted.’ There it was again— a chastising inner monologue that suspiciously sounded quite a bit like Hermione.

Groaning, thin hands went up to scrub her face, trying to lean into that reasoning to calm down— after all, sleep deprivation was known to cause hallucinations, and, considering what had happened earlier that evening, it shouldn’t be a surprise that she heard his voice. ‘Merlin, I’m a mess.’

Slumping down onto the twin mattress, a creak of springs groaning under an unexpected weight, she warily watched the bedroom door until her pulse finally settled into a more comfortable rhythm. ‘Of course, he’s not here. That’s the whole point of the stupid blood wards. Honestly, Harri.'

The pull of sleep was turning insistent, difficult to ignore as she finally had a chance to sit down— to have a moment of quiet. Unable to stifle a yawn, the girl collapsed onto the single pillow, its stuffing long flattened and sparse, resigning herself to taking a shower in the morning. 

What she had failed to notice, however, as she drifted off were the pair of crimson eyes flickering in the shattered hand mirror on the desk.



Hundreds of miles away, and on the other end of Britain, a wraith of a man sat in a candle-lit study. The dancing shadows and crackling fire were his companions— a foreboding ambience lent to the room that befitted its master.

On the oak desk were an assortment of rather peculiar-looking objects lined up in a symmetrical row. Upon a first glance, one might have mistaken them for family heirlooms— sentimental items from eras long since passed.

A gold ring with a carved black diamond at its center, an odd symbol engraved into the gem’s heart.

A locket inlaid with an impressive amount of emeralds and the shape of a rearing snake behind a cut crystal dome.

A goblet gleaming in polished gold, the impression of a badger stamped into the metal.

A finely crafted silver hairpiece, the outer edges shaped to mimic a bird’s wings with a sapphire set into the middle.

Crimson eyes obsessively scanned the row, the feeling of hunger, of unwavering greed, a constant motif whenever he looked upon them. It was an incomplete set, one having been destroyed in his absence whereas the other, having been unaware of its existence, was being forcefully kept from him— not that it mattered. 

He would remedy that soon enough.

Voldemort reached for the ring, twirling and twisting it between nimble fingers as he contemplated his current predicament, slitted eyes glazing over.

His newly-found horcrux was proving to be quite an issue. An insurmountable challenge. For one, she was his ‘prophesied’ enemy, his supposed downfall, and the target of his wrath for many years. Undoubtedly, the girl would have a hard time forgiving him for that slight— and Merlin only knew that she had a nasty habit of continuously getting under his skin. And though he, typically, wouldn’t readily admit to his faults, he was entirely aware that his reputation wasn’t one exactly marked by patience or leniency.

For another, she was human— a contradiction in her very existence. She wasn’t inanimate like the other vessels housing his soul. She was living. Breathing. A brash little thing with thoughts and magic of her own. 

Recollections of Harri flashed through his mind— the way she had moved in the graveyard, the defiance in her eyes when he had appeared in the infirmary. The shock of her magic, it’s signature so very close to his.

Yes, she was a puzzle that he couldn’t quite figure out, an oddity that should have never been allowed to transpire by nature’s very laws. 

How much of her was his and how much of herself was her own? 

Where did his soul begin and hers end?

The obscured vision of a locket came back into view, startling in its clarity as he latched onto it.

The material containers, while they would sometimes respond to him, weren’t like her. They didn’t have their own constant train of thought or endlessly bright bursts of emotion— those distracting eruptions on the edges of his awareness that, sometimes, caught him off guard in their intensity. 

“She is certainly a loud little thing,” he mused, having felt her earlier ire and fear as clearly as though they were his own.

Even now, as he reached tentatively through their bond, he could feel her erratic heartbeat as a second pulse— her troubled thoughts twisting around his own, how she was turning in her bed and ill at ease. It would appear that she was having a nightmare, a pull in his stomach that urged him to go to her. To ensure her safety, to ascertain it was only a dream and nothing more. 

It was a damning instinct, one that, he hoped, would lessen once they were in closer proximity.

His grip tightened on the ring as he reached for the glass of amber liquid. “She will have to learn Occlumency for both of our sakes.”

Taking a small sip, barely registering the burn as it slipped down his throat, scarlet eyes strayed to the fire. The flickering embers at the bottom, faintly, reminded him of her hair and the way it had been, somehow, just as bright under the moonlight. 

And the more he reflected on it, the more aware he became that he held an aesthetic attraction towards the girl.

Swirling the glass in his hand in contemplation, he summoned her to appear in his mind’s eye. Pale skin and a heart-shaped face. High cheekbones, a slight but shapely enough form. Her red hair, a pleasing shade of auburn that was entirely too rich in colouration, lips a rosy shade that suited her complexion. And her eyes— that killing curse green that betrayed her not-entirely human nature, their vividness as unnatural as his own.

Voldemort downed the last dregs of scotch in the glass, finding no shame in such an assessment of her. He had always coveted beautiful objects, as evident by what he had chosen to be the original containers for his soul, and she was no exception. His eyes darkened at the thought of what she would look like when fully grown, entirely all too pleased with his soul for picking someone that would be on par with him. Somehow, he could already imagine her next to him, light where he was dark, existing as a worthy contrast to stand at his side. 

Well, his old self anyways.

He set down the crystal tumbler onto the desk and slid the ring onto his finger. It was no matter— he would regain that form soon enough as it stood. 

Thin lips pressed into a grim line at the thought of the task before him, an impossible, Herculean one that he would only have a summer to complete. But it was vital that he regained his old appearance— not just for the sake of coaxing her to his side but for his future plans as well. It had been a mistake on his end, an erring oversight to the ritual, that led him to emerge from the cauldron in this form. And as much as he normally wouldn’t have cared about his appearance, would have been more than content to remain a monster among mortals, she would never be comfortable around him. Not if he continued to look more like a serpent than a man. After all, try as she may to deny it, her reaction upon seeing the glamour of Tom Riddle was telling enough— she was attracted to the allure his younger self possessed.

The door suddenly creaked open. 

Drawing him from his introspection, his familiar slithered in, the flat triangular head lifting as she flicked her tongue curiously.

"What are you thinking about?” she inquired, winding her way up the back of his chair.

He reached back to absentmindedly stroke the smoothness of her scales, the sibilance of parseltongue a second nature to him. “That we have quite a bit to do, my dear one.”  

With a wave of his hand, the horcruxes lined along the desk hovered in the air before disappearing. “Come, Nagini. There are preparations to be made before the night is up.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 6: Back From The Dead

Notes:

I hope you guys can bear with me a tad longer— I had the wand scene come to me and just had to include it lol. As a heads up, there's also a mild torture scene when it first switches to Voldemort's perspective— feel free to skip it! You won't miss much other than Voldemort being possessive as usual.

On a side note, thank you everyone for your love and for the comments! It really has made my day seeing them when I log on 💕

Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Time stretched on slowly, languid from the stifling humidity of the mainland’s summer and, as the 4th week of her vacation approached, Harri wondered if it would ever end.

Currently, the girl was sprawled out on the backyard’s lawn, the grass blunt with new growth from being mowed a few days prior, and sheltered in the waning shade of the lone maple tree. It had become a habit of hers to seek refuge outdoors whenever her thoughts were heavy, troubled. With the chirps of cicadas in the foreground to provide a lulling hum, The Girl Who Lived contemplated the confusing mess that was her existence.

In all sense of the word, her break had been quiet. And while that should have calmed her, given her some much-needed rest from the chaos of the wizarding world, it had the profoundly opposite effect. There had been no news. No letters from friends, no visits from Sirius. 

Just— quiet.

It was as though everyone had been determined to cut her off entirely, an irrational part wondering, fretting, if she did something to upset them— if they were finally fed up with her antics and ready to toss her aside. The thought squirmed inside of her, persistent in burrowing into her heart until it was all she could focus on. Obsessively, Harri replayed over her last interactions with them, desperate to find any warning signs of their commitment to their friendship waning. But, try as she did, she could find none. 

In fact, they had been as warm as always in their departure hugs— had even sat with her during her foul mood to assure her that she was still welcomed at the Burrow. There was no forthcoming reason for their radio silence, for them to ignore her like this.

Lifting a heavy arm off the ground, she draped it across her eyes, the dampness gathering on the low back of her tank top an uncomfortable sensation.

Much to her bitter disappointment, it turned out to be cooler outside than inside. The Dursleys were firm in their refusal to turn on the air conditioner when they weren’t home and she didn’t feel like testing to see if there was any truth in Vernon’s statement that he would know if she touched it. ‘But at least they’re gone.’ There was some solace to be found in that little win. Ever since Mad-Eye threatened them, the muggles were, blessedly, absent from Privet Drive more often than not. 

Currently, they had disappeared off to a resort somewhere in Mexico, reluctantly leaving the home in their niece’s care for another week or so.

A heavy groan and Harri hauled herself into a sitting position, knowing she should probably put her free time to good use while she had it. Plus, with her dear old aunt and uncle gone, their shrewd gazes far removed, it was the perfect chance to get a jumpstart on next year’s material.

Though she may not have loved learning and reading as much as Hermione, even she could appreciate being productive when one had nothing else to do— and her free time was something of abundance as of late. It had been all too easy to uncover where Vernon kept the key to the locked cupboard that held her wand and school supplies— a precaution on their end ever since she had accidentally inflated Marge in her 3rd year. Of course, hiding her wand wouldn’t prevent her from accessing her powers— but the explanation on the difference between ‘accidental’ and ‘purposeful’ magic had gone entirely over their heads. Their firm position was that any and all usage was inherently wrong.

Absentmindedly humming, a tuneless sort of song, she thumbed through the textbook resting in her lap.

“Ex-pul-so,” Harri muttered, eyes scanning over the page as she intently studied the diagram and decidedly ignoring the section where it labelled the spell as a curse. “Doesn’t seem too difficult.”

Reaching for her wand, the girl went through the wrist movements while refraining from speaking aloud the incantation. ‘As long as I don’t actually do magic, the Ministry can't complain.’ Admittedly, the thought did inspire a good deal of cynicism and bitterness— why did she have to be restricted from using her powers for an entire summer? To ignore her birthright? But of course, she knew, deep down, that it did make sense— after all, if one used magic at the Burrow, it would be normal. Doing so here, however, might induce a heart attack in some of her aunt’s more religious and conservative neighbours. ‘And wouldn’t that just be grand,’ Harri snorted, thinking back to how the Ministry wanted to expel her for pumping Marge full of hot air— she shuddered to think what would happen if, in a roundabout way, she had been the cause for a muggle’s death. 

‘Probably Azkaban,’ a small voice contributed— it did little to quell her nerves.

Attempting to chase away the grim thoughts, Harri redirected her focus back to the textbook.

A few moments passed before a frustrated groan joined the hum of the cicadas. The wrist movement wasn't as fluid as she would like, the weight distribution entirely off. Glaring at the wand, a sense of resentment and longing flourished in her chest— she tossed it down onto the grass. Her original had been lost in the graveyard, dropped in her struggle to break free from the statue, and she had been trying to make do with a replacement ever since. 

'But it's all wrong.' Harri frowned as she critically eyed the dark wood resting innocently in a patch of dandelions.

It was too light and the handle not as pronounced or comforting to hold— and it only half-listened at the best of times. Ollivander had struggled to find her a match that would be suitable enough— walnut, 10 inches, dragon heartstring core. Yet, even with the wandmaker's expertise, she felt empty holding it. Incomplete— as though it were an ordinary stick and nothing more. He did warn that might be the case, claiming her bond with the holly wand was unparalleled— 'true twin flames' Ollivander had declared with a pitying look.

But such a bond had been lost— and now she was paying the price.

Emerald eyes drifted up to a passing cloud, trying absentmindedly to make a shape out of its blurred, undefined edges. It was the only one in sight— a loner in an endless sea of bright blue. Unable to help herself, all thought became consumed in pondering where her true match had gotten off to— if someone had picked it up after she fled or if it was left to rot among the crumbling tombstones. 

She didn't know which she was hoping for. 



Fate is, undeniably, a fickle thing and tends to have a rather interesting, or sick depending on who you ask, sense of humour.

As it so happens, the wand in question had found its way into the possession of a certain Dark Lord, having been picked up in the graveyard several months ago.

It was a physical reminder, an assurance, that the girl had once been in his grasp. He figured she would come for it eventually, would feel its absence as a hollow ache and be driven onwards by a need to reclaim it. And when his little horcrux finally would reappear, Voldemort had no intention of relinquishing her, of letting her slip by once again.

After all, she was safest by his side.

Safest where he could watch her, protect her, ensure that no ill could ever befall her— she was too precious to be left to her own devices amidst a world that would so eagerly destroy and grind her into dust. 

Too precious and too rare for such an unfortunate end.

Crimson eyes ran along the length of the polished dark wood in rapt attention, soaking in every detail, every notch, every grain pattern. Elongated hands, shapely fingers more suited to an aristocratic life, one of pampering and less of toil, trailed over its handle lovingly— a worshipful touch. It was hers, he knew it without a doubt. Not just for the fact that she had dropped it but for the fact he could feel it. The thrum of magic, her signature so like his own, unrestrained and existing as bright spots in his mind. It felt like an old friend in his grip, greeting him as though he were its long lost companion— a bittersweet reunion.

And oh— wasn’t this a surprise. 

A revelation dawned across a serpentine face, a lipless mouth cracking into a predatory smile. ‘A brother wand to my very own— a phoenix core.’ He could very nearly laugh at the absurdity of it— at how Fate truly made her into his image. It wasn’t enough that she housed his soul, oh no. They had to share wand cores in addition to magic. She was truly, undeniably, irrefutably his in every single, damnable way. An idle thought crossed his mind pondering, once again, how much of the girl was his versus how much she was her own. 

Interrupting his musings was a grating moan and his gaze reluctantly drifted over to the body lying prone at his bare feet. 

At some point, the man had bitten his tongue while under the Cruciatus, the froth spilling from his mouth tinged by a brilliant, scarlet hue.

“Ah, Scrimgeour. I must confess myself distracted. I had forgotten you were even here,” Voldemort said with a degree of amusement.

He rose from the carved throne, Harri’s wand still clutched in his grasp.

Stepping over a puddle of bile, the Dark Lord assessed with detached interest the poor state the Minister was in. The crossed lacerations were freely bleeding and wetting his torso in rivers, the bloody fingernails worn down to stumps, torn and jagged, as he had clawed at his own skin and the marble floors in search of relief. Voldemort sneered disdainfully, the man’s spine weak and mind fractured— how quickly had he had fallen under torture, had relinquished his position of power after not even ten minutes of exposure to the curse. ‘Pathetic.’

For the most part, the parlour was still, quiet— a weighty hush punctuated by a sporadic groan every now and then. Having long lost the ability to scream, or to formulate a coherent sentence, only Scrimgeour’s muted gasps relayed the pain he was in.

Voldemort hovered over the Minister, a barefoot shooting out to force the man’s head to turn towards him. A warped sense of triumph thrived within the cavity of his chest, the spaces between his ribs, in seeing the light dim from the wizard’s eyes.

In a mock show of sympathy, the Dark Lord clicked his tongue. “What a shame, Rufus, to only have lasted a term in office.”

A burst of mad laughter suddenly shattered the quiet of the throne room at the comment and Voldemort glanced up to take in Bellatrix’s dishevelled appearance— he had, seemingly, also forgotten about the witch’s presence. 

Two weeks prior had found the woman still rotting in Azkaban— an oversight he had been quick to remedy. Freedom had done wonders for her in such a short amount of time, years of neglect easily reversing in the wake of regular baths and decent meals. Her frame, once reduced to bordering on the skeletal, had begun to finally fill back out, shapely curves making their reappearance. But what he enjoyed most about loyal Bella, had been drawn to all those years ago when she courted to join his ranks, were those coal eyes—the way they shone in admiration whenever they landed upon him or the perverse delight that sparked them to life as she performed an Unforgivable.

It was the look that glittered in them now that he found so enjoyable— the same, twisted glee that most were quick to label as 'insanity'. 

The witch had raised her wand, as warped as she was, the thrill of dark magic coursing through her veins urging her to chase the next high— to ride out another wave and succumb after 15 long years of being denied.

He held a hand out in a nonverbal command for her to stop. “That is quite enough, Bella. I can not begrudge Nagini her meal any longer.”

A whimper, either out of being denied or at being reprimanded—or perhaps both— escaped her. 

An entirely pitiful sound.

Crimson eyes slid over to her, taking note of the shaking in her shoulders, the quivering of her lower lip— it almost looked as if she was about to protest even though he knew she would never dare. But he understood, of course. It was difficult to come back from the edge after free-falling, after experiencing that consuming high from casting such magic.

Upon seeing her wand still raised, a slitted gaze narrowed a fraction— a silent warning of what would await her if she didn't obey and cede to the command.

A blink, then two. Apologetic shock pinched her expression as she hastily dipped her head and scrambled back a few steps.

Voldemort had been about to summon his own wand to end the Minister's life, to get rid of the first obstacle in his ultimate goal, when a depraved thought crossed his mind— an insistent yearning, a sharpening desire. A compulsive wish.

He looked down to the holly wand still in his palm, scarlet eyes darkening in their contemplation. How innocent it was— how uncorrupted it felt in his grasp. Never before had it known dark magic nor had been tainted in the way he wished to do to her. Truly, it was a perverse thing to hold something so pure while knowing the power he held over its fate. Most wizards would consider it damning, and far more than an offending slight, to utilise another’s wand in such a way— but if she belonged to him, did the holly not as well? A spark of undying curiosity, something singing in his chest to find out.

Slowly raising it, he pointed it towards Scrimgeour’s minutely twitching body— a depraved sense of contentment burrowed in his chest at the way the wand had begun to hum.

“Avada Kedavra,” a soft incantation. 

He wasn't entirely surprised to feel some resistance to the order.

But as the Dark Lord pushed his will, his intent, his magic, into the wand, he could feel that initial opposition begin to crumble, the fight ebbing away. 

Vivid green light shot forth from the tip, flooding the room with its blinding glow— the Minister of Magic seized for one last time.

And then everything went still. 

A vacuum of quiet filled only with his laboured, shallow breaths as red eyes widened over the feat he had just accomplished. Her wand had listened to him, the warmth radiating from it a physical reminder that it hadn’t rejected him, hadn’t spurned him.  Undivided attention fixated on the heated holly held in a cradle of long fingers— a brief flash of wonder and triumph.

He only granted himself a moment of quiet introspection before gathering his bearings. Voldemort schooled himself into a neutral expression— a carefully blank mask.

“Nagini, your feast awaits,” came his sibilant hiss in the language the two shared.

Impassively watching as the serpent extended her jaw to begin the process of swallowing the man, he made vain attempts to calm the quickened beating of his heart. The implications behind the wand obeying him were far too many, far too rich to ignore. 'You can think about it later,' a distant voice chided— it was right.

Returning his horcrux's wand to the sleeve of his robes, riding out the wave of success, he tilted his head towards Bellatrix. 

“Come, Bella.” The wide, grand doors parted of their own accord as he approached them. “We have a new world order to instil.”



The sun was beginning to dip past the tree’s horizon and 4 Privet Drive still found a redheaded girl sequestered away in its backyard.

Her attempts to learn were futile. There wasn't as much snap in her wrist as she would have liked, not enough fluidity— and it was the wand's fault. As the frustration continued to mount, a bubbling well of irritation in her stomach, her movements devolved into being more erratic, more aggressive.

Magic crackled defensively against her skin in response to her ire— a cry of irritation tore from her throat. Harri hurled the wooden stick into Petunia's prized topiary, auburn hair frayed and coming out of its hastily made bun. And though she knew, logically, it wasn't the wand's fault, that her annoyance stemmed from something far more than simply not being able to copy the diagram’s movements, she found herself not caring.

It felt therapeutic to throw it, to have a physical outlet for her anger.

“Now, Potter, that’s no way to treat a wand,” a stern voice reprimanded from behind her.

Harri whirled on the spot— eager to tell whoever it was to shove off— when emerald robes and a pointed hat caught her eye.

“Professor McGonagall! I’m sorry, I just— wait, what are you doing here?”

She bounded over to the older witch who was currently standing on the patio and eyeing the pastel pink lawn chairs with a look of barely-concealed horror. Harri reached up to take out her hair tie and frizzy strands fell to her waist in a damp mess from the day's humidity. 

“Can I get you anything to drink? Or to eat?” Harri asked, excited to have some form of company from the wizarding world— to have someone else to finally talk to that wasn’t her sour-faced relatives or herself.

“No. No, dear, that’s quite alright. I just felt it was prudent to check on you, considering—” McGonagall stopped herself, lips pursing.

Harri's heart sank. The earlier bliss of seeing her favourite teacher was dissipating as a knot formed in her stomach. She had spent enough time around the older woman to know that there were very few things in this world that could have caused such a reaction— to make fear dance in those normally bright eyes. 

“Professor? What’s happened?”

McGonagall placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, forcing a placating smile even though her eyes were murky with troubled thoughts.

It hadn’t escaped Harri’s notice that hand, suddenly frail with age, was trembling.

“Things are changing,” McGonagall said slowly, pushing her half-moon glasses further up her nose. “But everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

The professor trailed off, her expression shuttering as though she were resolute not to let anything slip.

Harri tried to decipher the words for any hidden meaning, the annoyance back with a vengeance at being kept in the dark once again. Something was obviously troubling the older woman and a million scenarios were running through her head, each one worse than the last.

“Professor—,” she was cut off by McGonagall abruptly pulling her into a tight embrace.

‘She never hugs me,’ a confused thought, arms hesitantly wrapping around a thin frame to return the gesture. While it felt odd, Harri couldn’t say that she entirely minded it either. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she allowed herself a moment to indulge in the comfort, the reassuring contact, by resting her head on a bony shoulder.

“It’ll be alright, dear. You’ll see,” the transfiguration professor muttered into tangled, auburn hair. "Everything will be fine."



The Dark Lord stood in the centre of the antechamber beneath the study, waving his hand absentmindedly as the sconces on the wall flared to life— their warm glow competed with the shadows in a valiant effort to stave off the darkness. At his feet, a triangle had been drawn on the dirt floor in ash, 3 horcruxes resting at the apexes: the goblet, the diadem, and the ring.

The girl had finally gone to bed for the night, the continuous hum in the back of his mind, the one that he came to recognise as her, finally quieting. The entirety of his day had been spent waiting for her to fall asleep, to cease the endless chatter and those nagging bursts of emotions. After all, for this to work, it was crucial that he remained free of distraction— especially so from the kind that his little human horcrux was so adept at providing.

In the low light, crimson eyes glinted with apprehension, with excitement— and with an underlying fear. Nagini, his ever-loyal, ever-present friend, was coiled in the corner of the room, just far enough away that she should be safe should anything go astray.

“Massstter.” Her triangular head lifted as a fork tongue nervously scented the air. “Musst you do thiss? You have waited for sssoo long to have sseven. Why desstroy three more?”

The Dark Lord shed his robes and the fluid material collected in a puddle at his feet— the cold sting of the air was barely heeded as the orange firelight painted designs across pallid skin.

He moved with grace towards the middle of the sigil, a wraith-like body too tall and too fluid to be human. The yew wand was held limply in lax fingers, the incantation ready on his tongue.

“Things have been off, dear one.” Voldemort observed his skeletal hand, those pale veins stretched too thinly and brought too close to the surface. It was a horrifying sight, one of a monster that had been summoned from death but was still lacking flesh, sinew— a cursed form.

Since my rebirth. My powers have weakened, my call to them.” At this, he spared a glance over to the horcruxes on the ground. “Has been severed. This is the only way I can think of to regain my former glory.”

And even now, he could recall how Harri had looked at him when he appeared to her as Tom Riddle— the desire, the interest. Yes, she was attracted to his old form far more than his current one and what did the muggles like to say? ‘It’s easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar,’ a passing thought, mind resolute. If she coveted Tom Riddle, then she would have him— it would be easier, after all, to control her, to reign her in, to make her stay by his side if he looked the part of the prince rather than the villain.

Voldemort held his hand out, the tip of the bone-white wand pressed firmly against the palm. “Diffindo.”

Blossoms of red welled along the line he had drawn, ruby red droplets that caught the light in a mesmerizing way.

Nagini hissed from the corner as the smell of blood, metallic and sweet, permeated the air, an expression of her displeasure that she was not in agreement with this plan.

Ignoring his familiar altogether, bare feet carried him to the goblet, the dampness of the earth between his toes doing little to incite discomfort. Another testament to his lost humanity— he could no longer feel the cold, the nerve endings that relayed sensations to his skin frayed and destroyed. 

Holding the weeping palm over the chalice, three drops of his life force stained the golden surface.

“Ego antiquum spirituum invocabitis,” he chanted, voice strong and clear.

The cup began to vibrate in response to the spoken words, heat wafting off of its surface as the ruby tears began to sizzle. Satisfaction warmed him as he moved on to the diadem, eyes tracking the trickling path of blood as it tarnished the silver.

“Ad exaudi preces meas.”

Similar to the goblet, the crown had begun to quake, the free-hanging sapphire clinking loudly against the metal frame in a show of its agitation. 

Voldemort only paused at the Gaunt ring— an onslaught of conflict as his emotions warred against destroying this particular one. It symbolised his greatest revenge in life, a legacy forcefully kept from him that he had claimed, dismantled, and rebuilt in his own image. The ring contained the ghosts of his wretched family, of those who had rejected him— those who had left him to rot in a muggle orphanage with a hollow ache in his stomach and a blackness in his heart. Absolute power, proof of his dominion over those who had wronged him. Of rising past them— of rendering their bodies to ash in the earth under his very feet.

No, it was for the best.

He needed to have one more to complete the ritual and he dared not use Nagini or risk damaging the locket— after all, the pendant was his proof of his claim to Salazar’s ancestry. Plus, the ring had more magic attached to it that, he figured, could withstand the ceremony.

Slitted eyes narrowed a fraction, fingers curling into a fist with more force than probably necessary. 

The blood flowed more freely than before.

“Praebueris potentiam tuam,” he chanted, passively regarding the way the blood coating the ring began to hiss, to bubble and jump.

Returning to the middle of the sigil, an unbearable amount of heat rolled off of the horcruxes— steam flooded the underground chamber as the searing warmth intermixed with the cooling humidity. The Dark Lord swiped the bleeding palm over his bare chest, a long stroke of lukewarm tackiness. 

And there he stood, painted in light and shadow from the long flames, scarlet smeared across his body as warpaint—the Devil wandering the mortal plane.

A momentary pause, the acrid smell of burning blood and hissing artifacts bearing witness. “Dona mihi quod peto unica.”

In unison, the vibrating horcruxes had abruptly stilled. The lack of chaos felt amiss. 

Unsettling.

Voldemort glanced over to Nagini, unsure of what was to happen next or what to expect. Very few wizards had actually attempted to reabsorb their horcruxes after their creation, most texts beyond unhelpful in that regard— and, if he were being honest, he was mostly winging it at this point.

Silence.

Waiting.

And then everything was on fire.

White-hot orbs shot out from the horcruxes’ vessels, spreading out searching tendrils of creeping light. They clung to the Dark Lord in a fine web, the filaments spreading over his chest, his arms, his shoulders, their touch unbearable in the intensity of their feverish temperature.

Locked knees finally gave out, a scream tearing from his throat as he felt impossibly raw— it was as though every nerve-ending had been worn, scraped, held to an open flame. 

There was molten blood in his veins, a punishing tempo of a heartbeat, his teeth aching from the onslaught. His vision blurred, darkening dangerously on the peripheries as he helplessly sought out the form of Nagini. The snake was coiling and writhing in what looked like immense pain— fear flashed through him at the sight. Apparently, it wasn’t just him that was suffering— and the briefest thought crossed his mind, the barest pulls of concern, that Harri was probably experiencing it as well.

The seconds seemed endless, minutes felt as though they were bleeding into hours as the searing refused to abate— his breaths were panting, shallow bursts that gasped for air.

Blinking through another wave of pain, a crescendo of anguish, he chanced a glimpse down to his torso. Blood had begun up to well and weep profusely from where the filaments had dug their barbs into his skin, the vaguest notion overcoming him that they were feeding off of his life force— that they were using it to fuel the intensity of the heat licking at his body. 

Fingers scrabbled at the earth below, the dirt finding purchase under his nail beds. Something was encouraging him to faint, to succumb—but he refused to give in. He had spent 15 years feeling nothing and he figured that he should relish in being able to even perceive his current suffering at all— that he was sentient enough to fully embrace it. 

Teeth ground together, clamping down to stifle another scream.

As if sensing his resolve that he wouldn’t be the first to break, to crumble, the tendrils unexpectedly dropped their burning contact.

Sweet relief that he thought would never come.

His body collapsed to the ground, shaking arms unable to support his weight a second longer. Tremors tore through his muscles from the ordeal as he fought to regain his sight's clarity— to find the energy to move. 

A beat of silence. 

And then two.

Voldemort finally rolled onto his back.

Fighting through the exhaustion, the dulling ache in his limbs, he lifted his head and grimaced at the gore— lacerations marked the expanse of his chest, his front glinting wetly with a coat of scarlet. And, for the first time since his rebirth, he felt drained. 

A wisp rather than a man and forever waiting for the slightest gust of wind to carry him off.

Nagini .” His throat was inflamed and tender from screaming, the edges of his consciousness still blurred.

Reaching through their bond, cool relief flooded him— the slightest of respite from the aftershocks jumping through his sinew. ‘Our connection wasn’t destroyed then.' He was beyond content to know that he at least had one horcrux left.

And— ah. There she was. 

His special one.

His feat that proved he was above the common rabble, the living proof to the greatness of his magic, his skill. After all, how many could lay claim to the fact that they turned a human, a witch nonetheless, into a vessel for their soul? ‘She felt it too’, he mused as his worries were confirmed, her own pain, her suffering, a second to his own. ‘Nagini. The Locket. The Girl,’ he mentally counted over his current ties to immortality, pleased that they managed to survive the ritual intact.

Lying prone in the dirt, fingers twitching in a telling sign of his returning strength, the Dark Lord finally lifted his torso off the ground.

With a wince, his magical core still raw, a mirror was conjured with a passing wave.

A light sheen of sweat had coated his naked body, attracting the dancing flames and making it appear as though diamonds had been embedded into his skin. Staring back as a reflection, albeit a touch exhausted, eyes glinting with immense satisfaction, was the face of his youth.

The same high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, the defined jawline. The silky dark hair that curled slightly around his ears. However— he had kept that red, red gaze.

A frown tugged on the corners of his mouth as he noted that his complexion was still a touch too pale as well. But all in all, it had been a success. 

Full lips parted to reveal a row of gleaming teeth. 

He was back.



Harri, curled to one side on the bed, was shaking as tears dried in sticky tracks down her cheeks. Her chest felt as though it had been clawed and dug into by merciless talons, a dull resounding pain that flared every time her heart beat. ‘What happened,’ a terrified thought, more than thankful that the Dursleys were gone— she could only imagine their displeasure, their alarm, at her deafening wails.

Her throat was burning from her screams— it was a searing ordeal to swallow— her legs unstable and trembling. 

Bright bursts of agony split her head sporadically, the pain unevenly radiating out from her scar. 

Green eyes screwed closed and how she desperately wished that Pomfrey was by her side with one of her magical concoctions— the kind that could erase the pain and could return her back to normal. Aspirin, she just knew, wasn't simply going to cut it this time.

It was impossible to understand, to comprehend, what had just happened. Yet she had been there

She saw him —naked and trembling in the dirt, covered in strands of pulsating light. 

He was alive. 

The boy from the diary that she had thought she vanquished ages ago, the very same she had thought she killed in a spray of black ink. 

Tom Riddle had risen from the dead.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 7: Diagon Alley

Notes:

Thank you so much for the attention this fic has been receiving! I love and appreciate you all for every comment, like and bookmark 💕

Please enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



After that night, Harri had spent nearly the rest of the week trying to gain enough strength to get out of bed, her body still feeling too raw from whatever Voldemort had done. Every inch of her ached, a dulling persistent throb that would sharpen in the wake of any abrupt movements.

She learned, rather quickly, to limit her physical activity to only when it was most dire— to go to the bathroom or to get a drink from the sink’s tap, mostly relying on a rather dwindling stash of packaged snacks under a loose floorboard for food. 

Not that she had a terrible appetite these days.

The thin mattress, with its creaky springs that bit into her skin, had become her sole comfort as she fought off the chills, the shudders, the bone-deep pangs.

Most of her time was spent in fitful bouts of sleep, mind drifting and conjuring up some rather vivid images of Tom— ‘No, Voldemort,’ she corrected herself, the distinction between the two blurring as of late. It was becoming harder and harder to draw the line between the boy from the diary— the one that she admittedly had developed quite a fascination with— and the monster that had emerged from the cauldron. 

On some nights, Harri found herself in a study, hovering over his shoulder as he scratched away at pieces of parchment and observing him with morbid curiosity. She had been reduced to an apparition, a spectre— a phantom encroaching on his daily routines and trailing after him.

On others, she would join him in the dining parlour to watch as he ate in silence at a table that seemed far too grand for just one person. Nagini, in those scenes, would usually be coiled around the chair’s legs or draped across his broad shoulders.

Rather quickly, however, Harri was beginning to hate the dreams that featured the snake— the creature seemed to look directly at her as though aware of her ghostly presence. And, without fail, it would whisper something in the Dark Lord’s ear, too quiet to hear, that always resulted in the same thing— him turning towards her with a look she couldn’t fully understand.

Green eyes fixed numbly on the ceiling, the popcorn texture starting to peel off in some areas and leaving behind bald spots in the plaster. 

A car had rolled down the paved streets of the neighbourhood, the gentle hum of its engine breaking up the monotonous quiet— it quickly faded.

Silence reigned once more— save for the occasional, distant noise of someone opening a window or back door. Most were wise enough to retreat indoors to escape the summer’s heat, the day’s balm even warding off the children.

Truth be told, these recent visions were troubling. Whenever she would attempt to decipher what her subconscious was possibly implying, Harri only felt lost— and a bit disturbed. Was it because her fictional-Voldemort was now wearing Tom's face that she didn't mind him as much? That, somehow, she was projecting onto him a residual obsession and a schoolgirl crush from years ago? Even though his attempts to outright murder her had put a damper on the whole 'romanticisation of Riddle', Harri did consider that she never properly dealt with her infatuation for him. After all, for a 12-year-old, having the undivided attention of someone who was older, in having her issues and complaints heard and acknowledged for once, in having camaraderie with someone so similar to her— it was damning. 

And it only made that eventual betrayal sting all the more.

It seemed easier, at the time, to just suppress it— to deny and claim that she never felt anything towards the boy in the first place. That her feelings were null, nonexistent— but that was a lie and Harri Potter had never been a convincing liar.

But seeing his face again brought those feelings back to the surface, complicated tugs on her conscience that did terrible things to her morality and ethics. He was Voldemort— had always been, in fact. 

Glowing letters. 

An anagram cut into the ether. 

“I Am Lord Voldemort”.

Yet still, despite all of that, the girl found herself obsessively replaying every last interaction between them — the way his mouth had been pressed into her skin when he told her to be ready. How he had whispered against the shell of her ear, those hands strongly, insistently, pressing down on her shoulders. 

Harri felt her face flare with heat and knew, without even looking in the mirror, that she was flushed.

Admittedly, she had embarrassingly little history when it came to boys, or girls, her age— nevermind older men who undoubtedly had experiences she couldn’t even fathom. Though, even her limited knowledge could understand this— none of those touches were offhanded or innocent. 

They were all done with a purpose, with intent.

‘Sweet Merlin. Can you please remember,’ logic cautioned, dragging her out of her reverie, ‘that Tom wanted to kill you just as much as Voldemort did.’

A chilled hand clutched at her right arm, remembering vividly the pain of a basilisk fang lodged deep within the muscle— a phantom sensation that twinged. And how that was a shock to her system, a bitter reality. Yes, he was attractive, unfairly so, but he was still a murderer— a homicidal maniac. 

A Dark Lord.

‘Maybe it’s just stress dreams again?’ She found herself desperately clinging to that thought— somehow, the idea of her mind just being fragile was more agreeable than trying to justify any underlying fantasies she may have about her greatest enemy.

Harri turned her head, auburn strands fanning across a ratty pillow, to look at the calendar hung askew above the desk. The days had been marked with a row of red Xs, each one boldly crossed out. It was the beginning of week 6 of the break and to say it was torture didn’t even cover it. ‘3 more weeks,’ she thought stubbornly. ‘21 more days and I’ll be back at Hogwarts.’ 

And though she knew, logistically, 21 days would go by in a blink, that it wasn’t such a long time, it still felt like agony. 

A prolonged and never-ending punishment.

With a stifled groan, the girl hauled her stiff body off of the bed and glanced uneasily towards the barred window.  Thunder was beginning to rumble in the distance as dark clouds swelled ominously in the sky— an unspoken warning of the storm yet to come.

Apart from the day that McGonagall had appeared out of the blue, eyes full of tears but refusing to elaborate as to why, there had been a lack of news or visitors. The letters were still nonexistent as were the friendly faces showing up at the front door. ‘Well, I’m sick of it,’ she decided with no small amount of resentment, roughly snatching a black t-shirt from the floor and pulling it over her head. 

The Dursleys were due back later in the week and she refused to let such an opportunity slip by— her shaking body could be damned.

Gingerly heading down the narrow, carpeted stairs, wincing at the pangs in her legs, the girl slipped on a pair of worn, scuffed sneakers. Taking one last look in the hall’s mirror, carefully pulling a black baseball cap further down to hide her scar, she gave a resolute nod. ‘If they won’t come to me,’ she thought, slipping out the front door and into the humid afternoon. ‘Then I’ll come to them.’

Outside, the incoming storm was more noticeable. It was about to break, palpable by the taste in the air and the humidity on her skin, the scent of petrichor clinging heavily. It was rare for it to rain in Little Whinging during the summer months, the season usually marked by prolonged drought and yellowing grass— a welcomed change, she figured, as she glanced up to the clouds above.

Shoving the replacement wand into the back pocket of her shorts, the girl bounded down the paved walk and took off towards the road that led out of Privet Drive. Having reached the faded playground, its usual frequenters long since dispersed, Harri raised her wand arm towards the heavens.

A victorious grin broke out when a shining, two-tiered bus popped into existence. 

The doors sprung open. Gripping the iron rail and climbing the steep steps, she deposited her fare into the box 

“The Leaky Cauldron,” Harri said, pleased enough when the driver gave her a quick nod— he floored the vehicle before she even had the chance to sit down.

On unsteady legs, Harri managed to get to an empty seat, body being tossed about by the sudden lurches and abrupt stops. It hadn’t escaped her notice, as pale hands gripped the edges of the bench to stop from being thrown off at a particularly rough turn, that there was a distinct lack of patrons on the Knight Bus. 

Brows furrowed at the heavy silence settling over the few scattered passengers and the way no one seemed willing to speak. Even Stanley Shunpike, a man who was usually boisterous and talkative, was oddly subdued. ‘Things are changing,’ the grim words of McGonagall came back unsummoned— she shuddered. It was a foreboding warning, one that caused her stomach to clench in a way that wasn’t entirely due to motion sickness.

Another distant rumble of thunder jerked her attention towards the window, suddenly anxious as to how different the wizarding world would be when she finally returned. 



A few hundred miles away, the Dark Lord found himself in a similar position— staring up at the rolling clouds, attention consumed by the first patter of rain hitting the window’s panes. Try as he might, it had become impossible to listen to the drivel Lucius Malfoy was spouting, the nervous tics of the man wearing down his already thin patience.

In hindsight, he knew that he should listen more carefully— especially seeing as the pureblood was currently puppeteering the Ministry under his orders.

But when he felt the bright flares of his horcrux’s annoyance, the singing thrums of her victory, the bite of her anxiety, Lucius had become maddeningly distant from his thoughts.

Ever since he had gained his old form, having assimilated the errant pieces of his soul, the bond between himself and the girl had only grown in intensity. She had recently developed a nasty habit of astrally projecting when she slept— according to Nagini— and her emotions seemed to plague him more often. Too many times had his familiar alerted him to her presence in the room— one that he couldn’t actually see but could sense once made aware of.

It made him wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, during those little visits of hers— and, most importantly, was she doing them on purpose? 

The holly wand lay at his side and he absentmindedly palmed it, crimson stare tracing the path of a stray raindrop.

“Where are you off to now, little one?” he muttered to himself, targeting their bond until her mind became his own. “Diagon Alley? Whatever for, I wonder.”

“As for the Wizengam-,” Lucius droned on. However, he stopped short, heart rate spiking, as his Lord suddenly rose from the table— those red eyes were dark in their contemplation. 

A beat of silence followed, a moment of inaction as the rain had begun to pelt the windows in earnest— an intense rhythm. 

Sharp sounds against the glass set in an ornate frame, a lulling yet simultaneously jarring sound that filled the room.

“Lucius.”

The pureblood couldn’t quite help but jump at his name being used so casually, quickly scrambling out of the chair to bow in acknowledgement.

“How do you feel about a quick excursion?” the Dark Lord questioned with the quirk of an amused smile.

The blond raised his head, pale gaze swimming with confusion. “My Lord?”



As Harri stepped down from the bus, hopping the distance from the last step to the ground, the rain had just begun to dot the pavement in large blooms. Nodding to the driver in a show of thanks, the girl dashed into the Leaky Cauldron before the storm could worsen.

The inside of the dingy bar, which she had always known to be quite jovial and full of cheer, hadn't fared any better than the bus— it was hushed, sullen.

The few customers scattered amongst the tables seemed to only converse in low whispers, not daring to raise their voices. Only a handful had even looked up at her, the lack of attention something she would have once been grateful for—  now, however, it unnerved her seeing how many wanted to avoid eye contact with a stranger.

Slipping unnoticed into the back courtyard, Harri removed her pocketed wand to tap on the age-worn bricks.

Three up.

Two across. 

The wall gave way and she shivered at the pleasant whisper of magic settling over her skin— a long lost friend she never knew how much she had missed until they were finally reunited.

The Alley was, surprisingly, busy given the grave and somber atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron.

And Harri wasn’t entirely sure what her plan even was— what she wanted to achieve by coming here. Maybe she hoped she would randomly bump into one of her friends while they were out on a shopping spree? Or perhaps find a way to send an owl and demand to know why they hadn’t reached out? Maybe she could use the floo networks at Gringotts to travel to Grimmauld Place, take Sirius by surprise and pressure him into telling her why he had broken his promise to visit? 

But, as she took a step, and then another, into the vibrant crowd, her thoughts and anger seemed to ebb away into pure joy. She was home —she was finally back in the world she belonged to.

Harri revelled in the background chatter of the frequenters of the district, eyes flitting from shop to shop to commit their magnificent displays to memory. Despite the grim ambience of her journey to get here, Diagon was untouched by such darkness— and it provided her with some comfort to know it remained unchanged.

Drifting over to join the circle of kids crowded in front of the quidditch store window, she marvelled alongside them at the newest Nimbus model and smiled— a bittersweet, little thing. A sense of fierce longing for her own broom, a distant thought to buy this one— and then she was pushed along by the crowd. 

Readily allowing herself to be swept away, it was the most unburdened she had felt in a long time, the sharp pains and aches of her body forgotten.

When the sign for Magical Menagerie came into view, the owls outside hooting noisily in their cages, her heart squeezed. Harri had left her familiar, Hedwig, in Hagrid’s care over the summer, not wanting to risk it after Vernon’s repeated threats to ‘kill the bloody thing’ from last year. ‘At least this way,’ she thought grimly, debating on buying some treats so she could spoil her beloved snowy owl come September, ‘only one of us has to suffer.’

A particularly sharp crack of thunder interrupted her musings.

Green eyes glanced up at the heavy sound of rain, the droplets hammering uselessly against the invisible barrier hovering over the shopping district. Each plop incited a ripple in the shimmering shield, a fireworks show overhead of bright bursts of colour. The sight caused a delighted smile to form, a sense of elation airy in her chest that drove away any souring thoughts. It was the simplest of things that made her realise just how much she cherished this side of her life— how much she wished to remain here and only here. 

The main crowd carried her onward.

Harri spent a while merely wandering down the bustling streets until a newspaper stand caught her eye, the papers decorated with numerous flashing photographs. Sliding a knut into the dispenser, she snatched it up eagerly— this was her one chance to understand what McGonagall had been referring to, what had shaken her so terribly.

Tucking into an alcove, her heart sank, blood chilling in her veins, as she spied the headline: DOZENS OF HIGH PROFILE PRISONERS ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN IN SECURITY BREACH.

The front photo’s caption read ‘ Bellatrix Lestrange Among Those Escaped, a wild-haired woman laughing in a frenzied manner, straining against the shackles around her wrists and dark eyes alight with maniacal fury.

Harri devoured the paper, unable to tear her eyes from the trainwreck in her hands, turning the pages as she busied herself in committing whatever she could to memory. This was her first source of real information, any information, since she had left Hogwarts— and it was entirely horrifying.

Owlish eyes widened even further in disbelief at the second article, fingers gripping the edges of the tabloid and crinkling it in the process: LUCIUS MALFOY NAMED INTERIM MINISTER OF MAGIC, SCRIMGEOUR MISSING.

“Things are changing indeed,” she mumbled, trying to piece it all together.

A sour taste coated her tongue as she hastily folded up the newspaper.

She looked critically to the pleasant crowd, striving to see if anyone else was having a similar reaction or was, possibly, feeling the same as her. It was sickening to see them so happy, so blissfully unaware of what was happening to their world. How accepting they were of the current injustices, a blind eye turned to it all— it made her want to scream. 

‘You were just like them a few moments ago,’ rationality chastised. ‘They probably don’t even know who’s pulling the strings.’

And, suddenly, Diagon Alley didn’t seem as pleasant, as jovial and inviting as it had been earlier.

Now it was cloying. 

Stifling. 

Too many people hurrying through the crowds— a sense of claustrophobia, of unrelenting sickness, washed over her. 

Stuffing the article hastily into the short’s pockets, she scanned in distress for a gap in the traffic to jump into, an overwhelming urge to leave pushing her forward.

Just as the girl had rejoined the throng, threading and weaving her way through the masses, she heard it. 

A soft whisper and a light tap on her shoulder. "Harri." 

Jolting in alarm, she twisted her neck— only to see an elderly couple behind her, clearly enamoured with one another and thoroughly occupied by their conversation.

Her heart pounded wildly in the confines of her ribs, an unrelenting tempo that made the world around her spin and distort. Tugging her cap down further over the scar, the girl ducked her head and stuffed her hands into her pockets, trying to find some composure— to display an outward nonchalance. 

But it was a nagging feeling, one she couldn’t quite shake, that someone was following her— watching her. 

“Harri. Harri Potter.” There it was again— the baritone voice whispering insistently against her ear, a tug on her elbow.

This time, the girl had whirled around in agitation, ready to yell at someone to shove off— the couple reeled back in surprise at her sudden temper.

But there, a few feet further down the strip, a man stood impossibly still— impossibly tall. The crowd had parted around him, subconsciously giving him space and not daring to come any closer. It was as though they had all instinctively recognised his magic, a subtle underlying current that triggered warning flags to stay away— to not encroach upon him.

The wizard was dressed in a black linen shirt, four buttons left undone to reveal the hollow dip of his collarbones, hands buried casually into pressed, black trousers. Her jaw had dropped on its own accord, the lines of her body going taut as green eyes took in the perfectly kempt dark hair— a stray, defiant curl finding purchase above a shapely brow— the angled cheekbones and that confident smirk.

And what was most jarring were his eyes— red, entirely too red, and watching her in fascination. There was a darkness held in them that, even from this distance, she could recognise as the shadows of hunger. ‘Tom Riddle.’

Recovering from the shock, fear was the first emotion to sweep through her, mouth closing with an audible click. It was followed shortly by embarrassment at having been caught off guard by his appearance and the casual way he was dressed—and how perfectly such fashion suited him. Thankfully, anger, hot and blazing, made a miraculous appearance to overshadow all else— the question of how , exactly, Riddle was here being entirely ignored.

Her emotions warred for dominance until she decided it was safe to settle on rage. It was the easiest one for her to harness, after all, considering it was his fault that she had been banished to the Dursley’s home. 

His fault for inducing her to a near coma-like state for a week. 

His fault that he was uprooting everything she loved about the world she only had just found. 

And how she wanted vengeance, justice— to make him pay. 

Instinctively, a pale hand reached for the wand in the back pocket, that widening leer of his only serving to incite further rage— to encourage those sparks.

It was as if he guessed what she was thinking, what she was feeling— that he just knew how quickly she went for her wand. With the slightest tilt of his head, she heard the words 'Follow' whispered in her ear without his mouth even moving.

Too-green eyes narrowed as Harri watched him saunter down into a side-alley.

The girl started to thread her way through the crowd, muttering out rushed apologies as she fought through the steady throng.  It was disconcerting to see him amongst so many pedestrians, wearing the face of a man who looked barely older than she was and dressed in such muggle clothing to top it off. Every notion, every detail of it threw her for a loop— and whatever he was planning couldn’t have been good. After all, why would a Dark Lord appear in Diagon Alley? Perhaps he was planning on using those gathered here as hostages, as leverage. The children, the elderly, the parents— they were all, unknowingly, at his mercy. All blissfully unaware that Death itself had appeared in their midsts.

But she would be damned if she let him go that far.

Her gaze darted to the shadows, wondering if his Death Eaters were armed and ready, hidden away to be unleashed at his command. It wouldn’t be above him, she figured, to try to hold innocent lives over her head to get her to fight him— to incite her to battle and duel until only one of them remained standing.

Should she yell? 

Raise the alarm and tell everyone to get to safety? 

'No, it would only cause mass panic.'

 Her teeth ground together, steps quickening in her urgency.  

And perhaps it wasn’t exactly the wisest idea to go after a Dark Lord with a wand that only half-listened— one that chose to ignore its 'master' more often than not. But Harri Potter wasn’t exactly known for her ability to think things through properly or to listen to reason when her heart told her otherwise. 

In fact, at the moment, said ‘heart’ was encouraging her to punch him right in his pretty face for even daring to appear in public.

In the haste to catch up to him, the girl hadn’t been looking where she was going, attention glued to the shadowed alley that he had disappeared into. 

And that’s how Harri found herself bumping, head first, into the one person that she had desperately wished to avoid.

“Out for a stroll, Potter?” Snape drawled, his surprise only betrayed by the single, raised brow.

Onyx eyes stared cooly down at the redhead, entirely unimpressed with her antics and not afraid to show it. There was a tightness in the corners of his mouth, a flickering expression of distaste, the bridge of his nose wrinkling ever so slightly.

“Professor! I was just—” Harri’s mind fumbled for a good excuse, to formulate one he would buy, as she peered around his lanky frame.

Her fingers tightened around the wand, heart hammering knowing that Voldemort was, undoubtedly, lying in wait in the shadows. If he was here, she had to get to him first before he did something irreversible— before he saw fit to turn the shopping district into a warzone.

However, the girl barely had time to get a word in otherwise before her upper arm was seized in a firm grip, the tug at her navel the only warning she received as Diagon Alley bled away in a whirl.



Harri tried her best not to lose the contents of her stomach as she stumbled across the Dursley’s too pink living room, her mind striving to play catch up after being forcefully shoved through a vacuum. 

Snape towered over her slight frame, watching with a sneer as the redhead futilely attempted to gather her bearings.

“You stupid girl," he seethed, dark eyes glinting with barely concealed rage."What were you thinking waltzing around Diagon Alley in broad daylight? Does the arrogance you possess really know no bounds?”

Was she truly this ignorant, this unaware, that the Dark Lord was on the rise? That she could have been so easily killed if she had the misfortune of running into him? Or was her inherent defiance towards authourity that profound that she was willing to risk her life? 

In any case, it gave him a headache. 

It took Harri a moment to process what he was saying, her cheeks heated at his gall to chastise her. He was treating her like a child, one entirely unaware of the potential risks. Of course she was aware— she just decided to ignore them, that’s all. Plus, who would have thought that the Dark Lord would be doing some last-minute shopping in downtown London? It hardly seemed like her fault for not having that foresight to guess such things.

“What I was thinking was that I had to get out of this stupid house,” she bit out, the indignation of being forgotten, the resentment of being kept in the dark, finally overflowing after being pent-up for far too long. “What I was thinking was that I had to find out what’s happening since no one is telling me anything!”

Snape glared at the girl, wand already out and deftly casting wards around the property line to prevent any further attempts of escape. He had no doubt in his mind that the second his back was turned, she would go rushing back in some form of Gryffindor idiocy.

The professor didn’t even pause in his warding as he sniped back, “And what kind of information could a child possibly need? As much as it may surprise you, Potter, not everything revolves around you and sating your ego.”

He sheathed his wand, critically assessing the way her eyes had widened in shock. Dumbledore had deemed it wise to keep her unaware of the politics that were currently shaping their world, figuring that it would have been too much for her teenage mind to process. And after witnessing her little outburst, the anger beginning to spark between her fingers, he was starting to see some merit in the idea.

“What kind of—,” she spluttered. “To fight him of course! That’s what everyone is expecting me to do right? To rise up and fight against him?!”

Her voice pitched, magic crackling over her skin in a defensive shield. “Well, how can I if I’m kept in the dark all the time?! I don’t even know what he’s capable of! What’s happening out there!”

The lights in the kitchen flickered menacingly, her chest heaving with effort as the bulbs hissed in their glass cages. 

Around them, the air was growing heavy, static, charged with her temper and dissatisfaction.

Snape considered her for a second longer, at a loss for what to say because, in a twisted way, she was right. Those who knew the truth were already calling for the Chosen One, looking to a girl not even sixteen to lead them into another war. To be their mantel, their saviour, their figurehead that would bring about salvation.

A dark gaze flitted over to the erratic strobing of the lights before landing back on her face, noting the clenched jaw and the twitch in her brow. He decided that it was best to act upon his usual method, the one that he always resorted to when faced with emotional conflict— running away.

Turning on his heels and waving open the front door, Severus marched out into the pouring rain with every intention of disappearing from the hormonal teenager raging in the living room.

“Don’t you dare,” she shouted, chasing after him with no regard to the pelting droplets or to the neighbours that would surely be prying from behind their lace curtains. “Turn your back on me, Severus Snape!”

The rain had begun to drench her clothes, her hair clinging to her face and arms in a mockery of a veil— a bloodied shroud. Green eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision, chest rising and falling in the exertion of her anger. Fingers curled inwards— half-moon impressions bit into soft palms.

Severus spun around slowly to study the wisp of a girl shivering a few feet away.

For a brief, painful second, it was as though Lily was the one standing before him, demanding he face her and not run away. If he overlooked the cheekbones, the pointed nose, the too-green eyes, it could have been entirely possible. 

 His heart squeezed uncomfortably.

“Foolish girl,” he finally sneered, pulling himself to his full height as he came back to the moment. “Do you honestly think you can defeat him?”

There was a stretch of silence— the drumming of water on the sidewalk. 

The rain collected in pools in the soggy grass— a rising flood.

The girl's face crumpled at the revelation, the words holding a stinging honesty to them that they both knew. And there it was again— the unrelenting pang in his chest as he thought of a woman long-since passed. Part of him did wonder if it would have been easier to reprimand Harri, to not fear as much, if Lily had had a son rather than a daughter— or if her child didn’t look so much like her. 

As the thunder rumbled and the rain continued to pour, he allowed the truth to be spread bare before them. To sink in as a heavy weight, to force her to come to terms with the situation. Those who believed she could do it, could defeat Voldemort, were all fools— it was a damnable revelation. He had spent too many years in the service of the Dark Lord, had been around the man for far too long to know the extent of his magic, his abilities—  his cruelty. 

Harri Potter would fall the second she faced him— and how the thought of her dead, of her crumpled and the light extinguished from those vivid eyes made him want to retch.

Severus turned away before she could see his eyebrows knit together in defeat, the way his own expression had shuttered. ‘Why,’ he begged to some unknown deity, apparating away to leave a too-thin, too-small girl in the rain, ‘did it have to be her?’

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 8: Happy Birthday, Harri

Notes:

Hello everyone! First off, as always, thank you so much for every comment, every like and every bookmark! 💕 It makes me so happy to see you guys are loving the story and has been my greatest motivator to sit down and write 💕

We do start off with a mild torture scene so if you're uncomfortable with that, please feel free to skip down to the second section

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



If someone were to ask Severus Snape what he wanted out of life, a younger, more naive, version of himself would probably have responded thusly— “I want fame and endless glory. I want my name to be known and to have the power to vanquish my enemies.”

But now, in his mid 30’s and wearier than ever before, he had come to an altogether different vision— “I want a simple, uncomplicated life. One out of the spotlight and one without having to choose sides.” 

Unfortunately, Fate quite often does the exact opposite of what we desire, working in unforeseen ways and unforeseen consequences. 

And so, the Half-blood Prince resigned himself of either wish, both for fame and for peace, determining them both to be dreams of a distant past. His time for rest, he knew, was far from being attained, his services still required to play the Judas to either side— a damnable, cursed destiny.

Instead, the present currently found the man pacing in the floo parlour of Malfoy Manor, the white marble of the tile polished to an obnoxious gleam that suited the flamboyant owners of the house.

The mark on his forearm had been stinging for the past 10 minutes and it felt as though it had been splattered with hot oil— a relentless burn that made him wonder if it would blister by the night's end. The potions master had been occupied with perfecting a bone-growing concoction, a request on Pomfrey’s behalf that he was all too happy to oblige, when he had been interrupted. Summoned forth from the stone dungeons, from the comfort of acrid fumes and bubbling cauldrons, Severus attempted to calm himself.

It was already 9 in the evening, a foreboding indication of what was possibly awaiting him— after all, in his experience, very few good things occurred during the late-night hours. Not to mention, the vexation, the ire, coming from the Dark Lord was tangible, the ever-present and unrelenting pain a testament to his foul mood.

None of it boded well.

As the grand, wide doors abruptly parted on their own, the professor attempted to smoothen his expression into a neutral mask, desperately clearing his thoughts of a redheaded girl left behind in the rain.

With all the grace he knew how, the wizard swept into the room, coal gaze warily landing on each person seated at the long table— Bellatrix, hooded eyes shining with a vindictiveness that set him on edge.

Lucius and Narcissa, their faces schooled into aloof masks.

Draco, the nervous tick in the corner of his mouth betraying how green he truly was.

Rabastan and Rodolphus looking as though it were a chore, rather than an honour, to be in the Dark Lord’s presence.

And, ah— there he was.

Seated at the head on the throne was none other than the Devil himself.

Having regained a more human appearance, even Snape found it within himself to admit that his Lord’s pedigree had done a rather exemplary job. The man was every inch the charming aristocrat he wished to portray, the combination of his looks and charisma a heady mix of beguiling magnetism that forced even the most reserved individuals to succumb under his spell.

But yet, in spite of his normal-enough appearance, the Dark Lord had kept the crimson eyes and the slightly too pale complexion. In Severus’s humble opinion, they betrayed his absence of humanity and only served to make him stand out.

Truly, he almost preferred the serpentine monster— the one that had no qualms over his appearance— over the one that was playing pretend at being human.  It was discomforting and all too easy to be caught off guard around this version. 

“Ah, Severus.” Voldemort's countenance was pleasant enough— the full mouth was relaxed into a slight, almost congenial, smile, his shoulders free of tension.

It was all a lie.

The potion master’s mark was still burning and he had an irrational fear that it was going to blister, that the skin was bubbling, swelling— melting off. He clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the wave of pain, to ignore it as best as he could.

“At last. Sit.” The Dark Lord had gestured with an open hand to the empty seat at his right.

Glowing eyes tracked him as he moved, stiltedly, further into the room.

The hush was only punctuated by the clicks of his shoes on the polished tile as he swept closer to the table. After a quick, shallow bow, a respectful greeting, Snape slid into the proffered seat.

Brushing out the long robes and tugging the sleeves sharply down, the man mentally probed at his Occlumency shields to ensure they were still intact. The life of a double spy, of toeing the grey area in both camps, was not for the faint of heart— but at least some good had come out of it. The ability to conceal his thoughts had become top-notch out of necessity— the one key to his survival.  

“Rabastan was just entertaining us with recent reports of a centaur uprising,” Voldemort drawled, tone lilting with an edge that made it seem as though the prior conversation was a secret, an inside joke —  that, in fact, centaurs were not what they had been discussing.

The sound of a snort— pathetically attempted to be covered up by a cough— from Bellatrix confirmed Snape's suspicions. He was about to inquire as to why he had been summoned when he saw it. 

There, in the Dark Lord's hand, long fingers obsessively running along the length of it, was a wand. And not just any wand— it was hers.

Snape had spent 5 years with the girl in his classes— enough time that he would recognise the piece of wood anywhere. Merlin knows she was careless with it, parading it about or, much to his horror when he first saw her do it, using it to keep her hair up.

His pulse quickened, an uneven cadence, a thin sheen of cold perspiration settling along his skin. ‘Does he have her?’ Those mental shields threatened to slip, faltering ever-so-slightly. 

But he just saw her. He had left her at Privet Drive, left her in the rain behind layers of wards to protect her, to ensure she couldn’t escape.

The man tried to frantically gather himself, to rebuild his defenses before the Dark Lord could seize the opportunity to slip into his mind and collect information that he shouldn’t be privy to. ‘If he had her,’ rationality argued, eyes glued obsessively to the holly wand, ‘I would have known about it.’

When dark eyes dared to look up, it was to see the Dark Lord studying him knowingly, latching on to the momentary lapse in his otherwise indifferent facade. 

Warning bells were going off.

“Tell me, Severus,” Voldemort began.

There was a calmness, an evenness, to the words that rattled the professor more than he would care to admit.

Elegant fingers had placed the holly wand deliberately, slowly, down in front of the potions master, lingering only for a brief second on the handle. “Where did you run off to today?”

Snape had been about to open his mouth, to lie through his teeth to protect a girl he knew didn’t deserve her fate, a child that wasn’t even his, when the world exploded in searing, white-hot pain.

The man had fallen from the chair, his bones grating against each other in their sockets in a repulsive, scraping sound. Distantly, he could register the cracks as his spine arched to an unnatural degree, the deranged laughter from Bellatrix competing with jarring moans— they were coming from him, he belatedly realised, tearing freely from his throat with a mind of their own.

A metallic taste, sharp and unpleasant, flooded his mouth— his teeth had bitten through the lower lip in an attempt to stifle his cries, the scarlet liquid flowing down his chin, his neck, with a tacky warmth.

When the spell was finally lifted, a sweet blessed relief, a moment of reprieve, he shakily rolled to his side and up onto trembling arms. 

Severus had to spit the blood from his mouth in order to speak, too much of it to possibly swallow. 

An alarming stain on pristine white tiles. 

“M-My Lo-lord?” A stutter was all he could manage, mind still reeling from the Cruciatus.

Everything was too foggy, the ache in his joints and the roaring in his ears drowning out all other sound.

“You see, Severus.” The previously calm tone had bled away into venom, eyes aglow with what, Snape had ascertained, was hellfire.“I was in Diagon today, as well, and so very close to dealing with a certain persisting problem of mine. So you can imagine my surprise when she was suddenly spirited away.”

In the wake of the Dark Lord’s words, another round of flaying pain tore through him— he hadn't even seen the curse coming.

Snape’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as frayed nerve-endings were assaulted. He was convulsing on the ground, fingers scrabbling along the slick flooring for purchase and desperately seeking something to ground himself with, when his skull had met the marble with a sickening crack.

Mercifully, the curse was lifted not soon afterwards— the man lay prone, bloodied and with a heavy layer of sweat covering his skin.

Coal eyes darted about the ceiling frantically, sight dimmed and unfocused. Yet, even through the haze, through the blanketing fog of residual pain, a horrifying revelation still made itself known— the Dark Lord had been using her wand this entire time. 

And it listened to him.  

But before he could think too much on it, Voldemort filled his swimming vision to hover over his broken body.

The toe of an Oxford loafer pressed down cruelly onto a bloodied cheek, the smear of gore across waned skin wetting the shoe’s sole.

“Do. Not,” Voldemort hissed in caution, eyes flashing in rage, in fury. “Disappoint me again, Severus.”

And with that parting, ominous warning, the Dark Lord had vanished to leave the potions professor sporadically twitching and bleeding out on the polished floors of the Malfoys’ dining room.



When the Dursleys had finally returned from their vacation, their skin a revolting shade of red and dreadfully blistered from the sun, Harri wasn’t sure whether to laugh— to claim their suffering was karmic retribution— or to groan at the unexpected amount of work before her.

The girl had spent the next day in the kitchen, preparing oat milk for their baths and aggressively peeling aloe vera from its waxy casings. The only respite that made the task more bearable was to alternate between envisioning a certain Dark Lord and a sneering professor whenever she brought the cleaver down onto the thick leaves.

Harri had had a good deal of time to think about Snape’s judgment of her abilities. And while the man did have a decent point, and it was true that she couldn’t defeat Voldemort the way she was right now, the fact he couldn’t even pretend to have some faith irked her beyond all reason. ‘Would it kill him,’ a miserable thought as she struggled to haul a stockpot of oats up the narrow stairs, ‘for him to be optimistic for once? You can do it, Harri! I believe in you, Harri. We can defeat him if we work together, Harri!'

She shook the oats, some of them clinging stubbornly to the bottom of the pot, forcibly into the tub, her frustration mounting. “But no. He just has to be a complete prick about it.”

The metal container was tossed onto the linoleum tile, her vision blurring—  the floor’s checkered panels blended together in a mess of green and yellow. It was a startling truth, one that rattled her as someone had finally acknowledged it aloud. But if it wasn’t her destiny to rise up against evil, to finally act as the Chosen One, then what was? People were counting on her to stand up to the Dark Lord, to fight— to possibly die for them. 

A shudder passed through her, thin hands scrubbing over a weary face before running messily, wildly, through the auburn strands.

Harri slid down the bathroom wall, huddling next to the slotted vent— the chilled air blowing from the grate was a minor relief. She didn’t want to die, that much was obvious.  Not yet at least— but there was no doubt that, if she had to face Voldemort on the battlefield, she probably would. 

But that was her fate, right? 

The reason she had been born and the reason her parents had to die? 

To sacrifice herself for the sake of justice?

Some rebellious, self-preserving side to her baulked at the very idea— and all too readily pointed out that it was unfair that she, at only 15, was already envisioning her death. That her entire existence, her entire life was the punchline to an ever-running joke of Fate— something to laugh at. 

An errant tear had escaped and the girl stubbornly wiped it away before any more could follow in pursuit.

The sound of someone shuffling past the open bathroom door, their feet frozen midstep, made her look up. 

Petunia hovered in a pink house dress, a thick layer of aloe smeared across reddened skin, as she took in the sight of a girl crouched by the tub. Of her fiery hair, so similar to a sister she had long lost, the green eyes glassy with unshed tears. The way she seemed so small, so vulnerable, that, for a moment, it unnerved her. 

The woman opened her mouth to reprimand her niece, to instruct her to get up and go do something so she wouldn’t have to see her mope about— or to be unfairly reminded of someone she’d rather wished to forget. Yet, the words refused to come.

Her tongue was too heavy. 

And, sometimes, Petunia could have sworn she saw Lily instead. The mother instead of the daughter, a phantom that refused to cease its haunting and leave her in peace. Especially so during moments like these. Quiet, uninterrupted little things— the whir of the air conditioner a lulling rhythm that invited an unhealthy amount of introspection and a barrage of unwanted memories. 

Petunia turned her head resolutely, determined to forget the ghost lingering on the checkered floor as she silently trudged back to her bedroom. 

The door closed and locked behind her.



Two days later had found Harri more sullen than usual as she woke up to the date of July 31st.

While she, herself, never paid her birthday much attention, and neither did the Dursleys for that matter, it still pained her more than she would like to admit.

Just last year, the remaining two and a half weeks of the summer had been spent at the Burrow where her birthday was a celebrated affair. She longed for Mrs. Weasley’s almost-too-tight hugs and the way the twins aimed to include her in every prank. 

She missed how Ginny would spend hours braiding her hair just to take it all out to start over again.

And Ron. 

Ron with his quidditch magazines and hidden candy stash tucked deep in his closet— with his wizarding chess set and enchanted posters plastered on the walls.

And she wasn’t sure what hurt the most— the fact that no one reached out to her all summer or the fact that the Burrow was beginning to be more and more of a distant memory.

Adamantly blinking back the mist from her eyes and trying to banish the gaping maw of disappointment, the girl hoisted herself out of bed. All she had to do was get through today— and, come tomorrow, she would be one step closer to returning to Hogwarts.

When she finally meandered downstairs, the house suspiciously still, she had found a note stuck carelessly to the fridge. According to the hastily scribbled memo, the family had gone to visit good old Aunt Marge and would be back Sunday. It also reminded her, rather pointedly, that she shouldn’t forget to weed the garden and replace the window screens in the kitchen before their return.

“Well, hallelujah,” a bitter mumble, crumpling the note and tossing it aggressively into the bin. “At least I get 1 birthday wish.”

Free from the Dursleys, yet again, and for an entire weekend at that— perhaps this year’s birthday wouldn’t be all that terrible.



Though the sun had set hours ago, sleep was not her friend.

It refused to answer her calls entirely, remaining stubbornly out of reach. The girl lay atop scratchy covers, the bedroom’s air stifling in spite of the cracked window, the outside breeze stagnant and nonexistent. Though Harri had tossed on a tank top and pajama shorts to fight off the heat, it was all for naught— she still tossed and turned from the sweltering humidity, desperately chasing after visions that refused to come. 

All in all, it was a fitting end to an equally unpleasant day. 

Blessedly, at some point, as green eyes fixated on the ceiling and counted backwards from 500, her lids had begun to grow heavy. What had evaded her prior was now calling insistently, urgently, unable to wait a moment longer.

She succumbed.



Where Harri had found herself, however, wasn’t in a dream of her choosing. Upon finally gaining enough awareness to comprehend where she was, she could only groan.

The study materialising around her was one that she had become increasingly intimate with over the past few months. A man was seated at the oak desk, dark head bowed and brows furrowed in concentration as he scrawled away on a piece of parchment.

“Of bloody course.” 

Distantly, she cursed her brain for deciding to ruin the day just a touch further. 

Her feet carried her past the velvet chaise lounge, the couch angled towards the roaring fire, and past the ornate Persian rug covering the wood floor. They only saw fit to stop when she stood directly in front of the desk, splayed hands finding purchase among the scattered documents as she leaned forward, curious to read what was being written. 

“Well, what's he writing about this time? ‘101 Tips on Becoming a Dark Lord’?” Harri mused, chuckling slightly at her own terrible joke as she lifted herself on to her toes to get a better look.

A frown and a soft exhale of agitation. “Merlin, even his penmanship is beautiful. What a bloody git.”

The quill nestled between deft fingers suddenly stilled— the sentence only half-finished.

Her frown deepened at the mirth dancing across his features. There was an air to him as though he had just heard a joke, one that greatly amused him but refused to share aloud. 

“Did he hear me? He never hears me though,” she muttered.

Harri moved closer, head tilting and upper-body all but sprawled on the desk. She was suspiciously searching for any signs that might betray the fact that he knew she was there. Emerald eyes flickered over his fanned lashes, the way a smirk pulled the corners of his mouth higher up on the left than the right. The plume had been set down with a soft click. And she had to give her imagination credit for even dreaming this up— for all the details it had thought of down to the very fact she could feel his breath fanning across her cheeks.

Suddenly the Dark Lord looked up from the report in front of him, his eyes swirling with too many shades of red. “Hello, Harri.”

Silence followed, shock registering as the lines of her body went taut. 

And then she screamed.

Harri scrambled off the desk, bumping her shin on the edge in the process and letting out a sharp hiss at the numbing pinpricks that quickly appeared. It was a distracting sensation, one that radiated throughout her leg, bone-deep in its ache.

“Shit!” she cursed at the pain.

‘These bloody dreams need to chill out.’ She hurried to put space between herself and the Dark Lord, panicked at the fact he was self-aware in this one.

Upon reaching the safety of the lounge, Harri eyed the man apprehensively as he rose from the desk, gaze evenly meeting hers with no small amount of amusement glinting in their depths. On instinct, fingers reached to grasp at a wand that wasn’t there only to mentally berate herself for forgetting that this was all a figment of her imagination rather than an actual threat.

Nonetheless, she trusted a Dream-Voldemort just as much as she did the real one— which was to say completely zero. 

The Dark Lord had hungrily tracked the movement, smug satisfaction darkening his eyes a shade as he noted her revelation that she lacked a wand.

Moving out from behind the desk, he casually leaned against it, arms crossing as he observed the war of emotions dancing across her face. It was indeed a surprise, a pleasant albeit an unexpected one, that the girl had appeared to him— that she was subconsciously tapping into their bond. To say that it delighted him that she was reaching out, whether intentional or not— that she came to him first—  would be an understatement.

At this point, it was beyond delight— it was complete elation.

The horcrux in her quite obviously longed for him and to be close to the original soul in a way that it appeared she wasn’t entirely conscious of yet. But it was no matter— she would learn soon enough.

For the briefest second, he allowed himself the liberty of scrutinizing her. The pajama shorts exposed more of her than what was probably decent and the dip in her shirt's neckline was dangerously low— both were bold, to say the least. And though not entirely opposed to the sight, it was an interesting choice of attire that he couldn’t help but wonder if she dressed like this with a degree of regularity—  some part of him certainly hoped so.

“I must confess, Harri,” he began as he forced himself to look back up. “I am surprised to see you here, considering, after all, this is my mindscape.”

His amusement grew tenfold at her dumbfounded expression— the way her brows had knitted together in bewilderment, the slight pout of her lower lip as the gears began to turn. And oh, she had no clue. No idea how much the part of her that was his craved to be reunited, to be in such close proximity that it had, without her even knowing, projected herself to him. 

The thought caused a wicked possessiveness to burrow in the depths of his chest, a writhing sensation as he watched her flounder for words.

“Your mindscape? No. No, this is a dream. My dream,” she puzzled out, moving to the opposite side of the couch as he pushed off from the desk to stalk over.

“That’s why you don't have a wand— because I don’t.” She attempted to rationalise it as her dream’s way of levelling the playing field between the two. 

After all, Merlin only knew that she had been obsessing over the past few days over the idea that Voldemort was much more adept at fighting than she was. At the fact that he was a trained wizard, had completed his schooling and was capable of feats that made her head swim. 

Neither having a wand here at least eliminated that disparaging worry.

He mirrored her movements as she stepped to the left, both circling the couch in an orbit.

The sudden laughter, however, took her by surprise and she faltered in the next step to keep an equal distance between them.

“Oh Harri,” he chuckled indulgently, shaking his head in disbelief.

As the initial bout of levity died down, the smirk deepened, his gaze predatory as he watched the girl’s vulnerability, her confusion, shine so brightly in those green eyes.

 He reached down to grip the arm of the chaise opposite to her, fingers digging into the plush, velvet fabric.

“Don’t you see?” he began sweetly, the tone in direct conflict with the look fixed on her. “You came into my mind. So why on earth would I need a wand here?”

As if to prove his point, the couch she had been holding onto for stability fell away and she stumbled into the space where it once had been.

His hand shot out to grip her forearm, stabilizing the girl before she could completely fall. They both looked down for a beat, twin ruby and emerald stares, at the pale hand clutching her arm and the way long fingers had curled possessively around it.

A prolonged moment before he reluctantly let go, withdrawing his contact and relinquishing the viselike hold. The imprint of his hand lasted only for a few seconds. Voldemort eyed it, preoccupied and possessed as he watched it fade away on cream-coloured skin.

He wanted to leave even more— to paint her skin like a twisted version of a Monet. Fingers twitched at his side.

‘There was no pain,’ she thought in a delayed reaction when he hesitantly stepped away, cradling the arm to her chest in wonder. Somehow, that only further confirmed this was a dream, a hallucination— after all, in the real world, whenever he had touched her, it only led to agony.

Harri regarded him as he retreated back to leaning against the desk, uncomfortable by the way crimson eyes seemed content to watch her— to see right through her and to read her thoughts. And she did wonder, briefly, if she felt so powerless in her waking life that she had to even give Dream-Voldemort dominion over a space that she should, theoretically, be in control of.

‘Merlin, Freud would have a field day with me.’ Harri edged away from the Dark Lord, the silence in the space almost too deafening and too sacred to break.

In the lull of their conversation, the girl wandered over to the bookshelves, trying to distract herself and pass the time until she woke up. The unfamiliar titles only made her scowl. She knew, for a fact, that she had never once read a text on ‘The Refined History of the Dark Arts’. And the only justification she could think of was that Hermione once had, ages ago, and talked about it in passing— hence her subconscious deciding to materialise it.

A single finger trailed over their spines, goosebumps ghosting over her skin as the weight of his leering settled on her. The endless staring, the never-moving scarlet eyes stalking her as she made her way about the study. It was distressing the way she could feel his gaze dipping down more than once to her exposed legs, leaving her frazzled and off-centred. ‘Why,’ she thought spitefully, ‘does he get to have normal clothes and I’m stuck in my pjs?’ It seemed hardly fair.

 Just another item to add to the endless list of the Mortifications of Harri Potter. 

“Stop that,” she finally snapped, pausing mid-step and unable to stand his open appraisal any longer.

Voldemort arched a brow, a sense of mirth, of delight, thriving in his chest as he took in her flushed appearance and how her fists quivered in her embarrassment. Apparently, his little horcrux didn’t like to be watched. Pity, considering that was his favourite pastime at the moment.

“Stop what?” he questioned innocently.

In his past experience, women were always keen to worship him whenever he gave them his attention, the lust in their eyes a pretty clear indication of their interest. But she seemed bothered, discomposed, unsure. ‘She must hate being in the spotlight.’ He reached behind him to grip the desk's edge.

 The very notion was almost laughable.

Even he, a man once reduced to a wraith for 15 long years, knew of her fame, of how the wizarding world paid such close attention to every move she made and every breath she took. Their darling Chosen One, their saviour, The Girl Who Lived. ‘Except,’ a darkness suddenly appeared in his thoughts, venom on his tongue, ‘They conveniently forgot one thing— she never belonged to them.’

“You— everything! The staring,” she explained, voice pitching in her mortified indignation.

Harri knew she fell for his trap when amusement lit up his face— knew that he had been purposefully baiting her to see a reaction. Apparently, her mind had felt the need to spice things up by conjuring a cheeky Voldemort and she wasn’t exactly too thrilled by the betrayal.

And how many questions did she have for him. How much did she want to confront him, to demand to know why he couldn’t have just stayed dead. But, considering that he was just a product of her subconscious, a projection of her insecurities, she doubted he would have any answers for her— or, at least, none that would be real.

They lapsed back into quiet as she completed her circle around the study, nose wrinkling at a rather peculiar section of books on disembowelling. “Bloody hell, my imagination really is something, isn’t it?”

A sharp laugh had her turning on the spot in alarm, the Dark Lord’s head thrown back, teeth glinting in the firelight. There was only time for a slow blink before he was there, crowding her against the shelves.

Voldemort had placed both hands on either side of her, caging the girl in so she couldn’t run. His eyes were a burgundy, the colour of spilled wine, in the dim lighting.

“Harri,” he crooned, brows pulled together in a show of mock sympathy. “You still think this is merely a dream?”

The Dark Lord greedily watched her response as he encroached on her space, the way she was silenced by his body towering over her— the almost imperceivable way her breath had hitched. Something insatiable began to claw in his chest, a monster begging to come out and to give in to the base desires humming in the back of his mind. 

And who was he to deny himself?

“Perhaps,” he mused, watching the fear in her eyes war with the desire, the pupils minutely dilating— an eclipse edged by a ring of verdant green.

He bent down to speak next to her ear, savouring the blush creeping over her cheeks and taking some delight in how she refused to breathe, to move, to push him away.

“I should give you some proof.” His lips brushed against the shell of her ear.

He only paused for a brief second before, abruptly, violently, biting down on the soft pulse point between her neck and the vulnerable cleft of her collarbone. 

Harri froze at the sharp teeth sinking into her neck, cold panic flooding her as she willed her arms to move—  for her legs to kick, for her to scream. For her body to do something. Her pulse was erratic in its rhythm, her mind frantically trying to play catch up to what was happening— stumbling and dazed at the delay in sensation. 

A fear passed through her, for a second, that he would bite too deep, tear her throat out and drain the life from her. That Voldemort might finally vanquish The Girl Who Lived.

The dream had descended into a nightmare.

At the present, however, it appeared that he had other plans— a breathy chuckle vibrated throughout his chest.

Harri winced as the pain in the bite had only increased, fingers twitching with a mind of their own as the heady, metallic tang of blood filled the space between their bodies. ‘He bit me,’ her shocked thoughts were wild as she regained control of her arms, pushing desperately against broad shoulders in appalled revulsion. ‘The maniac actually bit me!’

An involuntary shudder passed through her when a tongue, flat and heated, laved over the fresh mark in an attempt to chase away the residual pain— an oddly soothing balm to the sting. While some part of her didn't entirely hate the sensation, another part, the one she would later claim to be the logical side, was outright scandalized. 

And, of course, that side would be the first to deny the fact that she had inexplicably moaned at the feeling of his tongue and the way it had granted her an odd, fleeting pleasure.  

Voldemort suddenly pulled away, depraved triumph in his gaze as he stared down at the shocked girl in front of him, his mouth tinged wetly with scarlet. The gore was bright across the column of her pale throat, a jarring contrast that he found, truthfully, rather beautiful. A twisted thought considered how ethereal she looked when she bled, his eyes ravenous as he drank in the sight and committed it to his memory.

He idly licked the staining crimson off of his teeth, her life’s very essence, as a slow smirk tugged on bloodied lips. "Happy Birthday, Harri.”



She jolted awake, the fitful rhythm of her heartbeat causing her to desperately gasp in the muggy night air. Thin shoulders were quaking, body entirely too chilled as she tried to banish the nightmare from her mind. 'It was just a dream— nothing more.'

Yet the persistent, dulling throb on her throat told a different story— one that made her almost too afraid to check, too terrified to see if there was any evidence of what had just transpired. 

Nonetheless, Harri hastily untangled her legs from the starchy sheets, fleeing down the dark hall to the bathroom in a panic.

As the lights slowly flickered to life, a pit settled in her stomach. Trembling hands gingerly prodded at the bleeding mark above the hollow of her collarbone.

A perfect imprint of teeth, the confirmation of a monster trying to devour her.

A perverse smile, too sharp, too wicked, flashed in her mind’s eye— she could almost hear the smug, ‘I told you so’.

Her knees buckled and she braced herself against the sink as she intently watched her blood drip down the drain—  greedy blooms vibrant against the porcelain.

“It’s real,” she muttered breathlessly, terror alighting every nerve in her body as she acknowledged the truth. “It was all real.”

A shaky laugh tore from her as she sank down to the bathroom floor, trying to fully comprehend what this meant. 

The dreams weren’t simply just visions— they were reality.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 9: It Was A Dog

Notes:

Hello everyone! I ended up taking some creative liberties regarding parselmouths for this fic so I hope you enjoy it!

As always, thank you so much for all of the attention you've been giving this fic! It means so much to me 💕

 
Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri had spent the remainder of the night awake, too terrified to go back to sleep should Voldemort be lurking somewhere in the back of her mind and smugly awaiting her return. Instead, she waited out the dawn with a dish towel pressed against the bleeding bite mark, attempting to stanch its weeping the best she could. When one had gotten too soaked, she swapped it out for another with a silent curse and murmured expletives. And if she had made a solemn promise right then and there to hex him the next time they saw each other— or, at the very least, give him a rather deserving kick to the shin— who could blame her? Not only was it painful, but now her laundry pile was becoming rather considerable. 

Stretching out stiff legs, she half-twisted from her spot on the ground to reach up and retrieve the small, frameless mirror perched atop the dangerously leaning desk. Hesitantly dropping the dishtowel and angling the hand mirror so she could see the wound, her mouth gaped. It was gruesome, bloody— definitely not a pretty sight. In fact, it might even need stitches— not that she was a doctor, nor that Vernon would be inclined to take her to the hospital at this hour. Hell, she didn't even know what an appropriate cover story might be that the muggles could accept. It looked like she'd gotten mangled by a vampire— something of which, certainly, didn't exist in Little Whinging. Or so she hoped.  

"What kind of psycho bites someone as proof it's not a dream!?" she hissed, furiously uncapping the tube of antibiotic ointment with one hand. "Whatever happened to pinching someone or, I don't know, drawing on their hand?"

It was an effort to not flinch when she gingerly swapped some of the ointment onto the worst of the bite, the white cream quickly turning pinkish. And unwittingly, green eyes flickered over to the wand caught in the reflection. There it was, sitting oh-so-innocently on the threadbare blanket— a temptation at its finest. She debated briefly using a spell to heal herself— or, at the very least, ease some of the pain— and risk tripping the Trace. After all, she was sixteen and the Ministry was going to hell— who was to say they even were monitoring underage magic use anymore? They certainly had bigger issues to deal with at the present than a simple healing charm. 

But then there was the distant memory of a letter, of her heart shattering at the prospect of an impending expulsion from Hogwarts— of the smug face of Vernon hovering in the background and the satisfied sniff from Petunia.

Instead of reaching for the wand, she fumbled to open the cardboard box of bandaids. No, using magic wasn't worth the risk. Especially not if it gave Dumbledore a potential reason to keep her stranded at the Dursley’s any longer than necessary. Plus, she could already hear the headmaster chastising her— could already hear his reprimand in that disappointed, patronizing, grandfatherly way that always made her teeth grind.

The bite would just have to heal on its own in the traditional, muggle way— however long that would take.



Apparently, healing the muggle way—as Harri had come to learn over the next week, stuck wearing high collared shirts much to the suspicious glares of her relatives— took forever. It was a long, arduous process, one in which the pain refused to completely abate. ‘Just another reason why not having magic is bloody awful,’ she thought almost daily, resenting now, more than ever, that she was couldn't use it. How it was even deemed lawful to keep muggle-borns from their birthright under the threats of expulsion— or, even worse, having their wands snapped— was beyond her. Hell, if they didn't want magic being accidentally exposed, couldn't they just allow muggle-borns to remain at the school over the summer? If that were the case, Madam Pomfrey could have fixed her up in a mere second.

But, instead, she was saddled with a wound that refused to heal and only aspirin to manage.

Even more worryingly was the fact that the circled date on her calendar was nearing. Barely a week out from her return to Hogwarts and the imprint had hardly faded. While it, mercifully, wasn't bleeding anymore, it seemed inflamed now— an angry shade of rosy red curling on its edges, ghastly and grim. She supposed it could be infected, despite how careful she'd been— and wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake? 

Harri arched up onto her toes to lean across the porcelain sink, carefully pulling down her shirt to examine the wound in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. Despite how much time had passed, it was still horrifying to look at— each individual tooth mark was clearly defined and there were deeper indentations where canines, sharper than the rest, had sunk firmly, deeply, into the flesh. It invited the unsolicited image of his face, stained with blood, her blood, to the forefront of her thoughts— a shiver. The way he had suggestively licked the scarlet off of his teeth and how heated his tongue had been; how his usually kempt hair had turned dishevelled as those red eyes glinted with something depraved. She recalled how they had darkened with the promise of more to come, strangely causing her heart to flutter—

“Girl! The door!”

She nearly tumbled from the sink as her aunt's screeching suddenly broke her reverie.

Reality came crashing back in as she found herself met with the face of a stranger in the mirror. They were starstruck, a deer caught in headlights— an unnerving sense that it was herself she was looking at. It was a reality made even more certain by the unwanted racing of her pulse— by the stirrings of something warm in her veins and an odd breathlessness. 'Not the time, Harri,' she thought with a firm shake of her head. 'Definitely not the time.'

Turning away from the mirror, and metaphorically locking away all questionable feelings pertaining to certain Dark Lord, she bounded down the narrow, carpeted stairs. While she couldn't exactly explain why she had such a visceral reaction, she was more than content not to examine it. In fact, if she had her way, those feelings could be dealt with later in the future.  

Far, far, far in the future.

“Got it, Aunt Petunia!” she called out as she reached the bottom landing, yanking open the front door— and almost groaning.

Because there, darkening Number 4 Privet Drive’s front step was, once again, her second least favourite person at the moment: Severus Snape. A vindictive thought briefly crossed her mind to slam the door shut and leave him out in the muggy, summer's day to, preferably, melt. However, when she saw Moody slowly trailing up the sidewalk, she was forced to reconsider the idea. After all, the Auror, albeit a bit intense, wasn’t the one that deserved to be on the receiving end of her temper. Plus, the man had helped her a fair amount during the Tournament, choosing to put his faith in her rather than Diggory— not to mention he'd gone up against Vernon. Both of those had earned him more than a few brownie points in her book. 

“Professors,” Harri eventually muttered.

It was then she noticed how quiet they both were in turn. Snape had merely given a stiff nod whereas Mad-Eye grunted in response. Apprehension tensed her shoulders— a creeping sense of unease as to why they were even here. After all, last time they'd left her stranded in the middle of muggle suburbia under Dumbledore’s orders— and, oh, how it caused dread in her to consider what this particular visit might entail.

Reluctantly opening the the door wider, thinking it preferable that the odd-looking men were inside rather than loitering on the front lawn for all the neighbours to see, she gave a jerky nod as an indication for them to enter. It was in that moment, as they stepped into the coolness of the house, that Petunia drifted out of the den.

Upon seeing the wizards crowd the narrow hallway, Petunia blinked once, twice, before her pointed features pinched in disgust. A glare, sharp and stern, was directed towards her niece, who had instinctively shuffled a step away. It was a look that relayed there were to be consequences later— to expect a longer than usual list of chores, and to be exiled to a locked room for the rest of the evening.

Such a look moved bitterness to bloom on Harri's tongue and a spitefulness to crowd in her thoughts. Not that she would ever act on such— couldn't, in fact. At least, not until she turned seventeen and found sanctuary at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow.

“Dudley!" Petunia suddenly sniffed before shrieking up the stairs. "Come! We’re going out!” 

When her aunt marched back into the den to turn off whatever show she'd been watching, Harri took the opportunity to lead her professors into the pastel yellow kitchen. Awkwardly avoiding looking at either of them, her gaze bounced about the kitchen as they waited in silence. In the backdrop, there was the metallic shuffling for keys in the catchall dish, the heavy footfalls on the stairs. A distant question asking what was happening and a sharp hiss in response to remain quiet. 

The front door slammed shut.

“Sorry about that. She’s um—,” Harri muttered, trailing off as Snape pulled a chair out from the kitchen table— a squeak as its feet slid against the linoleum.

"A ray of sunshine?" Mad-Eye supplied, scoffing.

She nearly smiled at that as Severus sent the man an exasperated glare.

Unlike the other professor, Moody had chosen to lean against the far counter instead of taking a seat— in fact, he seemed rather preoccupied with Petunia’s prized coffeemaker, his fingers curiously trailing over the knobs. There was a soft exclamation of delight when the machine suddenly whirred to life, his good eye dancing with glee as he pointed excitedly to it.

Harri spared him a look in confusion— faintly and fondly being reminded of Mr. Weasley— as she took the seat opposite of Snape. "So? Why are you guys here?"

“You will not be taking the train next week,” Severus explained bluntly, cutting straight to chase. A hand was held up before she could interrupt him, the incoming protest evident in the drawn corners of her mouth. “Dumbledore has deemed it best if you were Apparated directly to the school instead.”

Dark eyes were drawn to Moody as the man ambled about the kitchen, touching all manners of things in wonder and making a racket. Severus clicked in tongue in annoyance. “A professor will be here this Friday to escort you to the castle.”

It was an unbidden reaction when Harri sighed in relief at that. Though it wasn't ideal— she'd much rather take the train with her friends, of course— it was still better than nothing. At least the sour-faced man hadn't said she wasn't to return at all, as she initially feared— that Dumbledore saw fit to keep her behind the blood wards for another year as an added precaution.

Her mouth quirked into bright grin, chest suddenly feeling airy and light. ‘This Friday,’ her thoughts buzzed in anticipation, ‘and I’ll be back.’ She could already picture it: the soft four-postered bed, all the treacle tart she could eat, the trips to Hogsmeade—

“Potter. What is that?”

Snape’s careful inflection on her last name made her wince.

It was the same tone the professor tended to use whenever he was about to reprimand her and demand to know if the head on her shoulders was empty. The flinch was merely a conditioned response at this point. Green eyes regarded him from across the table, trying to figure out what she could have done in the entirety of their five-minute conversation— one in which she had been a perfectly well-behaved participant in. 

But then she noticed how he had honed in on her shirt’s neckline. There was an alarmed curiosity in those coal eyes— a shrewd assessment. 'Oh. That.'

Before she could tell him it was nothing— claim that it was a mosquito bite she had scratched at a tad too hard or a burn from a hair straightener— a sallow hand had darted out.

Yanking aside the collar, his mouth thinned.

“You foolish girl,” he hissed scathingly, scanning over the tender redness of the mark and the infection that was already starting to settle in the indentations. “How long has it been like this?”

“It’s nothing,” she retorted, voice taking on a defensive edge.

"How did this even happen?" he asked, carefully prodding the edges.

Heat crept across her cheeks, steadily rising to her ears, as she floundered for an explanation. It wasn’t like she could tell them the truth— it was entirely too ridiculous and far-fetched, even by her standards. After all, how was she to explain that the Dark Lord had appeared in her apparent 'mindscape' and, like a monster, had taken a bite out of her? And that it, somehow, translated over to real life? At that point, she figured she might as well just admit to the fact she was crazy and that her mind was cracking under pressure— that sounded more plausible anyways.

“A dog bit me?” she blurted out.

It wasn’t until after the fact that she realised what had come out in her blind panic. Mentally berating herself with how dumb and idiotic the excuse was, Harri cursed her inability to lie better. This is exactly why she considered that she would have made a terrible Slytherin, despite the hat’s attempts to convince her otherwise— her ability to think of excuses on the spot was practically nonexistent. After all, anyone with half a brain could tell, quite obviously, that those were human teeth littering her skin. 

‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ was her miserable thought as the outrage in her professor’s eyes was replaced with disbelief. ‘Just kill me now.’

“A dog?” Severus echoed, brow raised.

“Uhhhh— yup. A dog.”

Moody had chosen that moment to wander over, abandoning his exploration of the kitchen to see whatever had set Severus on edge. With a quick glance at the, admittedly vicious-looking, bite on the girl's neck, at Potter’s humiliated face and the bright dusting of pink on her cheeks, it was all too easy to guess what had actually happened.

He smiled in delight as the magic eye stilled in its whirring path. “Well now, that must ‘ave been some dog, eh Potter?”

Loud, unrestrained laughter filled the kitchen. Harri sank further down into the chair, face deepening to a scarlet. A grisly hand landed on her thin shoulder— a playful shake at the expense of her embarrassment.

“Maybe dear old Snape here will heal it for you?” Moody suggested gleefully as he watched Severus's face turn stormy. "I’d do it myself, but I've never been good at healing."

Snape mumbled something about hormonal teenagers— how he was nothing more than a glorified babysitter— before brandishing his wand. He had little choice, after all, considering the wound was already festering. Motioning for her to lean in, his tone just slightly resentful, he casted an Episkey.

And yet, nothing happened. The wound remained as angry looking as before. It was odd but Severus could have sworn he felt some resistance to his magic, had seen a shimmer dance over the bite's surface in the face of his casting.

“Episkey,” he repeated with a tad more force, frown deepening upon seeing the rippling wave of light again.

Despite his intention and will, the skin refused to knit back together. Whatever had happened to the girl wasn’t muggle by any means— after all, if that was the case, even the simplest healing charm should have cleared the infection. Yet, she seemed determined to keep her secrets and he wasn't inclined to force them out of her.

Instead, Snape leaned back in the chair, eyes glinting in a calculating manner. “Must have been some dog, indeed.”



By the time her professors had left— Snape doling out strict orders to continue to clean the deepest parts of the impression and have Pomfrey inspect it the second she arrived at Hogwarts— Harri could have sworn she died several times from embarrassment. 

It had taken ages for the mortified blush to calm down, the earlier joy at being able to return to Hogwarts just slightly diminished by the entire ordeal. And as she laid in bed, face buried in a ratty pillow with too little stuffing and screaming in flustered rage, she desperately wished to see Voldemort again— to punch him in his face for the embarrassment he had caused and demand that he fix it himself. Because whatever he had done couldn’t be healed by normal magic—and that fact alone was more than a touch unnerving. After all, it wasn’t as though her professor’s abilities were anything to scoff at, his skills far exceeding her own. Yet, he had failed not once but twice

So for the first time since his rebirth, since seeing him explode in sporadic bursts of light in that damp chamber, Harri willingly concentrated on the image of his face— his voice, his presence. She commanded, willed, her dreams to carry her to him, desperate to appear in that damned study.



“Ah, Harri.”

She spun on the spot, only to find him in an armchair, his left leg crossed over the right. A book was cradled in one hand, a glass of amber liquid dangling from the other— the perfect picture of leisure and relaxation.

The Dark Lord hadn’t even bothered to look up as he continued to read, the book’s pages turning on their own admission. “I was wondering when you would show up.”

She was unable to help herself from freezing. For some reason, seeing him so casual, knowing that this was the real Voldemort— and not one cleverly conjured up by her subconscious— felt inherently wrong. He should be out there, murdering people and overthrowing the Ministry— not sitting in a study, enjoying a glass of scotch and whatever novel he was reading. Instead, he looked so utterly human right now, so relaxed. so comfortable. 

It was off-putting in the worst of ways. 

Harri approached him cautiously, hesitant and armed with the knowledge that whatever happened in these dreams would apparently happen in real life as well.

She paused just behind his shoulder, unsure of what exactly to do or to say next.

Voldemort took a swig from his glass in an attempt to hide his growing smirk, her thoughts all too loudly projected— all but practically screaming at him. As it currently stood, the girl had yet to figure out that nothing was safe from him here, not while they were in his mind. Every thought, every feeling was laid bare before him, free for his perusal and dissection— and a part of him determined that’s the way it should always be. After all, whatever was hers should also be his by proxy. By right

‘So nervous and cautious. She’s such a flighty little thing,’ he mused, gesturing with his glass to the second conjured armchair, identical to the one he was currently sitting in.

It was an effort to hide how pleased he was when she warily took the offered seat— how satisfied that she had listened. And if someone were to say he was purposefully dragging out the silence, thrilled by her watching him with barely concealed curiosity— the way he could feel her spiking, anxious heartbeat second to his own as she traced over his profile—well, who could blame him? It was only after a few moments, having decided that was enough of torturing the girl, that he snapped the book closed before waving it away. 

It floated right past them, slotting back into its original place on the shelf.

The Dark Lord shifted in his chair to evenly meet the green eyes of the girl sitting at his side, crimson gaze flickering for a second as he took in the slowly healing mark on her neck. Smug pride settled warmly in his chest upon seeing it, his claim lay exposed for all the world to see— for them to realise that the girl they mistakenly thought belonged to them was, undeniably, his.

“What,” her voice started out unsteady but gradually found its strength, “did you do to me? And don’t even think for a second about giving me some cryptic, bullshit answer."

Harri fixed him in a glare that she hoped would relay how serious she was— that she wasn’t here to engage in whatever twisted game that he wanted to play. Arms crossed defiantly over her chest, her spine straightening in a valiant attempt to appear taller than she actually was.

Voldemort leaned back in response, eyes contemplative as he observed her. ‘How endearing,’ a lazy, passing thought as he studied the faux show of bravery and how she was attempting to chastise him as though he were some misbehaving child. ‘She’s trying to show her claws.’

A slow, cutting smile, fingers steepled as he uncrossed his legs. “You needed proof that this wasn’t a figment of your imagination. So I gave you some.”

He knew he was purposefully baiting her, mind already turning as he tested his boundaries with his horcrux in attempts to figure out where the line was drawn between them. How much could he get away with in terms of teasing, of goading, until she snapped? And how much could she get away before inspiring his own temper? It was an entirely new game— one full of grey tentative areas— that thrilled and excited him beyond all reason.

“Yes, I already know that!” her voice pitched in exasperation, left eye twitching as she struggled to keep her composure. A shaky exhale betrayed her waning patience.

“Instead of pinching me awake or drawing on my hand like any sane, normal person would, you bit me. Which, by the way, hurts like crazy and didn’t stop bleeding for hours. Snape tried to heal it—” She bit her tongue at his unexpected, thunderous expression. 

But then she blinked and it was gone. Such a look had been schooled back into the mischievous mask he was wearing prior— the one that relayed a congenial mood.

Harri faltered, suddenly uncertain. Warning bells were going off in rapid succession as every instinct cautioned for her to remember that this was the Dark Lord. This was Voldemort— a man who had no qualms about attempting to kill her in the past, and most certainly wouldn’t now.

He tried to reign back his anger, the tempestuous wrath threatening to override his control, upon hearing Severus’s name so casually fall from her lips. The Dark Lord still hadn’t completely forgiven the man for his insolence, for interfering with his plans— and now, it seemed, he had even gone as far as trying to erase his mark from her. Voldemort filed the information away— a conversation to be had at a later date whenever he saw the man next.

But for now, he had to focus on getting his temper under control before it caused any damage. It wouldn't do, after all, to have the girl even more terrified of him—not yet at least.

Voldemort plastered on a pleasant smile, the look not quite reaching his eyes. “Well, I can not say I’m entirely surprised to hear that he failed to heal it.”

A brief thought crossed his mind, a daring plan, and he leaned forward in the chair closer to her. "But I can."

"You'd do that?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course. All you have to do is leave the blood wards, Harri.” 

She couldn’t quite help but scoff at the idea, slumping down into her seat as she glared at him incredulously. His audacity, his gall and nerve, were almost unbearable. ‘Great,’ she thought in rising annoyance, ‘he’s toying with me.’ Though at least he had confirmed one thing for her, had answered the most burning question she had: the wards definitely worked and he couldn't get around them. 'Guess I need to apologise to Dumbledore.' He also, in a roundabout way, confirmed that, he apparently, couldn't kill her in here— maim, sure. But kill? Well, she wasn't sure of the logistics yet but it seemed murder was a 'no-go' by mindscape rules. 

“Oh yeah, wonderful idea,” she mumbled, not quite being able to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “And then the second I do, you finally get your wish to murder me. What a perfect plan.”

The Dark Lord drank in her words greedily, the cheshire grin on his face doing little to hide his mounting amusement. He debated almost telling her everything right then and there— how his plans had changed completely. How he wanted nothing more than to cage her, to keep her locked away so no one else would dare to look upon her. To make her understand that they were one and the same— the same soul, the same magic, the same everything

Instead, however, he settled for a soft chuckle, downing the rest of the scotch from his glass. “It was worth a shot. Oh, come now, don't begrudge me for trying.”

He rose to stand in front of the fireplace, his mind willing the flames to rise higher from the dying coals. They obediently listened. And oh, how he could practically feel the weight of her stare, the caution and interest in it as she tracked his every movement. ‘Perfect.’

“Did you know that parselmouths aren’t entirely human?” he began slowly, fingers interlaced behind his back. “That our anatomy is actually different from other wizards? Our palates are uniquely shaped to allow us to communicate with varying snake breeds, to make the sibilance vocable and more magnified. These palates are formed at an early age in our adolescence, hardening as we grow into adults.”

“Why do you think that there are a distinct lack of spells to replicate parseltongue? It’s nearly impossible to do so.” He turned towards her, eyes glinting in satisfaction at her look of rapture— the vaguest sense of superiority overcoming him. “Of course, the palates in our mouths aren’t the only thing to change as we progress into adulthood. For example, it is a cleverly guarded little secret that parselmouths eventually develop venom— that our bites can be lethal.”

It took Harri a second to process what he was implying— that he had injected venom into her. Suddenly, it made sense as to why his canines had felt sharper, elongated and curved, as they had burrowed into her neck. Why the wound had stung so badly, ceasing to die down in its angered inflammation— why the bleeding had refused to abate for an entire day as a clot struggled to form.

Green eyes widened in barely concealed horror. Her hand flew to her neck and clamped desperately over the wound. “You-!”

“Of course,” he interrupted her, relishing far too much in the alarm dancing in those emerald eyes. He hadn’t failed to notice the way her hand had begun to shake as it clutched her neck’s pulse point. ‘So naive yet so endearing.’ “It wouldn’t kill another parselmouth."

"But I’m afraid.” His smile grew wider at the way she had readily slumped in relief. “Without an antidote, the healing process can be quite slow. And as it stands, normal magic has a rather tricky time dealing with parselmagic. The two are oil and water. Very temperamental.” 

Harri sprang from the armchair to stand in front of him, her slight frame barely reaching his shoulder, chest heaving in anger. Part of her couldn’t even believe what she was hearing, what he was admitting to and the degree of the culpability behind his actions. That, as if biting her wasn’t bad enough, he had to go the extra length of introducing venom into her system— one that was entirely of his own making— to try to murder her. Not that he would have succeeded, but still— the very thought he attempted to go that route was offending. 

“You know, that's a very underhanded way to try to kill someone!” Her eyes flashed in the fire’s light, the glow in them an unearthly green.

Her tolerance for the his antics was slowly dwindling, fear ebbing away into something far more potent— anger. The laughter escaping him, the belittling smirk, his casual body language all served to make her blood pressure spike— it was as though he was suggesting she wasn't even worth the respect of a proper duel. Fists balled at her side, nails sinking into her palms.

“Oh but Harri, you're missing the point. We both know it wouldn't have killed you.” 

And not for a first time this evening did she falter. Her heart skipped, fists relaxing minutely. "Wait, how did you—?"

"I have my sources." Voldemort found that he couldn’t quite resist gloating his connections, his power— that he could find any information he so possibly wished, especially when it pertained to her. "The younger Malfoy, Draco I believe his name is? He told me all about the stunt you pulled in your second year. It shocked me, I must admit, to hear that we shared the ability. After all, I had thought that I was the only one left in Europe, at the very least.”

Leaning down slightly to crowd her, his voice lowered to a whisper, “So from one parselmouth to another, I would fully recommend that you don't go around accidentally biting people for now. After all, you wouldn’t want a nasty little accident to occur, would you?”

Her jaw dropped as she registered his words, a mental note being made to make Draco wish he was dead the next time they saw each other. ‘The slimy git,’ she fumed as the hairs on her arm stood on end. For now, she focused on trying to calm herself down, to not do something she may regret later—  it was a futile effort, the last cords of her tolerance fraying and twisting under his taunting.

Through clenched teeth, she grit out, the civility in her voice long gone, “You said there was an antidote to make it heal faster. Where is it?”

The smile lifting the corners of his mouth up could only be described in one way: a shit-eating grin. 

“It’s around. I would summon it for you, Harri, but you see.” His brows knitted together in a mock show of remorse, somehow managing to look both dismayed and delighted. “My mind is currently so fatigued that I’m having trouble concentrating at the moment.”

If it was even possible at this point, she could have sworn her eyes widened further— an owlish stare of affronted disbelief. The girl looked pointedly over at the roaring fire, the one that had been dead a few minutes prior, and to the book that had been magically slotted into the shelf, before turning back to an all-too-pleased Dark Lord. He looked as though he were a cat who got his cream, the obvious lie causing Harri’s hands to twitch.

Her mouth shut with a firm click, fury bubbling in the spaces between her ribs at the blatant refusal to help her in any way, shape, or form. That green gaze narrowed, hands clenching and unclenching in a physical outlet to ground herself— to find her calm. 

It was pointless.

She was so sick of him walking all over her, treating her like a toy meant for his entertainment— the way he just had to keep on ruining everything. Whenever something was wrong at this point in her life, it always featured him at the centre. And yet, he had the gall to stand there, teasing her with a carrot dangled just out of reach with his glittering eyes and his stupid plush mouth manipulated into a fake, sympathetic frown.

Harri tried to count to 10, tried to rein in her anger and find composure. Snape’s voice floated in the back of her mind, berating her for being entirely too reckless— but unfortunately, it was a regrettable truth to her personality that controlling her emotions, particularly anger, was an area she always fell short in.

So when her hand raised of its own free will to his left cheek, the sting in her palm bringing her back to the reality of what she had done, Harri couldn’t say she fully regretted it. 

After all, it felt good to make him see her— to wipe that damning smirk from his face.

But then it sank in: she just struck the Dark Lord. The girl watched in numb horror as he only stared back, equally shocked. His own hand rose to his jaw to rub at in in an absentminded stupor.

To say that Voldemort was stunned— his mind trying to process the fact that she had slapped him—  would be an understatement. It hadn’t hurt. Oh, no. He doubted it could even if she wanted it to, considering how small his horcrux was. But it was still enough to give him pause. Lesser men would have already been dead for raising a hand to him— but, then again, she wasn’t exactly lesser, was she? Wasn’t exactly someone that he could punish normally by pushing her to beg for his forgiveness under torture— not with how precious she was. How fragile.

And truly, he had been debating on giving her the balm to soothe the bite, having wanted to just push her a bit further for his own delight. But now? Not a chance in hell. Rather, he had just figured out the perfect punishment: let her suffer from the pain and embarrassment. It was no skin off his back, after all, if she was mortified and ashamed of what others might interpret the mark to mean— if she ached and was miserable for the next few weeks. ‘Fine,’ his thoughts were dark, tinged with a biting cruelty, ‘let it heal on its own.’

From the way she was mutely watching him, caution and terror alight in her eyes, his horcrux was expecting him to retaliate— to maim or possibly kill her. So he did the reasonable thing: he flashed her a predatory smile, too cutting and too sharp. 

Too many teeth.

Part of him did admire her for the bravery, for the brashness and unpredictability— it kept him on his toes, his mind constantly moving. She was proving to be a great distraction, a refreshing relief from the simpering sycophants surrounding him. In small doses, that is. 

But then another part of him, unholy and vile, wanted to break her of that spirit— to drive it from her as though it were a demon waiting to be exorcised. To make it so she could never rebel against him. 

To cut her wings, mellow her defiance— make her bend to him.

And oh, she would soon enough.

“Oh, Harri, Harri,” he mused, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. “What a temper.”

To say he didn’t enjoy the way she had begun to tremble slightly— looking nervously towards the door and muscles tensed as though she was prepared to sprint— would be entirely false. 

He adored it. 

It was a heady power knowing she wasn’t entirely without fear, mindscape or not. That he could bring it out of her.

“It would be best if you woke up now,” the Dark Lord said ominously as he crowded closer to her, hand darting out to grip her chin and forcing her to look up.

Voldemort savoured the petrified light in her eyes, fascinated with how they turned into a vivid, toxic shade of green in their distress. That darkness in his chest sang to see more— to reveal all of her masks so she would never be able to hide from him. 

His grip tightened ever so slightly before dropping away. 

The world around them had begun to bleed, the colours blurring as the study’s furniture dematerialized. His horcrux was already beginning to turn transparent as her mind started to stir, urgently recalling her consciousness back to her body.

“Oh, and Harri?” A knowing vindictive glint was held in crimson depths. “I do hope you enjoy the school year. While you still can, that is.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 10: Back To Hogwarts

Notes:

Hey guys! Just a reminder that I've aged Harri up a bit and we are currently in her 6th year! This does stray a bit from the cannon so Barty is still Moody + teaching and Umbridge isn't at the school.

 

Also, thank you so much for all of the comments and likes! They mean so much to me 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri had spent the rest of the week in a frenzied rush to get her minimal belongings in order. Friday was fast approaching and, as she wrestled her trunks from the tight space of the closet, huffing in agitation when they wouldn’t budge, she only felt trepidation. Voldemort’s ominous warning hung over her head, the threat inciting worry as to whether or not he had a plan in motion— if he would manage to find a way to enact revenge and to reap his divine retribution. After all, she reasoned as the luggage finally popped free, that physically slapping him was bound to appear on an itemized list of “Reasons to Destroy Harri Potter''.

Snippets of their last interaction, brief recollections of hellfire eyes, the shock in them as he processed what she had done— the cold fury that relayed how he had wanted nothing more than to finish what had been started in tearing her throat out with his teeth and revelling in her blood.

A hand strayed to lightly trace over the mark. Though the bite had begun to slowly heal, and the inflammation had gone down tenfold, the skin was still tender— a glossy pink with new growth. ‘At least it’s finally healing.’

It had been an appalling revelation, to say the least, to learn that she was apparently, or was going to be, venomous— something she probably would have never known had it not been for Voldemort clueing her in on a parselmouth trade secret. An unbidden shiver passed through her as she tried to ignore the gruesome scenarios in which she could have accidentally bitten someone. 

And for once,  Harri was actually grateful that she didn’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend— constantly worrying about slipping up and killing them would have definitely put a damper on the entire relationship.

“Well,” she muttered, rolling up the tee-shirt laid flat against the worn mattress. “At least now I know I’ll be single forever. Maybe I should become a nun?”

There was a rogue image of a red-eyed man in her mind at the thought— completely unbidden and entirely unwelcomed.

She pushed it away hastily.

Now wasn’t the time to delve into all of the morally wrong aspects of a theoretical relationship with him, the inherent wrongness and sin that would arise from such a match. After all, he may currently have Tom Riddle’s face but he was still Lord Voldemort— a murderer. 

A fanatic. 

The very one that had killed her parents and attempted, on several occasions, to do the same to her. ‘Plus,’ a dry passing thought supplied, ‘pretty sure he wants my head on a spike now more than ever.’ 

Harri groaned in exasperation, tossing the bundle of clothes into the open trunk. Nothing could ever be simple in her life, could it?



At precisely 5 in the evening, the front doorbell to number 4 Privet Drive rang and the girl had nearly tripped during her scramble down the carpeted stairs.

She had been waiting all day for an indication someone was coming, ready to take her away from the muggle world and liberate her from the Dursley’s pastel nightmare— to return her back to her rightful place.

Her home.

When the door swung open, it was to reveal, much to her relief, the kind face of McGonagall. 

The shrewd gaze of the transfiguration professor softened a touch as her gaze drifted from the quiet neighbourhood, with its identical houses in a row and white picket fences, to the girl nearly vibrating on the front step.

“Harri. Good evening.” The professor’s half-moon glasses caught the lamppost’s yellowed light. “Are you all ready? Trunks packed?”

It was difficult to miss the forced smile pulling on thin lips or the way age-worn hands, fingers slightly warped and the skin papery, were wringing and twisting about the other. 

Harri frowned at the sight. “Uhm, yeah. I—”

Green eyes spared a hesitant glance over her shoulder and down the narrow hallway. A sense of rising dread made itself known as she spied her old room beneath the stairs. The sliding grate and bolt were still tacked on to the painted wood— remnants of a childhood spent among the dust and in the dark.

There was some part to her protesting against the idea of letting McGonagall into the house, some part that baulked against the notion of exposing the professor to her other reality. She didn't want to subject the woman to the foul mood of the Dursleys, to let her bear witness to their hatred. And, most certainly, Harri didn't want her to see the spartan bedroom— the very one she had only been reluctantly moved to once she had grown too tall to fit in the cupboard.

Harri muttered distractedly, "I'll uhm, go grab my trunk? If you want to just wait here for a second?"

Keen eyes clung to the way the girl's hand tightened on the doorknob, gaze shifting past a thin shoulder and down into the hallway at the sound of harsh laughter and swelling music. It was clear that her student didn't want her in the house and McGonagall wasn't about to protest— especially if it meant avoiding Petunia and Vernon Dursley. She had met the unfortunate couple once already, having spent an entire day observing them as a stray cat on their fence, and had come to the rightful conclusion they were the worst sort of people— muggle or not.

A few minutes later found Harri hauling her trunks down the staircase and out onto the manicured lawn. Naturally, there had been no exchanges of goodbyes, of heartfelt sentiments to have a good year, from her relatives— and that was perfectly fine by her.

A grateful smile was directed the professor's way when a featherlight charm settled over the luggage— an arm extended in a silent invitation. Harri gently grasped it, steeling herself against the tug at her navel.

Privet Drive ebbed away into nothingness. 



It took a blink of an eye— and then it was there.

The silhouette of tall spires, blackened against the brilliant orange fade of the sunset, the turrets and gabled roofs—Hogwarts. 

It was an impressive sight that hummed with magic, ancient and primordial, as though it were alive. Sentient. And as they crossed the long bridge spanning the chasm below, some kind of pleasant warmth settled over her, the wards welcoming her as an old friend.

She was finally home.

Dumbledore had been waiting for them in front of the Great Hall and Harri couldn't even summon the usual wariness, or mild resentment, upon seeing the man. Her heart was too light with euphoria and joy, with elation. The magic in the castle's halls, the pleasant tingle of it dancing between the spaces of her fingers and lighting up her nerves— it was enough to make her sing. 

“Harri. Welcome back. I presume you had an enjoyable summer?” 

The cheerful, lightheartedness of the question was offset by the sharpness in his gaze. 

The headmaster was sporting an unholy combination of purple and orange robes, white daisies sporadically placed across the brocade fabric. He was eyeing her critically, almost as if trying to determine if she had grown a mysterious limb since they last saw each other or if there were any remarkable changes. An observant stare lingered, almost a second too long, over the slowly healing wound hidden under her collar— as though he could see through the fabric— before bouncing back to her face. 

There was a tightness in the corners of his mouth— a forced quality to the smile. 

Harri shifted, almost reaching up to tug the collar higher when she remembered what she was wearing. On the school grounds, it was always cooler, even in the late summer, so she had opted for a plain, black turtleneck— it served double-fold to ward off the chilling breeze rolling off the lake and to keep prying eyes off the mark. 'He can't possibly know.' But the way he was scrutinising her made her second guess if he did.

She cleared her throat, unsure of how to answer the question. Her summer was far from pleasant and he, of all people, should know it— especially considering their yearly bargaining routine to let her go to Grimmauld Place, the Burrow, stay at the school, anywhere.

Anywhere but Little Whinging.

"Professor." She finally found her voice, frowning at the empty Great Hall and noticing, for the first time, she had arrived far earlier than her classmates. “Why couldn’t I have just ridden the train with everyone else?”

If he was bothered by her avoidance of the question, he didn't comment on it. 

Rather, the grimness around his mouth had reached his eyes, a look of worry darkening pale eyes behind crescent glasses. "Just a precaution, my dear. Hopefully, it was unwarranted but still better to be on the safe side."



As it turns out, the precaution was, indeed, fully warranted.

Later that evening, as Harri slid into the bench wordlessly next to Neville, the usual enthusiastic chatter of the Great Hall was greatly subdued. It was disconcerting, as she glanced about the tables, how some looked especially empty— the mass of brown curls and the shock of ginger hair were also notably missing among the Gryffindors.

Harri frowned, briefly wondering if they had missed the Express, a bitterness on her tongue. After all, she had prepared quite a speech for them— one that demanded to know why, exactly, they had given her the cold shoulder all summer.

She tapped the boy's shoulder, frown only deepening upon seeing the pinched expressions on the professors' faces. "Hey, Nev. What's happened?"

Neville jolted, eyes growing fractionally wider as he turned around. His surprise was evident by the way his mouth had parted, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Blimey, Harri! When did you get here? I thought maybe you weren't coming, that they—"

His explanation was cut short as Dumbledore abruptly clapped his hands and stepped up to the podium.

“As many of you are already aware.” His voice carried over the hush of the hall, an eerie echo of what had occurred at the end of last year. “Tonight's train bound for Hogwarts was halted under the premise of a mandatory inspection and several students were forcibly removed from their seats for perceived infractions against the Ministry's recent mandates."

A pit settled in her stomach, brows knitting together as she mulled over the words. 'What mandates?' The whispers around her began in earnest as students leaned towards their neighbours, gossip already rapid-firing among themselves. 'What happened while I was gone?'

"I wish to remind all of you in light of this," Dumbledore said, interrupting the chatter.

Harri contemplated if he had always looked this tired, this frail— this exhausted. And though she tried to catch his eye, he was resolute in not looking at her.

"That the school's grounds have been declared a neutral zone exempt from enforcing such edicts," he reminded sternly, grip tightening on the podium. "Never before in its history has Hogwarts denied students of nonmagical origin the right to an education nor will it start to do so. Rest assured that these students will be brought back and granted asylum within the castle, if they so wish.”

Having, seemingly, run the course of his speech, the headmaster retreated back to the professors' table.

The smattering of whispers only grew— a chaotic din of noise. 

Green eyes trailed further down the long benches to land on the drawn expression of Ginny— it told her everything she needed to know. Ron had apparently stayed behind when Hermione, no doubt, had been forced off the train. 

When the welcoming back feast appeared on the table, Harri found herself unable to eat any of it. Her appetite was nonexistent and her ability to converse with her housemates had vanished, her mind too busy in turning over with too many thoughts. It wasn't difficult to guess who had interrupted the Express, especially considering Malfoy was currently running the Ministry. 'Death Eaters. If I had been there—,' the thought was cut short as an alarmed gaze snapped to the slumped form of Dumbledore. The man was whispering urgently to Severus at his side. 'He knew this was going to happen.'

The question remained, however, how?

Some part of her considered marching up to the man right then and there, other students be damned, to demand what else he all knew— and to question what else he was keeping from her. After all, it wasn't a coincidence at this point, his refusal to look at her confirming his guilt.

But it was the weight of a different stare, heavy and insistent, that forced her to look away from the headmaster. Green eyes met pale ones— they were apprehensive. Nervous. 

Draco Malfoy looked waned, complexion bordering on waxy, and the bruising circles under his eyes spoke volumes to his current state of mind. Harri considered she should feel some form of sympathy for him— the boy looked absolutely exhausted. Drained. But the words of Voldemort refused to leave her in peace, gloating and relentless as he revealed how the Slytherin told him all about their duel. 'What else did he let slip?'

Her eyes narrowed in distrust, jaw ticking.

As if sensing the resentment directed towards him, Draco quickly looked back down to his empty plate.



Harri refused to sleep, the dorm feeling oddly empty without Hermione in it— too cold, too lonely. Lavender had tried to convince her to come to bed, justifying that they didn’t even know when their roommate would be returning— but she still couldn’t allow it. ‘What if this is Voldemort’s revenge? That he’s trying to punish me by taking away Hermione? Ron?’ Once that line of thinking had formed, she couldn’t stop it, the obsession causing it to snowball— to overwhelm and consume. 

The girl had taken to pacing about the carpeted length of the common room, wearing holes into the ornate Persian rugs and reprimanding herself for being so stupid, so foolish, during their last meeting. After all, what kind of reckless person slaps a Dark Lord? 

And that parting warning of his was a vulture circling about her mind. It was a terrible feeling to arrive at that this was her fault— what if they had been tortured? Or worse? 

What if they weren’t coming back?

It was after 2 in the morning when the portrait door creaked open. Slipping past it were a small group of students ushered into the common room— a grim, quiet affair. Their pallid faces were shuttered in disbelief, weary after what was supposed to be an evening of enjoyment and blissful reunions had turned sour.

McGonagall, in a dressing robe and greying hair coming undone from its frayed braid, looked identical to her charges— haggard and beyond the point of exhaustion.

Harri wasted little time in sprinting over, arms thrown wide around the girl on the fringes of the crowd. Cool relief washed through her upon seeing Hermione unharmed, the earlier upset at being forgotten over the summer dissipating. A silent gratitude was sent to every unknown god, every deity, every being in the universe for not letting her worst fears come true.

Hermione returned the gesture, arms lifting tiredly and eyes half-closed as she let herself sink into the comfort of the embrace. 

Ron hovered awkwardly on their periphery, an exhausted half-smile that was sheepishly returned.



She waited to question Hermione until the morning, giving the girl a chance to recover from the shock and allowing her to have her first cup of coffee. Harri figured it was best that way— to let her friend process and calm down before being bombarded. 

As it currently stood, the pair had found refuge in the Great Hall, both sporting equally ghastly shadows under their eyes. The morning's sun was weak, watery, entirely too dim as it filtered through the arched windows overhead.

The silence stretched until Harri found the courage to break it. “What happened, ‘Mione? What’s been happening?” 

Hermione stilled. Her grip tightened on the mug as she regarded the redheaded girl seated across from her— the way those green eyes shone in a concern she felt undeserving of. After all, she hadn't sent her a single letter all summer, not even one for her birthday, under the explicit instructions of Dumbledore. It had been eating away at her, gnawing at her conscience with each passing day. And though she knew, logically, the headmaster was correct, that the post was easily intercepted and could make Harri vulnerable, the knowledge did little to lessen the hollow ache of guilt.

“We were halfway to Hogwarts when they boarded and demanded to see our wands. And Ron, the brave idiot he is, wouldn’t leave when they forced me to get off. Dumbledore met with the Minister to negotiate in allowing us to come back here, claiming they had no right to intercept the train in the first place,” she mumbled after a shaky sip of lukewarm coffee. It was difficult to swallow around the regret.

A hand suddenly shot across the table, gripping her friend’s, tears heavy on fanned lashes. “Oh, Harri, I’m so sorry. Dumbledore told us not to contact you, saying we couldn’t trust the owls. I wanted to write to you so much and it was just awful not being able to. Everything’s changing, the new rules, the constant mandates, and—”

Hermione leaned in closer, breakfast forgotten as brown eyes spared a nervous glance over her shoulder, voice a whisper, “I saw it. The men on the train, they had the Dark Mark on their arms. They were Death Eaters. And I think they were looking for something else— I think they were looking for you. Oh, Harri, they looked so terrified when they finished searching the train and you weren’t there.” 

Harri's attention fixed on the cooling, gelatinous mass of oatmeal before her, stomach lurching at the sight. She pushed it away with one hand, mind occupied with considering Hermione's words. Though she knew it was the safest course of action, that they were right in not trusting the owls, it still stung nonetheless that Dumbledore held such sway over her friends as well.

Yet how petty did it all seem, how distant— especially in the wake of what just happened and the implications behind it. Death Eaters were now blatantly in positions of power, able to move freely without consequences while their master remained hidden in the shadows. And Hermione had confirmed her initial assumption— the 'officials' had boarded the train because of her.

But wasn't that what it always came down to in the end? That never-ending chase between her and Voldemort and the messy aftermath that arose from their mere existences? 

He had threatened Hogwarts when she saw him last, the peacefulness of her school year— her sanctuary. And no small part of her just knew that this was only the beginning. 

A quick squeeze to her friend’s hand. “It’s okay, ‘Mione. I know.”



“You were correct in your assumptions, My Lord. The girl wasn’t on the Express.”

Voldemort barely registered the words as he continued writing on the scroll before him, the quill's nib a slow, unhurried drag against the parchment. He already knew she wouldn't be— both of his spies had confirmed the girl was to be apparated directly to the school as Dumbledore deemed the train to be no longer safe.

In fact, he had only sent his followers after it in the vaguest hope that Harri would have been defiant— that she had taken the Express anyways in an act of rebellion. After all, it wouldn't be quite out of her character to do so.

The quill stilled as he watched, detached and in contemplation, as the ink bloomed on the period of the note's final sentence— a greedy, fanning stain. The old fool was cunning, he would give him that, was always frustratingly one step ahead.

But not for much longer.

He had already foreseen the impending downfall of Albus Dumbledore— and how glorious it was.

Rising from the desk, crimson eyes fixed on the melting emerald wax held above a candle's flame. 'So, my little horcrux has made it back to her stone tower?' He chuckled softly at the thought, at how naive the notion was. Did they truly think that Hogwarts would be enough to keep him out? To prevent him from reclaiming what was rightfully his?

The Dark Lord rolled up the missive, a burning curiosity urging him to tap into their bond and to feel the girl hovering on his periphery— joy, fear, anxiety, happiness. A blindsiding mix of emotion that he had come to expect from her.

And, truly, he sincerely hoped she was currently enjoying her freedom, her little friends— her distance from him. That she was making enough memories to last her a lifetime, the endless eternity it would be. Because, as it currently stood, he had plans to remedy all of it. 'Just a little while longer.'

The signet ring was pressed into the hot wax, sealing the note and— a humourless scoff at the thought— her fate as well.

"Give this to Severus," he instructed the kneeling Death Eater, already turning back to the desk.

He paused for a moment before sinking down into the chair, tapping the quill once. "Oh, and do tell Barty to be thorough in his lesson plans. I fear the curriculum at Hogwarts is suffering as of late and it would be a shame to waste such potential."

There was a muttered acknowledgement that went unheeded, his attention drifting over to the armchairs in front of the mantle. Just a few days ago, they had occupied the very same ones in his mindscape. A girl at his side and seeking answers— and how natural did she look seated there, arranged among the cushions and intently watching him.

It was where she belonged— and it was exactly where he planned to make her stay.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 11: The Mirror Lake

Notes:

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Severus Snape, by all accounts, would not have considered himself an alcoholic.

He wasn’t a fan of hard liquor and despised the way he felt when inebriated, how his control slipped and his tongue seemed to loosen. But now, sitting in his office, the lesson plans that he had been labouring over for the following Monday long forgotten, the man desperately considered turning into one.

Downing a quick glass of firewhiskey, a repulsed shudder wracking his thin frame as the sting numbed his throat, a glare was aimed towards the cause of his frustrations. A note, seemingly innocent, lay half curled in on itself among the chaos of the desk. The wax seal was, undoubtedly, his Lord’s— no other man in the Isles would dare to have an ouroboros for a crest. 

And how that snake eating its own tail, each scale and detail proudly pressed into emerald wax, openly mocked him.

In all thirty-odd some of his years, the potions master had been satisfied enough with his ability to never fully commit to one side or the other. He had been content to play the spy for both, always looking out for his own best interests at the end of the day. ‘But,’ a traitorous thought as a girl with red hair flashed in his mind’s eye— the daughter of a woman still festering in his heart and detrimental to his rationality from even beyond the grave— ‘That has changed, hasn’t it?’

Snape poured himself another serving, the splashing in the glass amplified by the quiet of the stone dungeons.

It would seem that the Dark Lord was exhausted of the back-and-forth game Severus had been executing all of these years and that the time had finally come to prove his loyalty to just one cause. Truthfully, the missive had been simple enough in its instructions— on the date of December 20th, at precisely 8 pm in the evening, it was vital he found a way to occupy Dumbledore’s attention long enough for the wards to be dismantled. 

The underlying message, the implications, however, were painfully transparent.

If he chose to partake in this plan, there was no doubt that it would spell death and chaos within the school’s grounds— such a thing would be entirely inevitable. And he would have to be blind or willfully ignorant to not notice that the headmaster was beginning to look suspiciously frail these days. The once-proud posture was now hunched, full cheeks a touch gaunter, the twinkle behind half-moon glasses fading. The vigour, the energy, he had always known the man to possess was waning.

‘He will die,’ a grim assessment as he reflected back to the now much younger, much stronger, form Voldemort possessed. ‘If he is to face the Dark Lord, it will spell his end.’ As great of a wizard Albus Dumbledore may be, the odds were not on his side and were perpetually stacked against him. The one man that Voldemort had feared, the one man that he had always been hesitant to move against, would finally fall— and then where would they be? 

Left to suffer under the Dark Lord's whims and mercies— not to mention his volatile temper.

And the girl— what would become of her should he let the monster into the castle?

Hogwarts was to be her refuge, the one place he wouldn’t be able to touch her should she stay hidden within the flagstone walls. But if they were to crumble— Severus shuddered in unease. A bitter truth and entirely irrefutable: she couldn’t defeat him.

At least not yet. Not as a mere 16-year-old who hadn’t even fully completed her schooling. 

‘But what if,’ that sharp mind of his began to whir as he eyed the parchment warily, far too hesitant to voice the thought aloud for fear it might listen in. ‘She wasn’t here?’

It was an idiotic idea, one might even say completely Gryffindor in nature— utterly reckless and damningly foolish. And yet, the scheme had begun to already piece itself together despite the unfortunate conclusion making itself known that, should he act upon such a plan, it would most certainly mean a tragic end for himself.

Still, his own hypothetical doom wasn’t enough to curb the defiance unfurling in his chest at the image of a pale body cooling on the grand front steps, vivid eyes glassy and unfocused. He had let Lily die, a mistake he was still dearly paying for. His eternal suffering— and Snape wasn’t prepared to let another piece of her, the daughter that should have been his, fall to a man with too much power and too much control.

Another glass of brilliant amber liquid was knocked back, the burn serving to fuel his courage while he plotted.



After finishing their breakfast, the girls had meandered slowly back to the dorm, still dressed unashamedly in their pajamas. It had been too early for most students to rouse and, as the pair dipped through the portrait door, it wasn’t a shock to see the common room rather devoid of life. 

Trudging up to the still darkened bedroom, the soft snores of one Lavender Brown greeting them, Harri shot Hermione an amused look—  their roommate was always the last to fall asleep and the last to rise.

“I’m going to shower first,” Harri whispered, tilting her head towards the bathroom’s door.

While the water warmed, the girl stretched, relishing in the pleasurable cracks along her spine as they chased away the persisting discomforts of an awkward sleep. With Hermione around, it had been easy enough to forget the ominous warnings and flashing red eyes, the lingering touches and elongated canines. But now, as she stood under the shower’s spray, it all came flooding back, summoned forth by the steam and pelting droplets. 

He had warned her that Hogwarts was going to change, had vindictively instructed her to enjoy it while she still could. And the separation from Hermione, from Ron, not knowing how long they’d be gone— or if they would even be back at all— had rattled her more than she would like to admit.

Whenever she had dealt with Voldemort in the past, their interactions had always been contained between just the two of them— the added factor of her friends’ endangerment was usually not a pressing concern. A portion of the world carved out for a battle of two equally strong wills, solo players moving on a chessboard. As damning as it sounded, the second crimson eyes met hers, no one else truly mattered— no one else was significant enough to divert her attention away from a cutting smile and toxic magic.  It was an unnerving quality he possessed, his magnetism— the way he could so easily draw her to him, could creep in until only he existed as a darkening stain upon her consciousness. 

It was always his action and her reaction— a rhythm that they had perfected that inspired an odd sense of comfort in knowing exactly what to expect.

But, as he had proven last night through the harsh reminder of his power and influence, everything was about to change.

The rules were shifting and the stage broadening as more pawns appeared. And Harri wasn’t entirely sure as to why she was even surprised by such a development. Just last year, he had informed the entire student body of his intent to overthrow their world—  had managed to slip a portkey past the school’s wards and drop it right into her path. But if he had his Death Eaters then who did she have? 

Who could the Girl Who Lived call upon to engage his followers, his soldiers, while she went straight for their king? 

It was an unsettling concept, stomach lurching when the only images that came to mind were of her, admittedly, small circle of friends. Schoolchildren— those who were still trying to complete their education. Mere teenagers. 

A disturbing reminder that she, herself, was just like them. 

‘How are we supposed to fight him?’ Her thoughts were grim as the shower’s warmth cut off, body shivering from a sudden lack of heat. 

She shook her head, droplets flying as she attempted to clear the morbid turn her mind had taken. For now, she would just have to focus on getting through the day first. 'One step at a time.' 

Green eyes scanned the built-in shelves for her pjs, the red and gold striped set noticeably nowhere to be found. ‘Bloody house elves.’ Stifling a groan, the girl wrapped the bath towel tighter around herself, already not looking forward to the cold bedroom. 

Harri had been barely two steps out of the door when her ears were assaulted by a high-pitched screech— she froze midstep, taken off-guard by the sound.

“Oh. My. God, ” Lavender squealed, tone lilting with barely concealed glee. "Harri! What is that?!"

The girl rolled across the bed, sleep apparently forgotten and honey-coloured eyes glowing in scandalised delight.

A frown tugged on the corners of her mouth as Harri tried to puzzle out what had set the blonde on edge— and then her attention drifted downwards. The towel had done very little to hide the fading impression of teeth on her neck, the skin tinged slightly pink around the edges. ‘It almost looks like a—’ All coherency halted and a cold wash of mortification quickly followed. Emerald eyes glanced up in desperation only to see Lavender nearly vibrating in place from excitement. She was about to deny it all, squash whatever fanciful ideas her roommate had managed to concoct in her warped imagination, when Hermione wandered over, drawn towards the commotion.

“Harri?” Hermione questioned softly, her expression outwardly mature but the redden tips of her ears betraying her true feelings.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear,” Harri said, fumbling to defend herself and to correct their misplaced assumptions.

“Well, what it looks like is that somebody had a very pleasurable summer,” Lavender sang, tone suggestive and finger prodding at the fading mark. “That would make two of us.”

“I swear, Lav— Wait? What?” Harri could only stare dumbly at the girl before her.

Hermione echoed the sentiment of confusion, turning towards her roommate with raised brows.

My summer was spent with Cormac McLaggen,” Lavender stressed the syllables on his name, adoration glazing over doe-like eyes.

“We’re in love!” she declared with finality, clapping her hands together in elation and not even noticing the lack of enthusiasm, or comprehension, from her roommates.

The blonde had only stopped short upon seeing the dusting of a blush on Harri’s cheeks, hands resting pointedly on her hips. She quirked a brow. “Oh, honestly Harri, it’s just a little hickey. I’ve had dozens! They truly mean nothing, especially not when you have se—”

A burst of a yell, a plea begging for her to stop, erupted from Harri in a futile attempt to interrupt the girl before the conversation could derail any further. Darting forward to snatch the uniform strewn haphazardly across her bed, she retreated to the safety of the bathroom with a trail of wet footprints.

She truly didn't even know how to explain to them that it wasn’t a hickey. That it was something far more vicious in nature— that the mark had come from a monster sinking his fangs into her throat. And, quite frankly, imagining Voldemort in that way caused her nerves to spike and her stomach to churn. Harri couldn’t even comprehend getting physically involved with anyone, especially not after finding out that she could kill them on accident— and, most certainly, not with him.

But yet, in the biggest possible betrayal, her mind felt it appropriate to summon forth the afterimage of one rather naked Tom Riddle crouched in the dirt. The lines of his body heaving in exertion as glowing filaments covered the expanse of his chest, elegant fingers finding purchase in the damp earth and smears of drying gore marring the alabaster smoothness of his skin. She recalled it all with startling clarity. The smooth planes of muscle, the hollowed dips of shapely collarbones, the broad shoulders—

‘No, no, no,’ logic chanted firmly, resorting to picturing her timetable in a vain attempt to distract herself. ‘This is not happening. You are not picturing Voldemort naked.’

A thin hand scrubbed over her face in exasperation, unable to believe her own audacity. And, silently, she cursed her roommates for planting such an idea in her head, blaming them entirely for suggesting it in the first place.

Floating out from the bedroom were the giggles of Lavender as she proudly regaled the tales of her summer, the soft gasps of Hermione following— and, for once, Harri found herself not wanting to join in.



Harri had fled the bedroom of tittering girls under the guise that she was late meeting Dumbledore. It was embarrassing how Lavender had spared no detail while Hermione listened in wide-eyed fascination, blushing yet entirely too eager to know more. 

The girl eventually found herself ambling down to the lake, an eager bid to escape all talk of anything romantic or of Lavender’s newly-discovered, and highly questionable, talents.

It was blissfully quiet on the grounds, the foliage on the cusp of changing from its summer greenery to its autumn reds. And though the wind carried a chill, the promise of fire-lit nights and crisp morning frost to come, she didn't entirely mind it.

“Oi, Potter.” The posh drawl sounded from over her shoulder, the sneer of her last name being purposefully dragged out.

An unbidden groan, the voice unmistakable— just like that, the sanctity and peace of the moment was cleaved in two. ‘Malfoy. Of bloody course.’ It would appear that Fate was keen on not letting her have even a second's peace, content on taunting her with it and holding it forever out of reach.

Harri spun on the spot, eyeing him critically as he made his way down the grassy knoll in a leisurely gait. A war in her mind was forming, a swirl of justifications, of weighing the consequences as to whether or not she could hex him without getting detention. After all, school didn’t technically start until Monday and she had made herself a promise to curse him the next time they met.

The boy pulled up short a few feet away, pale eyes regarding her just as shrewdly in turn.

‘He looks like hell,’ a passing thought, the urge to incite pain quickly fading in the face of such an appraisal. Though being back at Hogwarts had agreed with him, there were still the lingering traces of insomnia, of night terrors— and she wondered, idly who his often featured. There was a sneaking suspicion that she and Draco, most likely, shared the same monster, albeit for different reasons. And though the dark circles under his eyes had lessened slightly, and he seemed to be regaining the sense of superiority that she had always associated him with, there was an off-ness to him. The look in that silver gaze threw her off— it was just a touch too dull, too tired. 

Too defeated.

“Where have your followers run off to, Potter? You’d think they would be hanging onto you after last night.” He tried to summon the usual bite, the banter— it fell flat.

Draco resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair, the gel in it suddenly feeling too stiff, too constraining. He had made a vow to apologise, to try to alleviate his sins against her, to explain that he took it all back— all of the taunts, the jeers, the hateful comments. It all seemed so petty now in comparison— mere schoolyard bullying that couldn’t even hold a flame to the real threat out there.

The threat that was currently living in his home and the very same that he had been forced to bend the knee to. And even though the Dark Lord was hundreds of miles away, far removed from the safety of Hogwarts, Draco could swear he felt him there with them. The burning in a mark hidden under his sleeve, the suffocating weight on the back of his mind, the throbbing behind his eyes. 

He was watching— always watching.

Harri raised a brow, eyes narrowed as she tried to puzzle out as to why he was possibly here. He looked as though he was going to be ill, his already waned skin draining of colour even further. A nervous air clung to the sharp angles of his shoulders, a tongue darting skittishly over his chapped lips. And the twitch of his fingers, a jerky reaction that curled about his forearm before abruptly dropping away— all of it indicated that something was wrong.

It was then she noticed, belatedly, that the usual group of Slytherins who always crowded him were missing.

“I needed some air.” The explanation was slow to come to her, unable to stop her attention from fixating on the bob in his throat as he swallowed. “What about you? Where are your lackeys?”

The boy paused for a beat, a thick swallow as he tried to find the courage to say his piece— to do what he was here to do. Instead, a shaky low exhale, the sound almost bordering on a laugh but not quite, escaped him.

“I guess we’re the same then. I needed some air too.” He tossed her a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

It was difficult to continue to evenly hold such green eyes, the sharpness in them exposing him and seeing right through with startling clarity. Entirely unnerving— a look that could kill. His attention drifted towards the lake, a desperate attempt to find some shelter, some reprieve from that withering stare. It was calm today, the surface a mirror that reflected the cloudy sky above. 

Peaceful, serene— a sorely-needed kind of tranquillity. 

Draco debated in the silence that stretched between them, wondering how he could possibly say to her that he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. To phrase it without sounding like a coward or the spineless child he was. That it wasn’t his choice— none of it was. That he didn’t want to tell the Dark Lord about her. That he didn’t want everything to change.

Yet, that’s all it was— wishes and desires. Hollow sentiments and a resounding truth when he found himself desiring even a shred of her courage. After all, she had faced his Lord before, had defied the man without crumbling as easily as he had— and he hadn’t even been tortured into compliance, for Merlin's sake. Compared to that, his excuses were pathetic.

No, instead he had cracked under his father’s persistence, under the admonishing glares and heavy hands about his shoulders. Instead, he had faltered under the venomous warnings to not shame the Malfoy name and to not make them look like fools.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, a polluting wave of self-loathing surging through him.

When Draco finally spoke, it was to find his voice quiet, timid, “For what it’s worth, Potter, I’m sorry.”

“About everything, I—,” he trailed off, unable to find the bravery or words to continue.

Even now, he lacked the inner-strength, the resolution. And this is precisely why he could never be a Gryffindor— he didn’t have the spine for it. 

He knew it. 

The hat knew it. 

Everyone knew it.

He was a Slytherin through and through, always acting on self-preservation and unable not to even when his conscience, his heart, screamed otherwise. The boy settled for watching her out of his periphery, roaming over her turned profile with a degree of interest. The heart-shaped face and pointed nose. The fanned lashes and the rosebud mouth. Some part of him was, admittedly, relieved to find her the same— forever unchanged despite the flux of their world.  

She was staring out across the lake as well and he wondered, briefly, what was even going on in her mind. Was she scared? Terrified? Or more determined than ever to right the wrongs of the world? 

And how startling was it to realise in the moment that Harri Potter had always been the one constant in his life, for better or for worse. That she always proved to be an irritatingly, welcomed distraction. She helped him forget while at school—his father, the suffocating expectations that came with holding a noble title, the monster currently in his home. And he couldn’t even imagine Hogwarts without her, a heavy pit in his stomach forming when he started to entertain such an idea— or how close such a fear had been to becoming a reality.

Draco roughly stuffed his hands into his school trousers, turning away before he could say anything foolish or let all of his secrets slip— the lake had a way of doing that, after all.

“I’m glad you weren’t on the train,” came his soft whisper, quickened steps carrying him away from the girl before she could respond.

And as he languidly trekked back up to the castle, it hit him how strongly he meant it. How relieved he was that she was still free, that she had gotten away even if it meant hindering the man he had pledged his loyalty to. Because her continued defiance, her evasion, meant they still had a chance— however small it may be. 

That there was still some hope to be found, as foolish as it was to rely on a teenage girl to become their saviour.

The redhead stood in silence as he left, alone with her thoughts and the waves lapping against the pebbled shoreline.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 12: The Unforgivables

Notes:

Hey everyone! This chapter is a bit of a filler but it has always been one of my favourite scenes so I just had to include it. It's a bit of a mix between what happened in the movie, what happened in the books, and what I wanted to happen.

You're all amazing, thank you for reading 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“Some think that we shouldn’t be teaching our students the Dark Arts,” Moody began, scribbling roughly on the chalkboard. The writing was only barely legible.

Behind him, the class of 6th-years sat with bated breath, their eyes full of restlessness and unease as they tracked warped fingers setting down the chalk with a decisive click. The syllabus had been abruptly changed that morning, ‘Defense Against the Dark Arts’ now rebranded as ‘Introduction to the Dark Arts’. The cause for such was in response to a Ministry mandate that sought to normalize the branch of magic to young people, seeking to readdress the ongoing discriminations and prejudices against its users—  a way to gain a sort of 'equality' in their world in a 'controlled' environment. Exposure therapy, more or less. 

Or, at least, that was the justification. 

Unfortunately, Hogwarts had conceded— with the condition, of course, that only upper-year students would be permitted to engage with the curriculum.

“Some like to think that it has no place in the classroom.” He whirled on the stunted leg, magic eye whizzing about the dim room until it landed on the rigid form of Harri Potter.

She was positioned in the front row with an embittered look on her face, shoulders drawn up in tension and jaw tightly clenched. It was obvious, from the stormy expression alone, what she thought of the new curriculum. And he supposed such a reaction was reasonable enough— after all, the girl had been on the receiving end of a few rather nasty spells in the past. Her distaste was normal, typical even, for those dispositioned towards the lighter magics.

And yet, there was something odd, something peculiar about her magic that he couldn't quite seem to place. A nagging feeling, a sensation that churned in the back of his mind— a vague sort of familiarity that was always fleeting. One minute it would be there, a spark that incited goosebumps in its wake— and then the next it was gone as though it had been a figment of his imagination.

The girl was an enigma, a puzzle that, even after a year of teaching her, he remained ignorant of the solution. 

Perhaps it excited him more than it should have. 

“Cowards, the lot of them. I say it’s best to know what you’re up against and to be prepared.” He roughly cleared his throat at the lengthening silence, the dusty words magically scrawling out 'The Unforgivables' on the blackboard. “We’ll start off with an area that we are all probably familiar with— the Unforgivables. There are precisely 3 that, in the past, would have earned you a one-way ticket to Azkaban. Who can name them?”

A smattering of students had puzzled out in hesitant voices the 'Cruciatus', a wild smile pulling on scarred lips. Out of the three, he supposed that it could be said the torture curse was the least offensive, the weight of it not as damning— it was as good as any of a starting point.

But it was also rather tricky to cast, its power drawing from the intensity of the caster's emotions and their will to inflict pain.

“Ah good, very good,” he mumbled. 

Moody took a minute to study Potter's expression and that line of consternation appearing between her brows— it would appear she was familiar with the curse in a more intimate way than her peers were. And part of him almost debated on using a student for the demonstration so they could experience it first hand— so that the others could know it as well and see what magic was capable of. A form of shock therapy, if you will. But it was the thought of Dumbledore's impending dismissal upon finding out, of having to return to his Lord a failure, that made him quickly forget the idea. After all, while he was told to be 'thorough' in his lessons, he was more than certain getting fired from his teaching post would probably go against the Dark Lord's plan— whatever it may be.

Instead, a grisly, misshapen hand reached into the cloche housing a rather large spider. Though there were outlined protocols to follow, naturally for the safety of all involved, there hadn't been any explicitly prohibiting the usage of non-human bodies to illustrate his points.

He placed the creature gently, almost tenderly, lovingly, on the table at the front of the room, voice solemn, “Many witches and wizards have fallen under the Cruciatus, tortured for information until their minds and bodies shattered. During his reign, it was one of the preferred extraction methods of the Dark Lord." 

Mad-Eye brandished the gnarled wand, pointing the tip at the spider who was trying to vainly scrabble off the desk as though aware of its fate.

“Crucio,” came the soft intonation, a perverse satisfaction surging in him as the magic, dark and heady, hummed in his veins.

The creature was seized by an invisible force, curling in on itself in pain.

Unable to help her nose from wrinkling at the display, Harri tore her attention away from the scene to roam over the horrified faces of her classmates. For the most part, they were watching in appalled rapture, some a touch greener in the face than others. And then she had spied Neville a row over, a visible trembling to the outline of his shoulders.

She leaned forward on her elbows, craning her neck to get a better look only to frown at the sight. The boy looked on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering at the way the spider was stumbling over itself, those flailing legs curling and uncurling. 'Fair enough,' she thought, considering it wasn't exactly the most pleasant sight to behold. And the girl did feel a passing sort of sympathy for her fellow Gryffindor, the flickers of concern if he was going to be alright or not— was this going to be what their classes were like from now on? Merlin, she hoped not.

Passive emerald eyes retrained themselves on the ongoing display, thoughts occupied with figuring out how it must, exactly, feel. Was it similar to when Voldemort had first touched her in the graveyard? The white-hot, all-encompassing pain— the sort that made it feel as though your head was going to split open and your bones to snap? ‘Seems like it,’ she noted, propping her chin up with a tightly balled fist— nails bit into her palm. It did appear that the spider was in a comparable agony, its body pressed flat against the glass table in an eager bid to find some relief— there was none to be found, of course. An image of herself held against the statue and pressing into it, frenzied attempts to escape the pain in her scar, the scraping of the stone against her skin far preferable to the monster before her— she could relate.

And, for a moment, her gaze flickered to their professor, a creeping unease at the fact he didn't seem keen to let the curse end anytime soon. She frowned slightly, that discomfort only growing as the seconds wore on— shouldn't he be moving on by now?

“Stop! Just stop it!” The demand broke the room’s weighted silence, a tearful outrage colouring the voice.

Harri, surprised, looked to Hermione at her side, taking notice of the wet glint in those brown eyes. The girl's hands were shaking under the table, an air of discomposure to her otherwise collected person.

The cry was enough to break the professor out of his reverie as he lowered the wand, blinking in a daze as though he couldn’t quite remember where he was. It took a second for him to recover, to hastily shake his head to drive away the cobwebs and the haze. 

A cough, almost embarrassed, accompanied the half-step he took away from the now still spider.

“The others,” Moody bit out quickly as he tried to recover. “Someone, give me another.”

And much to his surprise, a ginger boy had raised his hand in hesitation. ‘Weasley,’ his mind supplied as the boy slowly, timidly, explained that his dad had told him about the Imperius debacle a few years ago at the Ministry.

“Ah, yes. The Imperius. Nasty business. It removes all will from the person it’s casted on, forcing them to obey every command and order. After the Dark Lord’s fall, scores of witches and wizards had claimed to only do his bidding while under the influence." His good eye drifted to the half-dead spider, voice low in contemplation as he prodded it with the wand. “However, the Imperius looks quite different on a human than it would on an animal.”

He debated for a second, jaw shifting from side to side in his deliberation— surely it would be fine to use a student for this example? As long as it was relatively harmless, Dumbledore couldn't complain, right?

Moody retrained a keen look on the petrified class before him and attempted a reassuring smile. "Any takers?"

No one even dared to breathe as they digested the fact that their professor wanted to curse one of his students— to perform an Unforgivable on them all in the name of education.

Harri waited as silence reigned, green eyes bouncing about the room and taking in her classmates' panicked and alarmed faces. And a part of her, the brave and rash Gryffindor, urged herself to selflessly volunteer for them. To be the one to step forward, to shoulder the burden— after all, she had the most experience with curses. When compared to her classmates, most of which were still innocent from finding themselves on the other end of a wand and who were ignorant of the corrupting feeling of dark magic settling over their skin, she was the least under-prepared.

But then a cynical side, one full of vitriol, tried to justify that she shouldn’t always have to be the one to sacrifice herself— to give herself up for the comfort of others, for people that she barely even knew.

Unfortunately, it was a little well-known fact that Harri Potter suffered from a rather detrimental saviour complex— her most fatal flaw and endearing virtue. Hell, she had even jumped back into the Black Lake during the tournament to complete another competitor's task. ‘Life threatening idiocy,’ as Hermione liked to call it, didn’t even cut it at times.

And so a reluctant hand was raised high into the air, the collective sigh of relief her only thanks as long legs swung out from the bench in bitter resignation.

Moody watched in a form of suspended hesitation as she stepped forward. And while he could admit to holding a degree of fondness towards her, sometimes even wishing that his comrades held an ounce of her brashness, her spirit, it didn't change the fact that they were in opposing factions. As such, he ensured that he never got too attached, the Dark Lord’s plans involving her murky at best— but this? 

How could he let such an opportunity pass? Not take full advantage of it? 

An open palm waved her over to the front of the room, perhaps a tad too eager to get into her mind, to see how strong she actually was.

“Don’t worry, Potter.” He pointed his wand at her, smiling cheerfully at the way she hadn't even so much as flinched. “I promise I won’t make you do anything too embarrassing. Imperio.”

A yellow light shot forth, settling over her clothes, her skin— it was like she had been dusted in pollen— before fading away. A beat passed and Harri wondered if it had actually worked, if he had casted it correctly— a second of nothingness.

But then she suddenly felt it, the force slamming into her unexpectedly.

The cloying sensation in the back of her mind, the warm glow flickering behind her lids. The way her thoughts had begun to fog over, the insistent pull of a sweet voice cajoling her. ‘Dance,’ it whispered, the tone pure honey. 

An inviting sort of warmth, of cosiness, a friendly sort that echoed the sensation of an embrace.

Her body felt like it was floating, a queer sensation of weightlessness resting over her limbs and spreading into the dips and crevices of her fingers, her toes. And despite being faintly aware that she was still standing in the classroom, bathed in the watery light from the tall windows and the musty smell of old books, the buoyancy in her mind insisted otherwise.

Harri was about to give in to the siren’s song when something rather peculiar emerged, its origins unclear.

A shadow had begun to creep in, chasing and twisting violently around the warm glow in a wrestle for dominance. It was vicious, teeth gnashing, a gaping maw as it tried to swallow the remnants of light. 

‘No.’

Another voice had emerged from the chaos, a baritone that she unwittingly associated with velvet against bare skin—of stormy summer nights and sweet smoke curling from a blazing fire. An entirely different sort of comfort.

‘Dance!’ the saccharine tone rose in volume, sharp and unrelenting in its insistence.

A strobing light show was happening in her mindscape, dizzying flashes of light versus dark. A war of intangible entities that she had no control over, one that she could only sit back to observe as the blurs encouraged nausea to rise.

The warm glow had attempted to part the blackness curling around the peripheries of her awareness, the rendered effect being bright pockets amongst a night sky. Stars set against the void, the abyss, threatened to be swallowed in the end. 

No, I don’t think we will.’ While the deeper voice had remained at a level tone, there was a cutting edge to it— a casual bluntness that left little room for negotiation.

The shadows abruptly began to gather, rapidly mounting into an encompassing wave. It swelled, higher, higher, higher, until— the floating sensation was replaced with something glacial, frigid. Inhospitable. A ghost of a shiver coursed through her, the temperature dropping, her skin numbing at the sting.

It was at this point that Harri had become dimly aware of the eyes fixed on her, of how they were all waiting for her to do something, anything. To dance like she had been instructed— to make a fool of herself and prove the effects of the Unforgivable.

But, as the fog was dispelled, she remained rooted in place, peering in owlish bewilderment at an equally perplexed Moody.

When it became more than apparent the curse wasn't taking hold, he ordered her to return to her seat, a contemplative sheen in his good eye.

Trudging back to her spot on unsteady legs, Harri shakily slipped back into the bench. She might as well have been formed from jello, knees lax and fingers without strength— an off-balancing sense of weariness. Hands clenched experimentally to test their mobility, barely registering the hushed whispers around her, the awed expressions. ‘Why,’ she thought, feeling oddly off-kilter, ‘did I hear his voice?’ And it had been unmistakably Voldemort’s, there was no denying it— yet it wasn't the skeletal monster's that had been too reedy and always bordering on a hiss.

It was his

Tom Riddle's.

Harri tried to puzzle out what it had meant, tried to understand the fact that she had so clearly heard his voice in her head fighting off the curse’s hold. Had he somehow actually been there? They did share dreams after all—maybe their strange connection was finally bleeding over into waking reality?

The girl felt as though she were drifting away, untethered and absent as the words of her professor turned unintelligible. Murky, diluted— as though she were sinking further and further under the water, her eardrums flooding. And it wasn’t until Moody had wandered over to her table, halted in his pacing about the room, that she blinked dazedly up at him. 

He evenly met her gaze, his own narrowing with a newly assessing light.

“As Miss Potter just proved, it is possible to break the Imperius. Some wizards and witches are able to through sheer will alone, a remarkable feat that isn't exactly unheard of. However, only one person has ever been known to survive the Killing Curse,” he muttered, eyes flitting across the redhead before him.

She watched him in open confusion, brain still hazy as she tried to process what he was implying. But she received an answer through the unanticipated burst of green light— the exact same shade as her eyes.

It filled the borders of her vision and momentarily blinded. Every corner of the room was filled with the sickening hue, dancing across the worn stone walls and casting verdant-tinged shadows upon young faces before dying down.

As her sight finally cleared, Harri numbly took in the prone form of the spider a few tables away, its life robbed by a flash. And she knew she should have felt something upon having finally witnessed the curse that struck her parents down, at how quick it had all been— that she should be unsettled, disturbed.

Yet, instead, the girl found herself being drawn back to the voice she had heard in her mind, unable to move past it or forget it.

'Why did he say ‘we’?'

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 13: A Party Is A Marvelous Idea

Notes:

Thank you for all of the comments on the last chapter— I really appreciate it! You guys are seriously so amazing and I can't even thank you enough for reading my work 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The school year was passing by at an alarming rate and, while Harri wouldn’t say she exactly loved the endless essays or the mountain of homework, she also didn’t want it to end anytime soon. Finally being back in the castle and using magic once more, albeit with a wand that seemed to hate her half of the time, was almost enough to make her forget how oddly the term had been progressing.

Snape had been barely looking at her during potions, his old habit of sneering subsiding into frowns and muttered instructions.

Moody had taken to watching her with a guarded expression as if unsure of her ever since she fended off the Imperius.

And Dumbledore was— distant, to say the least. Whenever she caught his eye during meals in the Great Hall, he seemed resolute to ignore her. But it was during the times when he hadn’t met her eye, the times that she had snuck secret sidelong glances, that she noticed the minute changes occurring within the headmaster. He was growing gaunter as the months wore on, his expression constantly pinched with worry and shoulders slumped with an invisible weight she remained unaware of.

In the past, he would have invited her up to his office on a dozen separate occasions by now, questioning her about her health, her grades and her relationships. But those visits had yet to take place this year and Harri couldn’t help but wonder if she had done something to upset him or to earn such cold indifference.

Then there was the matter of Draco Malfoy.

Harri shuffled the peas around on her plate, grimacing at the offending vegetable as she pondered over the Slytherin boy. Ever since their talk by the lake, the one in which he admitted that he was relieved she was safe, he had been weirdly subdued around her. They no longer bickered with one another, no longer insistently pushed buttons or stepped on toes.

Instead, he had taken to sending her small half-smiles whenever he passed her in the halls, sometimes even helping her in potions when she couldn’t chop up her beetles finely enough or crush the seed pods. However, apart from those small, silent interactions, he mostly kept his distance.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, that he had changed so quickly— one might even say that he had matured if one felt so inclined to do so. 

Either way, Harri couldn't say she exactly missed the smug prat the boy used to be.

“I can’t believe Dumbledore is fine with this!” Hermione seethed as she slid into her usual spot next to the auburn-haired girl.

Harri looked over to her friend, blinking in alarm at the whirlwind of frenzied disquiet Hermione was currently embodying. Belatedly, she realised the girl's fingers were darkly stained with ink, some of it finding purchase under cleanly trimmed nails, a frayed quill tucked haphazardly behind one ear. The girl seemed frazzled, the fevered look in those brown eyes betraying the speeds at which her thoughts were cycling through. And there was only one thing in this world that could reduce her to such a state—schoolwork.

Hermione reached for the roasted carrots, piling them onto her plate with far more force than necessary. 

Ron shifted to spare a nervous glance in Harri's direction— she responded with a half-shrug.

“Making us write an essay on the physical benefits associated with Dark Arts casting. I swear! It’s like he’s all but advocating for us to turn,” Hermione fumed, directing a mutinous glare towards the professor in question.

Harri frowned and looked towards Moody as well. The man was currently at the head table, nipping from his flask and toying with his mashed potatoes. While she couldn't disagree that the paper's topic was an odd choice, and perhaps a tad unconventional, she also believed that Dumbledore wasn’t exactly too thrilled with the class's curriculum either. 

And neither was she— albeit for entirely different reasons.

Much to her newly-discovered horror and dismay, she was doing alarmingly well in Mad-Eye’s class. In fact, it was her highest grade at the moment— and it had, quickly, become yet another thing she lay awake at night mulling over. The spells he was teaching them came so easily, so naturally to her that it was distressing to consider the implications. And she just knew that if she had her original wand, rather than the replacement, she might have excelled even further.

Harri shredded the dinner roll into smaller chunks, unsure of what to say, settling for a soft hum in response. 

Thankfully, Ron had piqued up at the lull in the conversation.

“Mum got a letter from Percy today,” he said, resentment souring his voice.

The older Weasely brother had become a sore topic of subject among them ever since the Ministry’s new regime began. Percy, unlike his father, had apparently flourished under the strict protocols and extensive rules, climbing higher and higher in the ranks.

The boy had leaned forward, elbows crossing on the table. “He told her to check the papers first thing tomorrow morning.”

A switch had gone off in Hermione, the earlier discontent forgotten in the wake of something far more enticing. Reaching up to remove the plume from the mass of curls, she considered the information. Finding his niche in bureaucracy and order, Percy had managed to secure himself a position as the personal scribe to the Minister's Undersecretary— and if anyone knew something big was about to happen, it would be him.

"Really?" she breathed out, fingers drumming against the worn wooden table.

"Mhm."

"Did he say whatever for?"

Ron shrugged and reached for a red currant scone. “No, he refused to say why. Just that it’s important.”

Harri only listened with half an ear, her mind drifting. 

Instead, she had taken to watching the portrayal of an autumn sky on the Great Hall’s ceiling, the streaks of orange and yellow washing everything in a warm glow. Leaves had been scattered on the stone floor in a thick carpet to mimic the outside, the soft crunch of them underfoot a comforting sort of sound as students milled in and out of the dining room. It was already the end of October, the day before Halloween to be precise and, quite normal for this time of year, she was more sullen than usual.

October 31st always marked a day of peculiarity in Harri Potter’s life for the mere fact that it was a day of longing and yearning for something she had never known. While others celebrated the night away in merriment, in drinking and feasting, memorializing the day the Dark Lord had been defeated, she usually spent it sober and locked in her room. The public may remember it as a great triumph but, to her, it was a sobering day of loss. 

Sure, he had been defeated— but at what price? ‘And would you look at us now,’ she shoved the lukewarm cup of tea she had been nursing to the side. ‘He still managed to come back.’

Ron chewed thoughtfully, eyes flitting to the somber face of Harri before taking a deep swig from the goblet filled with pumpkin juice. “So, are we going to the ‘Puff’s party tonight?”



In truth, a party sounded like the complete opposite of what she needed at the moment— which was precisely why Harri had decided to go. It was far past dinner time and, the second the food was swept magically away from the tables, her arms had been linked by her two rather insistent roommates. 

And that’s how Harri had found herself, almost an hour later, staring into the mirror and looking not quite like her usual self. Lavender had insisted a makeover was in order before they went anywhere, much to her horror— yet, she had to give credit to the blonde when credit was due.

The waist-length auburn hair had been piled into a messy bun atop her head, strands and wisps artfully left loose to frame a heart-shaped face, while the kohl liner decorating her eyes made their green somehow even brighter.

“Merlin, Lav,” she muttered in wonder, casually regarding her reflection.

“I know, I know. I’m a genius,” Lavender crooned, appearing in the mirror as she twisted her curls up with a pale pink ribbon— it was a more muted shade of the colour painted on her lips.

Fingers plucked idly at the straps of the black silk camisole her friend was wearing, mouth pursing into a pout. "I wish I had your body Harri. I just look at food and I gain 10 pounds— so not fair.”

With an exasperated sigh, Lavender floated away to shuffle through a jewellery box, muttering ceaselessly about a bracelet she couldn't seem to find.

Harri opened her mouth to say something only to close it with a click when she realised that she truly had no idea how to respond. Girl talk had never been her strong suit and it always threw her for a loop whenever Lavender bemoaned her figure. The girl eyed her reflection, frowning at the very notion that the blonde wished to have her body instead. It was unfathomable. Incomprehensible. Quite frankly, Harri had always considered that she was just a touch too short, frame too skinny, collarbones too sharp— she lacked the full chest and rounded hips that girls her age were supposed to have, somehow left in the awkward stages of puberty while everyone else got to move on.

A quick half-step away from the mirror, teeth worrying her lower lip in an attempt to convince herself not to change and to reach for an oversized jumper instead.



As it turned out, going to a party was a stupid, idiotic, wonderful idea.

The Hufflepuff common room was packed with teenagers swaying and jumping around restlessly to the heavy bass blaring from suspended speakers. The lights had been dimmed and were currently strobing in different colours, a dizzying kaleidoscope that cast the shadowed faces around her in technicolour tones.

Truly, Harri had no clue as to where her friends had wandered off to, zero idea what kind of music was even playing at this point. No concept of what the time was— yet she could care less. 

Tipping back a half-full plastic cup of firewhiskey-laced-punch, she couldn't stop the smile at the burning, at the floating numbness that spread pleasantly through her limbs. It made her lightheaded, a rush that moved her nerves to sing. 

Very few times in her life had she ever actually gotten drunk but, as she giggled into the quickly emptying cup, steps unsteady, she did consider why she hadn’t done it more often.

“Oi, Potter!” A voice called out, barely heard above the droning beat and ceaseless chatter of the room.

Harri spun abruptly, stumbling as a dancing body bumped roughly into her shoulder and knocking her off an already precarious balance. A hand shot out to her waist, stabilising her before she could fall into the swaying pit of the crowd.

Green eyes drifted up to take in the flushed face of Draco, the evidence colouring his normally pale skin in an ultimate betrayal— he was as guilty as she was for drinking tonight it would seem. Somehow, the alcohol had made those crystalline eyes of his almost shine, the striped tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. It was an odd sight to behold, the normally primly put together Slytherin looking a touch too debauched, too relaxed— a passing thought that she liked him like this. That it wholly suited him, made him look more boyish and his age for once.

A wide grin, beaming and brilliant, was tossed his way, the earlier feelings of apprehension, of sullenness, magically vanishing under the gentle guidance of the whiskey’s spell. Spread fingers about her waist flexed slightly, a distracting sort of warmth that should have, by all accounts, been gone by now— yet it lingered, bordering on almost the inappropriate. Her gaze flitted across the refined features, noting the way he had glanced down to the low cut of her top, lips slightly parted and swept-back hair in disarray.

For a brief moment, he reminded her of a certain dark-haired egomaniac that frequented her dreams— she giggled at the very comparison.

“Malfoy!” she drawled, poorly mimicking the same inflections he always used on her name— a terrible joke that incited another surge of giggles.

And as he returned the laugh, a youthful, good-natured sound, mumbling something about how terrible she was with accents, there was the strangest urge to kiss him.

The alcohol buzzing pleasantly in her system freed her of reservations, of hesitations, and she wondered, distantly, if she could always feel like this. What could she possibly do to never let it end? To keep it going? Her heart was chaotic, hammering wildly in the confines of her chest, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the smirk on that full mouth of his. ‘Screw it,’ a reckless thought, one made in abandon.

Following through on that persistent desire, the one that whispered for her to seize the moment, small hands darted out to fist the front of his collared shirt. 

Unwaveringly, she pulled his mouth down to hers. 



The Dark Lord had retreated to his study, seated in front of the white marble fireplace and idly twisting the Gaunt ring around his finger.

The plans for tomorrow were turning over in his mind, a mental checklist of what all still needed to be done. It had been an extraordinary feat, one that required months of preparations, but he had finally achieved the end goal— had accomplished something that was considered to be impossible.

A cutting smile pulled on the corners of his mouth, thoughts turning to, as usual, his horcrux. What would be the girl’s expression when she saw the papers in the morning? 'Will she be horrified?' he wondered. 'Or perhaps furious?'

Will her fists shake in anger, brows drawn together in frustration when she realised just how many steps ahead, exactly, he was of her? Part of him unashamedly almost wished he could be there to see it, to witness firsthand how many emotions those charming eyes of hers could portray at once.

For the past few days, he had resolutely kept the bond between them closed, those unrestrained emotions of hers proving to be a hindrance more often than not. Especially now— after all, he needed to keep a level head, to beguile and seduce without being influenced by her temper. But just when he thought he had gotten to know her patterns, all of her little tells, her tricks, she would catch him off guard with new ones.

Admittedly, it was becoming a hobby of his these days to try to name all of the things she felt— to find new words to label emotions he hadn't known to even exist. ‘She’s full of surprises, my little horcrux,’ Voldemort mused with a certain fondness, recalling the way Barty had, rather shakenly, reported that she resisted his Imperius. That certainly had elicited a chuckle from him as he still vividly recalled himself as a teenager shortly after learning about the curse. How he had resolutely practised occlumency long into the night in determination to never succumb, to never fall prey to it. 

Perhaps she also possessed an innate disposition to the arts of the mind that she wasn’t fully aware of yet— it was worth looking into.

It was on a mere whim that the Dark Lord decided to open their bond, to see what she was possibly up to. It had been dreadfully quiet in his mind and, though he would never freely admit it aloud, there was an itch, a longing, to feel her again. 

What greeted him, however, was not what he had been expecting.

Crimson eyes widened in mild surprise as an onslaught of intense giddiness and a lack of inhibition overcame him— she felt so unrestrained, even wilder than usual. Deft fingers stilled on the ring. 

He leaned back thoughtfully into the armchair as he tried to place the sensations, attempting to figure them out. ‘She’s intoxicated,’ a dark revelation, a scowl crossing his face.

The idea to summon Severus to him, to reprimand him for letting this happen, to order him to immediately find her, was tempting enough to say the least. After all, who knew what kind of life-threatening idiocy she would find herself in? It had been easy enough for the girl to land in unfortunate situations when sober— never mind while being under the influence that rendered even quick-witted minds to a dulled state.

In fact, he’s not entirely sure that he wouldn’t have done so if not for another curious, and rather peculiar, emotion bursting brightly through their connection. And he most definitely recognised this one— he had seen it in her eyes when his tongue had laved over the freshly inflicted bite mark. Had learned to discern it in the erratic tempo of her heart whenever he crowded her space— to recognise it in her uneven breaths.

‘The little minx,’ his thoughts were venomous, quickly identifying the emotion to be a vague form of arousal.

Even with the distance between them, the sound of her pulse still drummed in his ears and pervaded his senses. He could feel it all from her— every damnable second. 

But the question remained, however, as to who she was currently with. Who had the gall, the audacity, to lay claim to something that wasn’t even theirs? To experience something he had yet to do himself? The smile slid from his face, the weight of a possessive rage, a vile monster rearing its ugly head, settling in his chest. 

And oh, how he would very much like to meet whoever it was— to see what kind of person was so foolishly brave enough to cross a line they most certainly should not have.

The marble mantle cracked cleanly in two.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@elysian-drops

Chapter 14: Sweet as Honey

Notes:

As always, thank you for reading along and for the attention you've all given this fic! I hope everyone has a wonderful 4th of July (if it's a holiday for you today)!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



‘Wake up, Harri.’

There's a sharp spike of irritation, followed by a surge of displeasure, to rouse her. The feelings, she realises only belatedly as she gasps herself awake to glance wildly about the dim bedroom, weren't her own.

But the ability to even consider the strangeness of it is quickly overshadowed by the bright flares of pain in her head, a stabbing sensation that earns a full-bodied groan. 'Oh bloody hell, I feel like shit.' Thin hands scrub over her face to chase off the headache, lamenting the fact that she, undoubtedly, had a biting hangover— and she just knew it was the kind to only worsen throughout the day.

Hauling her aching body to a half-sitting position, legs tangled in the mess of linen sheets, green eyes peered into the darkness before her. A few feet away, she could make out the softly rising and falling forms of Hermione and Lavender, soft snores the only indication that both were still blissfully asleep. And at that she frowned, knowing with full certainty that there had been a voice instructing her to wake up— one that, apparently, didn't belong to either of the girls.

However, the more she concentrated on it, tried to puzzle it out, the worse the headache became. Harri flopped back down to the nest of pillows in search of relief from the way the world was swaying. Gingerly, fingers reached up to massage smarting temples, a futile effort to ease away the tension. 

It was starting to become painfully apparent as to why she usually refrained from drinking too much. The pleasure, the floating numbness, was great while it lasted but the tradeoff was truly horrendous— a sentence worse than death. 

Rolling onto her side, the girl squinted at the hazy light filtering through the room’s pulled drapes, a sleep-deadened arm fumbling blindly for her wand. 

“Tempus,” she mumbled only to cry out in thinly-veiled dismay.

The numbers of 6:45 am floated in front of strained eyes in bright blue letters, her nose scrunching at the offending time. She had only slept for 3 hours, the night before a foggy, distant memory. And how alarming was it that she couldn’t really recall much of the party? While Harri could remember getting to the Hufflepuff common room, dancing with Hermione for the first half and drinking the unholy laced punch, the rest was disturbingly absent from her memory— a mystery, a puzzle missing most of its pieces.

However, it was one that could be solved at a later date— preferably when it didn't feel like her head was splitting open.

A pale arm draped over her face, determined to gather together the scattered remnants of sleep when she heard it again.

Wake. Up.’ 

This time, aggravation entirely of her own making surged as she threw the arm back down against the pillows in a huff. Not entirely too pleased at the fact sleep was no longer on her docket, long legs swung over the mattress's edge with a grimace.

It was then Harri realised her pants were missing. She scanned the room for them in a daze— and, ah, there they were. Piled in front of the door and crumpled in a heap— 'Lovely.'

Groaning, the girl made her way to the bathroom, feet feeling as though they were made out of lead— entirely sluggish and disinclined to move. ‘Oh hell.’ Her reflection in the mirror was utter mayhem. The once carefully applied eyeliner was now smudged in inky tracks down her cheeks, the artfully styled hair a tangled mess atop her head— and she looked just as tired as she felt.

The shower sprung to life in the background, gradually warming up as Harri flinched, failing to sort out the bird's nest— the tugging wasn't helping her headache in the slightest. 

She had taken a longer shower than probably necessary, the steam and heat doing wonders. Though considering it felt as though the Knight Bus had flattened her against the pavement, she justified it was well-deserved.

“Accio Pepper-up,” she intoned listlessly from the bathroom's door.

When nothing came flying from her trunk, her head was thrown back in a silent scream. Marching over in a towel, dripping puddles across the floor and shivering against the draft of the bedroom, she sunk down to her knees to aggressively dig through her belongings. Vehemently, she vowed that the very second she found her original wand, this one was destined for the bin.



By the time Hermione and Ron had wandered down to the Great Hall, the remaining piece to the trio already seated in their usual place, an hour had passed.

An auburn crown was resting on the table's edge, glassy eyes trained down on the floor and unblinking. Not even bothering to lift her head, Harri merely tilted it when she heard them approach, her darkening circles a testament to how little she had slept.

“Hey guys, I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said with a yawn she couldn't quite stifle, the words slurring together.

They hadn't responded right away and Harri, admittedly, took some vindictive comfort in the fact that her friends looked just as terribly as she did. 

Silence stretched between them.

Hermione took a deeper sip from her coffee than usual, her posture not as straight and slightly hunched. 

Ron blinked in dazed confusion, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he got there. Blindly, he reached for a muffin and took a half-hearted bite.

Harri finally muttered, words muffled by the table— it hurt too much to look at her friends outlined by the bright morning sun. “What happened last night?”

The Great Hall was slowly starting to fill up, pockets of students drawn in by the promise of awaiting cinnamon rolls and caffeine.

Intrigued by the continuing hush, Harri peeked up to take in Hermione’s reluctance to remove the mug from her face. Ron had turned almost as red as his hair and cleared his throat awkwardly.

It clicked right then— their sudden disappearance last night and why Hermione had looked especially giddy when she wandered back into the dorm.

Harri jerked up, groaning softly in disgust, “No. Tell me you guys didn’t.”

Their continued mortified silence, however, was answer enough. It was only a matter of time, of course— they both held mutual feelings for the other, a development that had occurred sometime in their 3rd year. And, normally, Harri would be rooting for them, would be glad that the awkward tension was done with. But it was hard to be happy when her head felt as though it was being split wide open with an axe. 

Staring down at the spread appearing before them, she found that her appetite was suddenly lost, the unwanted mental image of her friends making out in a broom closet personally seeing to it.



It was precisely at 8:30 am, not a moment before and not a moment after, that the owls had started to swoop in from the slanted windows lining the ceiling.

Harri glanced up in wonder, in wide-eyed amazement, as hundreds of newspapers began to rain down upon the students. It vaguely reminded her of the whirlwind of Hogwarts letters spewing from the Dursely’s fireplace when she was 11— how the letters had seemed to dance in the air, multiplying over and over again until it was a solid sea of white against a pastel backdrop. Momentarily stunned, a paper landed with a heavy thud on her plate, effectively squashing the cinnamon roll beneath it.

It was as though a bucket of cold water had been tossed on her, the brisk clarity chasing away the fog of her hangover as numb fingers reached for the copy of the Prophet.

There, in a moving photograph, teeth flashing in a disarming smile, an air of unmistakable charisma exuding from his relaxed stance, was a certain Dark Lord.

And, for the millionth time since his rebirth, Harri found herself cursing him, his name, his entire existence. “Oh, hell.”

If it were possible for one’s blood to freeze over, for their heart to stop while still alive, for their soul to hover outside of their body, Harri was completely, undoubtedly sure that all three were happening to her at this very moment. Emerald eyes doubled, and then tripled, scanned the headline to make sure she wasn’t dreaming— that this wasn’t another twisted nightmare her mind had concocted in response to her stress: WIZENGAMOT MOVES IN NEAR UNANIMOUS VOTE TO DISBAND MINISTRY.

The girl chanced a glimpse up, hoping that she was imagining it, that it was some sick joke her mind was playing on her when she spied Hermione’s equally pale face. 'So it's not one then.'

Hands tightly clenched the paper’s edges, wrinkling it in the process, tongue running over her teeth in apprehension:

On the eve of Friday, October 30th, Interim Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, proposed a motion to altogether dismiss the Ministry under the claim of its ineffectiveness as a governing body. In a surprising move, he petitioned the Wizengamot Council to vote on the implementation of a new structure, urging them to look to the future and to progress:

“It has been proven countless times that the Ministry, as well as the Wizengamot Council, have been continually lacking in any capacity to produce results.” Minister Malfoy had stated from his office while waiting for the votes to be tallied.“We need to look to the future, to a new face with fresh ideas. One who will be beneficial to the progression of our world.”

The proposed bill offered up a new government, unheard of since the Wizengamot Council was founded in 1544— a monarchical system with a Sovereign at its head. While some had been in opposition to the motion, particularly the Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore who argued the Isles always separated themselves from Wizarding Europe through its democratic institutions, it was passed by a nearly unanimous vote. Marvolo Gaunt II, a prodigy that has quickly won over both the council’s favour and the public ever since his appearance on the political scene, was declared High Sovereign of the Wizarding Isles at 9:38 pm on October 30th.

Harri's attention drifted to the empty seat where the headmaster usually sat, things suddenly clicking. Why he had looked so worn, so tired, over the past few months. Why his shoulders seemed to be permanently weighed down and frown lines were etched into the corners of his mouth. ‘He’s been fighting against him,’ a grim thought as she turned her attention back to the article. ‘He's been politically trying to stop Voldemort from making a move.’

Appearing first on the scene earlier this summer, Marvolo Gaunt has taken our world by storm. A mystery appearing out of thin air, he had claimed an unforeseen number of seats on the Council, ones that had remained empty for the past several decades. Proven through blood, Mr. Gaunt declared his inheritance to the once thought to be extinct lines of Gaunt and Peverell, as well as the Founder’s Seat as a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself. The Daily Prophet was able to get an exclusive with the rising star about the thought process behind the motion to do away with the Ministry:

“The muggle world has been rapidly progressing over the past millennia, constantly churning out new laws and inventions that have pushed their society out from the Dark Ages and towards Enlightenment. However, while they have been moving forward, our world has remained in a state of stagnant decay. Our system has already proven its inability to deal with stress and shifts in power after the disappearance of the previous Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour. It has also proven an innumerable amount of times that it is unable to pass even a simple law without debating it for weeks. In essence, the Ministry structure was doomed to collapse in on itself if let to fester any longer.”  

At this point, the Prophet asked what the future may hold for our government. Mr. Gaunt had given us an indulgent smile, jokingly stating that it is not his intention to turn it into a dictatorship. Laughter filled the room for a moment and, as the amusement died down, a serious and contemplative look entered his eyes:

“Humour aside, I do plan to take this rather seriously and have implemented measures to ensure power will still have a fair distribution. A new council will be formed in light of this to ensure all mandates can be reviewed fairly before being formally passed.”

Having received the green light, the Prophet was able to get some answers as well to some of the burning questions our readers have been submitting. When asked about a potential creature inheritance to explain his red eyes, Mr. Gaunt had good-naturedly laughed at some of the rumours:

“Indeed. I have gotten some questions about them and have heard some rather interesting speculations. For example, one claimed that I was a vampire spy. But I can assure you that they are a product of my wizarding bloodline—”

Harri tossed the paper aside, unable to stomach the sight of his sharp smile and the confident look in his eyes any longer. Dumbfounded, she glared at the copies littering the floor, unsure how to process what she had just read. Not even last year, he had made an outrageous claim of a new era that was going to unfold— had instructed that they prepare themselves for the changes about to occur. However, it hadn’t happened in the way she thought it would. 

In her mind, she had pictured war and death, chaos and destruction, as he took their world by force.

Instead, he had chosen to smile sweetly, to play the role of a wolf in sheep’s clothing through garnering the public's favour. And, for some reason, that set her even more on edge— the fact that he could be so deceiving, so charming.

‘The Devil trying to play human,’ a spiteful passing thought as she aggressively wadded the paper up into a ball, tossing it over her shoulder. Truthfully, Harri would prefer war over this.

Battles, fighting, duelling— those were things that she could figure out, could understand. 

But politics? Not so much.

And it felt wrong that he should be able to win this easily, that he had managed to gain a legitimate sense of power. Not one born from force or fear or might but, rather, one that was bestowed onto him so willingly.

The date suddenly flashed in her mind— October 31st.  The day that had initially marked his downfall now also symbolised his uprising, his rebirth as a Sovereign, as this so-called Marvolo Gaunt. ‘The sadistic, egomaniacal bastard.’

She jumped up from her seat, Hermione and Ron still engrossed in the news that the entire foundation of their society was crumbling, and looked, once more, to the empty high-backed chair where Dumbledore always sat.

‘Fine,’ a determined fire sparked in her chest. ‘If he won’t come to me, then I’ll come to him.’ 

Harri swiped an extra copy of the paper, one not covered in icing or wrinkled beyond legibility, before storming out of the Great Hall.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 15: Look At Me

Notes:

Hey guys! A bit of an angsty chapter but important! The canon never fully explained at what point Dumbledore realises Harry is a horcrux so I wanted to play around with that a bit. The "look at me scene" from the Order of the Phoenix is actually one of my favourites in the movies so I drew some inspiration from it!

For formatting, I've decided, for clarity's sake, that the horcrux in Harri will be in italics whenever it talks to her.

As always, you are all amazing and just the best 💕 Thank you for reading!!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri nearly ran down the vaulted halls of Hogwarts, her feet carrying her as swiftly as they could to the Headmaster's office— a dulled reverberation of sneakers echoing off the stone tile, the sound only amplified by the deserted corridors. It barely reached her ears, however, the white noise thundering in them drowning out the sound. Too many questions were cycling through her mind at a dizzying pace, mouth going dry as she considered them— why hadn't Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort rebranding himself as 'Marvolo Gaunt'? How long had he known about it? About him publicly claiming seats on the Wizengamot Council and entering into the political sphere?

And didn't Dumbledore think, just for a moment, she would have had some insight, some clue, regarding how to defeat him— especially considering she had been the one to talk to him?

Met with him face to face?

Her jaw ticked as she paused at the awaiting gargoyle, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. A small part of her did feel guilty at the thought, some endlessly loyal side to her personality justifying that she had kept Dumbledore in the dark just as much as he did to her. 'You never told him' it whispered pointedly, 'about your secret meetings with Voldemort or about the dreams. How can he trust you when you're obviously a liar?'

The very concept settled like a weight in her stomach and a souring taste upon her tongue.

She attempted to banish the rationale, wishing for it not to be true, and choked out uncertainly, “Lemon drop?”

For a moment, the gargoyle refused to budge, eyeing her critically as though judging if her intentions were pure of heart. But then, ever so slowly, it spun away to reveal an ascending step of stairs.

Voices, strained in the height of a heated argument, floated down from the office. Harri swallowed nervously, leaden feet moving hesitantly up the staircase as she played an unwitting spectre to the conversation unfolding. 'Maybe I should come back later?'

"Albus, she is not ready. A mere 16-year old girl and woefully underprepared, how can you expect her to face him?"

The sharp inflections, the stress placed on the consonant sounds— the voice belonged to Snape. And, just like that, any intentions of leaving, of not spying, dissipated. 'They're talking about me?' A frown twitched in the corners of her mouth as she paused on the last two steps, ears straining. There was a distinct thud of hands slamming down on something solid— as though he had forcefully placed them down upon a desk or a chair— and that frown only deepened.

Brows knitted together as she crouched in the dimly lit stairwell, swirls of dust catching the slanted rays of light, forever suspended in their glittering dance. The way the rough texture of the stone wall was biting into her shoulder, its coldness seeping through the material of her button-up, was barely heeded as she considered his words.

Green eyes shifted down to the paper still clutched tightly in her hands to take in Voldemort's face frozen in a disarming smile. 'Not ready?'  

The revelation sunk in, heart skipping a beat as she looked towards the closed door in anticipation. 'They have a plan then.' 

"I am aware, Severus. In fact, I am painfully so. But we have always known it would only be a matter of time before he rose once more and she would have to face her destiny."

Ah— that one definitely belonged to Dumbledore, the scratchy quality to the words unmistakable.

Harri crept closer to the door, as much as she would dare, wanting, needing, to hear more. If they had a plan, she craved to know it. To feel she wasn't alone in this— that she wasn't drifting, lost and without direction.

The voices fell to a stretching quiet, a stillness overcoming them that had her grinding her teeth. ‘That can’t possibly be it.’

And then the door magically swung open.

Her body went rigid as she was caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, a sense of mortification creeping through her. Green eyes flitted between the men sheepishly, trying to fight down the heat fanning her cheeks at the thought she had been caught eavesdropping like a child.

“Harri. Please, do come in,” the headmaster said, that cheerful tone entirely too false, too strained.

Pale eyes were watching her in apprehension, the twinkling behind crescent moon glasses faded. All thoughts were carefully filed away, shielded out of instinct, as the girl stumbled into the office on tentative legs.

The door behind her swung shut of its own accord, a resounding click that occupied the ensuing seconds where conversation should have been.

Severus trained a sharp look on her, the sneer Harri didn't know she had quite missed finally making a reappearance. “Eavesdropping, Potter?” 

She struggled to find the appropriate words, to not retort in a way that would make her seem even more childish— to not give them any further reason to believe she was still a schoolgirl and not capable of being an adult. With some effort, she swallowed down the venomous words on the tip of her tongue— it took almost all of her willpower to not giggle at the notion that she probably could, in fact, spit actual venom if she so wished.

Snape, as if sensing her struggle not to give in to the hilarity of whatever scenario she had imagined, raised a thin brow at her antics.

And then that silence was back, an awkward heaviness that no one seemed willing to break.

Unable to take it any longer, Harri cleared her throat. Realising the newspaper was still clutched between sticky fingers, she thrust it upon Dumbledore's desk— it landed with a solid, considerable thud.

All eyes were drawn to it, the sound deafening in the hush of the room, the ledgers underneath upset by its unexpected appearance. And it was remarkable how such an innocent thing as the morning's paper could be so damning— how one little article could carry with it the finality of a death sentence.

“Professor, please tell me this is a joke. Tell me he can’t really do this,” Harri pleaded.

The look in those dim eyes already told her everything she needed to know— dread twisted in her stomach.

A sigh, heavy and full, accompanied Dumbledore's explanation. “I’m afraid, dear child, he can. And has already, in fact. Starting tomorrow morning, he will be appointed the new Sovereign of the Wizarding Isles.”

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, the pangs of a headache mounting. There was a grimace that racked thin shoulders at the unbidden thought of what was awaiting them— at the unlimited power that was now at Voldemort's disposal. It was going to be even more difficult, almost near impossible, to move against him, to try to restore the tattered remnants of balance. 

“Try as I could to prevent it, he managed to do so anyways. Tom has always been quite tenacious in gaining what he most covets,” he muttered, leaning into the high-backed chair.

Age worn fingers, warped and gnarled throughout the years, folded together as Albus considered the girl standing before him. Those unearthly green eyes and auburn hair conjured up faint images of Lily— of the time in which the woman had looked at him in a similar fashion, simultaneously full of despair and hope. It was as though a ghost stood before him, separated only by a walnut desk. 'She would never forgive me for letting it go this far.'

And Harri studied him in turn as he finally rose from the carved chair with another sigh, a knuckle extended to trail down Fawkes' feathery back and crimson plumes. The creature preened under the touch, earning a soft croon of adoration from the man. She watched their interaction obsessively, mild jealousy sparking to life in the cavity of her chest— the bird was being shown more attention, more love, from the Headmaster than she had been all year.

Valiantly trying to stifle such feelings, fingers curled inwards until nails bit crescent moons into the softness of her palms.

“You have a plan though, right? You’re going to fight this? Start a war against him?  If so, I want to join,” she protested adamantly, a rawness in her voice that made the words falter.

‘No, you don’t,’ whispered in the back of her mind as a traitorous murmur. And even Harri couldn’t fully pinpoint where this desperation was coming from, unable to tear her attention from the boney hand skirting across vibrant feathers. All she knew was that she felt it, that it was as real as the heart beating soundly in her chest— she needed the headmaster to see her as devoted.

As someone who was worth it all.

And there was some rational part that reprimanded herself for floundering so pitifully to gain his approval— to show him that she was committed. It was the same side that questioned why, exactly, she felt the desire to do so in the first place. After all, what had he ever done to deserve such fidelity to a cause that she, truthfully, wasn’t even completely sure she wanted to die for?

Snape hovered in the background, dark eyes holding an assessing glint as he watched in keen observation— not quite saying anything but also not moving to leave.

The clock ticked on in the background as Dumbledore regarded the girl for a moment longer, grey brows raising in surprise at the sudden declaration. But it was just like her, he supposed— brave, brash. A strong sense of justice. However, as endearing as those qualities were, she was still too young to comprehend the reality of their situation, too naive to intimately understand the nuances it now required to navigate.

There was a dismissive, forlorn shake of his head, a half-smile sent her way.

“Oh, Harri, sweet girl,” Albus muttered, back turning in a resolution to not say anymore.

Instead, he had wandered over to a portrait, fingers interlaced behind him, spine drawn taut in a betrayal of his nerves.“Phineas, please summon the other professors. Let them know we have much to discuss regarding the Prophet’s announcement.”

A dropping sensation in her stomach, heart sinking when he had turned away from her without acknowledgement.

Green eyes settled on the spot between his shoulders, a silent plea for him to face her, to not treat her as though she were a phantom. Unfortunately, it was starting to become a sight that she was all too familiar with— a thin back and a wiry frame always walking away rather than coming closer.

Once again, Dumbledore was ignoring her, disregarding her— treating her as though she were a mere child and not one he had specifically chosen. Keeping her at an arm's length, purposefully withholding information and only doling it out whenever he saw fit— she was aware it was his way of controlling her, of keeping her in check. Yet that never stopped her from always eagerly returning to the fold the second he permitted it, a hunger for something entirely intangible and never sated. But now the older wizard had done nothing short of scoffing at her show of fealty, at her willingness to prove herself to him.

It made her stomach turn to acid, rolling and lurching, a sense of restlessness bursting between the spaces of her ribs that resulted in the queerest sensation of skin being stretched too tightly. ‘He always does this,’ the thoughts had begun to descend into a manic sort, eyes obsessively tracking the Headmaster's tired pacing about the room. ‘He always abandons me whenever it's most convenient for him.’

He had flitted to another portrait, tone somber as he ordered it to summon those who had opposed the motion during the Wizengamot session—to relay that Albus Dumbledore still held onto a shred of hope. If he could gather support, put together a considerable enough force to resist, then perhaps Tom’s rise to power could be halted. ‘With some luck, it could buy us time.’

Dumbledore was lost in contemplation, mind whirling in a strained frenzy to formulate some sort of plan, when he had spied the rigid form of a redhead hovering on his periphery. She was staring at him with a lost look— as though she were adrift at sea and was expecting him to be her life vest. To save her from the gaping maw of a rising wave. What the girl wasn't privy to, however, was that he, himself, was already drowning in it— his lungs were already overbrimming with saltwater, choking on the deluge, and unable to surface for a blessed breath.

And how it filled him with guilt.

He had dragged her into this mess— and now? 

Now, they were both trapped, exit strategies and potential battle plans going up in flames before his very eyes— the war was lost before it had even begun.

“Severus, can you please escort Miss Potter back to her common room? The other professors will be arriving shortly.” A wave of an open hand, no small part of him wishing she could be rid of his sight already, the ghost of his failures.

Harri blinked once, then twice, trying to comprehend, to understand.

She had come here willingly after being ignored for an entire summer and half a year.

After being left in the dark time and time again.

After being given cryptic, half-baked answers. 

And this was her thanks?

The world around her seemed to slow, tilting on its axis as she tried to hopelessly piece together why. What had she done to inspire such disdain from him? Such cruelty, such distance? 

He was the man who was supposed to help her, to have the answers she so wretchedly needed.

He was supposed to be the kind grandfatherly figure that she had never known— visiting at her hospital bedside and chancing a Bertie Botts with her only to share in a grimace as they tasted something repulsive.

He was supposed to invite her up to his office, ask her how she really was and to spare him the lies she kept telling everyone else—to offer her sickly sweet lemon drops and chamomile tea overflowing with honey. 

He was the man she had defended countless times, denying all accusations against him because no, Dumbledore couldn’t possibly be like that. He was the man for which she willingly adopted a role she hadn’t even wanted, to become the Chosen One, the Girl Who Lived all because he needed her to be. 

So why was he tossing her aside?

The image of a wizard with a too-long beard had begun to distort, tears blurring her vision. Sadness— that was an emotion she was all too familiar with, her constant companion for the past 16 years. The aching and longing kind that arose deep from within the recesses of her heart, from its chambers and ventricles when she realised that she wasn’t good enough— would never be good enough. When he had decided that she no longer deserved his visits or his lemon drops, his kindness or advice.

But the anger that was numbing her limbs, unfurling and taking over in a parasitic hold? That was entirely unfamiliar, shocking. A new distraction she wholly welcomed.

He’s leaving you to rot,’ the resentment in her was given a voice, an insistent and hateful tone. ‘He’s leaving you to figure this all out on your own.’ The light in her, the flicker that was rapidly dimming, tried to justify against the darkness— to claim that Dumbledore was just as lost as she was, just as scared.

A bitter chuckle was its response, a scathing sound that scraped its claws along her throat. 'Ah, but he wasn’t the one left to suffer, now was he? The one who hasn’t been fed to the wolves time and time again.

It had a point, a fair and objective one. After all, how many times had she been thrown under the bus because of his actions? His reluctance to step up for once? Fists began to tremble at her sides and she stubbornly shrugged off Snape’s assertive pull on her shoulder.

All she wanted was for Dumbledore to do something, to look at her with anything other than disappointment—  to not turn his back on her again as he had just done.

The overwhelming dejection had begun to bubble, morphing to fury instead. The adults in her life had always done this— treated her like a small child that was clueless to the evil in the world. And she was so sick of it. After all, she had seen things they couldn't even imagine, experienced true terror and loss. So why did they feel the need to chide her on being ignorant of it all?

And distantly, Harri did wonder where this sudden burst of violence was even coming from or why the voice whispering to her was the same that had fended off the Imperius. Why it felt as though her mind was suddenly too crowded, as though there was another presence pressing on the boundaries of her consciousness— a monster insistent on getting in.

But none of it truly mattered, at least not now. She just felt so angry, so vicious— like she could finally cast a Cruciatus perfectly. Like she could tear into the man before her and be satisfied with his blood soaking her fingers and his gore painting her skin. ‘Yes,’ it whispered encouragingly, almost gleeful in the way the flames in her chest had been stoked.

She felt too much, too raw, magic crackling in the very crevices of her being with no immediate outlet to relieve the mounting tension in her mind. ‘Show him. Show Dumbledore how you truly feel, let him see.’  Her vision tinged red and then—

“Look at me!” Harri screamed— a hoarse outburst that shredded her throat.

Snape’s hand snapped back to his side in alarm. Dumbledore whirled on the spot at the unexpected demand. He seemed so surprised that she had raised her voice, had disobeyed a direct command—a shocked sort of disbelief for his expression.

And seeing that wild look in those pale eyes— the way he had finally given her his full attention— was just enough to deflate the rage that was surging in her chest. Suddenly, the darkness seemed too distant, the voice urging her to destroy him too quiet— her mind too empty. 

Barren.

Tears, hot and heavy, spilled forth before she could stop them, tongue fumbling and trying to express the swirl of ugly emotions that had taken hold. “Professor, please. I can’t take it anymore. His voice, his emotions, his eyes, his thoughts, everywhere I look he’s there. I can’t even sleep without seeing him, without— I just feel— I feel so lost, so angry .”

Harri scrubbed away the tears with shaking hands, trying to make a distinct image from the blurred lines before her. “Professor please, what’s happening to me?”

The Headmaster stared owlishly at her for a beat too long, the words sinking in as an unholy sort of revelation. The last piece of the puzzle materialised before him and comprehension dawned at the fact. All along, the girl truly had been the key to defeating the Dark Lord— to make the Devil mortal once more. And inwardly, Dumbledore chastised himself for not seeing it sooner, for not understanding the extent of her connection to Voldemort— how it went beyond the bounds and limitations of normalcy, of something as simple as a curse mark.

She was unnatural, impossible— and yet, it had happened anyways without any forthcoming explanation. The Dark Lord and her were inexplicably linked, bound as master and vessel— ‘A horcrux.’

He struggled to school his expression into a sympathetic one, tried to not show how disturbed, how unnerved he was as he replayed the incriminating words over again. It took more effort than he would ever care to admit to seem calm at the present, his pulse drumming.

Forcing a smile, Dumbledore attempted to keep it as reassuring as he could. “I understand, Harri. I finally understand.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 16: She Never Had An Answer

Notes:

Hey guys! Since many of you were asking about Draco and worrying over him, I wanted to write a little scene to prove that he's fine for now lol.

Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter! I was worried that it had been a bit boring but you guys proved me wrong 💕 You are all amazing readers and it means so much to me!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Snape had guided the girl down the stairs as gently as he knew how— by pressing between her shoulder blades with an unyielding strength.

While he had seen her cry in the past, it had never been that raw, that distraught. From what he had observed of her habits over the years, she normally was content to bottle up her emotions, to put on a mask that told the world she was fine— in many ways, she was like himself in that regard.

Dark eyes fixed on the crown of an auburn head, mind obsessively looping over the entire interaction that had just taken place. Dumbledore’s complete dismissal of her, the resulting demand that had moved the usually unflappable headmaster to momentary shock. The intensity of anger and static in the air as her magic— uncharacteristically vile and dark for her— threatened to burst free. And he could have sworn that those green eyes had flashed red for a split second, an eerily similar shade to a certain Dark Lord.

He shuddered at the memory and was thankful they had reached the bottom step, eager to be alone with his thoughts— to finally dissect everything in the quiet solitude of the dungeons. To piece together, perhaps, what she had meant by always seeing ‘him’. 

“Go on, Potter,” he instructed, his tone lacking any true menace.

And as he watched her retreat sullenly down the halls, he found himself pondering— for the millionth time since he had met her as a too-skinny 11-year-old with knobby knees and a smattering of bruises— the mystery that surrounded the existence of Harri Potter.



She didn’t feel like going back to the common room— not to the confusion and the alarm. Not to her friends’ questioning glances and expectant hopes. Harri couldn’t bring herself to do it, especially not now.

Not when she didn’t have even the slightest shred of an answer for them. 

Wiping her eyes on the back of her blouse’s sleeve, grimacing at how they stung in turn, a shaky low exhale tore from her chest. The surprising burst of anger and aching sadness had been replaced by lingering embarrassment— an endless bout of self-chastisement. 'Why did you have to cry of all things? Come on, Harri, pull yourself together,' she commanded, groaning when the sting in her throat refused to abate.

After all, she had been trying to prove that she was an adult— was ready to sit at their table and partake in their discussion of war plans.

‘Instead,’ a bitter thought, toeing her mary janes against the flagstone and coming to a pause in the outside corridor. ‘I only convinced them that I’m still a kid.’

Her attention drifted towards the courtyard. The trees were beginning to lose their autumn foliage, leaving the cobblestone pathways to be thickly carpeted with red and orange hues. And on the wind, a nip of a chill was carried— a looming threat of a future filled with snow and long nights. Fall was coming to a close sooner than she would have liked, another year's end steadily approaching.

A shiver ghosted through her, arms wrapping about her midsection in a bid for respite against the breeze as she reflected on Dumbledore's promise. He had vowed that they would have a serious talk— that she would finally get some answers the second he had some for himself— after he had some time to think. And Harri supposed she did feel a bit sour at that, the subtle way he was pushing off dealing with her yet again.

But nonetheless, she had, begrudgingly, accepted the offer because at least it was something

And something was better than nothing

“Oi, Potter.” A voice floated from down the hall and she glanced over her shoulder to see a breathless Draco bounding over.

“Weasely said you’d be here. I wanted to—,” he trailed off, noting the redness rimming her eyes and the way they had begun to puff up.

A frown jumped in the corners of his mouth at the fact she had been crying— that something, or someone, had reduced the usually vibrant girl to tears. For the strangest of reasons, it made him feel uncomfortable, uneasy. Tense.

Sadness didn't suit her. Not the rash girl who performed death-defying feats during their quidditch matches or whose confidence was unparalleled during their duels.

Not the girl who was made for happiness, who wore it so well in the form of a smile that was entirely too bewitching and disarming.

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his trouser's pockets, unsure what to, exactly, do about it.

"I, um," Draco started, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to another before jerking his head towards the courtyard, "know a place. If you want?"

A brow lifted at his obvious discomfort and Harri found it, somehow, within herself to scoff a bit. “Do I really look that bad?”

Draco paused at that, mind trying to play catch up to figure out if it was a trap, a trick question or not. He was worried to offend her and, briefly, he questioned why that even was. After all, in the past, he would have never been hesitant to insult her, to jeer at her, to prod her. Had done just that on countless occasions, never caring if he pushed her too far or stepped on her toes in the process. 

But now, as he considered the light so subdued in emerald eyes, he was almost afraid to do so— she looked ready to break, suddenly far too fragile, delicate.

“Well, you don’t exactly look amazing, Potter. In fact, you look like you need some quiet for once.”



The pair had found themselves sitting on the rocky banks of the Black Lake's inlet, surrounded by trees and quiet trills of birdsong.  Draco explained he had found the place in his second year and it occupied a special spot in his heart— a place of escape, of refuge when the world was too heavy about his shoulders.

The boy had taken to skipping rocks against the choppy surface of the water, trying his best to ignore the sniffling of a redhead settled amongst the sea of leaves. She had buried her head between drawn knees in a bid for him not to see the tears or to play witness to her breakdown.

He already had, of course.

“I’m good,” she called out after what felt like an immeasurable amount of time, an eon stretched in a timeless void—though, in reality, he knew it had only been mere minutes.

Harri watched as he sheepishly turned around, a splayed hand running roughly through his blonde hair. Belatedly, she realised it wasn't gelled back, the usually prim and proper Slytherin having forgone it after, undoubtedly, waking up with a similar, biting hangover.

Almost hesitantly, he moved to sit down next to her, pale eyes flitting nervously to hers in search of a sign whether he was allowed or not. A soft hum, her roundabout way of approval, and he relaxed marginally. The calmness of the boy had done wonders for her turbulent emotions and the strangest thought occurred that he would make an excellent healer one day—  it would be the perfect path for him, she decided. A profitable one, even— though money was not, certainly, an object of concern for his family.

The sun was slowly beginning to dip in the sky. Her arms locked about her bare legs to stave off the sting of the autumn day. Subconsciously, she had started to lean towards the boy in search of warmth, mildly surprised when her shoulder bumped his without fully meaning to.

He didn't pull away.

The silence stretched on between them and Harri found herself content to just listen to the faint chirps in the background, the rhythmic lapping of the water against the rocks, the wind rustling through the brittle leaves on the trees. It was serene, tranquil— she could see why Draco came here whenever a reprieve was needed.

When she finally broke the quiet, it was with a whisper, “What’s he like?”

Draco blinked down at the redheaded girl propped up against his shoulder, confusion drawing his brows together as he tried to puzzle out what she meant. “Who?”

Harri lifted her gaze, noting the bewilderment dawning on his face from the edges of her periphery.

Pointedly, her eyes shifted down to the dark mark hidden under his left sleeve. “Voldemort.”

The muscle in his shoulder tensed, his jaw ticking in an outward reaction to the taboo being spoken aloud. He glanced uneasily about the forest, scanning the darkening treeline in dread and fully expecting the Dark Lord to appear out of thin air. The Devil ready to wreak havoc, to sow destruction upon all those who dared to utter his name— the forbidden utterance that invoked an unspeakable, ungodly power.

When nothing had happened, however, he couldn't help but slump a bit in relief, gaze flitting across the face tilted up towards him expectantly. ‘How the hell is she so perceptive?’

"You know?” Draco grimaced, suddenly finding it hard to swallow.

She huffed, a small laugh at the incredulity in his tone and the surprise that she had been able to piece it together. Harri retrained her attention out across the flat expanse of the lake, voice somber, “I had my suspicions."

"I saw him, you know,” she continued to explain, squinting into the horizon's distance against the sun. “Your dad, in the graveyard that night. And when he was elected Interim Minister, I figured out what he meant to Voldemort. And since you’re his son—.”

Draco blinked once, then twice, before throwing his head back in an embittered laugh. “Merlin Potter, nothing gets past you.”

"Well, I wouldn't say 'nothing'. But I do pay attention sometimes."

His laughter quieted down as he joined her in staring out across the lake, voice hesitant, slow— as though scared to say the wrong thing. “He’s— frightening. I’ve never seen someone with so much power before, someone with so much control over magic."

Draco chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "He can be cruel and it’s hard to breathe around him. You get scared you’ll do the wrong thing and disappoint him, get tortured or Imperius’ed, or worse. And when he’s displeased, you feel it like hot oil burning your skin. So much so that you can’t help but wonder if you’ll die from the pain or if it'll blister.”

Finely arched brows knitted together, a line of tension appearing between them as he struggled to find the correct words for his thoughts, to accurately portray what being in the Dark Lord’s service felt like. “But he’s also very tempting, very appealing. He can make it feel like you’re on top of the world, like you’re all that matters. He can be so charming, so captivating, that you can’t help but want to please him and to get his approval. To be around him. It’s terrifying.”

Harri frowned in the wake of his assessment, at the way he was trying to puzzle it out as though he had never thought of an answer before this moment. She didn’t know how to respond though she understood completely— had felt the exact same things that he was describing. There was something so intoxicating, so alluring, about Voldemort’s presence that it made her teeth ache and her nerves to be strung wire tight.

An enigma hard to place, to explain in a way that would do him justice.

She hated the man for it. 

In the end, Harri settled for a soft hum. “I see.”

It was in the expanse of the ensuing quiet, that damnable reigning silence, that Draco had managed to gather up the courage to ask her what he had been dying to know all morning— the question that caused sleep to evade him all night. The one that had kept him up until the pale lilac of dawn had crept into the sky and left him with bruising circles under his eyes.

He fidgeted slightly, trying to swallow down the rising embarrassment. “Why did you kiss me?”

Harri jolted away from the Slytherin, eyes widening in unfiltered surprise. They roamed over his mortified expression, carefully dissecting it, vainly hoping it was an elaborate joke he was playing on her. 

Much to her dismay, there were no tells of his jest. 

“Pardon?” she choked out, faintly wondering if she had water in her ears or if her brain was perhaps just damaged at this point— it had to be to imagine such a jarring question.

He fought the blush that he knew was colouring his ears, resolutely turning from her shocked expression to stare, focused, on an ant crawling across a leaf a few inches from his shoe. It seemed that she had forgotten about the incident entirely and he cursed himself for bringing it up in the first place.

“At the Hufflepuff party,” he clarified. “You kissed me. Why?”

A shaky bark of disbelieving laughter, nimble fingers running through auburn strands to help ground herself to reality only to snag on a knot in the process. It suddenly made sense as to why she felt that some memories were missing, pockets of time obscured by a fog that refused to lift.

“Oh, bloody hell. Screw firewhiskey,” she muttered vehemently, cursing the drink as well whoever had the brilliant idea to spike the punch in the first place— probably Justin, knowing the boy's reputation as the school renowned smuggler.

Draco rushed to explain, sensing her mood turning foul. He raised his hands defensively as she leaned away from his shoulder and, unnervingly, realised how cold he was without her pressed up next to him. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t enjoy it or anything. I just wanted to know why.”

And it had occurred to him, as his pale gaze danced over her face, soaking in every emotion, every outward sign, that he was looking for a specific answer. Hope blossoming in his chest, warming him down to his fingertips— expectation a bright spot in his consciousness. ‘Maybe she felt something,’ his thoughts were optimistic, almost buoyant. ‘Maybe she had felt something as well when we kissed?’

She huffed in agitation, beyond irritated with herself for being such an idiot, for drinking more than she knew she could handle. And to kiss Draco Malfoy, of all people? Harri absentmindedly wondered why she did it, why she even felt the urge to in the first place— it wasn’t that he was bad looking. Oh no, half of the girls, and probably some boys as well, admired his looks and more. It was just— it was Draco, her past rival. Draco the holy terror that plagued her elementary years and the reason for most of the detentions on her record.

Kissing him was just another thing in her life she didn’t have an answer for— yet another mystifying occurrence in her existence that defied all logic and reason. Entirely unexplainable. And how that was becoming an unsettling motif as of late, the list compiling her questions far outweighing the one with answers.  

“I don’t know, Draco,” she bit out, not exactly mad at him but more frustrated at herself for losing control. “I was drunk, shit like that happens.”

The pureblood tried to ignore the pit of heavy disappointment settling in his stomach as he studied her, a crestfallen expression undoubtedly on his face at the harshness of her response. He tracked her movements, the way she rose from the ground and brushed off the leaves clinging to her skirt— the fabric had hiked up slightly to reveal a tad more of her long legs than usual, a sight that rendered his heart to skip over an uneasy beat.

The autumn scenery in the background had made her hair even more vivid, unearthly green gaze almost glowing, her skin a touch creamier and paler from the lack of sun. And even he could readily admit that she had transformed a long cry from the awkward 11-year-old he had first met all those years ago— that gangly child who had so coldly rejected his outstretched hand.

‘She’s beautiful,’ the revelation was jarring as he scrambled to get off the ground, things clicking into place with an overabundance of clarity.

Why he cared whether she was crying or not.

The cause for why he so pined to feel her lips against his once more.

The reason she was always circling in his thoughts, detrimental to his sanity as of late.

He liked Harri Potter— and how damning was the very thought. 

A hollow laugh rose to join hers in agreement, trying to play it nonchalant, collected, like her words hadn’t actually bothered him. But as the two meandered slowly back to the castle, a different scenario played in his head without being summoned forth—  one in which she revealed that the kiss had meant something to her as well. 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 17: To Make A Deal With The Devil

Notes:

Hey everyone! We are /so/ close to ending the Hogwarts arc and I just wanted to say thank to everyone who is still reading along! I never thought I would get this far and you all have given me the motivation to continue to write 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



As it turned out, much to her surprise, Dumbledore had partially kept his promise.

Several days later had found Harri waking up to the unexpected appearance of a letter placed upon her worn trunk, the slanted scrawl of her name neatly printed on the plain envelope. It wasn’t even past 6 in the morning and the girl was already out of bed, greedily devouring its contents in a bid to see what Dumbledore had managed to divine. The uncomfortable sensation of wood biting into bare knees or the morning chill of the bedroom did little to offend as she knelt on the ground, thin fingers curling about the letter’s edges.

A beat of a second and a swell of disappointment replaced such anticipation. In the end, the note had revealed very little in the way of substance— it merely implored her to stay behind for the upcoming break so they could have a conversation in private.

The parchment was crumpled in one hand before being tossed over her shoulder. And as much as she baulked at the idea of giving up her break, Harri knew, in the end, she would— if Dumbledore had personally requested she do so, what choice did she have on the matter? ‘It better be worth it,’ a sour, passing thought as the girl rose on stiff knees— the pattern of the wood’s whorls and knots were impressed numbingly into her skin. 

From the corner of the room, a particularly deep snore resounded. Both of her roommates were still fast asleep and Harri wasn’t willing to rouse them quite yet. The light seeping past the drawn drapes was watery and pale, a telltale sign that the sun had yet to fully rise— even the songbirds were quiet, driven off by the morning’s frost and tucked in their nests to patiently await the day’s warmth. 

Hands massaged into the stiff muscle of her neck and a drawn-out sigh slipped past pursed lips. Trudging to the bathroom, Harri allowed herself to reflect back on the strangeness the week had brought. 

Though everyone had been anticipating the Dark Lord's coronation, she refused to watch it, deeming it to be a sham and beyond irritated by the prospect that he felt the need to flaunt his victory so publicly, so widely. And, at first, she had thought it was bad enough to see his smug face— with that too sharp smile and false displays of humility— plastered over the papers every morning. But now?

Now, however, she realised it was going to get much, much worse.

In the corridors of Hogwarts, the term 'Marvolo Gaunt' had been reduced to a buzzword and something everyone was keen to discuss. Who, for example, was the mystery man now in control of their world? And, more importantly, did he have a significant other in the picture? The girls, and undoubtedly some boys as well, had taken to swooning over his looks while openly lamenting the distinct lack of potential suitors who looked remotely similar. It had turned Harri's peaceful routine of breakfast into one giant gossip fest, the clamouring in the dining hall centred on what he was wearing that day or how the photographs perfectly captured his 'essence'.

In fact, her very own roommate, one Miss Lavender Brown, had declared herself the new Sovereign’s number one fan much to Harri’s headache. 'He’s simply dreamy! What I’d give to touch him just once,' the blonde would croon nightly, eyes alight with adoration as she busied herself with snipping his photos out of the papers and pasting them into a scrapbook.

"It’s almost hilarious with how quickly McLaggen was replaced," Harri muttered while running the soft-bristled brush through auburn strands. A stubborn knot made her wince.

Of course, it disgusted her, made her beyond ill in seeing how the man had managed to utterly and completely charm everyone with a bat or two of his eyes. Even Hermione, level-headed, rational Hermione, had fallen prey to his good looks much to her uncontested horror.

“Well, you have to admit, he’s quite handsome,” Hermione stated nonchalantly over coffee one morning. She had just finished the article declaring the appointment of Lucius Malfoy to a seat on the council, the newspaper neatly folded and set aside.

Harri choked on her oatmeal, appetite having vanished at the turn of conversation. “He’s the Dark Lord, ‘Mione.”

“I know that!” she defended, the tips of her ears bright red. “It’s just that I can see the appeal is all.”

Harri slammed the trunk's lid closed with an exasperated groan. A certain red-eyed man had invaded Hogwarts in the most unexpected way possible and everyone was too blind to see what he was actually doing— the Devil hiding his sins behind an amiable facade and honeyed words.

Like how, for example, he had delegated prominent Death Eaters to a council that was meant to be the only check to his power.

Or how, for another, he had pardoned those from their Azkaban sentences only after he had broken them out to begin with under the guise of a 'security breach'. People that, by all accounts, deserved to rot in their cells.

And yet, no one seemed to be piecing any of this together. 

It was absolutely maddening.

And she just knew he was aware that the public was falling left and right for his saccharine charm and sultry smiles— she could feel it, after all. Little blips, little glimpses every now and again of his smugness, of his triumph. 'Egomaniacal bastard.'

Scowling in the mirror, the girl slipped the red and gold tie over her head, muttering unintelligibly as she deftly did its knot. How many times in the past week alone had she been ready to drag out her soapbox and yell to the heavens he was the Dark Lord? To beg everyone to wake up? Not that she would, of course— not if she wanted to avoid inciting mass panic and Dumbledore's inevitable ire.

But it had only been a measly seven days— and this was meant to be her indeterminable future. And though it was a shameful thing to admit to, Harri found herself on more than one occasion almost letting it 'slip' that the 'hickey' Lavender had gushed on about for weeks had come from him— a graceless bid to stop her roommate's insipid ramblings about one day marrying the man. To, maybe, shock her into silence so the blonde wouldn't utter another damnable word about his 'dreamy face'.

He was everywhere she looked lately and, truth be told, Harri was getting sick of it.

Even her dreams had become more concerning. And while he, thankfully, had been absent from starring in them— 'Too occupied flirting with the press,' a scathing thought as pale hands shoved the tails of her starched button-up into the pleated skirt's waistband— they were stranger, more vivid. Most of the time, her nights were passed through the eyes of the snake, either coiled about the legs of Voldemort’s throne or draping herself across his body.

‘Nagini,’ her mind supplied as she rolled the black nylons up and past her calves in a precarious balancing act on one foot.

Other times, she would be hunting through the dew-laden grass, forked tongue flicking out to taste the crisp, night air. And when she would finally return to her body and rouse from sleep, it would always be with a hollow ache between her ribs and a longing for something she couldn’t quite place. A few times she had even been moved to tears— silent, unbidden things rolling down her cheeks in the safety behind drawn curtains. It was utterly disturbing, to say the least. After all, there was no logical reason, no basis for such emotions— but yet they were felt so viscerally. Too real, too raw.

She shuddered as she slipped stocking-covered toes into polished loafers. 'It's a problem to be dealt with later,' a distant voice reasoned as it stubbornly pushed down any and all feelings on the matter.



Harri had found Draco leaning against one of the tall stone lanterns outside of the Great Hall, the flickering flame long since cooled from the previous night. There was an easy smile on his face when he noticed her approaching, a good-natured thing that lent his usually prim countenance a boyish charm. And how quickly was she realising that it suited him best— that it was an expression she was becoming rather fond of seeing.

Warmth settled in her stomach at the fact he had chosen to wait for her— and then it slipped away, the threads of her good mood twisting and fraying. There was a smattering of riotous giggles seeping past the cracked doors, a grating noise that could only mean one thing— the morning post had arrived.

“Oh, bloody hell. Already?” she groaned, splayed fingers running agitatedly through her hair. It had been her hope to at least get a few bites in peace— but, as usual, the universe was determined to not even let her have that.

Draco chuckled at her exasperation, a brow lifting in feigned surprise. "What, Potter? Dark Lords aren't your type? I could have sworn they were."

There was a passing urge to sock him in the arm for the comment, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the leather strap of her school bag. Plainly speaking, she couldn't fully deny the statement because, to a degree, there was some truth in it— images of darkening red eyes and a heated tongue on her skin made her stomach clench unwittingly. Plus, she had always been a bad liar— she knew it, her friends knew it, hell even her professors knew it. It didn't matter whether it was the large, elaborate kind of lie or even the smallest of fibs, she struggled with them all the same.

She mostly blamed the ingrained inability on the harsh, disciplinary rearing methods of her uncle and the sting of a belt that persisted for days afterwards— it was hard to forget a lesson like that.

“Well, he did try to murder me as a baby.” Harri settled for a carefully worded response instead, focusing on the truth with a shrug of her shoulders.“And then a few times after that.”

“Draco!”

Both Draco and Harri had whirled around at the unexpected hiss that sounded from further down the hall. And both had similar reactions of tensing and paling— albeit for entirely different reasons. Storming down the flagstone steps was none other than Lucius Malfoy, the metal cap of his walking cane clicking with an obnoxious pretense against the tiles.

Those pale eyes held nothing short of icy contempt once they landed on who his son was talking to— pointed features twisted themselves into a scowl.

Confusion bled into Draco's voice as he edged away from the redhead— a hasty endeavour to put a respectable enough distance between them as he cleared his throat. "F-father? What are you doing here?"

A disdainful sort of sniff was Lucius's reply, his shrewd gaze slowly raking over the wisp of the girl standing by his son. And, not for the first time since having the misfortune of running into Harri Potter, he wondered how it was even possible she had defeated, and slipped past, his Lord on more than one occasion. Though he supposed even if there wasn't really anything outwardly remarkable about her, he did have to give credit to her tenacity and wiles— after all, he knew, first hand, what underestimating her entailed. Memories resurfaced of a nasty trick involving a dirty sock, a destroyed diary, and the freeing of his best house-elf.

The muscle in his jaw jumped, fingers curling about the handle of his cane at the brazen expression she was wearing. "Our Lord has ordered me to come to observe the safety of Hogwarts and to ensure everything is being kept in working order.”

“'Your Lord', Lucius?” Harri snapped, shoulders drawing up at the way he was cooly dissecting her, teeth grinding. “Careful or people might get the wrong idea. After all, someone else was once your ‘Lord’ too in the past, wasn’t he?”

Pale brows lifted in outrage at her bold insinuation— the girl lacked the tact that most people, Dumbledore included, understood and abided by in public. Contempt bubbled in him, a passing thought to put her in her place— though, in the end, it wouldn't be worth the risk. Especially not when his Lord was fully intent on handling her himself.

Lucius settled for a scornful click of his tongue before harshly turning on the spot. It was a nonverbal cue, an expectation for his son to follow— the irritation only welled up further in him when there were no ensuing footsteps.

“Draco!” Lucius barked out, glaring over his shoulder. “Come along.”

It hadn't gone unnoticed by him that the boy had drifted closer to her the second his back was turned— the way they were slowly inching together. Nor did Lucius miss the sheepish, apologetic smile sent the girl's way. His hand darted out to tightly grip the back of his son's neck, fingers digging in unkindly as he steered him towards the Headmaster's office and far away from the Girl Who Lived.



It was in Mad-Eye's class— as the man was having them practice disillusionment charms on some rather questionable, and quite vile, dark objects— that it occurred to Harri she had yet to tell her friends of her plan to stay behind during the break. 

A spellbook bound in skin, from who or what she did not know, had been placed in front of Harri, the purple eye embedded into the cover narrowed menacingly. With an uneasy swallow and an apprehensive glare directed at the tome, she leaned towards Hermione. A second was spared to glance over at her friend, a wash of sympathy at her plight. The fellow Gryffindor was pale at the sight of her own artefact—  a china doll with its porcelain face cracked in half and painted lips mouthing senseless whispers.

“Hey ‘Mione,” Harri muttered, jumping at the blink the grimoire had suddenly given. “I forgot to mention it but I’ll be late coming to the Burrow for hols. Dumbledore asked me to stay behind for a day or two.”

Hermione was about to respond— to undoubtedly question why— when a rather ear-splitting shriek filled the room. Neville, who had been unfortunately saddled with a crawling, severed hand, had screamed when it launched itself off the desk— and straight onto his face.

Their professor had been busy drifting from table to table— rather gleeful in his commentaries of 'Oh yes, that one’s rather nasty. Don’t let it touch you' and 'Finnigan, don’t stare at it or it’ll haunt you for a week'—  when he whirled around on that stunted leg in search of the noise’s source. Chuckling, he hobbled over to the boy sprawled out on the ground, hovering over him as Neville made vain attempts to pry the hand off his cheeks.

“Immobulus!” A white light shot out from the gnarled wand. “Longbottom! What did I just say about the hand? Don’t turn your back on it!”

And as she watched the interaction from afar, Harri couldn’t help but wonder how the man had even been allowed to become a professor in the first place. Such musings, however, were disrupted by a flash of white-blond hair on her periphery.

Lucius Malfoy had drifted by their classroom, muttering unintelligibly to himself, his strides long and almost hurried. Leaning back on the bench, Harri peered out into the corridor to observe his frenzy— glittering gold sparks drifted upwards from the tip of his wand, crackling in the air before fizzling out. She frowned when he had hastily scribbled into a notebook a second later as though recording down the effects.

‘Is this what he meant by observing the school’s safety?’ she wondered idly as he snapped the journal shut before marching off with an unknown purpose.



That night, her dreams had found herself in what, suspiciously, appeared to be the restricted section of the school’s library. Not that she was complaining— it was a refreshing change of pace from what they usually entailed.

The moon was already high in the sky, silver pools of starlight illuminating the darkened corners and lending the space an ethereal ambience. And, admittedly, this was the one part of Hogwarts she had spent the least amount of time in, the room playing host to Hermione more often than herself. But as she sat on the edge of one of the worn desks, legs swinging carelessly off the side, Harri could readily acknowledge it was rather beautiful.

“Ah. The library. Interesting choice of location, I must admit.”

She nearly groaned when the shadows between the shelves had warped and twisted and shuddered to materialise the Dark Lord.

He was dressed in the same outfit from Diagon Alley all those months ago— a black, half-unbuttoned linen shirt and pressed trousers to match— and how she hated to admit that he looked especially charming dressed so casually. Her dry spell of evading him, it would seem, had finally come to an end. In truth, Harri was almost certain he had forgotten about her entirely, far too consumed with the power vacuum following the wake of the Ministry’s dismantlement to pay her any heed— or, at least, that’s what she had desperately hoped for.

Refusing to speak right away, green eyes studied him critically from afar, legs stilling when he had taken a half-step closer. 'He looks well enough,' a passing thought, gaze flickering across his towering frame in search of any tells, any signs of fatigue. 'Especially considering he now has an entire country to run.'

Voldemort trailed a finger over a book’s spine. “I had spent quite a bit of time here myself while at Hogwarts, you know. Especially in the restricted section—much to Dumbledore’s displeasure.”

It had been ages since he last laid eyes on her, had felt her. And how starved was he for her company— a fact that had gone unrealised until this very moment. That cutting edge of hunger was only sharpened by the fact that, this time around, it was her who had summoned him. He had been working on his ledgers, on formulating plans and speeches and treaties, when a tug on his consciousness had appeared— a demanding pull that only increased in pressure until he had finally relented.

Admittedly, the very idea, the very notion that she was seeking him out thrilled him to an immeasurable degree— a boundless type of elation.

The girl was still watching him in silence, keen eyes flitting assessingly over his relaxed form— he busied himself by pretending to read the titles, perhaps just a touch too eager to have her attention fixed on him for a little while longer.

During the past week, Voldemort had been resolute in keeping their connection shut to limit any of the distractions his little horcrux was adept at providing. Though to say that was the only reason would be false— it was partially out of caution and fear as well. Fear of letting his own emotions accidentally slip through, of, perhaps, tipping her off of what was to come. And that wouldn't do. No, not now— not when he was so close.

The quiet stretched on into an almost unbearable length— a weighty and crushing thing. She had yet to speak and, though he loathed to acknowledge it, such blatant disregard was starting to grate on him. A finger tapped once, twice, three times on the wooden shelving before whirling around to incredulously eye the girl perched on the table. 

“Do you know, Harri, how rude it is to invite someone into your mind, only to stare at them and refuse to say anything?”

A vindictive smile grew before she could stop it, her knuckles bleeding white from the pressure in which they gripped the desk’s edges. ‘So he doesn’t like to be ignored? Good,’ a sadistic thought, tongue running over her canines in deliberation. There was an entire list of things she wanted to say to him, to yell at him for, and she figured it was safest to do so in her mindscape— here, at least, was a setting she had some semblance of control over.

Harri hopped down. “You’ve made a bloody mess of everything, you know that, right?”

Scarlet eyes blinked at her from the darkness, two pinpoints of glowing fire, and just mildly offended that an accusation was the first thing she had chosen to say to him. But, then again, why was he even surprised by such antics anymore? The girl had proven time and time again that she possessed an uncanny ability to astound him with an outcome he hadn’t prepared for.

A slow, indulgent smile played on a shapely mouth. His arms crossed over the solid expanse of his chest and he leaned casually against the shelf to observe his horcrux. There was a gleam of anger in those too-green eyes that was impossible to resist prodding at. “Whatever do you mean?”

The muscle above her brow twitched at his feigned ignorance— at the mocking innocence in his eyes, at how casual and at home he looked even though it was her mindscape they were currently in. And the audacity he had to appear so at ease made her want to bare her teeth in frustration, to expel and freeze him out.

Green eyes slipped closed and a deep inhale followed as a futile attempt to ground herself. After all, she wanted answers and the logical side to her was urging her to act in a way that wouldn't push him to become volatile.

Fixing him in a withering stare, Harri fought to keep her voice even. “You know what I mean. Sovereign, really? Why? Was “Dark Lord” or “Supreme Ruler” just not catchy enough?”

A delayed blink— a chuckle escaped him, the smile he was sporting almost genuine as he shook his head in disbelief. This is what she wanted to question him about? Why she had summoned him here this late at night? Out of all things, the girl was rearing to discuss politics. ‘Fine then, have it your way.'

Pushing off the shelving to take a step forward, he noted with some contentment that she hadn’t flinched. The last time they had been this close, she slapped him in blind anger and he had threatened her in response— yet she was unwavering as always.

“It’s easier to move across the chessboard when I’m not reduced to hiding in the shadows. And you can not tell me you disagree that the Ministry was overrun by incapable fools, Harri. It was only a matter of time before it collapsed in on itself. I just merely sped the process along." He paused as though in contemplation before adding with a sly smirk, gloating clear as day in crimson eyes. “Though, it is an added bonus when everyone seems to be eating out of the palm of your hand.”

She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised, especially considering what a textbook narcissist he was, that he was so smug, so thrilled about having an entire nation adore him. But it had nonetheless. Harri could still remember when she discovered she was apparently famous in their world, that her name was a prayer on some stranger’s lips as their holy saviour— it made her skin itch. 

Crossing her arms to mimic his stance, she scoffed. “Yeah well, you’ve ruined Hogwarts for me so congratulations. Lavender won’t stop talking about marrying you and half of the student body wants to jump you. If it isn’t bad enough for me to see your bloody face everywhere, I now get to hear about it too.”

Voldemort had given a noncommittal hum at her confession, not exactly shocked to hear teenage girls were swooning over him. It had been the same while he was a student— had been like this for his entire life in fact. People tended to be quite open about their attraction towards him and he couldn’t say it was something he entirely minded when it was to his benefit. ‘Well,’ an inner voice amended the blanket statement as he regarded an agitated redhead. ‘Mostly everyone.’

A mischievous smile lit up his face as he bent down, crowding her space and watching, pleased, with how her pupils had dilated slightly. “And what about you, Harri? Are you in agreement with them?”

The way her mouth floundered in response, opening and closing repeatedly, was the pay off he had been looking for. He retreated back to the bookcase, voice sly, “If I remember correctly, you said something along the lines of how even my ‘penmanship is beautiful’? What else, I wonder, do you find beautiful about me?”

When she was rendered mute, he hummed, a sense of accomplishment in getting her to react so favourably. The girl’s lips were pulled into an embarrassed pout, her head turned resolutely from him— yet he could see the delicate blush on her cheeks, the dusting of it on the tips of her ears. It was entirely worth it— teasing her this way, getting to witness this side of her. 

But he could sense their time was running out, that she was going to wake up soon and the fun would end. Gaze drifting about the library, a devious idea planted itself in his thoughts, his mirth only growing. 

“Tell you what, Harri. Let’s make a deal,” he crooned, her name rolling off his tongue in the sweetest of ways.

He shifted closer towards her, eyes glinting with the scheme formulating in his mind. “You manage to complete this one task and I will give you anything you wish for— within reason, of course. Any answer to a burning question you may have, any favour you may want. No strings attached. There’ll be no time limit, no set date, and you can feel free to summon me once you’ve accomplished it. However, fail to complete it and all I ask for is the same. A boon for a boon.”

She stared at him, narrowed eyes flitting across his face in an attempt to uncover the lie, the deceitful trick. It almost sounded too good to be true, almost too easy. A voice, rational and objective, whispered not to do it— that this would be making a deal with the Devil. And how many fairytales, how many fables, had started out this exact same way? How many more ended just as poorly? But the Gryffindor side to her, brash and unyielding, the side that never shied from a challenge was roaring, cheering, for her to accept. 

Harri acquiesced with a small nod. “Fine. Just tell me what to do.”

A cheshire grin spread on his face, voice heady in his excitement. “Tell me what a horcrux is.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 18: Holiday Break

Notes:

Hey everyone! Sorry for the later than usual update— I ended up coming home a tad later than expected today!

As always, thank you for reading along and for the comments 💕 I appreciate it so much!

Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Initially, Harri had accepted his conditions under the assumption that it would be easy enough to accomplish. 

For one, she had Hermione— a literal walking encyclopedia— at her disposal.

For another, she had the entire expanse of the Hogwarts library available should her first option fail.

'He's a fool,' had been the original thought, some part of her unable to fully believe that Voldemort had made such an easy, low-stakes bet. She had set aside a day, maybe two tops, before she would find the answer and demand something so outrageous that it would engender an eternity's worth of regret for him.

But now? Well, she was starting to see why they said to never underestimate a capable enemy.

As the start of the holiday break had managed to creep up at an alarming rate, an entirely different conclusion was reached— she had been tricked. Duped. Given the short end of the stick.

When she had asked Hermione— rather nonchalantly over lunch— if the girl had ever come across the term 'horcrux' in her readings, the answer came in the form of an owlish blink and a deep-set frown.

Then when she tried to use a location spell in the library's reserves, not one single book had come flying off the shelves. A small part to her just hoped it was the replacement wand acting up by spitefully ignoring its 'master' as usual— it was better than the alternative.

As such, she was stuck doing research in the plain old muggle way.

A few weeks into the hunt and Harri was beginning to question if the word was even real or if he made it up— a last parting gift in the form of a symbolic middle finger and an insurmountable challenge. 'Perhaps,' an idle thought as she thumbed through the dusty tome, eyes strained and glazing over. 'He's still mad at me for slapping him.' It wouldn't be a surprise really, especially given how mercurial he was in their shared dreams.

The idea though, the very promise, of what kind of reward awaited her pushed her forward with unrelenting energy. After all, being able to request just about anything from him, from their new 'Sovereign', was entirely too tempting to pass up.

'What to ask for, what to ask—,' her musings were halted as there, masquerading as a footnote in an obscure text plucked off the bookcases on a whim, was it: 'horcrux'.

Giddiness overrode any fatigue as Harri flipped to the appendix, the pad of her finger skirting excitedly across age-worn pages— she exclaimed in relief when she discovered the book title it had referenced.

Nearly stumbling when her leg clipped the chair, she steadied herself by gripping the table's corner with a hiss of pain. The stack of books atop it rattled precariously. Only a second was spared to recover before she sped with a limped gait down the narrow aisles.

Desperately counting the titles once, then twice, that elated high faded as quickly as it came— the book wasn't in their library's reserves.

She groaned, forehead falling against the shelving in mounting exasperation. And, for the first time in her short life, a serious debate was being entertained regarding the ethics of actually murdering another human being.



"It doesn't bloody exist!" Harri ranted as she slid next to Hermione in the Great Hall, frustration lending her voice a bite as she inhaled the goblet of pumpkin juice.

Hermione anxiously eyed her. She could practically see the fuse of her friend’s temper shortening and the glow of anger behind those green eyes. A soft sigh— patience was never the girl's strongest virtue. However, instead of attempting to offer pointers— it would just set her off even further— she reached over to pat Harri's back gently.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “Did you try asking Professor Moody?”

The redhead's fingers drummed against the wood grain of the table, tongue tracing over the roof of her mouth at the suggestion. She had, in fact, debated going to him to see what he would know after Hermione had been at an utter loss.

But then she recalled Voldemort's cheshire grin, that brightly lit anticipation in those too-red eyes, and was turned off entirely from the idea. It would be rather characteristic of the Dark Lord, the sadist he was, to have her be looking into something questionable, something inappropriate— and, honestly, Harri didn't feel like enduring shifty-eyed glances from her teacher for the rest of term. 

Instead of answering, she gave a noncommittal hum and resigned herself to tearing up her dinner roll spitefully. 

Ron shifted his eyes between the two girls— trying to understand what they were fussing about— when Hermione had tossed a pointed look his way. He coughed at the ensuing kick to his shin and nearly choked on his mashed potatoes.

“Mum’s disappointed you’re not coming home with us," he said quickly, seeking to fill the silence. "I tried to tell her you’d be arriving later but she’s still pretty miffed about it.”

Harri simply chewed the bread slowly, silently— it tasted like styrofoam and the cloying taste of disappointment. While her friends were going to be riding the train back to the Burrow, she would be waiting around an empty castle until Dumbledore deemed it the opportune time to summon her. 

‘It had better be worth it,’ was her sour thought, knowing full and well she would miss the customary beef stew and carrot cake Mrs. Weasley always made for their first day of the break. 

Just another thing to add to the running list of disappointments.



The morning of December 20th was a dreary affair.

Not only was she still helplessly clueless as to what a horcrux was but now her friends, and most of the student body, would be leaving to the warm embraces of their parents and the promises of merriment. Harri watched from afar in a sullen state as her roommates flitted about the dormitory, packing up their things and chatting away in a joyous manner. The girl had tried her best to plaster on a smile, to stop the bitter seed of jealousy that was threatening to bloom into something more vile— to laugh alongside them in a hollow manner. 

It wasn't working.

In the end, it had been her choice to walk with them down to the station's platform. A mistake, most certainly, as she felt oddly out of place without a trunk at her side— but she needed the air, the space to think.

With a tight smile, Harri tried to gracefully accept Hermione’s reassurances that she would be at the Burrow soon enough— that they wouldn’t dare to do any of their usual festive rituals without her. Ron even promised not to crack open the new quidditch magazine until she was there, vowing to leave the stash of candy stowed in his closet untouched until all three of them could gorge themselves sick.

Unable to find it in herself to join in with their enthusiasm, she settled for a fleeting hug and despondent wishes for safe travels. 

‘I’ll be there too,’ a silent promise was made as she watched longingly when the pair boarded the scarlet train. 

However, as the steam engine pulled away from Hogwarts, disappearing into the slow spiral of snow that had begun to fall, a puff of white smoke blending into the colourless sky, there was the strangest sense of foreboding. 

That, perhaps, this would be the last time she would see the Express.

That this would be the last time she would stand on this very platform and wave mournfully to her friends that were rapidly fading into the distance. 

And though she did attempt to banish the unshakeable feeling, her mind continuously pointing out it was irrational, her heart refused to accept otherwise.



Instead of taking the thestral pulled carriages, the girl had decided to walk through the ankle-deep snow back to the castle.

The inner child in her had always enjoyed winter, the way the cold bit at the tip of her nose and burned her fingertips until they became numb— the way she could see her own breath crystallize in irrefutable proof she was alive.

Particularly though, she mostly enjoyed how the world would become so still, so quiet. 

Peaceful. 

It was the same part to her that foolishly wished it could snow every day for that very reason, to always experience the calmness that accompanied such moments.

By the time she was back in the Great Hall, hands frozen stiff from the sting of the winter air and cheeks stubbornly chilled to the touch, Harri was the definition of an 'ice cube'. Yet she didn’t entirely mind, content enough to unthaw in the heated dining room— right in the same spot that normally hosted a trio.

Lunch was already awaiting her—as well as the scattered pockets of students that had been forgotten and left behind— as a simple enough affair. 

A twinkle overhead immediately caught her attention. Sometime in her absence, the elves managed to transform the vaulted hall into a winter wonderland.

A rather impressive tree stood proudly in the corner behind the professors' table, glittering with magically hovering orbs in kaleidoscopic colours, and evergreen garlands were strewn about the walls. Harri had been consumed by watching the enchanted ceiling produce an exorbitant amount of snowflakes when a note, charmed as a flying bird, landed expectantly upon her full plate. 

Unfolding it and grimacing at the gravy that clung to the parchment, brows drew together in contemplation as she scanned the cursive scrawl: 'Astronomy Tower, 7 pm. - A.D.’



The girl had shrugged a simple black jumper over her blouse, having the foresight that the exposed tower would be exceptionally cold this time of year. ‘Why,’ her thoughts were grumbling and malcontent as sluggish feet trudged to the other side of the castle, ‘does he want to meet at the Astronomy Tower?’

It was an odd choice of venue, she had to admit. Plus, it wasn't exactly the easiest spot to get to either, having been tucked away in a particularly secluded portion of the school. Not to mention the spiral staircase was an absolute nightmare at the best of times— rickety and questionably rusted in some areas and just threatening to give. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted anyone to mistakenly overhear their conversation? After all, it wouldn’t be completely odd for him to take extra precautions nor to operate out of discretion.

Harri found the Headmaster at the top of the stairs, hands interlaced behind his back and seemingly entranced by the heavy globe of the moon in the sky, pale eyes distant in faraway thought. 

She coughed awkwardly in an attempt to break him from the reverie. “Professor?”

He jolted slightly at that, as though it had been a shock that she, somehow, materialised behind him and had arrived exactly at the agreed-upon time. Dumbledore only spared a second of an appraising, sidelong glance before sliding back to the scene before him, tone even yet guarded. “Ah, Harri. Good evening.”

She wandered over to stand beside him on the balcony that jutted out from the sloped gable roof, trying her best not to let her teeth chatter at the brutal sting of the wind.

Admittedly, it was no wonder why Dumbledore had been so enthralled by the sky. Even she was unable to fully fault his distracted manner when it was such a mesmerising sight to behold. 

The star-speckled night provided an inky backdrop for the snowflakes— bright points that glowed under the soft moonlight— as they swirled and danced. They appeared to be caught in the midst of a playful waltz— a friendly chase.

Normally, she would have been captivated as well but she was here on a mission. The thrums of anticipation surged too strongly, the giddiness inspiring a relentless pounding in her chest.

Harri's voice was tentative as she broke the silence, "Professor, why did you call me here? What did you find?”

A sigh, a heavy sound full of a burden only he knew of, escaped him as he turned from the moon. Rather than lingering behind in the snow, the man wandered further into the circular room, mind whirling as a small part of his conscience tried to argue against the plan.

Fingers, gnarled with age, tightened imperceptibly around each other, the skin whitening from the exerted, gripping pressure. 'Merlin, forgive me.'

It took more strength than he would care to admit to gather the slipping threads of his composure, to force the next words out of his mouth. And from behind half-moon glasses, watery eyes critically regarded the shivering form of her— a girl not yet even in her majority. One who was still so damningly young and innocent to the cruelty of the truth.

Something writhed about his heart and squeezed.

“Did you know, Harri, that there was a prophecy made about you and Voldemort? Sixteen years ago and by our very own Divination professor in fact.”

Emerald eyes widened marginally at the leaked information. She hurried after him inside, the bitter cold long forgotten. They roamed searchingly over his wizened face, hungry in their attempts to glean anything more from him— to spot any tells of what was to come. There were none.

Hearing the fact there was an unknown prophecy, one that involved her, strung her nerves and tightened the cords of them until they threatened to snap. And there it was— her most trusted, most faithful companion: anger. That undercurrent of it, warm in its accompaniment to her anxiety and the uneven cadence of her pulse, coursed in her veins. Somewhere out in the world, their fates were foretold, a divining truth— one that was about her life, her future.

So why was she just hearing about it now? 

And what else, exactly, was she still unaware of?

“What did it say?” she forced the words out through clenched teeth— a heavy swallow.

Anger was quickly overshadowed by fear when his expression unexpectedly shuttered— a fear that he might deny her an answer. After all, how he was looking at her did little to inspire confidence.

Dumbledore considered the desperate heart-shaped face before him, the flashing dismay in too-green eyes— the way she had trailed after him so eagerly, so readily.  

He squeezed his hand tighter to fight off the mounting guilt. “It said you would have the power to vanquish the Dark Lord and that he will mark you as his equal in turn. A bit morbid, I’m afraid, as it also stated that neither can live while the other survives.”

And there it was— the dawning of revelation marring her features, the war of emotions in that expressive gaze. He followed along when she had swallowed around a lump in her throat, the column of it bobbing unevenly. Once sure steps suddenly faltered as the fundamental truth regarding her relationship to the Dark Lord processed.

The guilt was rising to a tidal wave, a tsunami roaring in a threat to engulf him at any second. 'She doesn't even know half of it,' a traitorous voice whispered in his mind.

Harri stumbled over to the silver globe, fingers curling around its iron railing and dazedly watching as it was held in suspension— lazily rotating about on an unseen axis, its motion was smooth, fluid, slow. Calming.

It made sense all of the sudden as to why Voldemort had targeted her as an infant. She always wondered what, exactly, had prompted him to do so— what would possess a grown man to be terrified of a newborn child? Some part just assumed it was something that her parents had done; that they had angered him so immensely that he wished to erase their bloodline in turn.

But then again, another part always suspected that there was something else— that there was a hidden part to the story being kept from her, concealed and stashed away until the time was right. A foreboding understanding that there was more.

Knuckles turned colourless as her grip tightened, a little voice whispering to reign in her rising anger, her disappointment, before she could react childishly again in front of Dumbledore. 

And yet, for the strangest of reasons, she found herself more upset with the Dark Lord than with the Headmaster.

After all, she had come to expect Dumbledore lying openly and brazenly— but Voldemort? What did he say to her, once upon a time? He never lied. ‘No, he didn’t lie,’ a resentful thought, the logic embittered. ‘He just didn’t tell me the truth.’ 

Slowly unclenching her hands, she winced at the residual pain of crescent moons impressed a touch too deeply into the softness of her palms.

With a deep breath, an even longer exhale, she forced herself to calm down. “I see. It makes sense, I suppose, why he keeps trying to kill me then. I’m a threat to his power.”

Dumbledore flinched inwardly at her voice, at how small it sounded, how defeated. It was a war in his mind of two truths, both sides struggling to come out on top as the victor. On one hand, she was just a girl— a student at his school, one that he had seen do remarkable things and who had the potential to do even more in the future. He had watched her grow from afar, had seen her make friends, build a life, a name for herself. 

Yet, on the other hand, she wasn’t fully human, was she?

The true Harri Potter had died that night on October 31st along with Lily and James— the child before him was nothing more than an imposter in a shell. Her soul wasn’t entirely her own, a host for something vile, for something parasitic. And if he had been paying more attention, watched her more closely, he would have seen the signs. The way her eyes were a shade of green that no one should possess, the way her magic would sometimes swell with a stain before levelling out again— how her core always seemed a touch more developed than her peers. 

A specific memory replayed, one from her third year— she had come directly to him in despair, lamenting about feeling off. Of feeling a pull to something darker within herself. Considering her lineage, it seemed appropriate to just warn her not to give in— to suppress it and ignore it until it was subdued. 

But how foolish he had been.

Yes, the signs were all there— he had just been too blind to recognise any of them.

“Professor,” she ventured in the quiet, drawing him from his thoughts. “I was hoping, while we're here, that you could help me with something. I was in the library the other day and I read something rather odd about a piece of rare magic in a footnote. It mentioned the term 'horcrux' but I couldn’t find any further information on it. I was, uhm, wondering if you could tell me what it is.”

The blood in his veins ran cold.

Around him, it was as if the world had been slowed, the natural noises of it drowned out by the deafening pulse in his eardrums. He considered it was uncanny of her to bring up the topic, a creeping dread that she had, somehow, managed to read his thoughts. Impossible, he knew, but still disconcerting enough for him to probe at his constructed Occlumency shields.

The man tried to remind himself, chastising such a fear, that she wasn’t even looking at him— how could she possibly read his thoughts? That there was no way she could have slipped in unnoticed— and anyhow, he would have known if she possessed the predisposition to the arts of the mind. 

But yet, for the briefest of a second, he couldn't quite help but picture a boy with a cunning smile and an aristocratic face— a boy whom he had let go on to do terrible, undoubtedly great, but nonetheless terrible things.

Would she be the same?

The Headmaster's voice wavered just slightly, an apprehensive note colouring the words. “That’s quite dark magic, Harri, dark magic indeed. Though I’m not surprised you didn’t find your answer in the library considering I had all texts regarding it removed. Essentially, it is a vessel. When someone places their soul into this vessel, a container, it keeps them earthbound. In other words, they are unable to die.”

He watched as she turned her head, green eyes almost glowing in the lowlight of the tower as they fixed on him. In their depths, he was so sure that he could see pinpricks of crimson swirling there, traces that betrayed the true nature of herself. And an unsettling thought planted itself firmly in his head— was he, perhaps, always watching? Using her eyes as a one-way mirror to make himself privy to every conversation, every interaction he had with the girl? It was unnerving to realise how much it frightened him.

The tilt of her head, the questioning look in her gaze, and Dumbledore could swear he heard his voice coming from her lips. 

“But I don’t understand, Professor. How does one, exactly, place their soul into a container?”

‘She isn’t human,’ the thought was rationalising, justifying what needed to be done. ‘If she’s left to live, he can never be defeated.’ 

Dumbledore vainly attempted to stamp down the hushed voice that was vehemently protesting otherwise— that was championing to find another way. There wasn't one.

Harri let her eyes drift back to the warped reflection of herself in the mirrored surface of the silver globe, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth downwards. That’s what Voldemort wanted her to find out? It hadn’t sounded so bad— putting part of your soul into another container for safekeeping. ‘Why,’ she wondered briefly, brows knitting together, ‘was it considered dark magic?’ 

And then she had her answer.

“Through murder, Harri. Done with intent and in the coldest of blood,” his explanation was barely a whisper.

A chill ghosted through her at the words and she suddenly understood why the books on it had been banished from the library. To murder someone was how one achieved immortality? ‘A life for a life,’ echoed grimly as she studied the orb rotating on its axis, a dizzying tilt in its trajectory. 

What was Voldemort trying to tell her by encouraging her to look into something so appalling? 

Was he trying to say he had done just that? 

Or that he was preparing to do so?

Her mind was whirling to make all of the jagged pieces of the puzzle fit congruently when she saw it. In the polished surface, Dumbledore was soundlessly mouthing something.

As though stuck in slow motion, his wand was raised— the tip of it pointed directly between her shoulder blades.

A flash of green filled the room.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 19: The Wards That Shone Like The Sun

Notes:

Hello everyone! I'm having so much fun reading everyone's comments on the last chapter so thank you for them! 💕 Things are going to start getting more intense from this point onwards so please mind the tags!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Severus had been pacing the length of his office for the past 10 minutes, trying to work up the nerve to put his plan into motion.

A clock ticked on dutifully in the background, each passing moment of the second hand an unspoken reminder of how time was running out. He had only a little over half an hour before the Dark Lord would arrive on the flagstone steps of Hogwarts to spell the downfall of his greatest enemy and finally vanquish the Girl Who Lived. 

Thirty measly minutes to ensure her safety, to help her escape the Sword of Damocles swinging over her pretty little head— an impending danger she wasn't even fully aware of at the moment.

Coal eyes slid to the innocuous bottle of wine resting upon the walnut desk. It was laced with enough Dreamless Sleep to be instantaneous in rendering anyone unconscious.

And oh, how difficult was it to ignore the way his sins were already laying heavy in his chest— an uncomfortable and suffocating weight. He was about to sacrifice one for the other, to trade a life already near its end so the one that had barely started could finish.

But he would do it. 

He would do it for her child. 

It was a reckless scheme born out of loyalty to the memory of an already dead woman— he knew it. Knew how wrapped he was around her little finger from even beyond the grave. 

In all actuality, however, the plan was simple enough and Snape reminded himself of it obsessively, lips moving without uttering a single sound. ‘Go to his office. Toast for Yule. Grab the girl. Run.' The steps were repeated over and over again until enough courage had been summoned to follow through. 

Snatching up the bottle, the relentless chime of the ending hour chasing him from the office, he stormed from the damp dungeons to seal the fate of one Albus Dumbledore.



The castle was still, unnervingly quiet and the dour man had the vaguest notion that it felt almost sinister compared to last year’s holiday. ‘Perhaps,’ he thought with a grimace, ‘Hogwarts knows I'm about to kill its master.’

He had just passed the stairwell leading up to the Astronomy Tower when there was a distinct crash. Determined steps halting, unable to help himself from remarking on how teenagers weren’t even secretive anymore, he debated whether to reprimand them or to continue on.  

And then there was a louder, more insistent thud.

The commotion was far too violent for a possible late-night rendezvous. 

Dread, twisting and sharp, settled low in his stomach as intuition screamed something was amiss. Brandishing the curved wand in one hand, the thin neck of the mead decanter gripped in the other, he cautiously started up the tower’s winding steps.



Harri had barely managed to dodge the curse shooting out from Dumbledore’s wand, the years spent playing as Gryffindor’s seeker finally having a form of payoff.

She landed heavily on her side, her shoulder smarting from the impact, before springing back up onto her feet. The noises of the world were impossible to distinguish, the roaring in her ears and the hammering of her heart drowning it all out. Afterimages danced behind her lids in a sickening light show— jagged, abstract shapes of spellfire that made it hard to see. 

Her mind was laden with panic— slow and sluggish and seemingly unable to process what just transpired. 

He tried to kill you,’ a voice pointed out sharply. Her mouth was suddenly far too dry.

The Headmaster who had always given long-winded welcoming back speeches; who attended her matches out of a house solidarity that he never openly admitted to; who comforted her in front of the Mirror of Erised when she saw the ghosts of her parents.

The very same was now attempting to murder her.

It suddenly clicked as to why he had wanted her to come to the Astronomy Tower— why he wanted her to come to a portion of the castle usually abandoned and so far removed from any signs of life: the chances of someone interfering were slim.

And the chances of them finding her body before it cooled was even slimmer.

Her voice was shaky as it caught on a note of hopefulness— it had to be a misunderstanding. It just had to. "P-professor?"

However, the coldness that met her, that hard glint of determination in pale eyes, wasn’t exactly comforting that it had been one.

She dodged another sickening flash of light and leapt behind haphazardly stacked crates— they clattered to the ground noisily when she jostled them from their resting place, a hellish amount of dust rising up in a cloud. She choked on it— a scratchy cough as the film coated her throat. 'Definitely not a mistake.'

Her heart was pounding with adrenaline, its chambers and muscles clenching erratically to push blood down into her legs— to will them to move. 'Why, why, why, why,' played over on an endless loop as she watched his reflection in the silver globe— it broadcasted everything she needed to know. He was circling the room in a predatory manner, that knobbed wand held so delicately, so gently in his grasp— it was a lie.

None of this made sense. She was his student. His protege. His Chosen One ; the girl who was his champion meant to defeat the Dark Lord in his stead— he just said it himself.

So why was he trying to kill her? 

And how the realisation was a cold wash of dread. Numbing, arresting— pinpricks in her fingertips as she recalled Moody’s lesson on the killing curse: one had to mean it to cast it successfully. 

Dumbledore meant it— he truly wanted her dead. 

The crates she had sought refuge behind exploded abruptly. Harri had only just managed to lunge out of the spellfire's path— she wasn't quick enough. An errant plank had clipped her shoulder and a cry of pain tore from her as a trembling hand latched onto it— a futile attempt to ease the ache.

And what most unnerved her wasn't the fact he was firing off these dark curses with ease, with grace. Nor was it the fact they were alone and that the night had managed to take such a deadly turn.

No, what unnerved her the most was the fact he refused to speak. That he was treating her like a pest that one calmly, swiftly, disposes of— like she was an animal to be hunted.

Harri spared a glance down to the wand in her palm and a morbid sense of defeat settled as a stifling weight. The replacement barely responded to an Accio most of the time— never mind attempting to go toe to toe with a wizard who was highly regarded as one of the best of their century. There was no helping it— she needed to run, the instinct to flee more urgent, more pressing than fighting.

Green eyes uneasily flickered over to the darkest corner of the tower— she darted for it, ducking behind the tattered tarp draped over the telescope and praying it could give her a momentary respite to figure out a plan. Maybe if she pleaded with him, begged him to tell her what she had done to deserve such a fate, he would come to his senses?

'Don't be a fool,' that voice whispered again as memories were dredged up of her history lessons with Binns. The man before her, the kindly old wizard who looked as though he passed his nights doing sudoku and drinking chamomile with a twist of lemon, was the same that had callously betrayed his childhood friend— his dearest companion. His lover. The very same that so easily went to war and defeated someone so dear to him— only to banish said person to a life in a tower surrounded by ice. 'Compared to that,' Harri's stomach clenched, her breaths coming in shallow pants, 'I'm nothing.'

On her periphery, she could spy the looming door. Wild calculations rifled through her mind to see if she could make it if she sprinted fast enough— maybe with the backing of the famed Potter luck, she could reach the stairwell before he hit her.

“Petrificus Totalus!” an unexpected voice rang out, the accent unmistakable.

Snape had come to her rescue in the most ironic turn of events— not that she wasn't grateful, of course. In fact, Harri never once had been so thankful to hear the grating syllables of his drawl or to see him in all of his looming glory hovering in the door's frame. It was hard to miss the way his eyes were wild— probably as wild as her own— or how his knuckles were bleeding white around his wand.

Rising on shaking, unsteady legs, a hand curling around the telescope's barrel for support, the girl took a second to study the bound form of Dumbledore lying prone on the ground.

The potions master's gaze was flitting in a frenzied manner between herself and the Headmaster, the silence stretching between them as both tried to come to a mutual understanding of what to possibly do next.

Severus made vain attempts to comprehend, to digest, what he just witnessed from between the slates under the raised platform. Dumbledore had been clearly attempting to kill the girl— and she had been barely scraping by, dodging the curses rather than attempting to go on the offense. But the question remained why? What had been the Headmaster's reasons— it didn't make sense. After all, the girl was his herald for a prophetic war— Merlin only knew they had argued enough times about it.

A bitter grimace tore through him as dark eyes fixed on the frozen wizard. Frankly, it had been pure luck that he had even managed to land a spell on him— that it was a circumstance of fortune the old man's back had been turned at the right moment. And though he was a far cry from the worst dueller, Snape was all too aware of the sobering fact his magic wouldn't be able to bind Albus forever. That, at some point, the Headmaster would be back on his feet and, most likely, seeking to dispose of Severus as well for what he had seen.

Already, the wizard's gnarled fingers were twitching, pale eyes darting behind his glasses in a telling sign that his sharp mind was still active.

And in his own, thoughts were racing— intelligible, half-formed, half-baked ideas as he tried to reassess, reevaluate the strategy he had so carefully concocted before this moment. Someone was needed to occupy Dumbledore, to engage with him. Someone who had enough skill so they wouldn't be easily defeated— someone who could buy enough time for the girl to flee. 

But there was only one person alive who would be an equal to Albus Dumbledore.

His attention drifted down uneasily to his left arm and the mark hidden there. All rationality was demanding if he had a death wish for what he was about to do— if he was really this desperate, this foolish. The only viable answer was 'yes' as his body moved on autopilot to yank up his robe's sleeve past his elbow. 

Faltering for a second, all possible choices were weighed and then reweighed as he desperately sought a backup, a way out, a second option— there were none. 

This was the only choice.

Shaking fingers pressed down on the dark mark with a wince.

Any prior relief Harri may have felt came tumbling down as she watched Snape hike up his sleeve. And there, on his pale flesh and marring his skin, was the mark of him

She couldn't quite believe her eyes, the revelation was slow to come that the professor was a Death Eater. But then he was raising his fingers and the world slowed down to a painful degree. Her scream for him to stop came a second too late, horror and panic flooding through her at what he was about to do.

"No!"

For a moment, a beat, they just stared at each other in silence and with the same amount of alarm, the same amount of trepidation— a hushed waiting game for something, anything, to happen. At first, it appeared that nothing would. The tower was still encumbered by a pitiless quiet— a vacuum that greedily blocked out all possible noise.

But then they felt it.

The ground beneath their feet began to shake. Deafening cracks of several apparitions in the distance followed— they reminded her faintly of the dry snap of bones breaking, of splintering. A fitting prelude to the horrors to come. 

Static charged the dry, winter air, the sharp tang of electricity palpable— it crackled audibly about them, the hairs on their arms, their napes, standing on end as the pair remained rigid. Neither dared to move, to speak, to so much as whisper.

Golden light unexpectedly flooded the room of the Tower, so dazzling, so bright, that Harri had to shield her eyes with fanned fingers— it was useless.

Squinting past the pane-less windows, she gasped at the sight of a dome— one usually rendered invisible—  as it made its presence known. From what she could see, it surrounded the school's grounds and reached even to the edges of the Forbidden Forest. 'The wards,' she thought in detached wonder, marveling at the beauty of such a thing. They flickered and shone like the surface of the sun, scintillating and coruscating with pure energy.

Without warning, the sphere started to melt away. Oozing as corrupting pockets, darkness began to spread over the glittering surface, greedily devouring and consuming wherever it touched. Harri found it mildly horrifying to witness something so pure become pockmarked, hideous, the shadows seeping in as a creeping, hungry presence.

That charged sense of magic settled over her skin, sparking wildly between her fingers— an unpleasant bubbling sensation that made her itch and squirm as the wards fell. 'He's dismantling them,' her thoughts were appalled, and begrudgingly impressed, at the concept— that he was even capable of such large-scale destruction. Draco's words from the lake came back to her— unwanted and unsummoned— as she drank in the gruesome sight of the sun's eclipsing distortion: “ I’ve never seen someone with so much power before.”

And, at this very moment, she found herself agreeing with such an assessment, some part of her faintly wondering how anyone thought it was even possible to fight him, to beat him back— not when he was capable of this.

It wasn't until silence reigned once more that Harri was even aware there had been a persistent, ringing noise accompanying the destruction of the wards. But now, as an unsettling quiet lay thickly between them, she found herself missing its presence.

Green eyes slid to her dismayed professor, narrowing slightly as she hissed out, "What did you do!?"

However, she already knew. Though she might have, unknowingly, invited the monster into their home, Severus Snape had thrown the doors wide open and ushered it in like an old friend. 

Before she could get another word out, he was there suddenly in her mind— a feeling that struck without warning. It was unexpected the way he had appeared on the peripheral boundaries of her consciousness, the accompanying fury one so strong, so violent, that it made her throat close and her knees to quiver.

The last time that they had even been remotely in the same place was in Diagon Alley— yet she could have sworn his presence here was more concentrated, more suffocating. It pressed down heavily about her, dominating and oppressive, and her heart seized for a moment under its brutality. 

She was choking. It was a detached realisation as air refused to fill her lungs no matter how much she tried to gasp it in.

The pain in her scar flared, the intensity of it enough to rob her sight and to dim the world. Her knees had little choice but to give. They collided with the wooden floor with a dull thud, the pang of splinters biting into them of little consequence— it was nothing, after all, compared to the ache in her head that threatened to cleave and split her skull.

Hands clutched at her temples in vain hopes of relief as a scream tore from a raw throat. Only distantly was she aware that Snape had fallen beside her in concern, unsure hands hovering about her bent-over form.

Harri took it all back— he was beyond fury. Beyond anger. Beyond enraged.

No, he was a tempestuous storm come to seek chaos. 

An ever-cresting tidal wave of dark waters seeking to swallow everything in its path. 

A supernova ready to implode and plunge them all into the abyss.

He was Death itself.



Voldemort stood on the precipice of the cliff-face, the toes of his polished shoes just barely edging the stone bridge that led into Hogwarts. Chest heaving with exertion and a light sheen of sweat decorating his brow, scarlet eyes shifted down to the darkness below. The chasm was a gaping maw, keen and eager to swallow any who made even the slightest misstep— he considered they were rather alike in that regard.

That he too wished to swallow his enemies. To plunge them into an abyss so deep, so expansive, that they never once again saw the light of day. In particular, such a fierce desire was directed towards only one man at the moment.

The yew wand hung limply in his grip, thrumming hotly and far too overheated by the sheer amount of magic he had just pushed through it. His attention flickered from the darkness to it— a crack had begun to form in the carved handle as a threat of what was to come if he continued to abuse it.

Not that it mattered. No, he would have a far better one by the time rosy-fingered dawn crept into the sky.

But he had done it nonetheless. The crowd of his Death Eaters, his acolytes, restlessly pushing behind him all bore witness to the power that was their Lord— the fury, the greatness, the might.

Awe— carefully kept blank from his face— filled him as he took in the shattered wards. They had fractured so easily for him, had deferred to his magic as though he were an acrimonious god and they were a sinner seeking penance. 

They had crumbled and allowed the protections to be stripped away from the glittering estate of Hogwarts— his first home and the current fortress that was shielding his prize. The spires stood stark against the full moon, the gabled rooftops ladened heavy with snow and glowing under the starlight. It painted a serene image. Tranquil.

Blood would seep into its stone halls and corridors before the hour was up.

And how quickly did that awe give way to the fires of fury— a vile, implacable thing stirring in his core that demanded vengeance and atonement.

He had played bystander to the memories Severus pushed through their bond— had beheld the way the Headmaster was intent on destroying his vessel, his most coveted thing, in a futile attempt to vanquish Lord Voldemort. And oh, how his magic sang for divine retribution. To see the fall of the great Albus Dumbledore as he plummeted down from the heavens— to see his battered body lain upon the flagstone steps and his lifeless head on a pike.

The Death  Eaters had begun to shift anxiously, awaiting for their Lord to make the first step—  to lay claim to what he had just conquered. 

So he did. 

One step on the stone bridge and his most loyal began to file across it, all too eager to prove their worth, their devotion, to sate whatever whim he may have.

“Find the girl,” he instructed, a finality resting in his tone that demanded no response. “Keep her unharmed but leave Dumbledore to me.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 20: The Battle In Hogwarts

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Thank you guys so much for the positive response so far to this fic— I appreciate it so much! You are all amazing 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



She blinked in a daze and tried to clear the fog of pain as she stared up at the unfocused shape of Snape hovering above her. The outline of him was fuzzy, distant, entirely too distorted to make any sense of.

Voldemort was here.

He had finally entered the castle— an angry god descended down from the heavens with spiteful vengeance as his only driving goal. And it was pretty damn clear who the main target of such wrath was going to be. 

She would be lying if she said such a thing didn't fill her to the brim with an unholy terror.

Only a momentary reprieve was allowed before she was being yanked roughly up onto her feet. Through the muddled haze of her mind it distantly registered there was a firm grip curled about her arm. 

Tightening fingers were steering her to the stairwell, the heels of her sneakers dragging dully across the wooden planks.

It felt as though she was being forcibly held underwater— that the more she attempted to focus on Snape’s whispered instructions, the more obscure and foreign the words sounded. Green eyes blinked dazedly up at him as they focused on his mouth, trying to, perhaps, read if not hear the nonsensical words spilling from them.

“Get to Hogsmeade. At the inn, there’s a floo parlour you can use. Think of any place— so long as it's far from here— and go,” he commanded before pushing her, not so kindly, down onto the first step.

It was starting to become apparent that she would have to make the journey alone and, as he apprehensively studied the twitching form of the Headmaster, it was decidedly for the best. The Dark Lord would have been able to track them if he went with her anyway. After all, that was the cruel magic behind the mark on his arm. It was a homing beacon that could never be destroyed— his permanent collar tying him to the man that had branded it into his skin.

No, he couldn't go with her. 

Not if he wanted her to have a fair chance to live.

Snape’s grip flexed on the wand's handle. 

He forced himself to look back at the girl blinking blearily up at him. Truly, it was the most inopportune moment to be reminded of Lily— yet he thought of her all the same. He would save this child, her child, in a form of atonement for the sins that had led to her death— to the destruction of his heart.

She was refusing to leave, her steps faltering in uncertainty— an adamant refusal held so clearly upon the tip of her tongue. He had spent enough years around her, after all, to know such tells. It wasn’t until a burst of magic was pushed into the center of her chest, urging her to move, to have even an ounce of self-preservation, that she finally took another shaky step.

“Go, Potter. Run!” he demanded as she backed down the stairwell slowly. 

The age-worn door, with its rough edges and rusted hinges, shut on its own accord— the resounding click of a lock turning filled the space. He eyed it for a heartbeat, desperately hoping, wishing, she had taken his advice. That the gods would be on her side and lend her feet wings so she may see another dawning day.

There was a crackling in the air and the sharp tang of magic. He whirled around only in time to throw up a hastily constructed shield against the jet of purple light barrelling his way— the spell fizzled out against it and the barrier shattered in a brilliant refraction of colours.

When the blinding light had faded, it was to see hardened eyes glinting behind half-moon glasses. And Severus suddenly found himself appealing to those very same gods to let him see the next sunrise as well.



Harri was rushing down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time as adrenaline fueled her forward. 'They're here,' her thoughts were edged with hysteria, 'Death Eaters. Him. They're all here.'

Glancing wildly down the abandoned corridor, left and then right, her mind spun with the decision of which direction to possibly take— she sprinted towards the courtyard. And it did cross her mind, as her heart hammered with the exertion of running and a cooling sheen of sweat appeared on her nape, why Severus was even telling her to escape— especially considering he just revealed himself as a follower of Voldemort.

It was a gamble to trust him, she knew it. He could be lying about the inn, could be setting up a trap for her instead. But if there was a chance he was right— if there was a chance he felt a smidge of concern for her as his student and was moved to such kindness— then she could escape, could go get help—

The stone halls shook violently, throwing her already unsteady steps off-balance. Shaking hands clung to a nearby archway for stability, the rough limestone texture biting into her palms. She peered over her shoulder, the air suddenly becoming too thick, too cloying to breathe in. It felt as though it had slicked her lungs and was fully intent on replacing the oxygen in them with its own corrupting miasma.

Harri panted shallowly through the haze. The pain in her scar had simmered down to a dulling throb— but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. Panicked awareness, abject horror, became too cognizant of the fact her skin felt too tight, too stretched— like she was ready to burst. And then it dawned on her that the changes in the charged atmosphere were traces of his magic. That his very presence was at fault for making her feel this way.

Another violent quake. This time, a deafening crack of stone falling and splitting open resounded in the distance. ‘He’s trying to bring down the castle.’

She forced herself to keep running.



He had appeared in the Astronomy Tower from the shadows, the darkness fluidly dripping down from his form, his limbs, as it knitted together to materialise into something more solid, more real. He was a monster born from its depths, an unholy creation of the void's own making— one that had finally come for the blood promised to him.

Voldemort stood impassively, eyes glowing as two points of hellfire, as he critically studied the scene before him. Severus was prone and sprawled out on the ground. The normally composed man was battered, ragged, as startling bruises bloomed across his sallow complexion. The sheen of sweat on his brow, tinged rust by the gash at his temple, relayed how hard he had fought— a doomed battle, most certainly, but one still waged with tenacity.

Yes, the man had done well in proving his loyalty tonight— and the Dark Lord always rewarded such promising behaviour.

Severus Snape would not die here.

With a sweeping arc of a bone-white wand, the beaten man slumped against the wall was vanished as though he were merely an inanimate object to be displaced at will.

It was only then that he stepped forward from the cover of darkness, the yew wand twirling in an offhanded manner between elegant fingers.

"Dumbledore," he greeted neutrally. Though his voice was even, calm, there was an underlying frigidness to it that was comparable to the chill in the night's air.

Voldemort stepped out into the haloed veil of moonlight, the severe black robes trailing softly on the ground through the puddles of long-since cooled blood. The hems left tracks behind, painting the wooden slats with gory, abstract shapes.

Silence reigned between them— a moment of ceasefire as one sized up the other.

Dumbledore watched him warily, trusting the calm demeanour of the wizard before him just as much as one trusted the sudden stillness before a storm. Gnarled fingers curled tightly about the knobbed ridges of the wand in his palm— a physical reminder, a justification, that he was the one to control the wand of power and, therefore, had the upper-hand in this situation. Yet, it didn't fully escape his notice the way the Dark Lord had honed in on the motion, greed lighting up those cursed red eyes and causing them to burn

“You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Tom," Dumbledore warned softly, thoughts a dizzying speed as he tried to formulate an impromptu strategy. "The others will be waking soon, no doubt to your theatrics, and the Aurors will have been called.”

At such an insubstantial excuse, such a flimsy caution, Voldemort couldn't quite resist the indulgent smile— too-sharp teeth were revealed, glinting in the darkness, as his lips curled back. It was the smile of a predator. Perverse glee coursed in him at the desperate attempts to cow him, to reprimand and chastise with such threats. It may have worked, once upon a time, when he was still a schoolboy and desperately sought the man's approval.

But that was decades ago— that naive child was long since lost to the ages though his face may have remained the same.

A click of his tongue, a derisively mock show of hurt as he stepped to mirror the Headmaster's circling path. 

“Oh come now, we both know that I have not arrived here alone. Do pray, however, that your professors can fend off my hounds, Dumbledore, for that is the only way you will escape with your life tonight.” There was a heady thrum of anticipation simmering under his indifferent mask, crimson eyes locked onto pale ones and refusing to stray.

“And then what of Harri, Tom? What will you do with her?” Dumbledore questioned, voice hesitant, almost hopeful. It was as though he wanted to hear aloud that he would destroy the girl in the end— and, unknowingly, himself in the process.

The yew wand stilled in its lazy twirl and the smile slid from him at the gall of the Headmaster. Dumbledore dared to still use her name so casually after what he had done, dared to look at him with such bright expectation hidden behind half-moon glasses. He dared to hope he would harm his own soul's vessel and destroy it— that he was banking on the fact, the expectation, he remained ignorant of Harri Potter's true nature.

But what truly disgusted him the most was the keenness behind the question— the demented expectation she would be dead before the night was up. The girl in which Dumbledore had sworn to protect and teach— his very own little champion. Yet it would appear such sentiments were pointless, moot, nulled.

Instead, Albus was tossing her aside, feeding her to the proverbial wolves willingly.

At this point, his fury was no longer a boiling, heated thing that threatened to consume in flame and smoke— no, it was quite the opposite.

Rather it was cold, glacial, the kind that made the tips of one's fingers go numb and for the heart to freeze over.

The answer to such a question had taken the form of a bitten-off yell, his arms thrown wide as magic, as dark and vile and cold as the wrath writhing in his chest, sprang forth. Fragments of shadow, pointed and malicious, tore through the air at a blurring speed in the older wizard's direction.

The hastily constructed Protego had done little to ward them off as the shield shredded under his might. A few errant pieces, the ones that skirted around the barrier's edges, sliced through the stone walls instead. The castle shook in response to the unexpected assault as the age-worn limestone valiantly attempted to bear the brunt of such an impassioned display. 

A moment passed before Voldemort noticed— with no small amount of vindictive glee— that cuts had appeared on Dumbledore's body where the shield hadn't withstood the onslaught.

His attention fixed obsessively on the lines of red welling along the man's papery skin, the blood soaking through and staining the garishly purple robes. The sight engendered a warped sense of satisfaction, a thought crossing his mind that only spurred him on: 'Even the great Albus Dumbledore can bleed.'

However, he had taken too long to admire his handiwork and was caught off-guard by an oppressive amount of water rushing out from the elder wand. His own spell tried to cut through the stream, to fend it off— the magic was seemingly sentient as it fought against his efforts, seeking to drown him, to wash away his impurities and very existence.

The final battle had begun in earnest.



Screams and shouts echoed in the vaulted corridors as those remaining in the castle were roused by the quakes and the burnt, acrid smell of the wards being forcefully torn apart— by the sudden heaviness of dark magic, thick and heady, permeating the air.

Everywhere Harri looked, there were flashes of light on her periphery, shadows dancing on the walls as spellfire was traded without fanfare or warning. It was like she had been dropped into a waking nightmare— that the carnage and destruction she had been anxiously awaiting, anticipating, had finally arrived at Hogwarts.

Who was all fighting? Were they people she knew? Most of the students, luckily, were gone but the professors remained— her teachers, her mentors. How many would survive this?

She had to force herself to keep running, to not go towards every cry that ricocheted off the carved walls— because she knew, deep down, that if she left the castle, he would eventually follow in pursuit. And with a temperamental wand that only half-listened, what was the best she could really do? If anything, she would be a hindrance more than a help— a liability.

That had been her motto, her plan, when she saw, out of the corner of her eye and down the adjacent corridor, Flitwick being cornered.

The professor looked exhausted— it was evident in the way his shoulders were drooping and how his steps were unsure. He was busy battling with two men, their spells being fired off in rapid succession. And even from this distance, Harri knew he was injured. He was favouring his left leg too heavily, the grimace of pain etched onto his pointed features. Her stomach knotted.

Another Death Eater rounded on him from behind— a woman dressed in obscenely tight clothing with a wild mass of black curls cascading down her back— and she knew she couldn't stand by to watch, her original plan be damned.

Without giving herself any time to second guess, she charged down the hall, mentally threatening the wand that if it didn’t work, she would snap it right here and right now. “Expelliarmus!” 

It was a moment of triumph when a corkscrew of crimson light sprang forth to hit the woman squarely in the chest. The oddly curved wand was sent flying from her talon-like nails— it clattered noisily to the tiled floor.

The Death Eater whirled around with a surprised 'oh' plastered on her face— it quickly morphed into rage. Untempered fury lent those dark eyes a glittering sheen as that painted mouth twisted into a snarl. The woman looked like she desired nothing more than to hex whoever had ruined her surprise attack, to tear into their flesh with her clawed nails— to revel in their spilled blood. She was madness personified.

But then that anger ebbed almost instantaneously— manic glee seemed to overcome her as she realised who was standing a few feet away, her countenance delving into something almost unnervingly child-like.

“There she is!" she screeched, the accompanying laughter grating as she hopped from foot to foot in uncontained excitement. "There's Harri Potter!"

The two wizards flanking the dark-haired witch trained their wands on Harri without instruction or hesitation— her stomach lurched at the development. Not keen on waiting to find out what spells they were mulling over, she spun on the heels of her worn sneakers and forced screaming legs to pump faster.

Arms swinging wide and breathing laboured, she willed her feet to gain wings, to carry her far from here. In the back of her mind, Snape's assessment of 'foolish girl' looped— and Harri found herself unable to fully disagree with it, a slew of muttered curses escaping her as green eyes frantically darted about for an alcove, a room, a side hall, something to hide in.

Behind her were persisting heavy footfalls, the sound a reminder of the hounds closing in and nipping at her ankles with their gaping maws.

A spell tore through the air— there was a stinging sensation to follow that elicited a sharp cry of pain. Sparing a glance, she tried not to retch at the sight, the smell, of burnt flesh. Whatever magic it was, it had seared through the fabric of the jumper, grazing her shoulder and grotesquely blistering the skin in the process.

Down the hall, there was a distinct smack of a hand meeting flesh. “You idiot! The Dark Lord wants her unharmed!” 

Distantly, her mind clung to that, filing it away to dissect at a later time when she wasn't being chased down.

Skidding around the corner at an alarming speed, the girl nearly crashed into the stooped form of Mad-Eye. Cool relief flooded her as she gripped the thickly corded forearm for stability, the exorbitant amount of scar tissue felt from even under the smooth hide of his leather coat.

“Professor!” she gasped, heart still beating a touch too fast against the confines of her ribs.

In the background, the heavy slaps of feet against stone drew closer, a chaotic screech of upset splitting the air. “Find her! She couldn’t have gotten far.”

An assessing glint entered the one good eye of his and she watched with mild interest as he glanced warily around the empty hall, tilting his head to hear better— residual instincts leftover from his time as an Auror, she figured. A tongue darted to the corners of his mouth as he had given a firm nod, heavy hands clamping down about her wrist and dragging her towards an empty classroom.

“In here, Potter.” He shoved the girl in and eased the door closed with a soft click.

The refreshing tingle of a Notice Me Not settled over their skins and he held a finger to his scarred lips in a bid for her to remain quiet. Harri held her breath, not even daring to exhale as the Death Eaters paused just outside of the classroom. Green eyes watched through the slated windows as the woman in the trio slapped the back of her companions' heads, demanding that they continue their search and reprimanding them for their apparent stupidity.

After a few seconds, they moved on— she nearly slumped down the wall in relief, the tension that knotted her stomach finally lessening.

Now that the immediate threat had passed, the excruciating spread of residual heat and an acute ache down her arm occupied her full attention. Gingerly peeling away the singed, melted fabric from the blisters, she had to bite her tongue to keep in the cry of pain. The taste of copper flooded her mouth.

It was an ugly sight to behold, the pale skin around it angry and marred with nauseating divots. Moody had taken one look at the wound, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like "half-wits" under his breath, before hobbling his way to the front of the room.

Urgently shuffling through the glass jars upon his desk, searching for what she did not know, he mumbled. “Did you see him— The Dark Lord? Who was with him?”

Harri did wonder how he knew it was the Dark Lord at their gates considering she hadn't even told him yet. 'Another professor must have said something,' she reasoned despite the nagging sense something was off.

Her response was a slight shake of her head, breath long gone and too stilted to speak clearly. She leaned heavily against the desk, grateful for the chance to rest even if it was only temporary. Green eyes watched him as he flitted about the room, the thought crossing her mind to offer her assistance.

The words refused to come. The professor's skin was, oddly enough, rippling, the blond hair turning patchy in some parts with brown instead. And then it hit her where she had seen these exact symptoms before. It was back in her second year when she, Hermione, and Ron used Polyjuice to sneak into the Slytherin common room in search of answers regarding the chamber. Even now, she could still feel the phantom itch when she morphed back into her original self.

'The flask.' The thought was a revelation. Why he was always nipping at it, why he always carried it with him— except for now, that is. She had always assumed it was just a severe case of alcoholism— who could blame him, after all, considering the life he led? 

But oh, how she was wrong on that front. 

Whoever the man was, he wasn't Mad-Eye— and, considering the timing of everything, it filled her with trepidation. 

Shaking fingers wrapped silently about her wand and she pleaded with it to work for a second time in a row. “Stupefy!”

A flash of red filled the dimly lit room as it collided with the man's back— she nearly cried out in relief. However, while the wand had cooperated, it also decided to put far too much power behind the simple spell.

The wizard was launched halfway across the room. A sickening crack resounded as his head snapped back and into the stone wall— he crumpled down into a heap and Harri, uneasily, edged closer. The visage of a young man replaced the grisly, lined face of Alastor Moody. And there, on his left forearm, was the beginnings of the Dark Mark breaking through the Polyjuice's glamour.

She wasted little time in rushing out of the classroom.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 21: 'Harri-Hunting'

Notes:

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for all the love you've been showing this fic— I really do appreciate it! 💕 You guys are all amazing!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Sneakers were a dull echo against the stone tiles, the flat, slapping sound of worn soles drowning out her shallow pants. Her calves were protesting the brutal pace she had set herself in, the muscles drawn taut as she willed them to keep working, to ignore the burn. 

Harri clung to the shadows the best she could, hyper-vigilant and hyper-aware. Ears strained to listen past their roaring drum for the tells and signs of the Death Eaters drawing in close— it was futile, of course, but the poor attempts at such concentration helped to distract her from the notion of Polyjuice’d professors roaming about the school. 

Who else was possibly lying? 

And who could she trust at this point to be who they claimed they were?

A particularly loud scream— grating and shrill that was abruptly clipped— resounded from somewhere within the heart of the castle. Her steps quickened in urgency, arms swinging wide.

At the corridor’s cross-section, Harri had almost turned left when tense voices floated out from further down— a man’s voice instructed unfamiliar names to go in various directions, his exasperation clear by the command’s bite. The rubber grips of her shoes squeaked as she managed to skid to a halt in time, her burnt shoulder clipping the edged corner of the limestone wall. 

A hiss was her response, teeth gritted as a fresh wave of pain shot throughout her arm. However, such a feeling was easily ignored when a gust of wind, chilling and frigid, tore through the drafty hall— snowflakes were carried with it and green eyes widened as she tracked their drifting path. ‘The courtyard,’ she realised, head snapping to peer down the right hall— and there, further down, were the arches that led out into the square. 

Harri bolted for it, stumbling as she tripped over her feet.

By this point, the snow had gathered in mounting inches— a thick carpet of white blanketed the cobblestone pathway as an exorbitant amount of flakes danced in a lazy, slow spiral. Breaking free into the night air, the winter’s cold was fully welcomed— the coursing adrenaline had flushed her skin warmly by this point and the snow provided a cool relief. 

An auburn head craned back to peer at the destroyed castle, pressing onward and desperately searching the upper windows for any sign of a Dark Lord looming behind their panes. 

“Potter!” 

That was the only warning she had before colliding headfirst into a solid chest— hands shot out to grip her shoulders. A harsh breath was sucked between clenched teeth when fingers unknowingly pressed into the blistered skin. They hurriedly darted down to her forearms instead and smoothed pressured circles into the muscle as an unspoken apology. 

Green eyes glanced up to see the distraught countenance of Draco, his normally calm eyes alight with heightened nerves.

“What are you still doing here?!” he demanded, gaze bouncing about the courtyard to see if anyone was currently watching them. 

It was difficult to miss how the girl in his grip had relaxed minutely, the trust in those wide eyes inciting a bitter, ashy taste to dry out his mouth. 

“Draco! Oh, thank Merlin,” she breathed out, rushing to explain what was happening. “He’s here, Draco, in the castle. I bumped into Mad-Eye, but he’s not really Mad-Eye, and Snape—”

She bit her tongue as two uncomfortable realisations suddenly made themselves known as a settling weight in her chest. One, Draco had asked what she was 'still doing here.' And two, she had clearly seen him leave on the Express earlier that day.

But yet he was here

He was here and that could only mean one thing: he arrived with the Dark Lord.

Suddenly those hands upon her felt less comforting and more constraining, more restricting— more threatening.

Harri tried to shrug him off, tone accusing as she suddenly recalled Lucius's impromptu visit to the school. “Your father. That’s what he was doing that day, wasn’t it? He was finding weak spots in the wards! You knew this was going to happen, didn't you!?”

The boy dragged her over to the shadowed corner in the square, a nervous tic in his jaw and a tightness in the corners of his mouth— his grip constricted instinctively when she started to struggle against it. A shaky, low sigh escaped him when he deemed it safe enough to speak freely, his fingers twitching with the urge to run them through his slicked-back hair.

“Why didn’t you leave the second you felt the wards fall?” Draco questioned, voice sharp in its urgency.

Begrudgingly, he was amazed that she had even made it this far without being caught— especially considering how many followers the Dark Lord had brought with him tonight. 

A distant sound of thunder, the quake a vibrating rumble, drew both of their attention— they flinched at the alarming crack of stone being cleaved in two. 

“I—,” she started.

She was about to confess everything— Dumbledore trying to murder her, Snape's rescue, Mad-Eye's deception— when unknown voices had interrupted her. Distinct words of ‘check the courtyard’ caused her to stiffen. He had a similar reaction as the shouting neared in a looming threat.

Harri tried yanking herself from his grasp but the strength behind it was unyielding.

“Draco! Draco, please,” her pleas were soft, whispered, his hold not lessening as pale eyes glazed over.

Fear crowded her mind for a moment that he was going to turn her over— that, perhaps, he was more loyal to his Lord than he had initially let on and that she had been too stupid, too naive to see it. 

Draco’s gaze narrowed at the nearing shouts, his mind racing and turning with attempts to formulate a plan, a strategy, a distraction— anything — that could buy her enough time to get off the school's ground. It was a Herculean task, thankless and impossible, as his thoughts seemed content to remain disjointed. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, heart pounding at the uncertainty of what to do next. 

But then she began thrashing in earnest and that ashy taste quickly soured at the very idea she feared him in this moment. One look down into those begging green eyes, desperate fear making them glint wetly in the moonlight, was all it took for him to drop his hands immediately.

The hawthorn wand slipped from its holster and into an awaiting palm, rationality mentally berating himself for the stupidity in what he was about to do. But if it worked— if she could make it out alive— then he figured such a risk would be worth it.

“You owe me big time, Potter,” he muttered, tongue darting skittishly over chapped lips. “And please, for the love of all things holy, don’t get caught.” 

They looked at each other for a second, her mind working uselessly to say something— he shouted in surprise before she could. The unexpected outburst startled her as much as the brilliant yellow sparks that were sent up into the air. Her eyes squeezed shut against their brightness, the flash of them imprinted even behind closed lids.

When her vision cleared, it was to see a boyish smile plastered on Draco’s face— a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes— and the mouthed command to 'run'.  

And then he was sprinting down the northern corridor opposite of them, crying out that he had found Harri Potter— footsteps changed directions, those once-nearing shouts fading as they fell for the bait.

Harri allowed herself a fleeting moment, just one, to admire his loyalty, his bravery, an appreciation for the boy blooming warmly in her chest.

With a silent prayer for him not to do anything too reckless, numbed legs took off stumbling down the sloped hill for the safety of the tree line



Voldemort stood over the gasping form of Dumbledore, his own chest rapidly rising and falling with exertion, with exhaustion. Crimson eyes bounced about the destroyed room of the tower, the destruction they had reaped in their duel, in their dance of death, only now just registering.

Large pieces of stone had been blown out from their places in the walls to pockmark the foundation— it was only by some miracle that they had yet to fully collapse. 

The wood flooring beneath them was charred and cracked in some places— angry, jagged splinters that gaped to reveal the dizzying height they were at. 

The once-proud silver globe had been obliterated and rendered into a cloud of fine dust— a clinging, glittering refuse that shimmered in the moonlight. That had been the result of a little manoeuvre Dumbledore attempted to pull in a bid to blind him.

Even the gabled roof hadn't been spared, its rafters fractured in some places and caved in. Shingles littered the space, the cloying smell of burnt tar and acrid dust clinging to the winter draft.

But in the end, it was he who loomed over the older wizard.

It was he who had been victorious, who had pulled an unwilling Albus Dumbledore down from his heavenly throne.

Fingers skirted over the widening crack in the yew wand, the wood and core straining against the amount of magic that had been forced through it this night. It was a pity, he figured, to lose such a fine one— but he had an even better prize to eagerly await him.

The Dark Lord spied the Elder wand a few feet away, having rolled from the weakened hands of its master and shifting its allegiance the moment the man had fallen in surrender.

Polished shoes took measured, clipped steps over to it, the wheezing of his greatest enemy in the background a sweet song seemingly composed for him. Of course, he did have to give Dumbledore credit where credit was due: the man had put up an extraordinary fight. And he wasn't so naive to believe it was his magical prowess alone that had conquered the wizard— oh no, he had the fortune of circumstance to thank for such.

Those months Dumbledore had spent engaging with him politically had left him physically weakened, the years finally catching up as the man had to divvy up his time between lobbying and petitioning while also running the school. It was a sleight of hand, a redirection of Albus's energy made just for this moment. 

After all, while he may be content with his newfound youth and confident in his magic, Dumbledore did possess the wand of power. And one could never be too careful where Death's favour was concerned.

Sliding the yew wand into the pocket of his duelling sleeves, Voldemort reached for the fabled hollow tucked among the debris. Scarlet eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the amount of raw power, of sheer magic, coursing through it. It greeted him eagerly, readily, as though finally recognising a worthy master.

Yes, this was his true match— a wand that would be able to withstand his will and cement his glory, his eternal reign.

A cough, wet sounding and strained, interrupted such reverie— his gaze slid over to where Dumbledore lay sprawled out. The glint of crimson bloomed in a puddle beneath the man, its spreading stain seeping over the plank flooring as the wizard rolled onto his side and spat onto the ground.

The spittle was tinged brightly with the same, damning red hue.

"The prophecy, Tom," Dumbledore rasped out. "What of the prophecy?"

Voldemort tilted his head, a detached coolness washing through him as he studied the Headmaster. There was a cut above the man's right brow that was dripping ruby tears into the eye below— he kept rapidly blinking as though to clear what must be his dimming vision.

His fingers twitched about the Elder wand, an acute awareness coming back of a similar gash he sported on his left side— it twinged as though annoyed it had been forgotten until this very moment. The tackiness soaked through the lightweight material of his robes as the wound bled freely, openly— a concerning sign it was probably deeper than anticipated.

But Voldemort refused to grasp at it, to heal it, to show any sign of weakness— not here. Not now. 

Rather, he simply smiled— a slow, savage, cutting thing. "Oh, Dumbledore. You truly are a fool."

He moved purposefully to crouch down beside the Headmaster, burning eyes glinting with feral satisfaction as they evenly met a pale gaze. "I carve out my own destiny and shape it to my will, old man. A prophecy means nothing to me."

A deliberate twirl of the Elder wand. "Not anymore."

Clarity sparked in those wide eyes hidden behind half-moon glasses— a sharpness flourished in his chest and a bitterness coated his tongue at the sight. And oh, how he despised it— that damning look as though the man had been suddenly apprised of all the universe's secrets. As though he knew something no one else did and was gloating— flaunting— such knowledge. 

Something capricious, something vile, writhed between his ribs— his next words were intoned softly, almost tenderly, “Avada Kedavra.”

Verdant light seized an aged body and that shrewd glint vanished from pale eyes— entirely extinguished as the soul was forced to depart. 

He had done it.

He had conquered his enemy.

He had made the invincible Albus Dumbledore mortal and finally, finally, humbled before him.

There was a voice, a whisper of desire, encouraging him, urging him, to memorialise such a moment— a desperate wish that clawed the inside of his chest raw. Glancing up between the exposed beams of the gabled roof, he considered the moon hanging so heavily in the winter's night sky— so innocent, so unassuming. So perfect and just waiting to be corrupted. 

The knobbed wand was pointed upward, a soft mutter, “Morsmordre.”

A green aura of flickering radiance materialised, the shape of a skull forming as the shimmering particles clustered together. He watched in detached approval as the jaw extended and a snake writhed out from its gaping maw. 

Voldemort turned on his heel to leave, eager to claim the second prize he had come for, but paused long enough to release a snake-shaped fiendfyre into the room.

The sentient fire curled about the tower’s corners, around every edge, greedy in its mission to devour whatever brazenly stood in its path. The Dark Lord spared a second to watch as the snake began to swallow the body of Dumbledore in its inferno, erasing all physical evidence of the Headmaster's presence— of what had occurred here tonight.

And it became clear to him, a dawning revelation brought about by dancing flames, that he wouldn't stop until every single trace, every mention, every memory of the mighty Albus Dumbledore was eradicated for the crimes he committed. After all, he finally had the capacity, the agency, the ability to do so— and he would be a fool to pass such an opportunity up.

A smirk lifted the corners of his mouth at the mere thought. 

The Dark Lord apparated away from the hellish scene without another moment of delay, attention now entirely fixated on a girl with red hair and too-green eyes.



Weaving through the trees, it finally registered, much to her distress, that it was snowing heavily out. And while she would have loved it any other time, now it had become a nuisance, an added challenge.

Why? Because snow left footprints. Physical traces of where she was heading— a trail far too easy to track for anyone with half a mind.

Harri leaned heavily against a barren trunk to catch her breath, the winter having long since stripped its bark, and glanced over her shoulder with a grimace. The number of impressions she had made in her scramble for safety were incriminating at best— but there was nothing that could be done about them now. The frigid air stung her lungs in the worst sort of way as she panted shallowly, her breath crystallising into wispy puffs. 

It was probably idiotic to stop, she knew it— but, at this point, she was running blindly without any real direction. Green eyes peered frantically through the patchwork of the forest's grove, mind whirling to gather her bearings, her surroundings— how far was Hogsmeade again from the castle? 

Was it North? 

Or South? 

Her jaw clenched in frustration and she had to will her knees to stop shaking from the cold. 'Come on, Harri. Think, damn it.'

The moment for reprieve, however, ended without warning as a surge of displeasure coloured the peripheral edges of her mind— it was an emotion she could only equate to how a predator must feel when his cornered prey manages to elude him. Voldemort was finally on the move, it would seem— was finally ready to join in on the 'fun'. At such a thought, an unbidden, dark realisation crossed her mind: this was turning into a rather high stakes version of her cousin's favourite pastime of Harri-Hunting.

And this wasn't a game she was willing to lose.

Voices flooded the woods. A deranged bout of laughter bounced through the deadened trees and the following croon was carried on by a sickly-sweet falsetto. “Harrikins! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

That was plenty enough motivation.

Harri willed tired legs to move, bursting through the calf-deep snow with renewed energy as a shriek rang out— purple spellfire collided with the trunk by her head. She eyed in passing the charred spot with horror, the smell of singed pine making her want to gag.

It was moments like these she wished she could apparate— that she knew how to— her muscles on fire from exhaustion and burning with protest as the wolves came ever so closer to descending.

Unexpectedly, the oddest surge of self-satisfaction slammed into her, blindsiding and arresting— vile and warped, it spoke volumes to the nature of whatever sin he had just committed. Harri found herself pulling up short behind a tree, panicked at the possibility of what it might mean. Thoughts immediately jumped to Snape, to Draco— even to Dumbledore— sharp concern flooding her at the question of their wellbeing.

An explosion suddenly split the night.

It cleaved the silence of the forest, the distant voices, and her moment of worry as the roar vibrated through the ground beneath her feet.   

Whirling around, wide, fearful eyes darted about in a wild search to identify the source, to see what further destruction had been reaped. And then she caught sight of it— her heart sank and a heavy pit settled low in her stomach. 

The Astronomy Tower was in flames.

Set ablaze, its orange glow licked at the wooden spires, devouring the shingles as though alive— far too hungry, too greedy, in its need to be sated. And oh, how jarring was it to see such violence juxtaposed against the tranquil stars, the smoke already beginning to eclipse the full moon.

And just above the tallest peak of the castle, glittering green and twisting around the blackened plumes, was the Dark Mark. The stinging in her scar increased at the appearance of the sigil painted in the sky, her mouth turning dry and locked knees going lax.

A flicker of triumph on the boundaries of her awareness, a single thought springing to the forefront: ‘There you are.’

All the warning she received was a crack— a sharp sound similar to that of a gunshot— before he was there.

A possessive arm had found itself encircled about her waist, a too-large hand clutching at her throat and tightening just ever-so on the soft pulse point beneath her jaw. The grip forced her head upward, unrelenting and unyielding. There was a body— too solid, too real — pressed up against her back, the surprising coldness of it a shock against even her chilled skin.

This was different from their dreams, she realised with morbid fascination. In such instances, she could wake and he would be gone— could act with abandon in them because the threat of him was so easy to compartmentalise as only existing within the nighttime hours. In them, she hadn't felt as powerless, as small, as she did now with him moulding and draping himself to her, too keen on filling in every possible space.

The scent of sweet smoke washed over her and Harri could feel the spark of magic rolling off him— a swirling darkness that elicited goosebumps to prickle and hair to rise. It was licking at her skin in a ravenous tide, in a silent claim.

Harri worked to swallow but it was impossible. And oh, how loud was the pulse drumming in her ears— a distant thought wondered if the hand at her throat could feel it too. If it was sensing how her heart was pounding in a racing tempo that threatened to burst. She despised that the answer was 'yes'. That he was, more likely than not, revelling in her fear— that she had no possible way of faking that she wasn't shaking.

The useless wand slipped from numbed fingers with a soft thud— it disappeared, consumed by the blanket of white coating the ground.

“I have caught you, Harri Potter,” he crooned in victory, in triumph at finally having his hands upon her.

And it was even more glorious than he had ever envisioned. The way her pulse was fluttering under the pads of his fingers, the way she had gone both limp and rigid in his grasp— how perfectly slotted she was against him. In every which way possible, she was made for him and this only further proved it.

The hand at her throat pushed her head even further back, encouraging her to look past the flames spewing out from the tower and to the constellations above— to his mark, to his claim. Voldemort leaned down to whisper, the shiver coursing through her slight frame when his lips brushed the shell of her ear not going unnoticed. 

He highly doubted such a reaction was entirely from the cold.

“Do you see, Harri, how the heavens divine my name in their stars? How they speak of my glory, of my triumph, in this very moment? I have done the impossible tonight and what no other man has attempted to do before me. Lessers have thought Hogwarts to be impenetrable," he mused, eyeing the few errant snowflakes that clung valiantly to her matted hair. "But I have brought it to heel and have given it a new master.”

The Dark Lord chuckled. It was a low sound that made his chest vibrate in turn, amusement found in the way she had imperceptibly whimpered when the arm on her waist constricted— the hand at her throat pressed up unkindly, unwaveringly, until an auburn crown was forced to rest upon his shoulder.

The exposed column of her neck was a mesmerizing sight and the urge to bite into it, to taste her blood between his teeth and mark her again, was almost overwhelming. It took more effort than he would care to admit to fight it down.

She had finally begun to struggle— he clicked his tongue mockingly at the futile effort. An experimental squeeze on the vulnerable point of her exposed pulse, an unspoken threat— blooming satisfaction when she had immediately stilled her squirming.

“Remember the stars, Harri," he warned, a slow smile unfurling. "Remember them well.”

They apparated away without fanfare— an inward hiss as the fabric of time was shredded and forced to bend to his will. 

The spot where they had once been was now demarcated by two sets of footprints and a wand buried deep within the mounting snow.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 22: Feral

Notes:

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading along thus far 💕 I am so excited to move forward with this story and have so many fun scenes planned out that, hopefully, you will all love!

 

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



When they had rematerialised, it was to a room Harri was immensely acquainted with— and one that she could never have imagined seeing in person: his study.

It remained the same from their shared dreams, an exact copy down to the most unassuming of details. The same ornate rug stretched out in front of the mantle. 

The same high-backed velvet armchairs angled to face each other. 

The same black chaise lounge and austerely carved walnut desk. 

Even the fire, cheerily cracking and popping behind a fanned metal grate, was in character.

She wondered wildly if this was where he was going to do it— if this was where he was going to end her existence and finally fulfil that damned prophecy. And a part of her wanted to hysterically laugh at the absurdity, at the notion this would be the room she would die in.

The very room that had started their months’ long charade of a dance; the very one that turned her nightmares into reality.

The irony was abundant.

He was still holding her in that restraining embrace from the forest, refusing to let her go or even relax slightly. Pain, flaring and bright, crept up along her neck as an ache, the awkward angle it was forced into inciting spots to flicker across her vision. The arm at her waist, unyielding as it pressed her against him, made it difficult to draw in deep breaths— she had been reduced to shallowly panting to stave off the threat of fainting.

An image of a snake wrapped about its prey, ready to squeeze the life from it and devour it whole, formed unwittingly in her mind: it did little to help calm strung nerves. And as the seconds ticked on with him showing no intention of easing up, Harri could feel her level-headedness slipping— it was impossible to think of a plan, to keep her thoughts focused, when all she felt was him.

Solid.

Real. 

Full of muscle and blood and bone: a threat.

She began to thrash in earnest, a voice urgently whispering she needed to get out of his hold if she wanted a chance to survive.

However, the more she squirmed, the harder the arm around her middle dug into the vulnerable spot right below her ribs— a wince when the pain became too much. She despised it— despised how exposed her neck was and that she couldn’t see his face. And, above all, she despised that, in the most peculiar of ways, this was an intimate position to be in. 

A sham of a lover’s embrace.

“Let me go!” Harri demanded.

“Fine." He released her, the corners of his mouth twitching as she stumbled without his support. "As you wish.”

Delight. 

Pure, unfiltered— and perhaps a touch sadistic— delight. That's what he felt when she spun around to glare at him, not missing the way her hand had drifted up to her throat to massage it. Nor did he miss how her fingers were trembling, shaking, the false bravado she had so valiantly constructed crumbling. And even though she was no longer slotted against him, the traces of her warmth were still there— a phantom pulse thrumming erratically beneath his fingertips. A fierce desire, base and vulgar, chastised him for even letting her go, that it sang of wanting to hold her again— to revel in his victory, to ensure she was real and not just some spectre of his imagination.

Voldemort regarded the girl shrewdly as she edged away from him and distantly wondered if she even noticed there had been a lack of pain during their contact. That it had been, in fact, quite the opposite. Almost pleasurable, one might say, as he felt the horcrux's pulls— had heard its needy pleas to be near the original soul.  'Probably not,' he determined, leaning against the walnut desk and crossing his arms over his chest. She looked like a deer caught in headlights— panicked, wide-eyed, rooted in place. 

It was difficult to resist the urge to smirk at such a display.

And just as he was watching her, Harri was studying him— a suspended moment where neither dared to move. 

Green eyes flitted across his, oddly enough, relaxed stance, attempting to discern his next move, his thoughts— some part of her was half-expecting him to yell two little words and fill the room with a flash of sickening green.

An ember abruptly popped in the mantle and she started, reaching for a wand that wasn't even there— uncomfortably, she was reminded of a rather similar encounter, once upon a time, of this precise nature.

An encounter in which she had been in this study and was as equally underprepared as she was now— one that had ended with his fangs in her neck.

In fact, there were quite a few memories attached to this room that she sorely wished to forget— but perhaps that's why he had brought her here in the first place. A bit of light-hearted, psychological torture before the main event. 

A heavy swallow, her throat dry, scratchy.

“Get on with it,” she said, thankful that her voice hadn’t wavered despite her knees feeling like they were about to give.

At the very least, she figured she could pretend not to be scared— to face a death she wasn’t ready for with false bravery and confidence. ‘Merlin be damned,’ an adamant thought, ‘if he thinks I’ll beg.’

Scarlet eyes glittered with something akin to faint amusement as he drank in the way she jutted her chin and squared her shoulders— how she tried to puff up her chest to act unafraid despite her heartbeat telling a very different story. In the strangest of ways, it was endearing.

He laughed softly, delight only growing when she shrank back at the sound. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Harri Potter."

While those words should have brought about a sense of reassurance, the laughter that accompanied them, the burning look in his eyes, had the opposite effect: if anything, it made her even more apprehensive. Already, her mind was racing with possibilities of what he meant to do first— flashes of the spider being tortured in Not-Moody's class raced by.

She felt like she was going to be ill.

The bite of nails digging into soft palms was a welcomed distraction.

“What are you going to do then?” Harri asked quietly.

Voldemort's hands were behind him and gripping the desk's edge, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure. Slowly, he allowed his gaze to rake over her figure, a tongue running contemplatively over his canines. There had been multiple scenarios entertained long into the night regarding how he dealt with her, each one dependent on how she might react. And as much as he would enjoy the path of least resistance, to spend an entirety with his horcrux in a congenial rapport, the girl's track record pointed to the opposite. 

The answer, when it finally came, was slow, deliberate. “Well, that depends entirely on you, now doesn’t it?”    

Oppressive silence reigned between them, neither party content nor willing to break it.

Harri could feel her heart finally slowing to a reasonable pace as the adrenaline wore off— her nerves, however, were a separate matter. They were still strung too tightly, too taut, ready to snap at any given moment. And while Voldemort was watching her in his usual predatory manner, there was a new kind of darkness flickering in his gaze— an unknown type she didn't even want to begin to puzzle out.

The threat of his words hung heavily over her— an ominous, chilling shroud that leached away her warmth— and she couldn't help but jolt at every slight move he made. That expectation of seeing that yew wand, and of his admonishment of her for being so naive, refused to abate.

But then she noticed it. There, over his shoulder and a few steps away, was a door that hadn't been in the dreams.

A way out.

She latched onto it, a beacon of hope, her mind screaming to leave first and make a formal plan second. That, the further away she was from him, the better chance she could have. Of course, it might be futile, pointless— might only succeed in pissing him off further. But she would be a fool to not try.

A lurch in her stomach and a tremor in her knees, Harri tried to meander about the room nonchalantly— tried to come across as blasé and casual as though she wasn't plotting an escape. There was a side table by the armchairs and fingers distractedly ran across its polished, glass surface— a streak of moisture left behind as sweaty hands betrayed her nerves. 

Counting down from three silently, a shaky breath was drawn— she bolted.

In a blind attempt to slow Voldemort down, she pushed over the side table— a deafening crash as the glass top shattered. Thousands of glittering shards embedded themselves into the tightly-woven Persian rug— a crunch underfoot as sneakers paid them little heed.

A prayer was sent to an unknown god that he might trip over it, that it might surprise him enough into granting her a head start. After all, without a wand, there was only so much she could do— and if it meant resorting to sly, underhanded Muggle tactics to put space between herself and him?

Well, she wasn't exactly morally opposed.

However, Lady Luck, for once, was not on her side. An arm shot out to hook about her waist, yanking her back without fanfare— the breath was forced out of burning lungs with a wheezing cough. She had been so close— so close — to the door, her fingers outstretched to graze the cool metal of the knob when she found herself back in his bruising grasp.

A scream of frustration tore from her as another arm snaked across her chest, unkindly and unceremoniously melding her to his solid form.

“Really now, Harri." He clicked his tongue in an attempt to make the false disappointment in his voice believable. “Going so soon? Don’t you know how incredibly rude it is to leave without even saying goodbye?”

In all actuality, however, he couldn't be more pleased than he was at this very moment. It would have been a pity, a prodigious letdown, if she didn't decide to resist at least somewhat. After all, as he had come to understand rather quickly during the course of the past few months, there was nothing he enjoyed more than pushing her limits— to see what she could do to shock him.

Harri kicked at the air, fingers vainly scrabbling to pry his arms off her, the bluntness of her nails doing very little to inflict the pain she so desperately wanted to. He was toying with her, she realised, remorselessly playing around before he could enact whatever sick agenda he had planned— it made her want to retch.

“You bloody psycho! Let me go!” she screamed.

He couldn't help but chuckle, dark amusement swelling in his chest. How easy would it be for him to turn into the villain she thought he was— to show her the monstrous side that earned him the title of 'Dark Lord' and made it so people were terrified to even utter aloud his name. There was certainly something appealing in the idea, if not to at least shock her into a subdued state.

Voldemort whispered, lips grazing her hair, “Should I show you, Harri, how much of a ‘psycho’ I truly can be? Show you what I have all done to deserve being called a ‘Dark Lord’? I can if that is what you want.”

A moan of pain bubbled past chapped lips when the arm across her chest tightened, the pressure on blistered skin sharpening into an acute, burning ache. The pain was enough to blur her vision, green eyes watering as the room warped and distorted— and that soft laughter from him was enough to make her think he had done it on purpose.

Squirming and writhing, Harri was determined to at least not make it easy on him. Her mind was racing quickly, shuffling through idea after idea on how to escape, on how to live past this night, to the point it was beginning to physically throb. 

The building stress, the mounting anxiety, had finally caused the precarious wire she had been balancing on to snap because— sweet Merlin no — this couldn't be how it ends.

In a last-ditch attempt, Harri threw her elbow up and back forcefully— numbing pinpricks radiated throughout her arm as the bone connected with something solid, something warm.

A revolting sound of wet cracking, a cry of surprised pain— she was free.

Scrambling from his hold, nearly tripping over her feet in the process, she clawed at the air to regain her balance— to put distance between herself and the acrimonious wrath that was, undoubtedly, awaiting her should she turn around.

The gleam of a golden globe, expensive and weighty looking, was there to catch her eye. She darted over to the bookshelves, grasping and hoisting it above her head, entirely ready to throw it in hopes of incapacitating him.

Voldemort stumbled back at the unexpected, stinging pain that was rapidly spreading outwards from his nose. It had shocked him into stillness, into silence, as a hand slowly went to inspect the damage her little stunt had reaped. Traces of momentary relief she hadn't broken anything were quickly overshadowed by the tackiness, the heat.

His hand pulled back to reveal bright spots of gore coating the fingers— stark and vibrant against his complexion, the blood glinted in the lowlight of the study. Reactions washed through him in a tide, vacillating between horror and morbid surprise and reluctant awe— fury rapidly diminished them all in contrast.

It surged in him, anger hot and boiling, the serpent coiled in his chest baring its fangs and demanding punishment— retribution. Initially, he had planned to have a calm chat with her, to reveal the truth of her nature and assure her she was safe by his side— but now? Oh no. 

Now all he wanted to do was make her regret everything.

“You spiteful little menace,” he seethed, eyes as vivid as the blood streaming down his face.

Voldemort pushed his magic out and squarely into the centre of her sternum. The globe dropped with an alarming thud as she was forcefully thrown back onto the chaise lounge.

Sadistic gratification thrummed in his veins when she groaned, the sound frail and breathless, when her head had snapped back on the wooden frame— those green eyes glazed over, stunned and unfocused. It was a war of two truths: one was singing for her to be disciplined harshly— to correct this kind of behaviour and make her repent. The other, however, was screaming for caution, for temperance, for patience— to avoid damaging something as precious as she was.

The dilemma irked him for the mere fact his own mind was advocating against every ingrained instinct— that it was betraying him in favour of one simple girl.

The Dark Lord descended on her before she could even register what was happening.

Half on the lounge, half on the ground, he wedged a knee between her legs to stop them from kicking out— she'd try it the first chance she had, he just knew it. One hand shot out to grasp both of her wrists, pressing them harshly into the plush, velvet fabric above her head, while the other was used to prop himself up.

Unbidden, scarlet eyes were drawn to the rapid rise and fall of the girl's chest, the swell of it visible even under the guise of that bulky black jumper. He found himself staring with a warped, depraved fascination. An unholy thought had begun to pace in his mind— a beast typically kept in a cage— demanding he tear into her breast, break apart her ribs, and find that shard of him that existed deep within her. To expose her soul, lay it bare for him to dissect at his pleasure— to peruse every little thing that made her feel, function, tick.

His fingers twitched, constricting the barest amount around her wrists as he tried to chase away the idea, the temptation.

Part of him was immensely thankful she had regained consciousness and started to thrash pitifully, his attention captured by her squirming— the way her spine arched to throw him off, her body rising to press up against his for the briefest second before sinking back down. 'This is what happens to magical children,' he thought with distaste, her vehement protest to be let go barely registering, 'when left to the tender mercies of the Muggle world. They become feral .’

He raised her wrists before abruptly slamming them back down into the chaise, his face drawing nearer to hers— she had blanched to the degree of alarming paleness, a sheen of terror so clear in bright eyes. 

“Even my patience has its limits, Harri. And right now? Well, you are wearing it dangerously thin,” he bit out.

And then something ruby red had dripped onto her cheek. 

'My blood,' he mused in surprise, forgetting entirely he had been injured in the first place. The girl under him froze as the hand propping himself up, idly and on its own volition, rose to cradle her jaw.

A trance overcame him— a man possessed— as his thumb swiped at the droplet. A foreign feeling, an aching, gnawing want unfurled in him as he watched the streak of gore stain the cream of her skin. It was corrupting, polluting, sharply contrasted against such purity. He refused to look away, refused to look anywhere but that jarring, beautiful image his blood made on her.

The earlier sense of anger rushed out of him and something more dangerous, something more sinful and immoral, took its place. And, just like that, Voldemort gained a painful awareness of the position they were in.

Her, stretched out underneath him.

Him, holding her down.

“I believe,” he muttered slowly, pushing his magic into her body and urging it to follow his command, “it would be wise for you to sleep now, Harri.”

Those too-green eyes fluttered shut almost instantaneously, her limbs going lax and limp as sleep claimed her for its own. Releasing her wrists, absentminded fingers rubbed the blood on this thumb against his index, its residual warmth rapidly fading. 

And as he hovered over her, not quite content to back away just yet, the Dark Lord found himself, yet again, debating the existence of his horcrux.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 23: Nagini

Notes:

Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but a storm knocked out my power— I'm sorry for making you wait 💕

Once again, you are all amazing and thank you so much for every kudos, bookmark and comment! It makes my day reading your reactions to the story so far 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



For the most part, she dreamt of smoke and fire, of green flashes and pained screams— of possessive arms, unyielding embraces, and bright scarlet blooms. It was an uneasy sort of rest, hours spent in fitful passing from one vignette to another, the disjointed images never materialising in great enough detail to capture her interest for too long. 

The smell of brimstone and the sensation of fire licking at her skin were what finally roused her— a sharp gasp as she resurfaced from the darkness. And even as green eyes shot open— the unexpected flood of light bringing about a dull ache— Harri was almost certain she was still stuck in the nightmare’s loop. Trepidation was her waking companion, an unerring sense that, somehow, Hell had been unleashed and that she was stuck at its very centre.

Except— this didn't look like the fiery inferno Petunia had ensured she was well-acquainted with.

On the contrary, what greeted her was pleasant enough— normal.

A high vaulted ceiling with white, elaborately carved crown moulding came into view, the design comprised of nonsensical scrolls and flourishes. Green eyes traced over the intricate filigree, the corners of her mouth twitching into a frown. When had her dorm room been remodelled? And whoever was in charge should definitely be fired— the trim was ostentatious to a ridiculous degree. 

One might even be inclined to call it pretentious. 

But yet, as the minutes ticked on and the hazy fog was slowly lifted, certain thoughts began to process— a desperate game of catch-up as they shuffled, jostled, through the queue. Two, in particular, made her stomach clench in an unpleasant way. 

For one, her body felt incredibly heavy, sluggish— it was as though stones had been placed atop her limbs, pinning her down into the plush mattress. And it was that minor detail that led to a second, more startling, revelation: she was not in her dorm room.

Her bed at Hogwarts was, begrudgingly, far less comfortable than the one she currently found herself in— and the canopy drapes were a brilliant shade of red. Not black. 

Mouth dry, a difficult swallow, a wandering hand slipped over sheets— 'Silk,' she determined, panic only heightening— searching, seeking, the edge of the mattress. 

It wasn't found. 

The bed might as well have been a sea, expansive and without a determinable end.

A brutal onslaught of memories came rushing back. Hogwarts being invaded. Voldemort finding her. The struggle in the study. The copious amount of blood— so much blood, as vivid and scalding as those damning red eyes. 

“Shit,” she breathed aloud, the word strung together in a bastardisation of a mantra. “Shitshitshitshit!”

Harri jolted to get up, to escape before he had the chance to divine whatever warped sense of justice he deemed fit— 

She was promptly yanked back by something digging, burrowing, mercilessly into the delicate skin of her neck. 

Her throat constricted— a wheezing cough as she greedily gulped in air to alleviate the burn. Tears pricked at the corners of green eyes— a few errant ones escaping fanned lashes and falling onto the pillows below— and the detail in the ceiling overhead blurred into abstract shapes. 

‘What the hell?!’ Shaking fingers reached up blindly— the cooling bite of metal made her immediately recoil. 

One blink, and then two. Bewilderment and curiosity quickly overcame shock as she tried to comprehend what was around her throat. Skimming along the band, fingers brushed against a thick ring near the base of her skull— an anchor.

It would appear, for whatever unknown reason, she had a collar on— and that it was attached to something else. 

The bed suddenly seemed far less comfortable, less inviting.

Craning her neck as much as she dared, she could feel her mouth drop in mute horror. A silver chain, gleaming and thickly corded, was looped through a mount on the wall above the bed's four-postered frame.

Harri tugged experimentally, frowning when it didn't so much as budge. And oh, how difficult was it to stamp down her confused speculations of what it was possibly used for, what its normal function was. It was almost like she was a—

Rage.

Embarrassed, mortified rage surged at the revelation. She had been tied up like a dog— and, without a shadow of doubt, she just knew he had done it to get back at her. That he saw fit to chain her as though she was less of a person, a human, and more of an unruly animal. A wild beast.

Static clung to the air, sparks dancing along her skin, between her ribs— it occupied every fibre in her being, a hateful sort of power arising from the indignation of such treatment. He had put her on a leash and because of what, exactly? 

Because she had retaliated, had fought for her life— hadn't rolled over to a psychopath who had been out for her since birth?

An embittered laugh at the thought— at how he was acting as though she was some misbehaved pet that needed to be disciplined. 'Isn't that just bloody hilarious,' she thought venomously, fists curling about the silver chainlinks and violently yanking at them— and if some part of her hoped they would rip the plaster off the pristine walls in the process, who could truly blame her? 'Especially considering he was the one who bit me first.'

They rattled noisily in the quiet of the bedroom, clinking together in protest at her maltreatment— a frustrated noise when her hands started to burn and she had no choice but to let go. 

Glancing down at the red tracks marring her palms, the beginnings of blisters evident where the links had pinched her skin, Harri slumped back against the pillows. And as she sat there in frustrated silence, jaw clenching and unclenching as she tried to figure out what to do, the backlog of emotions from the past few hours finally had a chance to process.

It was the fierce understanding, one that made the rage in her chest turn frigid, icy, that took foremost importance: she was sick of this all. 

Sick of the hypocrisy, the betrayals, the half-baked responses. Merlin only knew if anyone had ever given her a straight answer before in her life. Hell, even her own aunt had kept the truth of her nature from her— not to mention her parent's death. And while Voldemort may have never outright lied to her, he was certainly content enough to keep her in the dark just as much as everyone else.

'You weren't even told about the prophecy,' a small voice reminded. It brought about an entirely fresh wave of anger— of disappointment, pain.

She ground her teeth, the pressure nearly cracking them, at that little bomb that had been dropped without any warning. Her entire life, she had stumbled through thinking it was her parents' fault— that, somehow, Lily and James Potter brought their fate upon themselves by willfully antagonising the Dark Lord. And then Dumbledore—

The lights overhead flickered once before plunging the room into darkness. 

An astringency coated her tongue, electricity jumping in the crevices, the dips, of her fingers— the pressure behind her eyes was building as she reflected on the Headmaster. Her skin suddenly felt too tight, too thin, the air in the room suffocating.

He had betrayed her for reasons she didn't even understand— had the audacity to do so when her back was turned. And, logically, Harri knew she should feel grief— that there should be some form of sorrow at his prodigious deception, his treachery. But yet the tears refused to fall as the burning ideas of confrontation staved them off.

What would she say to him the next time they saw each other?

What would she do— would she even accept his apology? Or, perhaps the question was, would he even offer one up?

Probably not. 

The windows in their panes began to rattle, fingers clenching at silk sheets, her magic singing for justice—

Ah, you are awake.”

Harri froze. 

It felt as though ice water had been splashed on her, dousing the flames of her temper and reducing it to smouldering, wet ash. She knew that voice— that hissing. 

Much to her alarm, the covers near the foot of the bed were shifting.

Tentatively, hesitantly, the girl lifted the edge of the duvet, heart sinking at the sight of two golden eyes peering up from the murky darkness below. She kicked off the covers into a crumpled heap, legs scrambling to get out from underneath them and as far away from the snake as possible. 

The undulating form of Nagini neared closer as Harri shrunk against the headboard, pulse drumming when a triangular head peeked out from the blankets. A long, forked tongue scented the air in a curious manner and she could have sworn she felt the chills of a faint coming on when it flicked cooly across her calf.

And then she remembered she was chained up— unable to escape. The fact was an oppressive weight, her head swimming and the edges of her vision dimming— there was only one logical reason why Voldemort would do so: he intended to feed her to his bloody pet alive. Was it even possible for the snake to swallow prey as big as a human? Judging by its size, most likely. 

Bile clawed up from her stomach, a sense of queasiness tiding through her. It took every ounce of her will, her strength, to not be sick right then and there.

Nagini began coiling herself around the girl’s legs, relishing in the innate warmth of heated blood. “I was worried. You had not stirred for a while.” 

I will not eat you if that is your concern,” she assured, rearing up to stare evenly into wide, green eyes. There was a sheen of terror in them she had come to expect from most humans— a majority of them weren't exactly comfortable around her for whatever reason.

Another curious, scenting flick was all it took to confirm her earlier suspicions— there was a distinct lack of acidity present to the girl's scent: it would appear she had yet to develop venom. 'A hatchling,' supplied a possessive thought, a fierce instinct urging her to protect, to safeguard the girl.

A ripple of muscle under dappled scales as she coiled tighter about shaking legs.

Harri blinked dazedly and tried to process the horror of the snake being so close to her again. The chilled weight of her muscular body was pinning, impossible to shake off, warning bells going off that this was a predator she was being confronted with. It faintly reminded her of being back in the graveyard— just as helpless, just as scared. An unbidden shudder at the memory. Dread knotted her nerves.

A tongue darted skittishly over chapped lips. "You won't? "

For the first time in all of her 16 years, Harri witnessed a snake laugh— or, at least, she supposed that’s what the noise was. It was jarring, a series of stuttered sibilant sounds like a dripping faucet springing to life. 

No, little one, I will not. You are too precious to Master to even consider it.

The serpent moved to curl up around her torso instead, flat head attempting to edge its way into the burnt hole in the sweater’s sleeve. Nagini idly tasted the newly-healed skin, the spot just a touch paler, a tad shinier, than the rest of the girl's complexion.

He has healed it nicely,” she commented, retreating once she realised her body wouldn’t be able to fit.

Harri glanced down in confusion. Only now did it register that the blister wasn't hurting— that she could no longer feel the pulsating throb of it. Brows knitted together as she gingerly prodded the healed area, eyes growing wide in disbelief when there wasn't even the slightest trace of residual pain. 

It puzzled her beyond all comprehension. Why had he gone to such lengths to mend the wound? To do so in a manner that not even a scar was left?

She darted forward in urgency, enticed by the prospect that someone might finally be upfront with her— even if that someone was a snake. A distant memory resurfaced of the dark-haired witch's horrified screech when the tail end of her companion's spell grazed her arm— how the woman reiterated their instructions that the Dark Lord 'wanted her unharmed.' Back then, she merely chalked it up to him wanting her intact so he could personally finish the job. 

However, hearing the snake's admission that he personally healed her, that she was 'precious', rattled her— a sneaking suspicion there was far more to this story.

A difficult swallow, she crept closer to the snake, voice lowering in an eager whisper, “Why? Why am I precious to him?

Voldemort had appeared unnoticed, the shadows cloaking and concealing as he bid them. It was interesting, to say the very least, to witness the girl chained to his bed interact with his dearest companion— and then he had heard her speak in their shared tongue for the first time.

It was holy, solemn— a revelation.

Never once had he born witness to another human speaking Salazar's sacred language— but hearing her? Well, he could suddenly understand Bellatrix's starstruck expression, the desire in her hooded eyes, whenever she overheard him conversing with Nagini. It was intoxicating, thrilling— rousing. She truly was made from him, from the very marrow of his soul.

He was possessed, entranced, obsessed with studying how her lips moved, how the soft sounds spilled forth from them with ease— how those too-bright eyes lit up at Nagini's words. 

The darkness dripped from him fluidly, coalescing and rippling as he stepped out of it. "That's quite enough, Nagini.”

Evenly, he held her shocked stare— the sharp edge of anticipation was back tenfold. 

On his periphery, he noted that Nagini had uncoiled herself and retreated— had felt the ripple of her muscle over his shoes and heard the low hiss for him to be lenient, understanding. All of it, however, went unheeded as he took in the sight of a girl with red hair and deathly green eyes huddled on his bed. 

'Finally.'

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 24: A Sea of White and Burgundy

Notes:

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Harri watched him cautiously, curiously, every instinct screaming to be on guard. He looked rather calm, she noted— it was the most prodigious deception possible.

Outwardly relaxed, it was only his eyes that gave away the extent of his true feelings. Half-lidded and darkening with something she didn't quite know how to read, they were dissecting her, studying her. Fingers curled into silken sheets to stave off the mounting nerves; a parched throat worked uselessly to swallow.

It was a terrifying idea to realise it was just herself and him. 

Alone

Alone and without anyone to interrupt them. Quite unexpectedly, Harri found herself rather missing the snake. 

Silence, oppressive and weighted, stretched on between them— an eerie sort of thing. He was refusing to speak, to move and, for the strangest of reasons, she felt as though she shouldn't either. That maybe, just maybe, if she remained perfectly quiet, frozen, he wouldn't be able to see her. An irrational thought, she was well aware— but, then again, most predators had blind spots, didn't they?

And if there was one thing Voldemort happened to be, it was a predator.

The roaring in her ears was deafening, her heartbeat just a touch too loud, too uneven— a bone-deep certainty he knew it too if that twitch in the corner of his mouth was anything to go by. Unable to keep holding that burning gaze, she turned to surveying the room instead; a momentary reprieve.

It was all rather monochromatic, to say the least. Uniform, sterile; a testament to the rigid personality of whoever owned it. 

Impersonal.

The walls were done in a pristine white plaster— an identical shade to the unblemished marble mantle above the fireplace. An accent of a fur rug, also white, was arranged in front of the mesh grate— 'A fire hazard'— and the flooring was made up of slates of light grey wood. But apart from those few instances, everything else was dark, foreboding.

Black was the running theme. The frame of the four-postered bed she found herself in. The silk sheets her hands were smoothing over, restless and agitated. The drawn drapes barely cracked to reveal arched windows and iron panes. Even the desk in the corner— all black. 'Someone's creative,' she thought, barely containing a scoff.

Time wore on in the span of her observation, the seconds dutifully ticking by even though she had no way of actually counting them. Moreso, it was as though her internal clock was keeping track for her, keen on alerting her to the fact the quiet had extended past being socially uncomfortable and into the unnatural.

And despite it having been her resolution to not look at him, to keep her focus trained elsewhere, Harri found such determination quickly crumbling. The sheer weight of his attention was becoming difficult to ignore, the holes those red eyes were boring into her searing— a siren's call that demanded she redirect a wandering focus back to him. A cursed sort of magnetism. 

She gave in.

It was a belated discovery to find that he had changed out of the severe duelling robes.

Rather, he was now outfitted in the signature look she had come to associate him with as of late. During the past few months, the style had appeared in every single damning photo, interview, and appearance: a black and white three-piece suit complete with a gaudy black and gold ring. Considering the choice, he must have been coming from a council meeting or press conference. 'So, he's back to being 'Marvolo Gaunt'— and at that, she did scoff, albeit quietly and under her breath.

Such derisive thoughts however were quickly derailed by morbid fascination. She watched, possessed and unsettled, as he shrugged off the tailored jacket and tossed it over the back of one of the armchairs— at the way he had used the crook of his index finger to loosen the tie hanging about his throat.

Harri blinked. And though she tried to keep the shock off her face, truly she did, she knew without a doubt she failed— miserably. But it was unnerving to see him being so casual, so human— so unlike, well, a Dark Lord. Then again, Tom Riddle had always been excellent at pretending, hadn't he? At posing as one thing when he really was another?

A man of many masks.

"So. Care to tell me why the hell I'm chained up?" It took her a second to finally find her voice— a swell of pride when it came across more level than she was expecting.

She inched as close to the edge as the leash would allow. "And whose bloody room is this anyway?"

He had busied himself with shuffling through a stack of envelopes— a futile attempt to not dwell on how at home she looked in his bed. Like how much she belonged there, surrounded by black silk; a tempting contrast of pale skin and richly coloured hair. Distant warning bells cautioned him against even going there, that now wasn't the time nor place to even entertain such ideas. But the memory of her speaking parseltongue, the way her lips had formed to produce the breathy hisses, came unbidden to his mind— how might his own name sound coming from her? 

His fingers tightened about the paper in his hands, the edges crinkling. 

With eyes still resolutely trained downwards, he flipped an envelope over before commenting nonchalantly, “It’s mine, Harri.”

He raised his head then, voice holding an equally biting edge, "You are chained up because I couldn't risk you wreaking havoc about the manor while I was working. You are chained up because you saw fit to attack me like a feral little beast."

Harri blinked once, then twice, mouth falling open. “Attack you?”

An indignant noise in the back of her throat. It was truly a ridiculous notion through and through: after all, between the two of them, who had been the one to invade Hogwarts? Fired the first spell in the graveyard? Tried to kill her to begin with? In terms of who was attacking who, only one party truly seemed guilty on that account— and it wasn't her.

"I elbowed you! After, keep in mind, you kidnapped me," she protested, voice pitching in her upset. "That hardly warrants being tied up like a dog!" 

The chandelier overhead had begun to sway precariously— fingers curled tighter into the sheets to check her temper before it could make things worse. He hadn't even seemed to notice— nor particularly care— that her magic was turning volatile, unstable. And distantly, she did wonder where this sudden burst of courage was coming from. 

Perhaps it was because he didn't look so much like 'Voldemort' in the moment?

Without the severe robes and bloodthirsty violence in his gaze, he truly did appear the part of a harmless, charismatic politician. And wasn't that just a dangerous connotation to have? 

That voice screaming for her to remember who she was talking to, what he was capable of— to have even a shred of self-preservation— was too muted to be paid any attention to.

“Untie me,” she demanded.

He scoffed in response, striving to ignore the fact that she did have some validity in her reasoning. Yes, perhaps he overreacted initially: however, he had been fully prepared to release her once she woke up— but now? Now, as her magic became more agitated, as a child's would during a tantrum, he was more than content to let her cool down before feeling inclined to do so.

“Not until you calm down.”

“Untie. Me,” Harri gritted out through clenched teeth.

She was painfully aware of her anger spiking. But that belittling disregard in his voice struck a nerve— he was purposefully ignoring her. It reminded her too much of the way Dumbledore had always done so— and telling someone who was upset to 'calm down' was a sure way to add dry kindling to an open flame.

“No. Not until you calm down,” he repeated once more, tone firm as he scanned the wax seal.

A sudden gust of wind tore through the room, an uncontrollable force, that blew those damned letters from the table. They scattered about haphazardly on the floor. In a vague way, it reminded her of the Dursley's living room after the neverending onslaught of Hogwarts letters had arrived, spewing from the chimney and carpeting the pastel house in inches of crisp envelopes— a sea of white and burgundy.

Her shoulders had started to shake, eyes alight as her magic itched to be released— to make him listen and give in to her demands. And she figured, at the very least, he owed her that considering what he had put her through in the past day alone. 

“Kindly piss off then."

His patience snapped as the organised stack had been interspersed about the floor. Voldemort forcefully tossed the remaining letters in his hand down onto the side table, his vexation turning to her as an appropriate target. 

Long legs crossed the room, purposeful strides, as he stalked towards the bed. Leaning across it, a hand shot out to clasp her ankle— a rough yank that pulled her onto her back. He hovered over her sprawled form, a sneer curling his lip.

“Have you had enough of your childish antics, Harri?” His eyes glinted with a dark promise, voice calm but encouraging her to think before she gave him an answer. “Are you finally done and ready to behave civilly this time? Or do I still need chains to hold you?”

She swallowed at the threat and, instinctively, pressed herself deeper into the mattress. His eyes had begun to darken and the crackle of his magic danced over her skin in an ever-present warning. A stinging retort was held on the tip of her tongue, wanting so desperately to be released and demand who was the childish one— the one who had thrown a tantrum in the first place?

The rational side to her, however, was pleading to just shut up for once. 

It was the side that eventually won out in the end. 

Rather than scathing words, she willed her magic to meet his; a subtle warning of her own for him to back off.

“No,” she bit out, not daring to say more but also not quite daring to stay silent. After all, she had played this game far too often with her professors— namely Snape— to know better.

The Dark Lord stilled at the press against his magic, the electric tang of her anger— the way it had felt so familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. He was, vaguely, reminded of a spitting stray cat; the kind that lashed out with its claws at any who dared to approach. 'Endearing' came to mind.

Sending her an indulgent smile, pleased by the response, he released the viselike hold on her ankle.

“No,” he agreed lightly, good-naturedly. “I do not.”

The chains melted away, releasing their bindings about her thin neck and setting her free. 

Voldemort crossed the room to settle in the armchair by the fireplace, the letters still flung wildly about. With a flourish of his wand, a tea set materialised on the side table between the two chairs, steam curling out of the pot's spout invitingly. He leaned back, fingers steepled, and gestured for her to take the unoccupied seat by his side. 

An all too sharp smile, crimson eyes dancing with an eagerness that made Harri grind her teeth. “Come and sit. We have so many things to discuss.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 25: Tea With The Dark Lord

Notes:

Hello everyone!

First off, thank you for the recent feedback everyone has given me. I really appreciate it and love hearing that you guys are enjoying yourselves! Also thank you for the honesty about the chapter length and the reassurance that you guys are fine with longer ones 💕

As always, you are all lovely and I feel so lucky to have you guys as my readers 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri stared down into the steaming cup of jasmine before her, brows raised at the simple gesture. Though she had debated on initially refusing it, she apprehensively took the proffered cup all the same, eyeing it dubiously as though it may contain poison— and knowing who conjured it, such a thing was entirely within the realm of possibility.

“We’re having— tea,” she muttered.

It was hard to believe that the most feared and powerful man in the Isles was at her side, having teatime of all things. It was disconcerting, jarring to behold. Voldemort should be drinking the blood of his enemies from their skulls— or, at the very least, wine from a jewel-encrusted chalice— and decidedly not something so mundane as steeped herbs from a rather expensive fine china set. She focused on the ripples spreading concentrically across the golden surface, trying to come to terms with the fact. 

“Harri, we are British," he said, placing the rim to his lips and noting her hesitance to do the same. "It is in our very nature to have tea during difficult conversations."

When she hadn’t responded, Voldemort returned the cup to its saucer with a hum. The girl was busy staring down her tea— looking somewhere between bewildered and ill— and he allowed himself the fleeting moment to actually study her. For the most part, she was unchanged from their encounters in their mindscape; save for the fact she had a decidedly harrowed and dishevelled air about her right now. Though, he supposed running through a forest all night tended to have that effect. The heart-shaped face, the gently defined jawline, the slightly upturned point of her nose: where had he seen it before? A dark-haired witch with hooded eyes came to mind— and yes, there it was. The more he looked for it, the more he could see the subtle similarities between the two. ‘Interesting.’ The comparison was filed away for later, a mental note made to investigate a possible connection between the girl and the Black family line. 

In the background, the deadened fire was willed to life, flames flickering in the once-empty mantle to ward off the chill of the bleak, winter’s day. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, attempting to draw her attention back to him. “You can ask a question and I will answer. Then you will comply and answer one of mine in return— an equal exchange.”

She set her cup down rather noisily on the side table, a precarious clinking. Irritation was a souring thing at the fact he still had the audacity to demand more from her— the sheer nerve of it. However, in all honesty, she did suppose it was a fair enough trade— harmless really. And answers certainly did sound appealing. 

Harri leaned back in the chair, arms crossing over her chest. “Fine. Let’s start with the prophecy. You never told me about it. Why?”

He winced when she had all but thrown the teacup onto the table. ‘Truly a feral thing,’ a scathing thought as fingers twitched with the urge to snatch it away from her. He stamped it down the best he could. 

An impassive look as his tongue ran absentmindedly over his canines. The prophecy. Right. Admittedly, it was just slightly disappointing she had chosen to start there — especially when there were more pressing things to discuss. But then again, he considered it made sense why she would. After all, it was the reason for their story; the origin point in their still-unfolding tale. 

Voldemort crossed one long leg over the other, voice nonchalant, “You never asked me about it.”

Anger— a bitterness in the back of her throat. ‘Of bloody course he would do this.’ Her fingers dug into the scrolls of the armchair, the flames in the mantle quivering in response. 

"Oh, no. No," she bit out. "None of this half-baked, cryptic bullshit. I want answers. Real answers."

Scarlet eyes narrowed at her cursing— a muscle jumped above his brow. “Alright, Harri. I never chose to enlighten you about some drivel spouted by an unstable, half-witted seer because it no longer matters. Nor is it still applicable to our current situation. In other words, it has become obsolete and there was no reason for you to concern yourself with it.”

She gaped at him, eyes widening at his admission, his guilt, of withholding it from her.

“No longer- Of course it matters!” she choked out, relieved that she had the foresight to set the cup down beforehand—  the temptation to throw it at him was almost overwhelming. “It’s the entire reason for everything! Why you murdered my parents, attempted to murder me, why I became ‘The Girl Who Lived’! Funny that you think this 'drivel' isn’t important anymore considering, up until a few months ago, you still seemed pretty sure of it.”

He levelled her with a cool stare, jaw ticking at the mention of his past actions. Of course, he could admit that he hadn't been the most rational then: but having a soul split too many times would do that to a person. After all, it hadn't been his original plan to have his soul interspersed between seven, eight with himself included, containers and it had done some dreadful things to his state of mind.

Voldemort sighed and fingers pinched the bridge of his nose— this was going to be a headache, he just knew it. "The tricky thing about prophecies is that there can be countless interpretations as to what they may refer to. It is not so easy to pinpoint their exact meanings and, therefore, can be rather slippery to deal with. One day, it may be relevant and then the next, it might not be. They are fickle ."

She slumped further down into her chair, groaning at the fact he was still masterfully avoiding the question. 'Truly a bloody politician,' a bitter thought as she fixed him with a withering glare— it hadn't gone unnoticed that his left eye twitched at her posture. And there was a vindictive thought crossing her mind that, good, let him be annoyed— let him be vexed and let her get under his skin. He deserved that much at least, especially after the year she had because of him.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she pointed out.  “Why doesn’t it matter anymore?”

Finally.

Eagerness filled him as he uncrossed his legs and leaned closer to her, the bright glint in his eyes betraying his excitement. “What do you remember of our bet, Harri?”

Whereas he was obviously anticipating this change of topic, she was wary, anxious of it. A Dark Lord with that sort of expression, from her past experience, only spelled trouble for everyone else involved. Usually, it indicated someone would either wind up dead, tortured, or perhaps both. Either way warning bells were going off— a deafening clamour.

"That if I could tell you what a horcrux was," she said slowly, hesitantly, "you would give me anything I want." 

"And?" he prompted, motioning with an open hand for her to hurry up and entirely too keen to get to the heart of their true conversation. "Did you find an answer?"

Harri straightened, arms unfolding to drum restless fingers against her thigh. She was trying to recall Dumbledore's explanation from the Astronomy Tower, her mind shifting through hazy snippets of half-formed memories— a lump clawed its way up her throat at the recollection of blue eyes turning into flint, of the flash of green and the coldness in a voice usually so cheery. It was hard to suppress it, to stifle it and shove it down; but now wasn't the time to even attempt to unpack her feelings on the matter. 

Not yet. 

Not here.

“It’s a container you place your soul in for safekeeping," she mumbled, fingers toying with the cuff of her worn jumper. "It will keep you earthbound should you die, making you essentially immortal.”

He shifted and recrossed his legs— another sip from his cup. She was still missing one rather crucial detail to their creation and, oh, how he was dying to hear her say it aloud. "How does one, exactly, create a horcrux?"

She wanted her voice to have a bite— to show her disgust for him in making her look into something questionably dark, vile. She had wanted it to come out gloating— to flaunt she knew what he had done or was about to. To show him she knew of his plans, was finally one step ahead— to shock him with the fact she wasn't the naive girl he thought her to be.

But instead, her voice had come out small-sounding, unsure, the answer phrased as though it were a question and not a definitive response. “Murder committed with intent?”

Triumph: it sung in him, a spreading glow. Not only had she followed his instructions, a surprise in itself, but the girl also managed to prove herself more resourceful than anticipated. After all, it had surely been no easy feat. Dumbledore would have seen to it all texts mentioning a horcrux, even in passing, would have been removed and wiped from the library after his rise.

Yet, she had done it.

A hand shot out to lightly grasp her chin, tilting her head up. The distant thrum of pleasure in his veins, a heady feeling of approval, at the electric sparks radiating out from their point of contact. And, judging from the way her pupils subtly dilated, the way her lips had parted ever-so, she was certainly feeling it too.

Without fully meaning to, heated eyes darted down to that rosebud mouth— the gnaw of hunger, of desire— before hastily flickering back up. That voice had returned, chiding and cautioning him to not go there— not yet. 

His voice nearly came out as a purr, "Aren't you just a clever girl? Well done, Harri. Well done, indeed."

Harri blinked at the unexpected warmth, the satisfaction, that manifested as a bubbling sensation in her chest upon hearing his praise. A small part admonished herself for even wanting his approval to begin with, for even feeling relieved she had earned it. But then another part relished in it— basked in it as though one would in the sun. An unbidden memory of herself and Draco by the lake, the autumn leaves brilliant in their reds and oranges and yellows, his grim words as brittle and dry as their branches: 'You can't help but want to please him.' She swallowed heavily, not missing the way those burning eyes tracked the movement— a shudder when it dawned on her just how terrifyingly right the Slytherin boy had been.

He released her a second later, retreating further into the plush wing-backed chair. The residual warmth, the pleasant prickling, was a phantom sensation that lit up the nerve endings in his hand— an instinctive flex, fingers curling in on themselves. 

The Dark Lord drank in the flush on her cheeks, the conflict in her eyes when she realised how much she had enjoyed his touch, his praise— it only added to that singing victory. “I am a man of my word. Name it and it shall be yours.”

Admittedly, he would be lying if he said the mere thought, the anticipation, of what she might demand of him hadn't kept him awake at night. After all, this was his chance to finally unveil the core desires of Harri Potter: to see what her priorities were, to understand a fundamental truth of the girl. It left him ravenous. And oh, how her mind was chaos— a whirl of conflicting interests that broadcasted themselves to him so loudly, so sharply, they might as well have been his own. 

Harri mirrored him by flopping back into the chair, dazed and in a stupor. She was still reeling from whatever he had done to her, the feeling strongest where he had grasped her chin— a concerning development, most certainly, and one she might have thought more about if he wasn't demanding she name her price right now.

Several ideas came at once, the floodgates opened and jostling for her attention. She entertained, briefly, demanding he return her to Hogwarts and never touch her again. However, considering this— dare she almost say obsession?— he had with her, she knew he wouldn't grant it; that or he would find a loophole in their deal. And if some small portion recoiled at the idea of him actually following through? Well, she too repressed that deep, deep within herself. 

‘It can’t be too big of a request,’ she mused, teeth worrying her lower lip in contemplation. If she bid for something too large, too complex, she was sure he would be less likely to grant it. The concept of a wand came to mind, one that would actually listen to her, and she firmly nodded at the prospect. 

“I want—,” she trailed off.

Flashes of Hermione being dragged from the train, eyes rimmed red and hiccuping sobs. Of Snape defending her against Dumbledore, pushing her down the stairs and urging her to flee before the Dark Lord arrived. Of Draco, terrified and pale in the face, shooting off sparks to draw attention from her at his own risk. Something writhed about her heart— what would happen to them? Who could say in the long term but, right now, she had an opportunity to do some good— even if it meant sacrificing herself in the process.

She squared her shoulders, chin jutting as she stared into fervid, scarlet eyes. "I want you to leave my friends alone. Swear to me that you won't touch them."

Voldemort blinked. He wasn't entirely sure why the answer surprised him— truly, it was quite characteristic for her to selflessly use the opportunity, one in which she could have received anything she wanted (within reason) for purposes that wouldn't even directly benefit her. He threw his head back, deep laughter, gleaming teeth catching the light. Just how deep did her saviour complex run? Truthfully, he was dying to know. 

“As you wish," he said when the laughter trailed off. "You have my word that no one you truly care for will be harmed by my hand.”

Harri stared at him, taken back by his unexpected amusement. His careful wording had put her on edge, fingers twisting around a frayed thread on the jumper's cuff until it cut white tracks into her skin. She waited anxiously for the settling magic of an Unbreakable Vow to appear, to bind him to his word— it never did. An off-putting realisation that he had no intention of even doing so— a thought to call him a liar, to demand he show her that she could trust him. 

But, then again, he did just grant her a boon; one he would probably rescind just as quickly if she accused him of being untrustworthy. She let out a shaky exhale and attempted to quell the temper that would only make things worse. Satisfaction would just have to be found in his promise at face value: it was more difficult than she imagined.

“Tell me, Harri.”

She looked back to the Dark Lord. Unease coursed through her at the way his eyes were shining. Wrong— so wrong.

"Have you ever wondered why the bond between us is so visceral at times?" he asked casually. "How you, a witch with zero training as a Legilimens, can slip into my mindscape with ease even when the most accomplished are unable to? Or, perhaps, why you are sometimes so painfully aware of my emotional state, as I am with yours?"

Green eyes were owlish as she simply stared at him. Where was he going with this particular thread of conversation? A sudden feeling of being too parched, too thirsty, became all-consuming— a pensive sip of luke-warm tea, earlier reservations about it being poisoned dissipating. Of course, she wondered about it all, sometimes even staying awake well into the rosy hours of dawn in contemplation. But she always assumed that was just the way things were— that it was a side effect of the curse in her scar. Wasn't it? 

Her brows knitted together. “Because of your rebounded curse?”

A cutting smile appeared at her naivety— at the endearing way she still hadn't pieced it all together. 

“That might explain some of it, naturally. But of course, not everyone who bears a curse mark will be bonded as you and I are. And it certainly wouldn’t explain some of your other more unusual abilities,” he said.

And oh, how he could practically hear her heart quickening— a doe caught in headlights. Absolutely delightful. “Have you never truly found it odd, Harri, that you can speak parseltongue? You, a descendant from the Potter line, a family with no relation whatsoever to Salazar Slytherin, just so happened to manifest an inherited ability? That it was all a mere coincidence?”

The world around her had slowed, his words distant and muddled by the pounding in her ears. She felt oddly cold, as though she were hovering outside of her body, her mind rallying for fortified caution. Harri couldn't bring herself to look away from that shapely mouth of his, from the glint of his too-sharp teeth or from that left corner being tugged higher into a self-satisfied smirk. In fact, all she could do was watch in horror as those lips formed his next words, heart stuttering.  

“It’s all because you, yourself, are a horcrux,” he stated.

A weighty silence settled between them.

The fire in the mantle extinguished. 

Her hands weren't working, frozen and unfeeling as they curled inwards with shock— she was unable to stop the cup from slipping. It shattered on the floor, the white rug beneath their feet staining golden from the spilled tea.

She felt beyond ill, like she was about to retch— what did he mean? What did it mean she was a ‘horcrux’? And, for the briefest second, she was rather certain she was about to be sick, her stomach lurching unpleasantly and throat burning with acid. 

An encroaching darkness dimmed the peripheries of her vision, a coldness seizing her. Voldemort’s smug face blurred and warped and twisted— everything went black.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 26: At The Eye Of The Storm

Notes:

Happy Saturday everyone!! I'm so excited it's the weekend so here's an update a tad earlier than usual 💕 This chapter so much fun to write and I hope you guys all enjoy it!

As always, thank you so much for your comments and kudos! You are all amazing readers and I appreciate you all so very much! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



When Harri awoke, it was to the sharp tang of copper in her mouth and a pounding in her head. It took her brain, sluggish and painfully disoriented, a few moments to process what had happened— an overwhelming sense of deja vu when the crown moulding, with all of its dainty filigree and carved scrolls, came back into view.

Right. She fainted. But why? Brows pulled together; recollections of having tea, of the fireplace roaring to life, of having a conversation with Voldemort—

It slammed into her without warning: 'Because you, yourself, are a horcrux.'

A gasp, a rush of air pulled into spasming lungs, and she violently sat up. The mattress creaked in protest, lightheadedness sweeping through her at the sudden movement.

And there, on the edge of the bed, perched and silently watching, sat the Dark Lord. All Harri could do was return his stare, dumbstruck and trying to willfully chalk it up to a mistake. Perhaps she had misheard? That seemed to be the more likely outcome than her being a horcrux, after all. But yet, it's with a bone-deep certainty she’s aware she hadn't— too many things made sense for it to be otherwise untrue. Why he wasn't attempting to kill her right now. Nagini's proclamation in the graveyard she felt familiar. Dreaming through the snake's eyes, always being aware of the chaotic swirl of his emotions.

And that voice inside of her. The one that had fought off the Imperius, the one that had encouraged her anger in Dumbledore's office. Harri clutched at her head, bile rising in her throat— sickly-sweet and nauseating. Cloying. It was the horcrux in her, the shard of Voldemort's soul lodged somewhere deep within.

Her breaths suddenly seemed too short, too rapid, not quite enough. 'Oh, sweet Merlin.' Green eyes screwed shut against the throbbing onslaught at her temples, at the too-loud pulse in her ears and the world tilting precariously.

Voldemort studied her, a discerning sweep. He was afraid to approach or say anything should it trigger another unpleasant reaction. Admittedly, it hadn't been the one he was angling for— hadn't been in his grand plan to levitate an unconscious girl onto his bed and wait around until she recovered enough to speak. Yet, per usual, Harri Potter had found a way to do the one thing he hadn't accounted for.

The girl was gulping in air noisily, her head buried in her hands, shoulders heaving and spine arched— even through the bulky, threadbare jumper he could make out the individual knobs peeking through. Strangely enough, he felt nearly sympathetic; he understood the crushing disbelief, of course, having felt it himself when he divined her true nature. Though, his reaction had been less of fainting and more of, well, wrath. Resurfacing images of the destroyed graveyard— of the statue on his father's tombstone decapitated and crumbling. How the trees had been cleaved down their middle to reveal their pliable, splintered cores, the earth churned and the fences uprooted.

He had caused it to storm that night; had caused lightning to split the sky and for the wind to howl so that Mother Nature could match his chaotic fury. 

In a way, he supposed he should be grateful she was simply overwhelmed emotionally, if not for the sake of his bedroom remaining intact.

"You fainted," he explained when she finally raised her head, frowning at the dazed stupor still misting those green eyes.

Harri massaged her temples in vaguely soothing circles, emotions warring and cycling through far too quickly for her tastes. She was panicked, horrified, stunned, disgusted, and angry all at once; it caused her stomach to tighten painfully.

“Yes,” she snapped, the fearful caution— the one that usually advised her to deal with him in a collected manner— evaporating. “I am well aware that I fainted. Thank you.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw at her biting tone, at the clip in her voice and the impudence in daring to speak to him that way. His back teeth clenched with enough force that he was certain they would crack— a distant voice advocated to exercise patience and attempt to understand what she was feeling; to not lash out and worsen an already difficult situation. It argued for him to understand her reaction— that it was deserved considering she just learned her soul, her body, hadn't been her own for the past sixteen years.

But, Merlin, how he hated that voice.

He was Lord Voldemort: the darkest wizard known to date, feared and adored by his enemies and followers. A man who accomplished great, great things. Like overturning a centuries-old ministry and reverting the Isles back to a Sovereignty. And yet, here he was— catering to the meltdown of a teenage girl.

Harri untangled herself from the blankets and scrambled across the bed— a hand darted out to grip his forearm in a viselike hold. As much as she hated to admit it, she had seen him do the near-impossible before— accomplish things with his magic that she could never dream of. So, perhaps, he could once again do something incredible, something godlike. 

“Take it out,” she pleaded with him.

He glanced down to the hand on his arm, at the way her fingers were small, so small, that they weren't even able to fully encircle it— a minute trembling in them. A passing thought occurred to him that this was, probably, the first time she had ever initiated contact; that her first instinct when distressed was to clutch at him. And oh, how that pleased him more than it probably should.

“Harri,” he trailed off, unwilling to admit that extracting his horcrux was beyond his capabilities.

In truth, she was the first human one he had come across, his countless hours of research yielding fruitless results that might point to another in existence. Even if he could take it out, it would most likely damage the piece— not to mention her own soul— or, perhaps, destroy them both. 

“Come on!" she angled for flattery and, what she hoped, would be a charming half-smile— it fell short, she just knew it. "I’ve seen you do the impossible before. And what did you say to me in the forest? You do things 'lesser men' can’t.”

Harri didn’t even care that she was begging or praising his magical superiority, his greatness. All she could think about was his soul, repulsive and dark and wretched, inside of her: a parasite. The very soul that had murdered countless people and had done unspeakable things to strangers and those she cared about alike. She wanted it gone, erased— eradicated.

Her grip on his arm tightened, nails digging into the corded muscle beneath the crisp material of his collared shirt. “Please! Just remove it.”

He watched her as she pleaded with him, noting the way her eyes shone wetly, her lips parted and shoulders quivering— how she was looking to him as though he were her only hope. Her lifeline. A sick fascination, a perverse thing, surfaced at the realisation he rather liked her begging; that she did it oh-so-prettily. And hearing her admit aloud his potential? His mastery over magic? Well, it did little to help rein in that toxic desire or to quell the immoral thoughts circling his mind. 'If only she could always be this compliant.' 

But what she was asking was impossible.

Voldemort levelled her with a look that spoke of leaving no room for debate. "No, Harri. I will not." 

It took her a second to understand that he wasn't buckling— that he was admonishing her in a tone as though she were a petulant child asking for another toy. She withdrew her hand as if it had been burnt, the seeds of resentment unfurling.  How dare he— after everything he had done to her, everything he put her through, he couldn't find it in himself to simply oblige her this one time. 

“Take. It. Out,” she demanded through gritted teeth.

And, oh, she could have sworn she felt it inside of her. That it was slipping between the empty spaces of her ribs, filling her lungs, beating in time to match her own heart. The very idea that it was currently festering inside of herself only added to her alarm.

“I don’t want your vile soul in me!”

The already frayed cords of his patience twisted further, precarious and threadbare and nearly snapping. She had dared to call him vile— to act as though she was plagued by some revolting parasite, a foul growth that could be cut out whenever she pleased, rather than his soul. Even that voice that had argued for patience wasn't enough to prevent his magic from permeating the air— a suffocating, static charge that had caused the lights overhead to hiss and for the doors to rattle on their hinges.

His lips pulled back into a sneer, voice low— a deadly sort of calm, "Do you know, Harri, how many would consider it an honour to house my 'vile soul'? How many would kill to be in your position— to be of such value to me?"

"Well good!" Her own voice pitched in volume; a sharp contrast to his quiet. In her angered hysteria, she had barely even noticed that the shadows about the room were growing, greedily blocking out whatever little, precious light had managed to seep past the drawn drapes. "Then you have plenty of people you can give it to! If it's such an 'honour', I'm sure one of your followers will gladly take it."

But as she took in his pinched expression, the tightness in the corners of his mouth— the silence that followed suit— Harri had arrived at an altogether different conclusion. It was enough to make her heart plummet to her stomach.

“Oh, bloody hell. You can’t, can you?" she asked. "Remove it, I mean.”

“No." His hands were clenching the duvet's cover, a bloodless white from the pressure. "I can not."

Truly, Harri despised how her first thought was that if he didn't know how to fix this, then she was absolutely screwed. But how was she to come to terms with the fact his soul was stuck inside of her— that she was saddled with housing a part of him for however long she lived? That they were irrevocably, undeniably, thoroughly tied together?

It processed then, two sudden, abrupt revelations that left chills in their wake and the desperate urge to throw up. One, this horcux in her had come from the night of her parents' murder. She was playing host to the sliver of the soul that had witnessed their deaths which meant that— all of those memories she had from that night, those clear, clear details of her mother standing in front of her crib, arms thrown wide and begging for her child's life, they weren't hers. They were the horcrux's. That flash of green, the high-pitch of Lily's scream— residual memories of the seconds leading up to his 'death'. It made perfect sense: no fifteen-month-old child should be able to remember that much, the question of trauma aside.

And two, the entire purpose of splitting one's soul was to remain immortal. That was the horcrux's purpose: to keep their masters earthbound and untouchable by death. 'He kept coming back because of me.' Not only that but Merlin— who knew how many objects were out there that were his vessels. He was truly invincible, undefeatable; a monster made from the void that could keep coming back no matter how often one drove a knife through his heart.

Plus, if a horcrux was meant to keep their master's alive forever, then that must mean, to some degree, they were immortal themselves.

Harri stared at the Dark Lord in mute horror, finally comprehending what he had done— what perverse act against nature he had dragged her into. And Dumbledore— he had known as well, hadn't he? That’s why he attempted to kill her. 

He knew but never told her. 

That violent anger was back— an acrimonious force that bared its teeth and sang for blood. It was the side that was vindictive, vengeful; the same that wanted to scream, to demand to know how he could be so selfish, so cruel. And honestly, she wasn't quite sure if this fury was more directed at the Headmaster or at Voldemort— or perhaps equally both.

But she wanted him to hurt— that much she knew. She wanted to target his weakness, make him feel vulnerable, ashamed, maim him as he had done to her.

“Well, it looks like even the 'mighty' Lord Voldemort has limits to his usefulness,’ she seethed, contempt colouring her words.

He froze; a vacuum of stillness fabricating into existence and an eerie quiet. A warning if one was wise enough to read it— the suspended moment before a snake, coiled and ready, decided to strike. 

“Careful, Harri,” he warned. “Or would you like to test the extent of my 'limits'?"

Perhaps she finally lost it— perhaps she finally had gone off the deep end— but as she met his gaze, green eyes locked with red ones, she understood with startling clarity she no longer cared at the moment. His threats sounded empty, anything he could possibly do paling in comparison to what had already been done. He ruined her, plain and simple— had corrupted her and marked them both as foul, unholy creatures that went against nature's innate wishes— and now? 

Now, all she wanted was retribution.

Bitter spite, a venom spread through her body— it spurred her on, the knowledge that he wouldn't, couldn't, kill her both her shield and her sword. Oh yes, she was going to make him regret this— her own holy crusade. And just like that, the little voice that begged her to be careful, to not give in to her temper, was stifled completely.

Do you know how fucking pathetic it is,” she said, slipping into parseltongue— the ability to speak English was lost amid the heat of her rage, “that the ‘Darkest Lord of Our Time’ now has to rely on a sixteen-year-old girl to stay alive? Truly, it's a disgrace.”  

He descended upon her.

Launching himself across the bed, a hand shot out to grip her throat and pin her to the mattress. Crimson eyes were brimming with hellfire, the scent of sulphur and brimstone saturating the air, canines elongated in blind fury. She had the audacity to call him pathetic— to mock him— without even realising that he had done something beyond great in her creation. He had surpassed the limits of 'man', had become transcendent in his power—and yet she dared.

He caged her body between his legs, fingers constricting, squeezing, around the softness of her throat. 

“I warned you to be careful, Harri,” he hissed, magic singing with the promise of the violence to come— of finishing the war she had incited.

With one hand still firmly wrapped about that thin neck of hers, the other moved to press, with a bruising force, into the spot where her heart continued to beat. It was pounding erratically past its cage of bone, the tempo wild and threatening to rupture.

A soft moan bubbled past parted lips when fingers squeezed tighter, the supply of oxygen ever-so-slowly being cut off— he relished in it. In the way she had gone limp under him, in how she wheezed and twitched when his palm pressed down harder and he was nearly certain her sternum would crack in half. 

One single tear escaped fanned lashes and he tracked it, a man possessed, as it rolled down her cheek and into her hairline, disappearing somewhere among the auburn strands.

“I do need you alive, that much is true. However, I do not need you to be cognisant for that to happen. All I require is for your pretty little heart to continue to pump blood,” he explained— a smile, too-sharp and too-cutting. “Everything else you continue to do is at my mercy .”

The hand about her throat went lax, his legs still straddling her. Her reaction was immediate as she started to violently cough— greedy gulps pulling air into lungs momentarily deprived of it. And oh, that fear swirling with anger in those bright, green eyes— the way she looked as though she wanted nothing more than to sink her teeth into his flesh— he knew that feeling. It was his own; the writhing sort of emotion that turned him so easily into a monster.

His gaze flitted to that lightning scar adorning her brow. It would appear his little horcrux had inherited that from him as well and, despite the situation, despite the violence that had just occurred, he found it oddly endearing.

She started to thrash, hips bucking in earnest as though to throw him off— a string of slurred together curses. He debated for a moment before deciding to allow her the concession, climbing off the girl and letting her shrink back against the headboard.

"Take the rest of the night to calm yourself," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his collared shirt. "I will come back later once you have had the chance to do so."

And though he, truly, wanted nothing more than to stay— to force her to understand she had come from him, from his marrow and magic and therefore owed him her allegiance— the wiser part of himself advocated he needed to leave. Now— before he could do anything that he might regret later on.

He disapparated, leaving her huddled on the bed to massage her sore throat and lick her wounds.

Harri glared at the spot he had just been, the feeling of a phantom hand still at her throat, on her breastbone— the residual heat of him hovering atop her. 

A raw scream of frustration: she seized a pillow and hurled it against the wall. It fell with a soft thud to the ground, anticlimactic and harmless. Her fingers itched with the need to grab something harder, more damaging— to wreak havoc and have something, anything, feel every ounce of her pain, her humiliation.

She leapt from the bed in a blind rage, eyes casting wildly about the bedroom— the fine china. Harri snatched the god-forsaken tea set, the cup he had been drinking, and threw it at the door with all the force she could. An ear-splitting sound as the porcelain shattered; a rain of jagged, painted fragments.

Her magic was wild, unrestrained, its gaping maw filled with gnashing teeth and sharpened fangs. It bounced about the walls, an unbridled typhoon and she at its eye. And more than anything else, how she wished he had never told her about her true nature— had never enlightened her— would just put her to sleep as he threatened. If living meant living with him as the proof of his sins, then she didn't want to.

The dark postered frame of the bed cracked as sentient magic determined it to be a suitable target— an alarming noise of wood splintering that brought her back to reality. It was a sobering sight to behold what she had reaped in such a short amount of time— what she had been unaware of until now.

Glass and destroyed pages from the books, once safely housed in the built-in shelving, carpeted the floor. The armchairs were broken, their upholstery in tatters, the pillows shredded. Even the walls were now marred with impressive cracks spanning their plaster— ugly and crumbling. 

Harri took a shaky step back and then another, shoulders bumping the only wall that had managed to escape unscathed.

Exhaustion. It claimed her for its own, an unnerving feeling of being stretched too-thinly, too-far— like the world had become too-much for Atlas to possibly bear and such responsibility had now fallen to her. Her knees gave out as she slid down to the floor— drawn to her chest, she cradled them, forehead resting atop their knobby caps. 

That rage that once carried her forward, propelled her into action, had been extinguished; a sense of coldness, emptiness, without that flame. And for the first time since she could remember, she freely allowed herself to cry. Scorching, angry, frustrated tears that bespoke of her grief, of her sorrow, of her desperation.

A broken girl amidst a broken room.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 27: The Many Facades of Lord Voldemort

Notes:

Hello everyone! Just something to address real quickly:

I mentioned this in a comment but I'm doing something a tad different with Voldemort in this story. I love doing character studies and I wanted to do one for him, particularly in exploring the sides to his personality that existed pre-Lord Voldemort. I've done some research on his key personality traits and how everyone describes Tom Riddle in the books + movies so I wanted to play around with that.

That being said, I'm doing something a tad unconventional and that most fics that feature Voldemort-Turning-Into-Tom-Riddle don't do: I'm having Voldemort not only regain Tom Riddle's physical body but also having his mind and personality revert back as well to reflect the eras in which the horcruxes he absorbed were created. So it'll be creating this new dynamic where he isn't just Lord Voldemort anymore but past versions of Tom Riddle as well. I think this would be fun to explore and, hopefully, that explains some of the things he does (like why he's struggling with his anger + physical aggression and sexuality and whatnot that aren't quite canon for Voldemort).

Also, there is some gore and descriptions of torture in this chapter so please be mindful! I tried my best to warn you guys with a Graphic Violence tag because this story will get a tad darker from here on out.

As always, you are all amazing and thank you for reading along! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Voldemort had buckled under his conscience— that bodiless voice in the backdrop of his thoughts that demanded distance be put between himself and the girl. Admittedly, it was the wisest course of action; after all, who knew what may happen if he lingered. Something he'd regret later, undoubtedly— something far worse than merely choking her.

Though, considering the current state of his mind, it was a miracle he had even listened in the first place.

The coiled serpent in his chest, the beast baring its fangs, was still singing for violence—  a bloodthirsty sort of retribution. The all-consuming need to make someone pay— and dearly. It thrummed in his veins, expanded in his lungs, synchronised in time with his heart. And the driving force behind such a feeling was one, simple word: vile.

Everything she had was because of him. Her fame. Her parselmouth abilities. Her rapidly expanding magical core that already long since surpassed her peers. All of it had come from him, gifts bestowed unto her, and yet she had the audacity to reject him.

Those echoing words refused to leave him in peace, a persistent ghost all too eagerly reminding him of his limits— of the reality of their newly found, unanticipated codependency— that he was tied to her and she to him. Even now, as feet carried him down the stone steps and deep into the earth below, he could see flashes of green— that glint of hatred, resentment. 'Truly, it's a disgrace.'

And oh, how that darkened his mood.

The sconces on the earthen walls flickered as he swept past them, uncertain and as though afraid to burn too brightly for the fear of risking the Dark Lord's ire. The air chilled as he descended, a clinging dampness that smelled stale— like death. And there was a vindictive thought that maybe he should lock her down here: force her to come to terms with her existence without being coddled or the luxury of a roaring fire and the privilege of daylight. It was certainly appealing enough.

Fingers tightened about the elder wand— a sharp, acidic taste upon his tongue and the belated realisation his canines were still elongated. It had only been a few days since he had retrieved his horcrux and things were already derailing far too quickly for his liking. With her around, it had become difficult to concentrate on securing his rise, on basking in his well-deserved rule— his victory. And he already had to deal with the facades of the ever-so-charming 'Marvolo Gaunt'— lawful Sovereign of the Wizarding Isles— and the feared persona of 'Lord Voldemort’— Dark Lord in the shadows. But now? Now, it was increasingly apparent that there was a different side that arose in the girl's presence; a troubling complication that had plagued him ever since he regained this form.

He sharply turned the dimly lit corner and strode past the empty cells, their iron bars casting long, jagged shadows—a split jaw crowded with crooked teeth and begging to be filled. 

Initially, he had traded his old body for the powers of youth— for a stronger connection to the horcruxes and for the aristocratic looks that so easily lured people in. Unfortunately, with it had come some rather adverse— side effects. While, admittedly, he had never been the best at reining in his anger, that already wire-thin control seemed to be stretched further, thinner— more prone to snapping. It was the same short fuse that belonged in the past, back on the grime-filled streets of London and reserved for brawling in the halls of Wool's. It was the temper associated with youth— a reckless abandon that was afforded to them under the pretense of a lack of experience, of control.

Then there was the issue of his carnal needs.

In his older form, the draws of flesh hadn't affected him to the degree they did currently. His desire for pleasure was stronger, more assertive in its demand to be sated— a need far too reminiscent of adolescence. Even before his fall, it had been easy enough to curb his sexual nature, to restrain its appetite and push it aside to focus on more pressing issues. Now, however, that was harder to do. Several times already had he taken Bellatrix to bed, her willingness to please him compatible with his desire for release. It was, at its very core, the basest of human necessity; sex without any true meaning. And he had thought it would be enough to tide him over until he figured out how to manage these unexpected urges.  

But then Harri Potter happened.

With her, there was something extra— an arresting buoyancy whenever he touched her as the horcrux melded, temporarily, back to the original soul. It was electric, addicting in a way Bellatrix wasn't. A siren's song that goaded him into wanting to touch her, transforming him ever-so-slowly into an addict.

Knuckles bled white from the pressure in which he gripped the wand, teeth nearly cracking as they ground together. And oh, how he could curse himself for being stupid enough to reabsorb the horcruxes in the first place— for damning himself to relieve the inconvenience, the discomforts, of youth.

A pained groan— masculine and low— was followed by high, reedy laughter— feminine and bordering on demented. It had echoed out from the seventh cell, something pungent and foul permeating the air. It was enough to drag him out of his introspection; a frown of distaste at the realisation their 'guest' had most likely lost control of his bowels during Bellatrix's fun.

The metal gate swung open as he approached, a grating screech of iron against stone, to reveal the dark-haired woman standing over the slumped form of a portly man. A look of manic delight had contorted her features as he lay in a bloody, sweaty heap at her feet— a glint of satisfaction that moved dark eyes to glow in the candlelight.

“Tiberius Ogden,” he greeted warmly as though the man were simply an old friend.

Voldemort stepped over the puddle of urine, a pleasant enough smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Welcome to Malfoy Manor. I do hope dear Bella has been keeping you comfortable?”

The stout, blond man looked up at him in a daze, eyes blinking rapidly to clear the droplets of blood rolling past his brow. It took a second for recognition to dawn, a look of frozen shock on a ruddy face. “Y-you!”

The Dark Lord chuckled softly at the reaction— it was a sound that bespoke of the danger, of the pain to come as he eyed the wizard trembling on the ground. On his periphery, Bellatrix had bowed and mumbled out a rushed ‘My Lord’ before retreating into the corner.  

“Do you have any idea, Ogden, how irksome you truly are?” He moved closer, Oxford shoes clicking against the damp flagstone of the dungeon. 

Voldemort crouched on the ground near the man, the elder wand hanging loosely between his fingers, as a burning gaze flitted across the squashed features of the Wizengamot member. In Dumbledore’s absence, Tiberius Ogden had been the one to take up the mantle of political opposition— and his latest offense? Attempting to pass into motion a bill that would challenge the legitimacy of his reign. He also had been one of the few to initially resist Lucius Malfoy as Interim Minister and the first to openly declare his loyalty, in front of the entire council nonetheless, to Albus. A sneer twisted his mouth at the memory— even now Dumbledore was still finding ways to inconvenience him from beyond the grave. 

Well, that ended today.

“When D-dumbledore comes back, h-he won’t stand for this!” Ogden rushed out, stumbling over his own words in panic. 

A click of his tongue in a mock show of sympathy, the Dark Lord leaned closer, a smirk on his face that betrayed his amusement. “Oh, you poor, poor fool.”

Voldemort straightened to hover over the wizard, Bellatrix nearly bouncing from foot to foot in poorly-contained excitement. The knobbed wand had begun to hum in his palm, heating up pleasantly as if sensing its master’s thoughts, his intentions. 

“Crucio,” he intoned softly, watching in detached interest as the man’s fattened limbs contorted in nauseatingly inhuman ways.

Harri’s poisonous words floated to the forefront of his thoughts— the knowing look in Dumbledore’s pale eyes. ‘Vile.’ And there it was: the flames were stoked, the wrath heightening. 

He fed more power into the curse, relishing in the hoarse screams, in the revolting cracks and pops of bone grinding against bone. A soft whisper reminded him that this was who he was— that this is what it meant to be a Dark Lord. To feel the rousing, heady pulses of magic in his veins; to hear that alluring song to give in. To chase crashing wave after crashing wave of that polluting, gratifying high. 

Yes, this was who he was meant to be.

Not some charming politician for sycophants to cling to.

Not some starstruck, adolescent boy weak from the touch of a mere girl.

No, he was Lord Voldemort at his core.

He wasn’t entirely sure how long he had held the spell for but clarity came back when scarlet tinged froth bubbled out from split lips and blood started to weep from the cavities of the man’s nostrils, his ears— when those brown eyes turned shot through with red from broken blood vessels. 

Voldemort lowered his wand, the syrup in his veins still coursing strongly in the aftermath. Vaguely, it registered that Bellatrix was watching him, her desire nearly palpable— her admiration for his might. After all, not many could hold an Unforgivable for an extended period of time— but it wasn’t enough

None of it was enough. Not that rousing sensation of pleasure, not those dark eyes fixed on him— he could still hear her words. They buzzed in the back of his mind, jaw clenching at the fact his subconscious had summoned the ghost of a girl he wished to forget. 

The fury was back, ever-mounting, as he stared at the broken form of a man at his feet. Ogden was everything he despised; weak, snivelling, one of the many that still idolised a man that he had personally dragged down from the heavens. And yet, Tiberius still dared to oppose him— dared to believe in the drivel spouted by the same man that acted for the ‘greater good’.

“If I remember correctly,” he said slowly, drawing strength from that cold savagery nestled deep within, “you have quite the lovely little countryside manor, do you not? Just outside of Lavenham?”

Those bloodshot eyes casted wildly about the room, the wizard’s head unmoving as tremors racked his form. An alarmed groan confirmed his suspicions— a gratified smile.

“Bellatrix, I do believe a visit is in order,” he commanded, eyes not once leaving the man. “After all, Mrs. Ogden must be terribly concerned by her husband’s sudden disappearance.”

The muffled groans grew louder and Tiberius’s fingers twitched in protest. ‘A valiant effort,’ he mused, studying with sick, perverse interest the residual trauma the Cruciatus had reaped. A peal of laughter and he glanced up to see the Death Eater bowing deeply, voice a sultry tone as she acknowledged the command. 

Satisfaction — demented, twisted, immense. It flooded him; this is what he deserved. Obedience and a willingness to listen, to please him— not some defiant wisp of a girl who felt the need to play the moral high ground.

“Oh, and Bella?” he called out after her as she turned to leave. “Have some fun, of course, but do try to be discreet.”

Voldemort crouched once more in front of the man, hand shooting out to tightly grip that undefined, flabby jaw and wrench his head back towards him. A smile, all teeth, his eyes glowing like embers— the image of a Devil swathed in darkness.

“Oh, no. None of that now, Tiberius— don’t let your attention wander. After all, we are far from being done here.”



The Dark Lord took a staggering step back, chest rising and falling unevenly with exertion while he admired his handiwork. Blood, warm and tacky, coated his hands, his suit, his arms. A random spray had splattered his cheek, a cooling stickiness that marred alabaster skin— undeniable evidence of the violence just committed. His left hand rose to wipe it away, smearing it further in the process.

He had flayed Ogden alive. 

He had peeled the skin away from his fat and flesh, had left his sinew and muscles exposed to the damp chill of the dungeons. The air about them was coloured with the scent of copper—penny-bright and cloying in its sweetness— as what had started as a small puddle spread into a crimson lake. 

The beast in him felt soothed, sated, subsiding and retreating back into the furthest reaches of his mind: content. And how he almost wished Harri could see this— could witness how he had been able to skin a man while still keeping him alive; could understand that he had kept Death from its rightful prize. He wondered bitterly if she would still find his abilities lacking then. 

And for a moment, there was the idea to display the mangled body publicly— to bring it to her and make her look upon it. To have it be a warning, proof of his greatness.

He decided against it. No, certainly it would only make things worse between them; plus, terrorising her this early on wouldn’t be of any benefit. 

The knobbed wand was raised to the still-beating chest of the skinned wizard. ‘Let it be known Lord Voldemort is not without mercy,’ a distant thought as a flash of green filled the small room, bouncing off moss-covered walls and wet stone. 

That rising chest fell.

And as he stepped through the puddles of blood, a trail of scarlet footprints left in his wake, a startling revelation had dawned upon him: he felt alive. More alive, more like a Dark Lord, in this moment than he had since bringing Harri into his life; since regaining his old form and a crown in the process. It was a foreboding notion— one that had him mulling over the idea that perhaps, on some level, this side to himself, the side of Lord Voldemort, was steadily being overshadowed by ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ and ‘Tom Riddle’.

He climbed the stairs slowly, leisurely, his magic reaching out to tentatively probe at their bond: an onslaught of emotions. A whirlwind of grief, of frustration, of anger rose to meet him— a tempestuous gale. Quick to recede, a stone wall was brought down between them, effectively shutting her out.  



Lucius had been waiting for his Lord in the pristine, marble foyer, nervously straightening and re-aligning the documents clutched in his hands. When he had been presented with the opportunity to write the press release regarding the invasion of Hogwarts, admittedly he had jumped at the chance to prove himself. But with that responsibility also came apprehension; a fear of disappointing the Dark Lord and what that disappointment may entail for himself, for his family.

The approaching sound of footsteps made him instinctively sink to his knees in reverence, head bowed. “My Lord.”  

Taking the disinterested hum as an indication to rise, Lucius opened his mouth to express gratitude for the task, to explain how diligently he had been working— all words promptly failed him. A trail of crimson, the exact shade of the Dark Lord’s eyes, had dotted the white, pristine parlour— footprints tracked the gore across the marble, a gruesome, horrifying pattern. The man’s arms were soaked in it, his hands stained red, and there was a jarring streak across the high-cut of his cheekbone. And there was only one thought that crossed his mind, a thankful prayer sent to every deity he knew, that it hadn’t been himself on the receiving end of his Lord’s tender mercy. 

“Lucius,” Voldemort drawled. 

The pureblood appeared downright shocked. Voldemort had to stifle the derisive scoff at such an expression— out of all of his followers, Lucius always did have the weakest tolerance for messes. A wandless flourish of his hand and a cleaning spell swept across him, the cooling tingle welcomed after the heavy heat of Ogden's blood on his skin. An unimpressed brow arched when the man had yet to move. 

“O-oh, yes. Here are the reports from our raid, My Lord,” Lucius stuttered through the surprise.

Voldemort thumbed through the papers, a noise of approval at the cursory glance. The story Lucius had managed to concoct was, well, perfect — a devastating blow to the memory of the Headmaster’s otherwise unblemished reputation. A wry smirk as he scanned the quick summary in the footnotes: 

‘Last seen stumbling off the school’s grounds unattended and in a drunken stupor, Albus Dumbledore has been reportedly missing since December 21st. In his absence, Hogwarts, home to many prized and rare artifacts, was raided by an unknown group of wizards; despite injuries to the staff, no fatal casualties were suffered. At the current, suicide is heavily speculated as many recall the Headmaster’s adamant refusal to eat in the weeks leading up to his disappearance. 

Severus Snape has been appointed the Interim Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’ 

He looked up from the papers, dimly aware of Lucius snapping his fingers for a house-elf to come clean up the trail of footprints.

“Excellent work, Lucius,” he said, closing the file and already planning the inflections, the expression, the mannerisms ‘Marvolo’ would use to deliver the news.  

However, just as he had turned to leave, the pureblood sidestepped back into view— irritation flared. The man was opening and closing his mouth uselessly, hesitant to speak his mind and withering under a sharp glare. 

“Forgive me, My Lord,” Lucius said, voice tentative, unsure, “But I have come to understand that Harri Potter was successfully acquired during the raid. I can not help but wonder what are your intentions towards her?”

A muscle above his brow jumped when those pale eyes flitted across his face, far too keen, too observant. But such was the prerogative of a Slytherin— information held far more weight than gold among them, rumours traded like sickles and favours the preferred method of repayment. And Lucius, well: the man was a snake through and through.

 “I should think that is none of your concern, Lucius,” he said, voice cold and impassive. “And until I say otherwise, it would be in your best interest to not utter a single word regarding her current whereabouts. If you do, I can promise that I will be quite displeased .”  

The pureblood shrank back at the threat, eyes widening and head hastily dipping. Of course, he had been aware the girl was brought into the mansion— he was the master of his house, after all— but his Lord had just confirmed she was, in fact, still very much alive. And, more importantly, he was hiding that knowledge: she meant something to him. 

Even as those footsteps retreated, Lucius couldn’t quite prevent his mind from snagging on the idea. What possibly could be their relationship? Why was his Lord keeping her around? An image flashed of Draco standing unusually close to the Potter girl, the two of them freely laughing, teasing. 

He promptly spun on his heel— if anyone knew her secrets, it would be his son.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 28: She Finally Had Her Bath

Notes:

Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter featuring some Nagini, as promised! I hope you guys enjoy. This chapter will also mainly be from Harri's perspective but we get to bring back some characters that have been missing for a few chapters 💕

 
As always, thank you for reading, for every kudos, and for every comment! You are all amazing 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The sun had risen far sooner than expected. Watery sunlight filtered as hazy shafts through the cracks in drawn drapes— a poor attempt at lighting up the gloomy bedroom. 

A depressing sort of morning for an equally depressing sort of mood. 

Harri felt beyond sore, far too stiff and rigid— a symphony of cracks along her spine when she stretched. For the most part, the night had been spent huddled against the wall’s baseboard, head tucked between her knees and back bowed. And yes, she regretted it now— though tears had given way to exhaustion, it had been a terrible, fitful kind of sleep. 

She reached up with the sleeve of her dirty jumper to clear the crust from her eyes— the sharp sting had her recoiling. Without even looking, she knew they were puffy, angry and swollen beyond saving. A shaky sigh, she tilted her head back, auburn crown bumping against the wall. 

The bedroom, decidedly, looked far worse in the daylight. Destruction abound, an ensemble of shattered glass and cracked marble and splintered wood; more fitting, really, to the aftermath of a battle waged. Even those damned chains had been ripped clean from the wall. Oh. He was going to be furious— an unwitting burst of satisfaction.

‘Good. Let him be mad. What’s the worst he’ll do? Kill me?’ Her hand strayed up to touch her throat at the idea— a grimace at its tenderness. If she had to hazard a guess, there was probably a handprint already there; an ugly bruise with curling, yellowed edges where fingers turned vicious and squeezed. It felt raw, shredded, a throbbing burn with every swallow she took. ‘First, he bites me and now he chokes me?’ 

At this rate, she might not even survive the week intact. 

‘Well. I suppose this time, I actually deserve it,’ a bitter thought as she picked up a rather substantial piece of white plaster and chucked it across the bedroom— a brittle snap when it cracked in half with a cloud of dust. 

The sound of something shuffling through the debris pulled her back into the moment, the scattered pages and copious amounts of downy feathers disturbed; a gliding whisper. She looked over, blinking in surprise at the appearance of the snake. It had paused near her foot, body half-raised off the ground— a coil of muscle under dappled scales. 

You have made quite the mess, little one, ” Nagini said, flat head bobbing side to side as she took in the chaos of the room. The sharp tang of the girl’s magic still lingered, clinging to the shadowed corners and swirling lazily in the air— an undeniably familiar taste.

Harri watched the snake for a second before deciding to abandon any sense of caution— her head returned to the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed. ‘At this point, if she does decide to eat me, it might be a blessing.’ Those emotions, the torrent of them that unleashed mayhem, were starting to trickle back in as dulled, lifeless ghosts of what they once had been. The anger, the horror, all of it felt too muted now, too subdued, when faced with the overwhelming fatigue. 

She was tired— so tired

In the graveyard,” Harri said, parseltongue far easier on her abused throat, “you said I felt familiar. Did you know what I was back then?”

The snake began to coil about her bent legs, head peeking out from the space between knobby knees. “Yes.” 

Green eyes opened slowly to stare up at the ceiling. There was a rather sizable crack, the filigree of the trim in tatters— a slight smile at the thought of all the repairs he would have to make. “You’re one of them too, aren’t you?

Nagini paused in wrapping around the girl’s calves— she was warm. Far warmer than their master was. Pleasant, like sunshine and a heated rock. “I am.”

Harri rolled her shoulders experimentally, chin lowering to stare disbelievingly at the snake. Her response had been so casual, so nonchalant— it was as though they were merely discussing the weather in passing rather than split souls divvied among living containers. And she did wonder if she was the only one that actually had a problem with the idea, with the concept she was stuck living a life not entirely her own.

Why did you let him do that to you? ” she asked, brows drawing together.

Nagini slid further up her body; a loose coil about the girl’s torso. Golden eyes stared into green ones, the colour of them vivid, rich—  unnatural. They were an echo of their master’s favourite spell, eerily reminiscent of the way it could bathe an entire room with its brilliant glow. “He is Mine and I am His. Just as You are His and He is Yours. He protects us so we must do the same.”

But, truly, what sort of answer was that? Harri could nearly groan at the lack of explanation— with how factually the snake had stated it. The shiver that skirted down her spine was unbidden at the mention of being his; flashes of him atop her, of him caging her against the bookshelf, of him looking as though he wanted nothing more than to swallow her whole. Admittedly, a small part of herself did find the concept morbidly fascinating— a curiosity. She had never belonged to anyone before, especially not in that way, and she couldn’t help but entertain what it must feel like. What it must be to have a place with someone, to occupy a space in their heart— to have them feel like home

‘He’s the Dark Lord,’ a rational voice reminded. It attempted to derail those dangerous ideas before they could be nurtured and made to bloom. And then it processed, ice water tiding over her skin: Nagini was already equating her to the status of an object. Something to be owned

I don’t want to be his,” Harri protested. But yet, even to her ears, the words sounded too feeble, too weak— too lost and too quiet to have any real conviction. 

Nagini had edged her way under the girl’s jumper. “You will.” 

The snake wound her way up to peek out from the neckline, forked tongue flicking across the bruise painted on her neck— a sickly heat emanated out as it tried to heal. She reared back, hissing with displeasure.

“I told him to be lenient,” she explained when Harri had tensed. “To be gentle.”

And oh, how she could scold him for his callousness, his aggression— a note was made to chastise him and perhaps give him a deserving nip in the ankle to ensure he fully understood her warnings on using such violence against those who had yet to develop their fangs. Nagini squeezed tighter about Harri, unwilling to let go— an irrational thought this girl, her hatchling, would only acquire further injuries if she let her out of sight. 

Nagini,” Harri wheezed when the constriction made it difficult to breathe— a muttered thank you when the snake took the hint.

For the next few moments, there was just silence— a lengthening stretch of quiet where neither party felt moved to speak. In the backdrop, there was the muffled sound of songbirds beyond the frosted panes: a once happy song of drawn trills turned mournful— a wailing chorus as though they were begging the sun to return. Fitting— tragically so. 

Harri ventured to break the suspended moment first, lips barely moving. “How many are there?

It was a grim curiosity to know the extent to which Voldemort had ruined himself; the extent to which he had made himself into an abomination, a monster. Was there even a limit to how many horcruxes one could make? And, more importantly, how does one go about quantifying a soul

There were seven. One destroyed,” Nagini explained, curling around the back of Harri’s neck. “And then he took three and left three. You and I, we have a brother. A locket.” 

A tugging sensation, a pit in her stomach, at the mere suggestion of having a ‘brother’. And, Merlin, how she could be sick by the fact the snake was already recognising her as a fellow horcrux; as part of the fold. ‘He had seven. Seven times but one was destroyed—’ the word snagged in her mind.

Destroyed.

It processed what had been slipped, how precious of a gift that one piece of information was. ‘The diary. Nagini means the diary.’ It flashed to the forefront of her thoughts: a young Tom Riddle emerging from the blank parchment, the black ink spewing forth from the cover’s bindings. The way he was pierced through by light; the agonised screams as he disappeared. She had exorcised the horcrux back then— had, somehow, rendered it to a useless journal with a hole through its cover. 

She jolted forward, a surge of desperate hope. “So there is a way to destroy them. Nagini, how does one get rid of a horcrux? ” 

A sharp pop drew her attention as there, a few feet away and standing amid the rubble, was a house-elf with boney elbows and too big ears. The creature shifted under Harri’s owlish stare, trading its weight from one foot to another. 

It coughed timidly into a balled fist. “I was summoned to help the Miss bathe?”

A few seconds passed before Harri had recovered enough from the shock to stand, aching knees cracking in protest as she struggled to get up. Nagini’s weight was an oppressive force and it was a fight to get the snake to loosen up from her torso— a slew of malcontent grumbles when she had fallen to the ground. But oh, the idea of a bath did sound, admittedly, heavenly. Enough so that she could find it within herself to forget the strangeness of the situation or that voice that advised to be careful. 

“Oh, yes, wonderful.” Harri pushed the snake away with a sneaker-clad foot when she tried to climb back up her leg. “Uhm, what did you say your name was again?”

Purple eyes, far too large for the creature’s small head, grew to an alarming degree— shining and bright. Its gnarled fingers went to twist the hem of its pillowcase tunic, the words coming out a bit too rushed, too excited, “I’s is called Zivvy, Miss. And I be serving the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Miss.”

And Harri could nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all— a fresh wave of disbelief. He had taken her to Malfoy Manor, of all places. Part of her debated if it was because he didn’t have a place of his own or if it was because he just enjoyed imposing himself upon people— on making himself a nuisance whenever possible. That, perhaps, he took some pleasure in asserting his dominance over all aspects of his followers’ lives, including even in their homes. ‘Probably the second, considering what a sadistic, controlling prick he is’ 

But if she was at the Malfoy’s, then that must also mean— ‘Draco’s here.’

The very idea filled her with hope; bright and arresting and enough so that relief clawed up her throat as a choking sob. He had helped her escape once already so maybe he could find it within himself to do it again. After all, it was his house. Maybe he knew of some secret passageway or corridor that could get her off the grounds unnoticed— or, at the very least, could relay a message to someone. It did cross her mind to ask the elf to whisk her away— but, considering who it served, it probably wouldn’t be willing to oblige such a thing. 

Not to mention she had a jailer at the moment— Nagini. 

She leaned forward and tried to ignore how the snake was watching her with unblinking eyes. “It’s nice to meet you, Zivvy. A bath sounds lovely but I do have another favour to ask as well?”

The elf’s ears fluttered at the request. “What is the Miss needing?” 

Harri lowered her voice to a whisper, heart a wild thing in her chest. “After you draw that bath, could you please tell Draco that I’m here? That I want to see him?”



The bathroom, much like the bedroom, was overly lavish— ostentatious to a dizzying degree. It was composed of marble; an endless sea of white streaked through with curling veins of black. The vanity, the floor, the accent wall to her left— a testament, most certainly, to the flamboyant inclinations of the house’s owners. 

Then again, she was already aware of how the Malfoys lived. Look at what had happened when Draco first joined the Slytherin team; he had crowed on for weeks about how his parents had bought the latest Nimbus models for all of its members. ‘What a prat,’ she thought though it lacked any real bite. How those were the days: a simpler time when the only real danger had been errant bludgers or falling from her broom.

She stripped off the tattered jumper and toed out of the stained sneakers— a grimace when she took notice of, for the first time, how her hair smelled of smoke, of sweat, of her failure to outrun the Dark Lord. The sweater was tossed over her shoulder and onto the tiled floor; she hadn’t even bothered to fold it up.

And in her periphery, she registered flashes of pale skin, of a slender body and soft curves, of vivid auburn hair streaking past the mirror hung above the vanity— she refused to look. Oh no, she couldn’t quite bear it— couldn’t bear gazing upon her reflection and seeing the spitting-yet-not-quite-at-the-same-time reflection of Lily Potter. With her too-green eyes and oversaturated colours, she couldn’t handle seeing her mother look back at her and remind herself that she existed as a corrupted, adulterated version. 

An imposter in a shell. 

A monster trying to play human by wearing the face of someone long gone and distorting every aspect that might make her one. 

She stepped into the bathtub sunken into the floor— a hiss when the heat scalded her skin. 

Without even giving herself time to adjust to the temperature, she slid further into the fragrant water. Though she probably shouldn’t admit to it, the bath was, indeed, beyond wonderful: a soothing balm. If she pretended, visualised it with all of her might, the lavender-laced water might even be enough to wash away all of her impurities— perhaps even the horcrux.

A nervous glance down to her exposed chest, the gentle swell of it half-covered by the water. Outwardly, she knew she didn’t look different— that her body was physically unchanged and the same she had always known. 

But inwardly? She felt different: alien

A hand nervously rose, fingers splayed and palm cupping, to her left breast; her heart was beating there. Past its cage of bone, a rhythmic, pulsating tempo reigned steadfast and true. 

Green eyes slipped closed to get lost in its measured melody— a sharp, drawn breath when she could have sworn her name was being called in the echoing spaces between the beats.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Harri. Harri. Harri.

She plunged herself under the water to escape that voice and the crawling sensation of something trying to break free from her ribs. 



Unsurprisingly, Lucius had found his son in the solarium alongside his wife. Ever since returning home for the holidays, the two had taken up sanctuary in the attached greenhouse, finding some comfort in the humid air and the overabundance of monsteras and potted ferns. Truthfully, he couldn’t quite see the appeal.

Even now, Draco had his nose burrowed in a book on the chaise lounge. 

Narcissa was busy arranging calla lilies in a black, bottle-necked vase.

Neither of them saw fit to look up at the clipped sound of shoes on the polished flagstone. The weak morning light had flooded through the glass panes, casting everything in a watery glow— ominous and foreboding.

“Dearest,” Lucius greeted stiffly, hand curling about the metal serpent at the head of his cane.

“Husband,” Narcissa responded in kind. The corners of her painted mouth pulled into a frown as she fussed with the white, waxy flowers. 

He had taken pause in front of the chaise, distantly aware that his wife’s pale eyes were now trained on him— a look of apprehension, no doubt, held in them at the sudden interest in their child. A single brow raised at his son’s inattention. “Draco.”

A blond head finally rose, blue eyes wide with confusion. 

It was an oddity for Lucius to set foot here, the sunroom a universally acknowledged place of solitude and respite for mother and son. Draco blinked, bewilderment only mounting when his father impatiently tapped his stretched out legs with the cane— they moved to the ground, a silk bookmark slipping between worn pages.

“Father,” his own greeting was guarded— a drawl on the ‘r’. 

Lucius was quick to occupy the cleared space on the lounge. “As I have come to understand it, you were rather close to the Potter girl at school, were you not?”

“Lucius!” Narcissa hissed in warning, the chair scraping loudly against the stone flooring as she stood up. 

As far as she knew, only herself and her husband were aware of the girl’s current presence in the manor— and they were under explicit instruction from their Lord to not indicate otherwise. It was a defiance of direct orders for Lucius to even speak her name aloud— and now he was trying to pry information out of their son? She glanced uneasily about the room, half-expecting the Dark Lord to appear at any moment.

Draco frowned at the question, his mind turning over in attempts to guess where this conversation was possibly heading. Ever since they parted ways at Hogwarts, he remained unaware of Harri’s fate— though, no small part of him desperately wished she had gotten away. And maybe she had? Maybe that’s why his father was now asking about her— that he was trying to find any information that could lead their Lord to her. His shoulders tensed at the mere thought.

“I wouldn’t say we were close, Father,” he said with a sniff of disdain for extra measure. “She was a thorn in my side.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be coy, Draco. I saw you two in the Great Hall, remember? On rather friendly terms as well, if my memory is to be trusted.” Lucius edged closer. “Tell me, in all of your conversations, did she ever mention anything about the Dark Lord? About a potential relation? A connection?”

“Lucius! That’s quite enough!” Narcissa interjected, hands curling about the table’s edges.  

Draco opened his mouth to deny it all— the closeness of them, their friendship, any conversation they may or may not have had— when a sharp crack cleaved the tensed atmosphere. And there, standing amid the three Malfoys, was one of their house-elves rocking on the balls of her feet.

“Miss Potter requests Mr. Draco’s presence in the East Wing!” The elf had relayed, voice chipper and ears fluttering. 

A dazed stupor overcame him— a momentary, blindsiding shock as Draco tried to understand. ‘She’s here,’ he thought dimly, a sense of being ill tiding through him. ‘She didn’t get away. She’s here.’

He shot to his feet. The book clattered noisily to the ground, the silk scrap of his bookmark fluttering out and disappearing under the chaise. Blue eyes darted wildly between his parents, confused panic pitching his voice, “Potter’s here?! In the manor?!”

“Draco!” Narcissa called after her son when he had turned to storm out. The calla lilies were thrown forcefully down onto the table— a sharp look aimed at her husband and then to the house-elf. “Draco, wait!”

Lucius was quicker to react than his wife, already on his feet and at his son’s heels. His cane snapped out to land heavily on the boy’s shoulder, roughly pulling him in closer. “You will not go to her, Draco. The Dark Lord has forbidden it— no one, apart from your mother and I, was to even know she’s here. If he were to find out, I can not even fathom his anger. Do you understand?”

Draco tried to shrug off his father’s hold, protest building upon his tongue at being kept in the dark— a thousand questions just begging to be spewed. Why, if their Lord had her, was she still alive? And why was she being kept in the East wing rather than the dungeons? What was going to happen to her? 

However, upon seeing the pleading look from his mother, the desperation and fear so clear in both of their eyes, he forced himself to swallow it all down.  

None of it made any sense. 



It was the soft click of the bedroom door’s handle being turned, the creak of hinges being pushed inward, that had Harri rushing out from the tub, hair still soaking wet and limbs leaving a dripping trail. ‘Draco!’ 

She hurriedly shrugged on the plush bathrobe, an excess of fabric that she drowned in, and secured the ties about her waist. Admittedly, part of her half-expected Zivvy to not follow through— that it would have been impossible. But yet, the elf had. And for the first time since falling into the hands of a certain Dark Lord, she felt uplifted, re-energised, hopeful.

Thoughts of the horcrux inside of her, that nagging sense of foreboding, the uncertainty regarding her future, were all pushed aside as she threw open the bathroom door.

However, standing among the rubble and unable to conceal his blatant horror, was not Draco Malfoy. 

Instead of the fair-haired boy, there stood the towering frame of a man outfitted in black head to toe, cape drawn tightly about his wiry frame and hooked nose wrinkled in a betrayal of discomposure.

“Professor Snape!” she cried out, mouth falling agape.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 29: Snape's Advice

Notes:

Hello everyone! It's a tad longer of a chapter today but I got a bit carried away writing Snape again. I promise you though that Harri and Tom interactions will be back in the next chapter

Also, thank you so much for the love you've shown this fic for! You guys mean the world to me 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Severus Snape had determined that, after the eventful night of December 20th, he would never again lay eyes upon Harri Potter. 

Rightfully, he had come to the conclusion that one of two scenarios would pan out: either she would escape to Hogsmeade, the most preferable outcome, and he would be left to die at the hands of Dumbledore. Or, he shuddered to even think about it, she would be captured by the Dark Lord and, much like in the first scenario, he would be six-feet under for his disloyalty and well on his way to join her in the afterlife. So one might be able to imagine his immense surprise— and no small amount of horror— upon waking a few hours after the raid had been concluded, healed and gifted the title of Headmaster to a school he, truthfully, felt little attachment to.

And that's precisely how the man had found himself on this very snowy morning in Dumbledore's old office, clearing away the long since cold cup of chamomile and half-eaten biscuits. As innocuous, as innocent, as that teacup was, it caused his stomach to lurch at the mere sight. Had Albus known he would never get to finish it? He’d wager probably not. 

A flourish of his wand banished it.

It was a feeble attempt to eradicate any traces of the man's presence, he was well aware. But the need to do so was urgent— he had to. He had to before the ever-mounting guilt of what he had done, the betrayal he had committed, could consume him. Make him useless. After all, if decades in bound servitude had taught him anything about their new Sovereign, it was that he had very little desire, or need, for useless things.

Almost on cue, as if uncannily sensing the turn his thoughts had taken, a sharp pain radiated out from the dark mark impressed into his skin— the beckoning summons of his master.

Severus grimaced and shakily poured himself a glass of fire whiskey from the decanter— it was knocked back without hesitation.

The burn down his throat, that slip of fire, was something he could relish in, calm himself with. A crippling reliance as of late to help soothe his stretched, too-thin mind. In between his endeavours to rebuild the school, of restoring its tattered state, and his weak efforts to cajole the other professors into accepting his newly-appointed authority, he had also been hunting down the Potter girl.

A hound trying to desperately catch the scent of blood— blood that had been long since washed away by the rain. Impossible. As it turned out, she was rather slippery to locate, seemingly having disappeared into thin air. And, at this point, he could only fervently pray that she heeded his advice and had gotten off the grounds unharmed— or, even better, had altogether left the Isles.

The stinging flared; hot oil dancing and sizzling on his arm. The Dark Lord's ire was only growing— a sign of his displeasure at being kept waiting.

With a click of his tongue, the room blurred away as Severus prepared himself to bend the knee and sign away his soul.



Once again, it would appear that Fate saw fit to make a mockery of him. Somehow, it kept finding ever new, ever creative, ways of tormenting him— of rendering him speechless and astonished. 

Like now, for instance.

As he stood in the middle of the Dark Lord's personal chambers, marvelling in mute horror at its destruction, its carnage, he couldn't quite ignore that sense of foreboding; a persisting voice that kept whispering ‘ something’s wrong.'  

Much to his shock, neither scenario had played out quite as he predicted: she had been captured, yes, but she was still alive. At first, he supposed it was a silver lining; alive, after all, was considerably better than being dead. Far better. Alive meant he could still help her; could find small ways to aid her and, perhaps, whisk her away when no one was watching. And so when his Lord had ordered him to heal the girl and soothe her mental turmoil, he armed himself with the steadfast, ironclad determination to make her whole again however he could.

Now, however, he was wondering if the impossible was being asked of him— a Herculean task designed to be some sort of punishment. 

The spiderweb fractures of the cracked ceilings and walls, the broken porcelain and the destroyed bed; no amount of mental fortification could have prepared him for this. 

And if this was the state of the bedroom, then what was the state of the girl? How was he expected to heal her if there was nothing left to heal?

Creeping disquiet spread through him at the very idea; where was she anyway? 

He stepped around what, suspiciously, appeared to be a shattered teapot— a crunch underfoot and, ah, there was its matching cup. Truly, it appeared as though an Obscurus had been unleashed, tearing apart and shredding everything it came in contact with. A chill down his spine— a passing, morbid thought that, perhaps, it might have been better if Harri Potter was dead. At least then, she could have found some relief from the Dark Lord's unassailable wrath. 

What had even pushed the man to sow such destruction? Part of him didn’t even want to know.

"Professor Snape!"

Severus whirled around at the confused— yet also notably relieved— cry, coal eyes widening marginally as he took in her shivering form. Drenched and in a bathrobe two sizes too big, a puddle had already begun to collect about her bare feet. For the most part, she looked outwardly unscathed. The added sallowness to her complexion and the shadows that clung under her eyes aside, she looked— her throat.

A rather alarming bruise had bloomed in sharp contrast to her pale skin— a sickly yellow crowned by deep purples. The distinct impression of fingers haloed it, a warped sort of necklace, the colouration at the sides darker where more pressure had been applied. The imprints spoke of violence, of cruelty. But yet, despite that, she looked suspiciously intact, whole— not at all the grisly state he was expecting to find her in. 

A single brow arched, a vain attempt to act blasé when he truly wasn't. "Do you always greet your guests while wearing a bathrobe, Potter?"

He considered her as green eyes blinked once, then twice, before she let out a weak, nervous laugh. It sounded forced, strained even to his ears.

When her hand rose to rub gingerly at her throat, he hadn’t missed that she flinched— and yet, somehow, a smile, unerring and unfailing, was still on her face in spite of everything. Truly, she was a perplexing creature; one he never could quite seem to figure out.

"It's nice to see you too, professor," she said, the corners of her mouth lifting higher.

Harri had taken a step forward; a slew of muttered curses when she stepped on a jagged shard of glass. Blood had begun to well out from the piece lodged in her foot— bright, thick droplets staining the floor. "Shit! Oh, bloody hell that hurts!"

He rushed over in an instant, wand out and vanishing the debris from around her. There was a tsk, an irritated click of his tongue— barely two minutes had passed and she already was injured. Again. At this rate, his work would never be done.

"Watch where you are walking at the very least," he reprimanded, eyeing the flecks of scarlet dotting the grey wood. "How one can be so careless, Potter, is truly beyond my understanding."

Yet, despite the biting words, his scolding tone, he offered up his arm all the same. The two chairs angled by the fireplace were already patching themselves together, reconstructing their splintered frames and destroyed upholstery. 

He led her, limping, over to them. She felt oddly light, her weight nearly nonexistent— and, for the life of him, he couldn't quite figure out if this was a recent development or if she had always been this small, this wisplike. This insubstantial

After she had settled down and he followed suit, he yanked her injured foot up onto his knee. Wand tip hovering over the bloodied sole, he intoned a soft 'Episkey'— the clinking of glass falling onto the carpet and the soft murmur of flesh melding back together. 

Snape could feel her gaze on him, burning and keen and full of questions. His mouth pulled into a grim line. "What happened, Potter? Why did you fail to get to Hogsmeade as I instructed?"

Harri watched the professor— she knew she was openly staring but, Merlin, how little could she care if she was being rude at the moment or not. Shock; it coursed in her, a vacillating tide between being bewildered and relieved at the same time. How on earth had he managed to survive both Dumbledore and Voldemort?

And she wasn't entirely sure if she was already becoming delusional or starved for company— especially for company from a life she had always known— but Harri found herself actually smiling at the man. A warm, pleasant feeling upon seeing a familiar face. Then it processed he had asked her a question, her reverie broken. Green eyes shifted about the bedroom uneasily as teeth worried her bottom lip.

"Well, I tried to," she explained, brows drawing together as she attempted to recall the events of a night that seemed so distant. "But he was waiting for me in the forest. As for the room, I lost control of my temper just a bit."

"You lost control of your temper?" he echoed, incredulity colouring his voice.

And try as he did to comprehend it— the very fact she had been the one to cause such destruction rather than the Dark Lord— such an idea was hard to digest. Surely the girl didn't have a wand on her? But, if she didn't, then that must mean she was accessing her magic wandlessly.

It was a dawning revelation that she was even capable of such— that her core had the ability to summon forth such devastating bouts of magic without even a proper conduit. True, the girl had always been more developed than her peers— he had seen her, after all, duel with them in class; had seen how she was able to overcome them with sheer power alone— but never had he thought it to be to this degree.

He regarded her shrewdly, a note made to think more on it later when there wasn't such a pressing task at hand. 

Snape roughly pushed her healed foot off his knee, a dull thud as it fell to the floor, his lips twisting into a sneer. "You stupid, mindless, irresponsible child. Losing your temper, of all things, and reducing the Dark Lord's bedroom to rubble. Do you have a death wish, Potter? Or are you perhaps just that reckless?"

Well, Harri could admit he had a point. Her fuse had always been short, painfully so, but never to the point of destroying an entire room before; a room that belonged to someone who, some might say, possessed an even worse disposition than herself. 

She bit down harder on her lip, worriedly gnawing at it— the taste of copper was bright upon her tongue. "Do you think he'll be mad?"  

“Undoubtedly.”

Severus stared sightlessly over her shoulder, face painfully blank. Yet, despite any outward calm he may be projecting, he was internally battling the height of panic. The only thing that he could find to reassure himself with was the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, his Lord had yet to kill her— which meant, hopefully, he didn't have plans to do so either in the near future. After all, why go to the trouble of healing someone if they would only wind up dead? 'To prolong the torture,' a voice supplied in the back of his mind. He stubbornly tried to ignore it, to push it away.

"Professor," Harri ventured tentatively when the silence grew to be too much— a flood of questions. "What are you even doing here? And what happened afterwards? You know, with you and, erm, Dumbledore? What day even is it?"

Coal eyes snapped to green ones in alarm. Warning flags, blazing sharp things that demanded to be heeded, were being raised at the rush of inquiries. 'She doesn't know. He hasn't told her anything.' The sense of trepidation, of hesitation, was mounting— just how much could he tell her? His spine straightened, fingers interlacing together to ground himself— to stop them from trembling and betraying his own nerves. 

“Potter, listen to me carefully,” his voice was low, uncertain, “I have been brought here by the Dark Lord to heal you. Today is December 26th.” 

She went taut, the lines of her body held in suspension. For a moment, Harri just tried to process what Snape was implying— a stutter in her chest as her heart skipped a beat, the cords of her nerves knotting. Originally, she assumed it had been a day, two or maybe three max— but December 26th? That would mean she would have been here for almost an entire week— that she had been missing for six full days— and, sweet Merlin, was that how long she had been unconscious for?

“No. No, no no,” she chanted under her breath, head buried in her hands as that wave of panic threatened to crest.

By now, she was supposed to be at the Burrow— was supposed to have celebrated Christmas with Hermione and Ron and Ginny and the Weasley family. And it was that thought alone of her friends waiting for her, of Sirius and Remus, of their promises to not kick off any of the festivities before she could arrive, that caused tears to prick at her eyes. Were they looking for her? Panicking at her absence?

“Does anyone know? That I’m here, I mean. What’s Dumbledore saying?” she asked quietly.

Snape eyed her hunched over form warily, unsure how to delicately handle the situation. Espionage, spying, brewing potions—  those were the things he excelled at. Not emotions. Not comforting someone who was, rightfully so, inconsolable. 

He decided to act on the principle of mercy— that it would be easiest to omit some of the truth in hopes she would be able to better process smaller chunks rather than the whole.

"No, no one is aware that you are here. The Dark Lord has been rather careful in concealing that fact. As for Dumbledore," he explained, fingers tightening about themselves, "He is currently missing. From what I have gathered, the incident at Hogwarts is being painted as a looting carried out by black market traders."

Harri's head snapped up. 

"That's ridiculous," she bit out, still finding it within herself, despite the resentment, to have even a shred of loyalty towards the now ex-Headmaster. "Dumbledore would never leave Hogwarts unattended."

Severus swallowed thickly at the heat in those green eyes, at the way she had tensed her jaw and those fine brows lowered. A dark, thunderous look; a storm brewing on the horizon. Oh yes, that was an expression he was all too familiar with: it was Lily all over again. His heart tightened uncomfortably, the lies coating his mouth with a bitterness.

“Be that as it may, that is what they are passing it off as. In the meantime, I have been appointed as Interim Headmaster,” he said.

Harri slumped into her chair, unable to fully believe the lies Voldemort was spinning. Of course, the press would trust him— would eat up whatever tale he concocted straight out of his palm. And to the students who remained, it certainly would seem like a random attack by looters; she was quite certain they weren't even aware of who the Death Eaters were. Same for the professors— the ones that might have recognised the group as such had been either at home or on vacation.

She let out a shaky laugh, mind reeling at the grim revelation that he had thought of everything. The timing of the break. Who would be left in the castle. Everything. 'How long had he been planning it?' And oh, how she hated the small part of herself that was mildly impressed with him, his strategy, his foresight.

Severus allowed the girl a moment to her thoughts, feeling oddly off-kilter, off-balance, that he had lied to her— that he had left out the most crucial detail of all: Albus Dumbledore was dead. His eyes slipped closed for a second, praying for her, for the universe, to forgive him for adding another sin to his already considerable karmic debt.

It took more effort than he would care to admit to school his features into something more neutral— to hide the fact he was lying through his teeth. "Let me see your neck. I doubt the Dark Lord will let me stay long."

"O-oh. Right. Yeah," she muttered as she was brought back into the present.

Harri pulled the collar of the bathrobe down, head tilting back to give him better access— a hiss of pain when it twinged in protest. The probing of cold fingers was slightly soothing, a sharp juxtaposition to the heat of her skin. 

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of his frown and the deep crease that had appeared on his forehead.

"Any more pressure and he would have damaged your windpipe," Severus said, voice turning cold in his anger.

He still hadn't been able to ascertain what, exactly, his Lord intended for the girl but, considering the ugly purples and blues and yellows spanning her throat, he knew this with a marrow-deep certainty: it would still be a fate at her expense. In the background of his turning over thoughts, Severus swore he could almost hear the faint pleas of a woman from beyond the grave, the begging of him to save her child. Another Herculean, impossible task. 

Just as he was about to heal the bruise, coal eyes snagged on that faded silver scar just above her collarbone; another memory surfaced. Faint, unbidden, unwelcomed— teeth impressed into cream-coloured skin and the curling pink edges of infection.

It couldn't possibly be related, could it? 

Yet, he couldn't quite resist from entertaining that, perhaps, it was— as impossible as it may seem.

"Potter. That bite mark from this summer?" he asked hesitantly. "That was from him as well, wasn't it?"

He tracked the nervous movement of her swallow, the slight bob as her throat worked, the way her fingers had twitched in her lap. 

Severus knew the answer long before she confirmed it. 

And oh, how it had his stomach churning at the idea, the knowledge, the Dark Lord always had the ability to touch her, hurt her. It never mattered whether or not she was physically kept apart from him, whether or not she was hidden behind the stone walls of Hogwarts or sequestered away within the home of the Dursleys and behind the blood wards. How it was possible, Severus did not know. Yet, one thing was undeniable, irrefutable: he had always been there.

“Yeah,” she stated simply, quietly. "It was."

In all honesty, he was more enraged with himself, with Dumbledore, for falsely believing, even for a second, that they could protect her. And in hindsight, he had seen the signs; had seen the way the wound reeked of dark, unknown magic and how it refused to be healed. Yet, he remained naive in convincing himself it was her merely acting out by dallying around with some random muggle.

"You reckless fool. Did you not think, for a second, that revealing the Dark Lord had access to you would have been important?" he snapped.

"What? Claiming that Voldemort was visiting me in my dreams and decided to take a bite out of my neck? Yeah, sure, that doesn't sound like I'm completely insane at all." She jerked away from him, arms crossing over her chest. "And what about you? You never told me you were a Death Eater. Hell, does Dumbledore know?! After all, you're the reason Voldemort got into the castle in the first place!"

Snape shrank back at her words— the girl didn't even know how right she truly was. It had been his fault, undoubtedly; he had all but served Dumbledore up on a silver platter for the Dark Lord. It was a knife to his conscience and she was twisting the handle, digging it in mercilessly into an already festering wound. 

Quite suddenly, he felt weary, exhausted, stretched too thin. The ground beneath him was quicksand and it only swallowed him quicker the more he floundered. No longer did he feel like a 36-year-old man with his entire life ahead of him, dreaming of glory and the moment when he had finally had enough to feel content. 

No, he was aged, worn— at the end of his rope.

With a sigh, he reached forward. “Just let me heal you, Potter.”

The dull look in dark eyes, the lack of a retort, were all sobering to her— frightening. Harri acquiesced, unsure what else to do because where was the professor who always traded quips with her? Barbed insults? 

A refreshing tingle, a cooling sensation, spread outwards from her neck and down into her chest; the pain magically melted away. Mumbling a 'thank you', she cocked her head to one side and then to the other, experimentally testing to see if there were any residual aches. 

"I know that you have been asked to sacrifice many things in your lifetime, Harri."

Harri looked up, panicked and startled by the usage of her first name— how solemn he sounded. This wasn't Snape. This wasn't the man who always sneered and who always held an arsenal of sharp words on the tip of his tongue— this was a husk of that man. Dread, freezing and arresting, stole the heat from her very limbs.

"But I have to ask for you to make yet another sacrifice. Our world is changing. We are at the mercies of the Dark Lord, whether we like it or not." His heart was leaden in his chest; a dulling beat. "In truth, we are all hostages in his game, one that we can not win."

Harri opened her mouth to protest, to argue that he was wrong — that no, they could still fight— but all that came out was a mute exhale of air. Because, to some degree, he was correct. They weren't able to fight Voldemort, not like this; not in Dumbledore’s absence and not with the Girl Who Lived, their ‘champion’, currently 'missing'. 

It was a medicine, a pill, bitter and hard to swallow. 

"A Dark Lord at large is one thing. A furious one is altogether another," Severus explained softly, gaze casting about the destroyed room. "And this is why I urge you to endear yourself to him. Comply when you can and avoid his wrath."

“But—”

He interrupted her when she was about to object, a grim tightness in the corners of his mouth. "Live for your friends' sake, if not your own. Do not give him reason to make your existence any more painful than it needs to be. There are things that he can do to you that are far worse than death.”

Snape looked to her— all fear and pain and desperation glinting in the depths of coal eyes— his voice a near whisper, "Do not let your parents', your mother's, sacrifice go in vain."

And oh, how badly she wanted to scream that it already had— that Voldemort had already adulterated such noble actions. She wanted to yell that the 'real' Harri Potter had died that night on October 31st— that now she was a mere shell keeping the Devil earthbound.

But there was an irrational fear that refused to let those thoughts be voiced. It commanded, demanded, her to keep her true nature hidden; to not allow Snape so much as a glimpse. 

She thought it ridiculous; the professor had proven himself loyal enough as it was. Yet, those flashing images of Dumbledore were enough to make her mouth go dry. 'Desperation makes even good men do vile things,' it whispered, stomach flipping when she recognised that deep, deep voice. The horcrux was speaking to her, warning her to an unknown danger— acting out in self-preservation. And she knew, no matter how hard she may try, that no words would have been able to leave her mouth anyways— it wouldn't let her.

A sharp breath was drawn at the unexpected sting in his forearm. Snape clutched at it, mind racing with the possibilities of what would be awaiting her— of how truly helpless he was to stop any of it. 

Their time was up.

Reaching into his robes, he shoved a vial into her hands, those small, small hands, his voice pinched as he fought through the fresh wave of pain. "He's coming. A Calming Draught, it'll help."

Harri stared down at the cornflower blue liquid sloshing in the glass— a tacky, persisting film as it clung to the vial's sides. 'Do you trust him enough to drink it? ' that voice questioned, urging her to think twice.

Uncorking it, she knocked the potion back. The refreshing taste of peppermint, the soothing mellow notes of chamomile, coated her tongue, its effect almost instantaneous as the worry, the anxiety, the fear, turned dull, subdued. 

Returning the bottle back to him, it had taken her by surprise with how much she truly meant her next words. "Thank you. And Professor? I hope I can see you again."

Severus rose from the chair, gritting his teeth when that sting morphed into a heat— an acute burn that relayed he needed to leave now. He only spared a second to take in the girl before him, eyes flitting over her features, her half-smile and those too-bright eyes, as though attempting to commit her to memory. It was a nagging sense that it might be some time before they would see each other next.

Thin lips quirked into a small smile, bittersweet and fleeting. "I hope so too, Potter."

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 30: Their Bond

Notes:

Hello everyone! Here's the next chapter and, as I promised, Harri and Tom are back 💕

Thank you to everyone still reading along and I hope you enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Voldemort had taken to watching the clock obsessively, each tick, each second an agony to endure. It seemed as though every pass of the minute hand was intent on wearing down his already thin patience, slowly chipping and carving away until there would be nothing left— nothing left to withstand the baser of his instincts. Those very same instincts that still sang for him to sink his teeth into a certain green-eyed girl and demand obedience, loyalty— subservience

‘You promised them 20 minutes,’ a voice reminded him. His lip curled into a sneer at the idea. 

Of course, there was nothing to bind him, per se, to that promise—  save for his reputation, his word, the very image he was trying so desperately to cultivate with her that he could be benevolent

Now, however, he was debating the merit behind such. Was ‘benevolence’ really even needed?

The Dark Lord abruptly pushed back his chair from the dining room table— a screech of wood across stone tile— his meal entirely forgotten. Feet began to pace of their own accord, holes being worn into the soles of his Oxford loafers as they clicked on the polished floor.

He had decided to take his midday meal in solitude— as was usual to his routine— but some part of him was deeply regretting such. Here, in the silence of the vaulted ceilings and ivory walls, all that was left to occupy him was that damnable ticking and his own intrusive thoughts.

‘15 minutes,’ he noted as scarlet eyes slid over to the grandfather clock, an austere and handsome piece. 

The beast confined to its cage of rib and bone bared its fangs with impatience.

Earlier that morning, Nagini had cornered him, the snake deeming it appropriate to rebuke him for ‘ attacking a hatchling without fangs ’. It had been weighing on him since then, her sly allusion that he had gotten what he ‘deserved’ by the state of his room. And oh, how that nagged relentlessly.

There were a few fundamental truths to his character but the largest, he supposed, was that he coveted things— that he held in no small regard his material possessions. A survival from his time spent in Wool’s, most certainly— a dingy, depressing environment where having something, anything, that could distinguish you from the masses of dirty-faced, too-thin, too-violent street urchins was entirely remarkable. And the second was that he took immense pleasure in organisation— in keeping things orderly, neat.

Yet, it would appear that both foundations had been upset, shattered, obliterated by his little horcrux.

His jaw ticked. ‘10 minutes.’ 

The grip on his wand tightened, pale fingers curling about the fabled hallow in his palm. It was an insurmountable feat to attempt to rein in his anger, to keep a level head— especially so when faced with the reality the girl had the nerve to, most likely, destroy countless, rare artifacts that a lifetime had been spent acquiring. ‘You can always repair them,’ logic reasoned, attempting to dampen the flames being stoked in his chest. 

But even then, it was the mere principle of it; a prodigious lack of respect. Something that he, admittedly, was not accustomed to. 

That minute hand kept dutifully carrying on; a one-track minded soldier going through its paces. ‘5 minutes.’

Voldemort idly twirled the wand, thumb running over the knobbed ridge of the handle. His attention turned towards the French glass doors, their arched iron panes and gleaming gold handles, to look past the veranda and out onto the lawn. It was perfectly manicured— on par with the impossibly high standards of the Malfoy family— acres of stretching acres covered with mounting inches of snow. 

The sun was weak and obscured by a solid mass of greying clouds, the air chilled and heavy with the promise of a storm to come. 

Ominous— foreboding

Perfectly suited to his current mood. It would appear that Mother Nature was in a commiserating disposition.   

‘3 minutes.’

Oh, how he hoped Severus had followed through; that the man had done whatever he could to ensure the girl would be more compliant and her temper curbed. After all, it was entirely within the realm of possibility, depending on the state of his chambers and her attitude, that she might have far, far worse to deal with than his hands wrapped around that pretty, little neck.

Truly, dealing with her defiance, her venomous words and feral ways, was not something he could bear— not today. No, right now he needed her absolute obedience, her willingness to cooperate; a show of fealty for tonight’s events.

And he was beyond determined to get it, no matter what the cost may be. 

The tone chimed from the clock, a deafening melody as brass bells rung to signal the close of the hour. The sound carried, ricocheting thunderously off the steepled ceiling and through the manor’s empty corridors. ‘Finally.’

Not even a second after the final chime ended had he sent a sharp warning through the mark to Severus; an unspoken message his time was up. If the man was wise, he would listen and flee before he arrived— and if not? Well, his magic was raring to divine violence.

Polished leather shoes were a sharp staccato, the pace of them hurried, eager, as the heavy oak doors swung open before him. 



On the landing of the grand staircase, its steps wide enough to fit three men shoulder to shoulder comfortably, he had passed the potions master. Face an impassive mask and eyes narrowed on the door ahead, his irritation flared when the man sunk into a bow and blocked his path.

“My Lord,” Severus greeted stiffly.

Crimson eyes snapped to him, assessing and considering. Severus’s words had come out hesitant, an air about the man as though he had more to say. A tongue ran agitatedly over his canines at the obvious stalling, his displeasure made known through the mark. 

The resulting wince from the Headmaster was rather mollifying. 

“I have given the girl a Calming Draught to soothe her current emotional instabilities, as instructed,” Severus said through the pain, the phantom flames licking their way up his arm making him all too aware of the thin ice he was treading on. “But, if I may be so bold, I would advise for some caution to be exercised? A potion can only alleviate the symptoms of stressors, not fully erase them— if they become too great, its effects will be negated.”

That all too shrewd look in black eyes, the hopeful defiance, the keenness lacing his words— it made that monster stretch its gaping maw. Severus cared for the girl; had the audacity to all but choose her over him. But yet, despite the man’s roundabout display of disloyalty, what truly wore on him was the fact the Headmaster was trying to protect her from him. His horcrux— something that was his by right. A twinge of dark possessiveness thrived at the very notion. 

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he took another step to further tower over the potions master, voice cold— a dangerous edge. 

“Do not,” he warned, a glimmer of satisfaction when the man shrank back, “test me, Severus.” 

He withdrew from the mark, taking his irritation and knife-sharp magic with him in the process. Long legs climbed the remaining few steps two at a time, jaw working. ‘Calm yourself,’ that rational voice reminded as he paused outside of the double doors leading to his chambers.

A strained inhale— an equally strained exhale.

But then he stepped into his room and those feeble breathing exercises to pacify his anger, to even out his mood, failed completely.



Shock overcame him, robbing him of any coherent possible thought.

Unsteady feet took one step and then another, wide eyes casting about the carnage before him— the doors slammed forcefully shut. There were very few things in this world, he liked to imagine, that could render him mute, dumbfounded, speechless — but seeing his bedroom overturned and beyond repair? Well, he could add it to the small, ongoing list. 

Voldemort gradually recovered as he scanned the room critically, noting the shredded books, the downy feathers coating the floor in a thick carpet, the cracked mantle of the fireplace, the overhead lights shattered in their sockets— his gaze narrowed upon seeing the bed.

The four postered frame was splintered, the duvet in tatters and there was a rather sizable crater now impressed above the headboard where the mounted chains had been ripped away.

Quite suddenly, that tumultuous storm of emotions he had felt earlier made sense— shock fell to fury. Anger, a seething rage that tinged the edges of his vision red

She dared to disrespect his personal space, his chambers, his belongings— and after the fact she had plainly rejected him, called him vile and pathetic. 

She dared to defile his sanctuary, even after he had left on his own volition to give her space to process. And apparently, it was a mistake to think her enough of an adult to not have to be supervised— a prodigious mistake he was keen to not repeat in the future.  

An alarming crunch underfoot drew his attention— a wash of frigid horror upon recognising the handle to the teapot. It was the very same he had used during their conversation; a thoughtful bid, he had believed, to curb the edge of surprise upon delivering the news. Yet another way Harri Potter had spat on his kindness— on his attempts to be civil, courteous. 

Fingers curled tighter about the wand, striving to find a physical outlet to relieve some of the tension held within himself. It was a miracle the wood hadn’t snapped clean in half. 

There was a war being waged in his mind; two opposing factions battling for dominance. One advocated to make her pay, to ensure she understood the consequences her infantile tantrum had reaped— to make certain she would be afraid to step a foot into his room ever again. The other, however, demanded patience, understanding— to realise her emotions had caused her magic to lash out uncontrollably and be pleased she was this strong to begin with. And yes, he knew he needed to draw strength from the latter, to try to keep calm if he was to earn her trust— to coax her into cooperating. 

With no small amount of effort, he forced his jaw to relax and for fingers to ease off the wand before the temptation to hex her an inch within her life became too great. 

“You have made quite the mess of things, haven’t you, Harri?” he asked rhetorically, voice flat as he scanned the rubble for where she possibly could be hiding.

And ah— there she was. Nestled in one of the still-standing armchairs, auburn crown barely visible.

He nudged a piece of plaster out the way with the toe of his Oxford shoe, a delayed feeling of dismay registering at the fact even the walls would need to be repaired. The muscle above his brow twitched involuntarily— a passing idea to make her clean up everything by hand. It was tempting, most certainly, the concept of reducing her to a mere servant and making it so all she had time to feel was exhaustion. 

‘Calm,’ he chanted inwardly, a holy mantra, as he strived to find a balm to his wrath— a sort of silver lining. 

Voldemort glanced up to the cracks fracturing the ceiling, frowning in distaste that the gaudy chandelier, of all things, had escaped. 

In its own right, it was begrudgingly impressive that she had been able to conjure such a violent burst of magic— and without a wand at that. A distant note was made— filed away for far, far into the future when the urge to tear into her wasn’t his most prominent feeling— to look into her aptitude for wandless magic. 

“Well, are you satisfied with yourself? With your childish tantrum? For destroying property that is not your own?” he questioned coldly, irritation mounting at her lack of response. 

A disbelieving scoff at the fact she was now ignoring him; a further insult to injury. 

The Dark Lord made his way through the room, a symphony of cracks and crunches as the wreckage beneath his feet incurred further damage. His shoe collided with something, a hollow sound, buried beneath the copious amounts of feathers. 

An apprehensive glance down.

And there, in all of its mangled glory, was a worn, leather tome. He could have sworn his teeth nearly cracked when he ground them. Slowly, deliberately, Voldemort reached down to pick it up. 

If he had believed in gods or a force greater than himself, he might have prayed to them that the book would be intact— yet, judging from its damaged bindings, the yellowed parchment ripped cleanly out, it clearly wasn’t. A delayed blink, then another, before his head snapped towards the girl in the chair.

He rounded on her, teeth bared in a snarl, hand shooting out to tightly grasp the chair’s frame by her head. 

This was an original,” he seethed, brandishing the shell of the book and tossing it forcefully to the ground.

It landed with a dull thud, a testament to how empty it now was— its invaluable words were scattered and strewn about the floor, a hopeless, thankless task to reassemble them. 

“One of the few journals of Salazar Slytherin known to be in existence. It has survived decades, ages, hundreds of years, Harri, without ever being damaged,” he bit out, eyes flashing. “And yet, in the span of less than an hour, you defiled it. Reduced it to nothing more than rubbish destined for the bin.” 

“Sorry,” she mumbled out in a quick apology.

And as he took in those too-wide green eyes blinking up at him, Voldemort, reluctantly, had to acknowledge Severus’s brewing capabilities were phenomenal. The Calming Draught worked wonders— all of that fear, the anger, the resentment was utterly absent in her gaze. 

Part of him almost wished it hadn’t been this effective— that she would have fought him, quarrelled with him, just so he could justify lashing out and punishing her. ‘You still could. When has Lord Voldemort ever needed a reason to demand reparations?’ a traitorous voice whispered, attempting to cajole him into acknowledging those violent desires— to follow through on the ache in his teeth and that overwhelming urge to sink them into her jugular and prise it from the pale column of her throat. It was tempting, to say the least. 

It had registered then that her hair was damp— and that she was dressed in nothing more than a bathrobe. 

His bathrobe.  

Heated eyes dipped down for a second, taking in the sight of exposed collarbones— that tantalising, delicate curve of bone— and the dangerously low ‘v’ cut into the neckline. The soft swell of her chest was more visible than usual, a teasing glimpse of smooth skin— desire. Ravenous, possessive, blade-sharp. It unfurled within his own chest, rising to battle with his fury— it was winning.   

The Dark Lord fell into the unoccupied chair, legs crossing and fingers steepling.

He allowed his eyes to slip closed for a second; a moment of suspended stillness. Attempting to gather together his emotions, to quell that yearning and sate his temper, he tried to remember why he was even here in the first place. An insurmountable task as his mind attempted to ignore the state of the room, the priceless artifacts destroyed— the girl sitting barely two feet away practically naked.

Harri studied him as he sat in silence, posture rigid and tense. She knew she should have felt a form of horror, fear, trepidation maybe, at his reaction— at him crowding her space. And, most certainly, she knew she should have felt anger and indignation at the fact he called her a child that had ruined everything. 

Yet she didn’t.

Those feelings never came, her body too relaxed and mind too foggy to even bother. Hell, her heart rate hadn’t even quickened— a mental note to later ask Snape for some more of this magical substance the next time she saw him. It was such a wonderful feeling, after all, not to be scared or influenced by overwhelming rage for once. Blissful

Having deemed himself put together enough, the Dark Lord finally opened his eyes. He considered the girl still staring unblinkingly at him and leaned forward, voice low, quiet, “You always know how to test my patience, don’t you, Harri?”

An idle hand reached out to lightly grasp a strand of damp hair hanging over her chest. Rubbing it between his index finger and thumb, he stared, momentarily entranced, as the clump separated under his insistence. “But I can be forgiving. Understanding. So allow me to further extend the vast sea that is my patience when it comes to you by accepting your apology.” 

That hand moved upward to tenderly cup her jaw, his touch cold against heated skin. Voldemort turned her head towards him, eyes hooded as light burst forth from their contact. He needed her to feel it, to be taken off guard without anger to put up a defensive shield against its pull. After all, he had heard it directly from Barty; the Imperius hadn’t worked on the girl. And though he, undoubtedly, could cast one stronger than his follower, he couldn’t run the risk of her breaking free from it. 

Not now.

“I do not want to spend an eternity fighting with you, Harri.” His thumb stroked along the gentle slant of her jawline, the bone firm under petal-soft skin. 

More magic was pushed through their bond— a gnawing hunger between his ribs at the sensation of their souls melding. “And you do not want that either, do you? Think of how much easier it would be if you were just to comply and submit? How that might please me?”

Harri blinked up owlishly at him, unable to help herself from leaning into that hand. Her heart was starting to pound erratically, a dizzying tempo, as syrup flooded her veins— a slow and insistent pull. The siren’s call of it, the coolness of his touch, the floating weightlessness was all she could focus on, the effects of the Calming Draught nulled in the face of something far more powerful. Far more enticing — alluring.

Green eyes fluttered closed, that tempting glow consuming her entire world. ‘Why does it feel so good?’ Logic struggled to cut through the haze; a futile reminder that she should be, needed to be, alarmed by whatever he was doing. 

But yet, all of those worries, the skepticism, were so readily drowned out by the light sunbursting brightly behind her eyes. Vaguely, it reminded her of the Imperius—but no, that wasn’t it. No, this felt different— too right. And, Merlin, how she just wanted it to never end.

Immense satisfaction, a great deal of delight, coursed in him right along that glow when she pressed into his palm. While he, admittedly, felt the pull too, it was easier to mask it, to shield against it with Occlumency and fortify himself with the knowledge it was he who was in control

Not to mention all of his attention was focused on his one singular task— a mission of utmost importance. All he needed was for her to agree to this evening, to show up and act according to his command. 

"Don’t you wish to please me?” he asked softly.

More magic was pushed through the bond— a smirk curling on his mouth when she had given a minute nod. 

“Then all I need from you tonight, Harri, is to follow my explicit instructions. Follow my orders and I promise that you will be rewarded.” He drew a long arc with his thumb across the high cut of her cheekbone. “Perhaps a reunion with someone you have missed so dearly?”

Without warning, his hand dropped away. In a perverse fascination, he watched as her eyes fluttered back open, a dazed stupor held in them upon realising that golden light had been cut off. 

“What?” she questioned dimly, mind attempting to process what he was asking of her. It was proving to be difficult, her thoughts sluggish and unable to focus.

At the first sign of lucidity, Voldemort clasped her wrist— a gentle yet unrelenting hold. Fingers encircling it, his thumb pressed down onto her pulse point; her heart was an erratic, unrestrained thing. He could feel it, that once steady rhythm dissolving into chaos as slow, languid circles were massaged into the fork of blueing veins. 

She began to melt again as that glowing tide lulled freely between them once more. 

The Dark Lord’s voice dropped to an almost intimate whisper, “I skinned a man alive today, you know. He suffered quite a bit because of you and your careless words. See, you challenged me when you called me ‘pathetic’ and tried to impose limits unto me. So I peeled the skin from his body and kept him alive, just out of death’s reach, until I saw fit to release him. Tell me, Harri, does that sound like something a man with ‘limits’ could do?”

And Harri understood she should have been horrified— should have found his words gruesome, disturbing. Unsettling. He had just admitted to torturing a man to death, after all, had confessed to killing him because of her taunting— but yet, all she could really feel was that insistent, alluring tug somewhere deep within herself. The light, the floating, the honeyed heat coursing warmly through her limbs. It caused his words to seem so distant, so inconsequential; hell, he may have been discussing the weather or a good book he had recently read for all she cared. 

“He paid the price, in the end, for your insolence,” he said casually, a wry smirk twisting his mouth when her head slumped forward. “So remember the next time your tongue has the urge to be careless that, while I may have given you my word to not personally harm those you care for, I made none on the accountability of my hounds.”  

Voldemort jerked the girl forward so she half-tumbled into his lap, his free hand reaching down to tilt her chin up. That half-lidded gaze, those blown wide pupils, the wet sheen on parted lips— that poisonous desire came flooding back with a vengeance. And he wondered, brief and passing, how that mouth of hers must taste— how sweet it would be.

With a soft ‘tsk’ of mock sympathy, as though empathetic to her overstimulated nerves, he went to tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. 

His next words were whispered, lips ghosting the shell of her ear— a wave of unbridled delight when she shivered at the contact. “Remember, little one, that you can not protect them all. Just think of how many countless strangers will die at your behest, cursing your very name upon their lips with their final breath.” 

Voldemort rose abruptly. She collapsed forward without him to support her weight; twisted gratification when she fell to her hands and knees on the fur rug. There was a trembling held in her shoulders and a flush to her face as though she had been overcome by a fever— he hungrily committed it to memory. How could he not? Seeing his horcrux before him in such a vulnerable position, shaking in the aftermath of their bond; the defiant Girl Who Lived finally bowing at his feet. It was a heady thing, a tempting image that did terrible, terrible things to his self-control. 

With some difficulty, he managed to keep his voice level as he stared down at her dipped head. “Narcissa will arrive later to help prepare you. Do not disappoint me tonight, Harri Potter.”

He disapparated without fanfare or warning, leaving behind a shivering girl amidst the rubble she had sown.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 31: She Was No Longer 'Harri Potter'

Notes:

Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter!

As always, you are all amazing and such kind readers! Thank you for all of the comments on the last chapter, it made my day!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri had remained on her hands and knees for what seemed like an eternity after he left, unable to think, to move. Not that she would dare anyways; not with the world swaying and tilting and distorting as it was. Her mind kept reeling in the aftermath of whatever he had done, a tremble persisting in her limbs and an ache felt down to her joints. 

And yet, despite that, some part of herself, some part primal and unknown, was screaming for him to come back— to bring with him that glow, that light. To make her feel whole again. It was with a rising alarm, panicked breaths too rapid and too short, that she understood she felt lost without it. Adrift. Like she had been cut off from oxygen itself and was left to gasp in air that did very little to sate burning lungs— untethered.

That lovely, quiet reprieve the Calming Draught had yielded evaporated from her system entirely; cold panic settled in its stead. ‘He skinned someone alive.’ Acid was rising in the back of her throat. ‘Because of what I said. He killed someone to prove a point.’ 

Unsteadily rising to her feet, she stumbled to the bathroom and nearly tripped in her urgency. Flashes of a man being peeled as though he were a grape flooded her mind, her imagination seeing fit to provide the gruesome details. The cloying scent of copper, penny-bright and sickly-sweet. The sounds, those squelching sounds, and agonised screams— red

Red, red, red: so much red. Just like his eyes. 

The lurching in the pit of her stomach was a foreboding sign; a self-fulfilling prophecy. Knees collided painfully with the marble tile, the sting barely registering as shaking hands clutched at the chilled porcelain of the toilet. 

She retched into it. 

Emptying the contents of her stomach until nothing but bile came up, hyperventilating sobs tore through slight shoulders. Unkind, merciless, she could only dry heave until her throat burned and scorching tears seared her cheeks. He had been so casual about it, had acted as though it wasn’t a big deal to end another’s life— as though he hadn’t enacted the most vile, damning act possible. Murder. 

Without hesitation, without reservation, he carried it out: murder

It took several minutes until her body felt calmed down enough to actually move. Blindly grappling for the handle, she flushed the evidence of her inability to handle such violence down the drain. ‘Come on, Harri. Get it together.’ 

Staggered steps carried her to the ivory sink, a wobble in her legs. The faucet sprung to life and greedy hands reached for the water, palms cupping under the cool stream before splashing it on her face. It was a refreshing, soothing balm on overheated skin— grounding.

An offhanded glance to the mirror had her doing a double take. 

The girl staring back was a stranger. Sure, it was her face, no denying it, but the look on it— the dilated pupils eclipsing a ring of emerald, the flush that turned her skin a rosy shade, the wet sheen on parted lips. No, whoever this girl was, it was not Harri Potter. Never once before in her life could she recall looking this dishevelled, this indecent— and, truthfully, it scared her more than she would care to admit because he had been the one to coax it out. 

A chill crept along her spine and she had to force herself to look away— to look anywhere but at the not-quite-stranger. The porcelain bowl of the sink was a refuge, a respite, her attention fixed on the stream of water splashing up its side. 

‘He threatened them,’ she thought dimly. Overriding panic clawed in her chest at the realisation, a lump in her throat. ‘He promised he wouldn’t touch them but he never said anything about his followers.’ Snape’s words came back to her with startling clarity; they were all playing a game they could not win. And truly, how right the man was. The Dark Lord had played the board well, almost too well, trapping her in a corner without an exit strategy and targeting her weaknesses. 

Her friends. 

Her family.

Her saviour complex in holding nameless strangers accountable for her own actions.

It was almost enough to make her want to throw up again. 

She wrenched the faucet’s handle to the side forcefully, the soft hiss of the water ceasing and returning the bathroom back to silence. 

Eyes tracked as the remaining few droplets raced down the curved sides of the sink and to the silver cap of the drain, each one seemingly eager to arrive before its twin. He said tonight; he wanted her to obey him tonight. A frown, her heart pounding against her ribs at the idea, knees going lax. 

‘Tonight. What’s tonight?’ Vainly, she replayed their conversation over— one that she, admittedly, only half-heard. Yet, she was almost quite certain he hadn’t said what was going to happen.

Her head tilted back to stare up at the ceiling, a sting behind her eyes and mind a muddled mess that jumped too quickly from one thought to another. He mentioned a reunion but with who? What would happen if she didn’t listen? Why did her body feel like it was burning? Why was she craving for him to touch her again? How did—

A resounding pop shattered her introspection and she jolted at the unexpected noise. 

Feet stiffly carried her to the bathroom’s door, nerves knotted as an ear pressed flat against it. Had this ‘Narcissa’ already arrived? But that didn’t make sense; he said she would come by later which meant probably hours, not mere minutes. 

‘Maybe he forgot something?’ It was the most rational guess considering the sounds of someone rummaging about the room. 

Harri flung the door open, ready to confront him, to demand he tell her what he was planning or how he expected her to behave without even knowing what it would entail. 

Yet, to her surprise, it was not this ‘Narcissa’ nor the Dark Lord that had appeared in the wreckage of the bedroom. Rather, it was a purple-eyed house-elf holding a broom far bigger than her tiny body. 

They both stared at one another in shock, apparently neither expecting the other.

“Zivvy!” Harri recovered first and cautiously edged into the room, mindfully avoiding the remnants of glass strewn about. 

“Miss Potter! Zivvy is summoned to clean the room, Miss,” Zivvy said hurriedly, ears fluttering in excitement and broom long-forgotten in her hands. 

And there was a dangerous thought, passing and one made in the height of desperation, as Harri considered the elf. She seemed so keen to see her— so willing to help— that maybe? An insistent line of thinking; a small voice demanding she find a way out. That staying here with a man who readily tortured others, who exacted the same violence onto her, who had this strange, terrifying control over her body was madness. Flashes of her plan during the Hogwarts incident to lead Voldemort away from the castle— it had worked. She drew him into the woods after all and maybe, just maybe, she could do it again but on a grander scale. Maybe she could preoccupy him long enough to draw his attention away from—

‘It’s a stupid idea,’ logic reprimanded. Voldemort had already proven he had no qualms about punishing strangers in her place and that she was already testing the limits of his patience— that she couldn’t save everyone. Frustration welled up in her, bubbling and overflowing, at the realisation she was trapped. 

But perhaps she could get word to Dumbledore? Have him rally his forces? Or, at the very least, tell Remus and Sirius where she was. 

“Zivvy,” she said slowly, crouching down to be eye level with the elf. “Can you do me a favour?” 

She smiled when the creature nodded enthusiastically— a seed of hope unfurling. “When you’re done, I need you to get a message to someone for me. Sirius Black. Tell him that I’m here at Malfoy Manor. You can do that, right? Find him?”

Zivvy gave a firm nod, chest puffed up in pride. “Of course, Miss. Zivvy is a house-elf. Zivvy can do anything the Miss requires.” 

Harri straightened, a sigh of relief. And, for a moment, she did debate on instructing the elf to find Dumbledore as well; after all, he was the one that could match Voldemort in power. But after the Astronomy Tower, she wasn’t exactly raring at the idea— not with him knowing what she truly was. But Sirius? No, he was ignorant of the truth— and her godfather was tenacious. He wouldn’t stop until she was safe and out of the Dark Lord’s reach, that much she was certain of.

Her stomach did churn at the idea of concealing something so crucial from him, of essentially lying to the man— but he had lied to her as well, hadn’t he? Like this summer for instance. Sirius had broken his promise to visit her, to rescue her from the Dursleys and their cruelty. This seemed like fitting retribution for the way he had bared his throat and crumbled so quickly under Dumbledore’s insistence— of not fighting harder to have her live with him, to have them be a happy family like he always touted.

That lump in her throat grew, a heaviness in her chest. 

“Oh, Zivvy almost forgot!”

Harri blinked in surprise, yanked from her thoughts, when a breakfast tray appeared on the edge of the bed. An assortment of pastries, of fruits most definitely not in season for the bleak winter, and decanters of juice littered the polished surface. 

Guilt. It rose in her at the mere sight of food— she’d be lying if she said she was hungry right about now. That she could stomach anything when the image of a skinned man, his muscles and sinew exposed, hovered threateningly in the back of her mind. 

But upon the house-elf's insistence, the prideful gestures she made to the dishes presented so beautifully on silver platters, Harri couldn’t find it in herself to outright say no.

Picking up an apple, a gorgeous shade of ruby red streaked through with pink, she bit into it. It tasted like ash in her mouth. 

“By the way, did you ever find Draco?” Harri asked, worried for a second that, perhaps, she had been wrong and the boy wasn’t even in the manor at all. That, perhaps, Voldemort already knew of their friendly terms and had banished him to cut off any potential allies. Or, Merlin forbid, had done something even worse.

“I did, Miss,” the elf responded, wincing as though ashamed by the failure. “But the Lord and Lady Malfoy wouldn’t let him come.” 

Harri took another bite of the apple. A mechanical chew as she mulled over the admission, the taste barely registering. ‘So Draco is here then.’ Which meant Voldemort had yet to do anything to the Slytherin boy and still remained, hopefully, unaware of their friendship. That or he was holding onto the pureblood for safekeeping; another card to be played to keep her in line. She was inclined to think it was the latter. Fierce protectiveness unfurled in her at the notion, a silent vow being made in the moment that she wouldn’t ever allow the Dark Lord to lay so much as a finger on his blond head. Not when Draco had already saved her before— a repayment in kind. 

Another thoughtful chew and a heavy swallow. 

As for his parents not letting him see her, she supposed it was understandable. After all, allowing their son to get close to a girl whose future was murky at best— especially one who was currently left to the mercies of a Dark Lord— was a terrible idea; she couldn’t fully fault them for being decent parents. 

Magic rippled through the air and Harri looked up in time to watch the chamber slowly knit itself back together. Green eyes tracked as bits of plaster floated up from the ground, carefully slotting themselves back into their original places on the walls, the ceilings, and seamlessly blending together. It was as though they had never been damaged in the first place.

A sharp crack and the mantle was healed; a discomforting murmur and the wooden frame of the bed was made whole.

“Brilliant,” Harri breathed out in wonder. 

And if it had been such an easy fix to begin with, why had he been so upset? Then she noticed the elf was gathering up pieces of parchment off the floor.

“Aren’t you going to fix those?” she asked curiously, gesturing to the papers with the half-eaten apple in her hand. 

“Oh, no. I can’t, even Zivvy has limits. Only His Majesty can fix it,” the house-elf said as she deposited the pages onto the newly fixed desk.

The corners of her mouth twitched into a frown— a distant recollection of Voldemort explaining parsel and normal magic usually acted in opposition to the other. Oil to water. It was slow to click into place as she eyed the destroyed tome; Salazar must have bound it with his own brand of magic. If that was the case, his anger was unsurprising. But still, she couldn’t quite help the vindictive delight in knowing he would have to personally spend time repairing it himself— that there was at least one thing that couldn’t be magicked away by someone else into being fixed.

She tossed the apple core down onto the silver tray just as a grandfather clock, housed somewhere deep in the heart of the manor, chimed. It was a sharp, thunderous sound that commanded attention; a severe melody that demanded to be heeded. Idly, Harri counted along with the brass bells. 

‘Five pm, huh.’ Green eyes glanced down to her body still outfitted in a too-big bathrobe, hair long dried but a tangled mess. The earlier questions were back with a vengeance, mind turning over in attempts to figure out what the evening would bring— how he wanted her to act. 

Not even a minute after the last chime had fallen way to silence was there a knock on the door. 

Harri looked over when the double doors swung open to reveal a blonde haired woman hovering in its frame. She was tall with pointed features, cornflower blue eyes carefully blank and an air of undeniable grace as she swept into the room.

“Pardon the intrusion,” the woman said, her calm voice clipped with a posh accent. “I have been summoned by My Lord to help you dress for the evening.”



Harri had come to the conclusion that Narcissa Malfoy, despite the cold expression and the grim line of her mouth, was a rather gentle person. She knew it from the way those shapely hands had steered her towards the bathroom, the demure pressure in which they guided her to sit at the vanity, the considerate manner in which they pulled a boar bristle brush through her hair, mindful of any tangles. And as she obsessively watched the Malfoy matriarch in the mirror, taking in the elegant blonde curls cascading down her neck and the ruby red staining her full lips, she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why she had pledged herself to the Dark Lord.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” she ventured tentatively. Those hands had stilled and pale eyes lifted to evenly meet the reflection of green ones.

She had so many questions to ask— what was happening, what Voldemort had said about her, how she was expected to act tonight. But instead, Harri found herself settling on a rather simple one. “How’s Draco?”

Narcissa set the gilded brush down on the marble counter. Those emerald eyes were earnest as they met hers, a gaze that appeared as though the killing curse was caught midcast— arresting. She could easily see why Draco had taken a fancy to the girl. After all, she was quite the beautiful little thing that could have given even Lily Potter a run for her money. 

“Draco is well,” she responded hesitantly, striving to figure out where, exactly, the girl stood in regards to her son— to discern if there was any deceit, any ill will hidden behind the question.

At the small exhale of relief Harri had given, however, the way her shoulders lost some of their tension, Narcissa was satisfied there was none. “He wanted to come, you know. When you had asked for him.”

With a flourish of her dark wand, the handle silver plated and ornate, Narcissa began to curl some of the auburn locks of hair.

Harri let out a shaky laugh and flashed the older woman a knowing, half-smile. “But you wouldn't let him?”

“Of course, I don’t blame you,” she added, thumb tracing over the opposite palm’s lifeline absentmindedly. “For not wanting him to be around me, I mean. Not with Voldemort hanging about.”

The blonde woman flinched at the casual usage of the Dark Lord’s name, a sense of unease at how bravely, how calmly, she managed to say it. An oddity— a peculiarity— that the girl seemingly lacked the fear most possessed when it came to the man. And, not for the first time since the Girl Who Lived had been brought back alive, Narcissa found herself puzzling over what she could possibly mean to her Lord— why his plans had so suddenly changed. 

Narcissa began to pile the curled strands into an intricate bun, fingers working deftly to twist and braid. “He talked— talks—  often about you.”

She reached over the girl’s thin shoulder for a hairpin, pale eyes flickering back to the mirror. “Draco always finds the time to regale me with stories from your time at Hogwarts. Particularly your quidditch matches.” 

Harri, for the oddest reason, felt relieved when the woman had chosen to speak again— to indulge her with conversation. And she wasn’t entirely sure why that was but, as those fingers worked nimbly to create some elaborate hairstyle she knew she could never replicate and that soft voice had taken on a playful, wistful note, she just knew she never wanted the pureblood to leave.

That half-smile became a full grin, impish and a cheeky quality to her words. “Oh, I’m sure he did. Even after you bought his entire team new brooms, he still couldn’t manage to catch the snitch before me.”

Narcissa returned the smile, a small thing that tugged on painted lips, as she recalled a young Draco coming home for the winter holidays, ranting and raving on how Harri Potter had bested him yet again— how he demanded that his father find some way to remove her altogether from the Gryffindor team. It was certainly a simpler time; one that now carried with it a bittersweetness.

“Oh, please do not begrudge me for that. A mother has to spoil her only son. Though, just between us.” Narcissa leaned down closer, an equally mischievous gleam in blue eyes. “His father and I had not heard the end of it for weeks afterwards. It was nearly insufferable. He even begged Lucius to have you removed from the Seeker position altogether.”

Harri felt her mouth drop in shocked delight as Narcissa confided about her son’s childish antics— free laughter. Good-natured and without a care, it couldn’t be helped as she thought back to Draco being that upset over something so trivial. “Merlin, he really hates losing, doesn’t he?”

Narcissa reached forward to tug free a few loose curls and allowed them to fall in front of the girl’s heart-shaped face in a framing curtain. “Oh, yes. Especially so to you.”

The blonde twirled around the vanity’s chair as she began to rummage through the vanity’s drawers. “Even after hiring the best tutor we could find, you still managed to hold onto your position as number one in Defense. It drove him absolutely mad. Personally, I was always a Potions or Charms sort of girl.”

Comfortable silence fell between them as Narcissa began to paint the younger girl’s lips in a darker shade of red, her eyes slightly narrowed in concentration. It felt sticky, heavy, an uncomfortable feeling that Harri wasn’t accustomed to. And without the lull of conversation to distract her, without the reminiscences of the past to escape into, an oppressive weight inhabited her chest— an ever-mounting sense of impending doom that made her heart skip. 

Once the brush left her mouth, Harri asked, voice timid, unsure, “What did he say about tonight, Mrs. Malfoy? About me?”

Narcissa paused, a makeup puff held in her hand, as she took in the redhead. It was an unexpected discovery with how small she seemed, so quiet— not at all that defiant and brash girl her son always painted her as. And it hit her in full force, her blood running cold and something seizing her heart: the ‘Girl Who Lived’ was precisely that. A girl . A child forced into a war she should have never been expected to participate in— an innocent caught in the crosshairs. Draco being marked without truly having any choice, the agony it was to bear his screams and tears, sprang to the forefront of her mind— fury. Was this girl any different? No, she decidedly wasn’t. 

She tried to busy herself with covering up the bruising circles under those green eyes, unsure of how to even respond. He hadn't, in fact, said much about tonight— other than to dress her and bring her to the meeting parlour by seven. 

But even now, Narcissa could recall how those red, red eyes nearly glowed in hunger, in a frenzied desire, when he had dictated his wishes for her appearance. It was enough to leave a bitterness in her mouth.

“He did not say.” Narcissa worked to swallow, throat constricting and conflict warring in her at the fact she was to hand over this girl, a girl a mere month younger than her son, to the Devil himself— a dilemma between wanting to please the man for the sake of her family but also wanting to hide the child as far from him as possible. “He only commanded that I make you look respectable, pureblooded. As if you are royalty.” 

It was a barrage of memories in Harri’s mind upon hearing Narcissa’s confession— the pleasure from his touch, the heated syrup in her veins, how all she wanted was for him to never let go. Dizzying flashes of her expression, one she didn’t recognise, debauched and craving something she had no name for— his innocent question asking if she wanted to please him, the vaguest notion she had nodded in compliance.

Her stomach clenched, a cramp in the muscle: he wanted her to look like royalty but why?

Quite suddenly, she was grateful that she hadn’t eaten more than an apple. 



An hour later and Harri found herself staring numbly into the dressing room’s mirror, mind entirely unable to comprehend her appearance. It was a surreal experience to feel as one was hovering outside of their body— like they were an intruder, an imposter, an unwanted presence.

Narcissa, admittedly, had done a rather commendable job, one that made Lavender’s efforts for the Hufflepuff party look like child’s play. 

Kohl lined her eyes, lending their green a striking brightness that made them almost glow. To her, she thought they were uncomfortable to look at, unnerved when she held her own gaze for a second too long in the mirror. 

Auburn hair had been maneuvred into an intricate up-do, braids twisting about her crown to highlight the elegant slope of her neck. The pale column of her throat was a homage to that of a Victorian cameo. A few strands had been left out to frame her face, further defining the gentle slant of her jawline and drawing attention to the cut of her high cheekbones.

That tackiness on her lips had finally dried down to a matte finish— much to her relief— the bright red dulling down to a wine hue. Somehow, the darkness only further accentuated the cupid’s bow, lending her rosebud mouth a plumpness, a fullness, that she had never quite noticed before. 

But it was the dress that she couldn’t take her eyes off of.

It was a tight, floor-length affair, slick and clinging to her as though it were a second skin. Despite the high neck and the long sleeves, Harri felt naked, exposed. The material emphasised her soft curves, the roundness in her hips and the nip of her waist and the swell of her chest in a way she never thought possible. Her entire life, she had always deemed her body to be too thin, too waifish, too boylike to warrant any true merit as ‘female’. But now? 

Now, she was proven wrong and she hated it. Even if no skin was showing, the gown thankfully modest in that aspect, she felt indecent, improper. Scandalous. It also hadn’t escaped her notice either that the fabric, a heavy black velvet, shimmered in the light with a pattern of scales. They moved as she did, drawing the unwitting eye. 

She had transcended, shifted across all boundaries from a girl to a woman to a snake in a human form. 

The only mercy was that there was a black cape trailing on the ground behind her, flowy and insubstantial as the glittering magic imbued into it mimicked the stars. Nervous hands grasped its edges, desperately attempting to cover herself and shield her body from being put on an open display. 

Narcissa had just finished pinning a gleaming silver medallion to the hollow of her throat— a serpent consuming its own tail, its ruby eye glinting in the low light— before sympathetically batting away hands that had tried to wrap the cloak tighter about herself. 

Indeed, the person in the mirror was not Harri Potter, the Girl Who Lived, daughter to Lily and James Potter.

No, she was royalty ascended from the very pits of Hell, a child born forth from Lilith’s womb— a goddess who had shed her snakeskin to play among the mortals for the night.

That cursed clock chimed seven and Narcissa appeared behind her in the mirror, worry bright in pale eyes and a grim smile that had morphed into a full-fledged frown.

“Come, child.” Her hand, Harri noticed as it landed on her shoulder, was cold, trembling. “It is time.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 32: The Meeting

Notes:

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The two women had paused outside of the parlour, one fair where the other was not. Narcissa was a stark juxtaposition to herself, the pureblood’s gown a champagne colour and platinum hair gathered into a low chignon— light to her dark. Yet both of them felt the nerves of the moment, equally wary as they stood in front of the austere oak doors, their height dizzying and grand. Harri wondered how one could even open them without the aid of magic— they probably couldn’t.

The older woman had sent her a small, reassuring smile as though to say it would be alright— a lie. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, the corners of them wrinkled in a betrayal that Narcissa, herself, was uncertain, unsure. 

Abruptly, the doors swung open; a creaking on the hinges as the considerable weight of the wood was prompted into action.

The Malfoy matriarch had given her a fleeting, quick squeeze before she tilted her chin up, pulled back her shoulders, and walked confidently into the silence of the room. And Merlin be damned did Harri wish she could have even a shred of the woman’s poise. 

Yet, rather than following, she found her feet rooted into place— unwilling to even budge. An eerie quiet, oppressive and drawn, was there to greet her as she lingered in the imposing doorway, green eyes frantically darting about the scene before her.

There were twenty-eight— twenty-nine with the Dark Lord included— people seated at the walnut table in the middle of the room, the length of it impossibly long and the dark wood polished to an obsessive gleam. In unison, their eyes snapped to her with looks she didn’t want to even begin to decipher. And, for the briefest moment, she allowed her gaze to drift over to Voldemort for answers, for a sign. 

What she saw, however, made her stomach flip in an alarming way. 

Ravenous hunger, rapturous greed— they had lent those crimson eyes a near glow as they swept across her and Harri, for the millionth time since putting on the cursed dress, wished desperately for the comfort of her black jumper with a hole in its arm. Unthinkingly, her fingers twitched to find the safety of Narcissa— a belated realisation the woman now occupied the seat next to her husband and— 

‘Draco!’ The thought was one of relief, the embarrassment and uncertainty forgotten as she broke eye contact with a certain red-eyed man at the head of the table. 

The Slytherin boy seemed outwardly shaken by her sudden appearance, pale gaze blown wide in shock, fingers curling and uncurling on the tabletop. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by her when Narcissa reached out to place her hand atop his— a tight squeeze. 

But Draco was safe, unharmed, here— and, honestly, that’s all Harri could care about at the moment.

Voldemort would have been lying if he denied that, in passing, he had pictured her more than once in that dress. But seeing the actual thing before him was proving to be far, far better than anything his imagination could conjure— a disservice, truly, to the vision she made. The fabric appeared to be almost painted on her, clinging and revealing everything she usually tried to hide behind those oversized rags she called ‘clothes’. A possessive thought briefly crossed his mind that, perhaps, he should have picked something else— had made it so only he could see her this way.

Crimson eyes flitted passingly over her curves up to the column of her throat where his own personal insignia rested, gleaming and glinting in its hollow. That painted mouth was parted in confusion— an insatiable curiosity to know if those lips felt as velvety as the deep red made them seem— an adrift look held in kohl-lined eyes. They searched his for answers— immense satisfaction

Outwardly, he strived to remain passive, blank, unaffected. But inwardly? Inwardly, he was fighting off the gnawing urge to stand up, to grab her about the waist and drag her over to the spot at his side— to pull her onto his lap and claim her as his own before his court.

But then she looked over to the youngest Malfoy.

That green gaze left him, her eyes wandering to another, and that satisfaction unravelled into possessiveness; a fit of covetous jealousy. It didn’t sit well with him that she looked so relieved, so happy, to see the boy— a bitter taste in his mouth at the very idea. 

His index finger tapped once, then twice, on the armrest of his high-backed chair. Those seated at the table refused to move, to breathe, their stares jumping anxiously between himself and the girl— orbiting planets sucked helplessly into their gravity well.

“Harri Potter,” he drawled just loud enough for his voice to carry.

She jolted at being suddenly addressed, that envious beast sated when her lost gaze immediately snapped back to him. 

“I see that you have finally joined us.” Voldemort motioned with a curl of his index finger and the doors swung shut behind her, forcing her out of the threshold and further into the room. “Do come in.”

Harri stiltedly took another step, hands curled into fists at her sides— an imperceptible trembling to them. Her shoes clicked unnervingly loud on the checkered black and white tiles, an uncomfortable realisation overcoming her of just how far out of her element she truly was. Dressed in too confining, too revealing clothes, no wand to be had and no allies at her side— utterly alone

Alone and in a room filled with people who would gladly snap her neck without being asked twice. Her throat worked to swallow. 

Behind her, the cloak had caught the still, stagnant air, drifting traitorously away from her body to reveal more of the snakeskin gown. Nails impressed half-moons into her palms to stop herself from acting on the desire to pull it closer— to, at the very least, give herself an illusion of security.

Chin lifted and shoulders drawn taut, Harri found the far-off spot above Voldemort’s head the safest option to stare at; she didn’t quite dare to meet his eyes again. No, she couldn’t bear their assessing glint nor was she quite brave enough to look at those positioned about the impossibly long table.

Try as she did to ignore them, she could feel the questioning looks, the leers— the shameless way some of them were sizing her up in a way they most definitely shouldn’t be. Those were the ones that prickled on the back of her neck. It made her skin itch, made it crawl, to viscerally feel their degenerate hunger. And even if she was a few months away from reaching her magical majority, older men— men that could be her father and then some— certainly shouldn’t be regarding her in that light. ‘So this is his crowd,’ a passing thought, feeling mortified but not fully surprised it was the most deviant that flocked to him. 

Harri paused when she reached the familiar back of Severus. The man had been looking forward the entire time, resolutely not once catching her eye, but she still felt a sense of relief he was here. A small part of her did hope that he would help should anything go awry— a foolish hope, probably, but one she felt all the same. 

There was an empty seat at Voldemort’s left but she was unsure whether or not to take it— did he expect her to sit or remain standing for whatever he had planned? A shaky exhale, a quiet thing blown past barely-parted lips, and she tried to find her centre. 

Voldemort had been obsessively tracking her as she crossed the room, eyeing appreciatively as the cloak fanned out behind her. It truly did make quite the striking visual and only further fed into the untouchable image of royalty, the raw power, he had been angling for. After all, while his followers may readily bow to him, he needed them to do the same for her— to fear her as much as they did him. And it wouldn’t be enough to just claim her verbally. No, the girl would have to fashion a new persona for herself and carve out a spot in his ranks if he intended to keep her around— something of which he was planning on. It was a simple truth that he had been in this game long enough to know his Death Eaters respected power, blood and lineage above all else. It may take time— Merlin only knew what a feral, little creature she was— but time was all they had at this point.  

He steepled his fingers when she stopped, disdain rising when he noticed she lingered at Severus’s side. It was becoming increasingly apparent the two shared some sort of bond, a relationship he couldn’t quite understand— one he couldn’t wait to cleanly snap in two. 

A single brow lifted, irritation colouring his voice, “Well? Are you going to stand there all night or will you take a seat? By all means, do remain standing if that is what you prefer. After all, your comfort is of utmost importance. But please, do make up your mind fairly quickly as we have some urgent matters to discuss before the evening is up.”

An embarrassed blush fanned her cheeks at the sporadic snickers that fell in waves across the table. The chair to his left, a belated discovery that it was slightly more ornate than the others, slid out from its tucked in place.

She tried to gracefully sit down and retain some dignity— an impossible task. Rather, she had all but stumbled into the seat, the tightness of the dress restrictive and confining. Without warning, the chair was abruptly pulled back in, the table’s edge digging unkindly into her ribs– a soft grunt at the discomfort. 

More scornful laughter arose at her expense, the heat on her cheeks creeping up to her ears. Harri slumped against the high-back of the chair, half-wishing for the ground to crack open and swallow her whole already. 

“Now that Miss Potter has so graciously made a decision, we can finally begin,” he said, barely sparing her a glance.

For the most part, she drowned out his words and the reports being sounded off— a stupid thing, she knew, considering she should probably be listening with rapt attention. After all, this was her chance to gather intel— to understand the inner workings of the Death Eaters. Yet the nerves made everything fade off into white noise, static in her ears drowned out by the staccato of her heartbeat. 

A thumb smoothed over the opposite palm’s lifeline, pressured quick drags. Up and down, hands hidden in her lap and unable to stray from that curved path.

Up.

Down.

Green eyes found themselves drifting about the room, anxious and needing to be occupied. 

There was no ivory here, she realised— the odd exception to the rest of the manor. Tall, wooden columns stood proudly in the four corners, their height reaching the grand ceiling and carved from the same gleaming walnut as the table. The floor was a checkerboard— a distant, silly thought wondering if one could play chess on it. The wall of windows at her back already had their drapes drawn, lending the space a claustrophobic air— suffocating

She tried to ignore the feeling, attention bouncing to the mantle jutting out from the wall opposite to herself. The fireplace was massive, unlike any she had ever seen before, easily wide enough to fit three grown men at once. Its stone was gleaming and black, the dancing flames tinged green that washed everything in a sickly glow.

Finally having found the courage, Harri let her eyes sweep across the table. 

Some of the gazes she met were cruel, lascivious, while others were impassive or carefully neutral. She did recognise some of them— like the woman and two men directly across from her. The dark-haired witch was from Hogwarts; the very same that had been attacking Flitwick. Identical wizards flanked her, both black-haired and dark-eyed— as far as she could discern, there weren’t any significant differences to distinguish them. 

Placed further down was a shock of sandy-brown hair, his amber eyes reverential as they fixed intently on the Dark Lord. ‘Fake Moody.’ She had half the mind to lean over to the wizard seated by her— who he was she had no idea— and demand the impersonator’s name. 

But then she felt the weight of someone’s insistent stare and the idea was entirely forgotten. It roamed over her, unease brought about by its presence— a primal need to suddenly bolt. 

Harri craned her neck to look down the table, stomach clenching at the sight of a beast-like man.

His nose was broad, his long hair greasy and scraggly, eyes an unnatural shade of grey. They were trained on her and the look in them only worked her nerves into knots— lustful greed. It was reflected brightly as his gaze dragged down and then back up in a slow, purposeful manner. He smiled when he caught her gaping, yellowed teeth and sharpened fangs, a suggestiveness in the way he had licked his teeth— it told her everything she needed to know as to what he was thinking. 

“Now, onto the most important docket for this evening and the true reason why I have summoned you here.” 

Harri’s spine went ramrod straight as the Dark Lord addressed the room, heart threatening to rupture as she looked, unwillingly, back to him. ‘This is it.’

Voldemort spared her a quick glance, neutral expression giving nothing away, before turning back to his followers. “The issue of what to do with Harri Potter.” 

The witch with the mass of black curls had leaned forward on her elbows, dark eyes flitting to her with an off-putting eagerness, before bouncing back to Voldemort— adoration warmed that gaze. ‘She likes him,’ Harri thought, entirely dumbfounded. A mental note was made to avoid the woman— after all, someone who actually looked at the Dark Lord in that way, as though they would have given anything in the world to kiss the hems of his robes, had to have something not quite right in their head. 

‘But can you blame her?’ The biggest betrayal as her mind recalled the way Voldemort had left her in the bedroom, dealing with tremors and the intense need for him to touch her again— she stubbornly pushed it away.  

“My Lord?” a gravelly voice sounded from the end of the table. 

There was a keenness in the question that filled Harri with trepidation— that urge to bolt was back tenfold. 

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one surprised the man had spoken, several Death Eaters going rigid at the brazen interruption. The beast-like wizard had a fanatic glint in those grey eyes as he stood up from the table. He, quite literally, towered.

Harri watched him with horrified fascination, noting that his leather trench coat was tattered and worn, his shirt stained and ripped— it was as though he were living somewhere out in the wild rather than in a proper home. In the most jarring sense possible, it was almost refreshing to see someone who hadn’t gotten dressed up to be in the Dark Lord’s presence. 

The man leaned forward and placed nails— ‘claws,’ she corrected herself— onto the table’s surface. They were dirty and as yellow as his teeth, their points wicked and sharp. 

“Might I request you give the girl to me? My pack would benefit from fresh blood, after all.” That fervid gaze bounced to her, flashing as it honed in on her neck. 

‘A werewolf,’ she thought in dread, mouth falling open as she, unwittingly, turned in her chair to stare unabashedly at Voldemort. ‘He has the werewolves on his side.’ 

It processed then what the man was asking— what he wanted. A repulsed shudder, bile in the back of her throat: he wanted to turn her. 

Judging from the way the other wizards’ faces pinched with disdain, it was clear she wasn’t the only one revolted by the idea. But it only appeared that three truly felt overly worried by the mere prospect. 

Narcissa had gone several shades too pale and Draco looked near fainting. Snape, on the other hand, suspiciously appeared not to be breathing. Part of her wanted to assure them it was fine, that Voldemort wouldn’t dare condemn her to that fate— not with how valuable she was to him. She held her tongue anyways.

Instead, her focus was drawn back to the red-eyed man— a swirl of darkness pressing on the edges of her mind. It was him, she realised, noting the way his jaw had clenched and how a deathly stillness had overcome the lines of his body. 

Red eyes were fixed on the werewolf, embers sparking to life. He dared to speak out of turn, dared to request such an outrageous thing— dared to even look at his horcrux in such a manner. Fury, livid and twisting, surged in him at the mental image of Fenrir touching even a single hair on her head— of trying to lay claim to something the werewolf could only ever dream of. 

The fire in the mantle flickered dangerously, doused by his anger— a threat to plunge the room into darkness and summon forth the monster that always lurked, waiting and impatient, in the shadows. He did try to tell himself to calm down, to not give it away how much the girl meant to him— that no one knew. That it was only reasonable for the werewolf to request a prisoner in turn— it was their pact, after all, their deal. An equal exchange for the pack’s continued loyalty.  

But even so, it was the principle of it; this wasn’t some random, bedraggled hostage they had plucked off the streets. This was Harri Potter.

Voldemort rose from his spot, palms pressed flat against the table. The cups scattered about shook as a rattlesnake might with its tail when preparing to strike; a vacuum created by an oppressive aura. It took everything to keep his fangs reined it, to not let them loose despite the ache in his gums. 

His voice had quieted, a creeping coldness to it, “Harri Potter belongs to me, Fenrir. Do not presume, even for a second, otherwise. The next time you dare to ask, I will see to it personally your head is mounted on a pike and your entrails are strung over the manor’s gates.”

He lowered himself back into the chair, his magic rushing back in. The fire resumed its steady, dancing flames, the rattling ceasing— gratification. It quelled him when Greyback had clamped his jaw shut and returned, hastily, to his spot. 

The Dark Lord steepled his fingers, levelling those before him with a look that left no room for debate. “She is not to be touched.” 

That glowing gaze suddenly landed on one of the dark-haired twins by Bellatrix’s side— a new victim for his wrath. When his words finally came, they were slow, purposeful, a nonchalance to them that made them seem all the more damning. “Rabastan. Do you recall what my orders were during the Hogwarts mission?” 

Harri tensed, hands shaking in the security of her lap. It was the first time his magic, that show of power and anger, hadn’t been directed solely at her— and, from an observer’s perspective, it was terrifying

The man in question, Rabastan, seemed as though he was about to be ill. She couldn’t blame him. 

To leave Dumbledore to you and capture the girl unharmed, My Lord,” Rabastan echoed numbly as though already aware of what was to come. 

A slow smile, wicked and cutting, split the aristocratic features of the Dark Lord. He leaned back into the chair, as though relaxed and all was right with the world. The knobbed wand twirled passively between his fingers. “Indeed. Your memory seems to be functioning rather well, Rabastan. So tell me, why was it that, when I finally had acquired Harri Potter, she had a rather considerable burn on her shoulder? Would you count that as being ‘unharmed’?”

Rabastan had opened his mouth to explain, to apologise— to ensure he hadn’t done it on purpose— when a corkscrew of red light shot forth from the Dark Lord’s wand. 

Screams abruptly filled the room, echoing and rebounding off the vaulted ceilings and cleaving the silence in two. The man had dropped from his chair, agony contorting his body in the throes of unrelenting torment. 

Harri watched in distress, in blatant terror, as she witnessed, for the first time, the Cruciatus being cast on a living human. The way his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the whites being shown as he convulsed on the floor, the gargled, strangled screams, the sickening pops as his limbs were stretched to their limits— it was a thing of nightmares. She just knew it would haunt her dreams.

Green eyes bounced wildly about the room, taking in the blank faces and the casual air they exuded despite a man being tortured a few feet away. A pit settled in her stomach, her shoulders shaking in sympathetic trauma— vaguely, she wondered if she was going to retch again. 

She turned to beg Voldemort to stop, the spell seemingly having gone for an eternity— words failed her upon seeing his expression.

His eyes were alight, burning, with demented glee, his mouth set into a cruel smile. ‘He’s enjoying this,’ she thought in panic, eyes snapping back to the suffering man whose nose and mouth were now bleeding— scarlet, tacky rivers running down a pallid face. When his head collided with a sickening thud against the tile, that sense of nausea only heightened.

Harri lept from her seat in hysteria, the chair clattering to the ground. “Stop it!”

It was a bone-deep certainty that she knew the man was going to die if this continued any longer. A rush of a memory, phantom words floating back: ‘Just think of how many countless strangers will die at your behest, cursing your very name upon their lips with their final breath.’ 

Several alarmed gazes, some of them aghast at her sudden outburst, tracked her as she rounded the table and sunk to her knees— the dress cut off the circulation in her calves but she couldn’t bring herself to mind. 

Outstretched hands hovered over the man’s twitching form, tears welling in the corners of her eyes as she pleaded with Voldemort to end the spell— to stop the torture. She didn’t even care if his followers thought her weak for begging, thought her unable to handle the natural violence that came along with being in the Dark Lord’s inner circle— she just wanted it to stop

“Please!” she begged, voice high and reedy. “Stop! You’re killing him!”

A flood of clarity came back as he processed her objections, her distressed face— he flicked his wand and ended the spell. And as he watched her kneel next to Rabastan, her hands hovering as though she wanted to touch him, jealousy stirred languidly in the back of his mind. It was absurd, really. He was getting her vengeance, her justice, her retribution for the pain his follower had caused her— and yet, she dared to look up at him as though he were the monster.

Part of himself did wonder just how deeply her saviour complex ran. Was torturing a man all it took to make her beg him? To plead with him? A sharp laugh as he shook his head in disbelief, an indulgent smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Harri. Dear, sweet, naive Harri.” He cocked his head to the left. “What a tender heart you have. So willing, so ready to stand up for even those who have caused you harm.” 

A few jeers in agreement broke out. Harri remained kneeling on the tiled floor, helping the slowly recovering man sit up.

Voldemort watched her, that jealousy turning knife-sharp when his attention snagged on her hands curling about Rabastan’s shaking shoulders. “Worry not, we will bleed that nasty habit of yours out rather quickly.”

She ignored his words, the threat behind them, as trembling fingers slipped into the proffered palm of Rabastan— his were shaking too, she noticed, albeit for different reasons. He helped her up to unsteady feet, a calculating look in coal eyes; a minute nod of his head in a nonverbal expression of gratitude before returning to the table.

“And that brings us to our final order of business for the evening,” Voldemort said, striving to redirect her focus back to him.  

A stack of papers suddenly appeared in front of her now unoccupied chair, crisp and official-looking. Harri studied them warily, unfeeling fingers picking up the first document on top— she nearly fell to the floor in shock, hand darting out at the last second to grip the table’s edge and steady herself. 

‘So this is what he was planning,’ she thought in horror, heart hammering and vision swimming. Those eyes were fixed on her and she could feel them weighing her down, leadened and stifling. 

“An Order of a Change in Guardianship,” she muttered in a breathless whisper, nausea a cresting wave as she tried to process what it meant.

Harri, in desperate confusion, looked over to the Dark Lord for an explanation— for a sign to confirm she was reading this correctly.

Voldemort leaned against his chair, smug at her reaction and beyond satisfied with himself at the solution. Political unrest was growing as small factions of Dumbledore’s most loyal attempted to rally against him— and while he had made an example out of Tiberius Ogden, more were sure to follow. But if he used the Potter name as backing? Well. His position as Sovereign would be harder to uproot.  

It was killing two birds with one stone: his claims of legitimacy would be further solidified by an old family and he could show the entire world, the Order, he had the Girl Who Lived tight in his grasp. 

In the background, he was distantly aware of his followers leaning forward in attempts to read the document. However, he only had eyes for her at the moment— and oh, how beautifully did she wear her surprise— her dismay

Harri shuffled through the pages, rendered mute and unable to breathe. Outlined were properties, estates, villas she didn’t even know she had, money and heirlooms in her vaults that were obscene in amount— her rights to seats on the council Voldemort had disbanded. The world blurred and tilted on its axis. And there, on the last page already sporting his damned signature, the fine print that would entitle it all to him: her education rights, where she was to live, her bank accounts, her properties. 

Her entire freedom to him— and all until she turned eighteen, nonetheless.  

“You can’t do this,” she struggled to get out, mind in a daze and trying to find an excuse. “Sirius is already my godfather. He’s my guardian.” 

A sharp bark of laughter drew her attention as the witch with hooded eyes nearly doubled over. 

You,” the woman suddenly seethed as she lurched forward in her chair. “You would dare to say no to our Lord?! Choose my dirty, traitorous cousin over him?!”

Narcissa had suddenly appeared at the woman's side, a firm hand clamping about her shoulder to get her to stop yelling. Both stilled, however, when the Dark Lord idly raised his hand. 

“Oh, you are quite wrong there, Harri. Sirius Black was never formally recognised as your godfather nor your guardian. He was one in name and one in name only, seeing as your parents never had the chance to finalise the paperwork before their demise. By de facto, Albus Dumbledore became your guardian. And seeing as he is currently missing.” He chanced a quick glimpse over to Severus, an irritated look smouldering in his eyes. “You need a new one appointed to you.” 

His words took a few seconds to process. Green eyes widened, darting between the papers and back to Voldemort. Merlin, she was certain that she was going to faint— and that it was a miracle she hadn’t done so already.

Harri shook her head adamantly, wanting to deny it all, to claim he was deceiving her. “No, no you’re wrong. There’s no way—”

“That Dumbledore lied to you? Oh, I assure you, it is entirely possible and has already happened, in fact,” he said smugly, watching the struggle as clear as day on her face— that lost look was back tenfold.

“You can’t make me,” she protested, tossing the papers back down onto the table. 

Voldemort rounded his chair to stand closer to her, not quite touching but only an arm’s length away. His lip curled into a sneer at her open refusal— apparently, his warnings from earlier were going over her head once again. 

Stop being so petulant, Harri. Sign it,” he slipped into parseltongue as the quill magically flew up into her hand.

No!” Her ability to speak English was lost in her anger and it was instinct to slip into another tongue upon hearing his. “You can’t force me. This isn’t fair!”

She barely registered the inward gasps of surprise as she spoke in the language of their Lord. Harri realised, in passing, that they were probably unaware of her ‘secret talent’ and she wondered if Voldemort would be upset she had accidentally revealed it. ‘Well, screw him if he is.'

The quill was thrown to the ground and she staggered back a step, determined to put distance between herself and the papers that demanded she sign her life away.  

He moved closer, teeth bared in a silent snarl and wrath unfurling. The flames went back to flickering dangerously, the shadows growing in the corners of the room. That quill forcefully shot back up into her palm, a burst of his magic breaking free and pulling her back to the table— an unrelenting pressure between her shoulder blades that forced the girl to bend over slightly.

You will sign it,” he commanded, voice going cold as scarlet eyes pointedly slid over to the waned face of Draco Malfoy. “Or do I need to give you some more motivation to do so?”  

Her heart plummeted as she followed his gaze. Guilt overrode her anger and fear, as she realised the position Draco was being put in, the danger hovering over him— the boy who had helped her, had been kind to her— a target painted on his back simply because they were close. That vow to protect him, Narcissa so lovingly reminiscing about his childhood, the way the woman had treated her so gently— it all came rushing back. Tears blurred her vision, distorting the blond’s terrified face.

The anticipating stares, the held breaths, the critical assessments of the Death Eaters all fell away as she glanced down to the parchment and that blank line that mocked her. The pressure between her shoulders increased, her teeth gritting at the discomfort of it. She shakily dipped the quill into the inkwell. 

A drop of ink had fallen from the nib, blooming greedily across the paper— a stain of blackness— a lump in her throat. Her mind turned over, rifling through too many thoughts, as she debated how to get out of this— how to run. But there wasn’t a solution; there was no escape.

Squeezing green eyes shut, she hastily signed her name. 

When they opened again, it was to see the messy scrawl of cursive above the artistic flourish of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’; a sharp contrast that spoke of who was really in control. 

She may not have the Dark Mark like the rest of them, their proof of contract and fealty to their Lord, but she still bent her knee all the same.

Harri Potter had just signed her life away to the Devil himself.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 33: Her Reckoning

Notes:

Hello everyone! This chapter is a tad longer than usual but I just ended up getting a bit carried away— there's a character finally coming back into the spotlight that I think some of you have missed dearly!

 
You guys are all so wonderful and amazing, thank you for every comment and kudos you have given this fic so far! I wish I could do more to express my gratitude than just say it in an authour's note but it truly does mean so much to me 💕 You guys have inspired me to keep writing this fic and to keep going forward with my plot for it so thank you for that.

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri stared numbly down at the messy scrawl of her signature, striving to reconcile what she had just done. A small part of herself was screaming, begging to know why she had given in— why she handed him everything he wanted. But then another part was ready with an answer, protesting that she had just saved Draco from becoming ‘motivation’.

She just prayed the trade-off would be worth it. 

The quill quivered in her hand. Green eyes shifted to watch the white plume dance in the firelight; a delayed realisation that her hand wouldn’t stop trembling.

It had hit her all of the sudden, the air forced out of her lungs as she couldn’t look away from that swaying feather, as to what this entire meeting truly meant: he was never going to let her go. He had allowed her to sit in on his council and hear things that he would never let an enemy be privy to— all because he was certain there was no chance for her to ever leave. Harri supposed she already knew it. Knew it from the moment he held her in that constraining embrace in the forest, knew it from the moment Hogwarts was burning and the Dark Mark glittered in the celestial heavens. Knew it from the very second the word ‘horcrux’ had left his mouth— and now this. Her name, that cursed name, forever immortalised on parchment above his own, that single drop of ink blooming in stark corruption against the paper.

Yes, she knew it: she would never leave.

Tears burned at the thought, lashes valiantly trying to hold them at bay. Her throat was too parched to even think of swallowing down that building pressure. 

Well done, Harri,” he crooned in their shared language. His magic receded from that unrelenting pressure between her shoulders and from glueing the quill to her palm.

It dropped with a clatter to the table. 

Satisfaction. Triumph. Victory. They existed as bright spots in his mindscape, a warming force in his chest as the binding contract settled heavily over his skin. It was done: Harri Potter finally, finally, belonged to him in every sense of the word. Physically, mentally, and now legally

Scarlet eyes found themselves drifting up to that lightning scar hidden by auburn strands, an obsessive thought taking hold wandering how many times he had marked her as his own, had laid his claim to her— how many more times he would do so in the future. 

Heady anticipation joined the fray.

He closed the distance between them, footsteps silent even in the unnatural hush of the room. Those green eyes had begun to shine wetly, a quiver to her chin and a bobbing in her throat. It would seem she was having some sort of revelation regarding her situation, their connection, and, while he normally would have welcomed it, he needed her to stay collected for now. The evening, after all, was far from over.

The Dark Lord slotted himself next to her. A quick glance was spared to the name above his. ‘She’ll have to work on her penmanship.’— truly, the cursive was dismal at best. 

A pale hand, elegant and shapely, darted out to grasp the one that had been holding the quill. The quiet noise of shock from Bellatrix was ignored as he turned over that smaller palm, fingers tracing along hers. 

Summoning forth the light of their bond, that glowing buoyancy, he pushed it insistently into her skin— relief when she stopped shivering and her eyes seemed a touch drier. “You have done beautifully, Harri, but there is something else I still need you to do.” 

Vaguely, she was aware that he was using that strange power to influence her again— to sway her to his liking. And though she figured she should have felt anger, should reject him and pull her hand back in protest, she didn’t. Rather, she was entranced as his fingers skirted along the creases marring her palm; the curve of that splintered lifeline, the fractures in a branching heartline. 

For a moment, it seemed alright to bask in his touch— to forget her despair, her horror. Just a second. One second— it was all she needed.

And, by Merlin, was it working. She could nearly sob in relief when all of it became muted, a light to ward off the gloom of shadow. His hand practically engulfed hers, fingers folding and lacing together 

Yet as quickly as it started, that glow retreated; bliss evaporated from her system as he withdrew his touch. 

That hollow ache was back with a vengeance, gnawing and clawing and biting as she had half the mind to dart forward and reclaim his hand. 

But then her surroundings came flooding back and the urge was lost.

His Death Eaters still remained in their seats, apprehensively watching their interactions. Her eyes flickered over to them, the ones who met her gaze holding a new keenness, a new awe, that made her heart plummet to her stomach. Apparently, revealing one was a secret parselmouth to a room full of Slytherins was enough for them to change their tune. Harri quickly decided, right then and there, that she actually missed their earlier sneers— it was more preferable than these unexpected looks of glinting greed.  

What?” She finally asked in delayed confusion, head snapping to him.

A razor-sharp smile, all teeth, and a hand shot out to cage her waist. “You will see soon enough.” 

Before she even had a chance to question whatever that meant— to protest she would much rather go back to her, ‘his’ she reminded herself, room— those fingers had flexed and she was steered insistently towards the double doors. There was a rustling of chairs being pushed out in the background, the sounds of movement as those seated abandoned their roosting spots to follow suit. 

Harri stumbled to keep up with his long strides, that hand unwavering, uncompromising in its strength— she was almost certain it would leave a bruise behind. 

The beginning threads of a headache started to form, her heart creeping up to her throat as he led them down a darkened hallway. The wall’s sconces did little to illuminate the corridor, their barely-there flames hardly a comfort against the lengthening shadows. 

Green eyes slid to him, a question held on her tongue— it died when she noticed, for the first time, what he was wearing. He was in a three-piece suit, a black affair that had a tailored matching robe, the tie a deep, emerald silk. And there was an identical medallion to the one she wore at her throat pinned proudly to his chest, the silver catching the candlelight. For some reason, she knew what he was wearing wasn’t an ordinary, everyday ensemble— and oh, how it made her knees go weak as to what it might mean. 

They had finally paused outside of a matching set of oak doors, his followers fanning out behind him to form a quasi-procession; a court playing host to its king. 

For a moment, Voldemort allowed his gaze to travel over to the girl tucked into his side, her quickened breaths causing her ribcage to expand erratically. She looked so small next to him, inconsequential, the top of her auburn crown just grazing his shoulder and face ashen as though expecting the worst. ‘Such a nervous little thing, isn’t she?’

His fingers tightened, digging slightly into the nip of her waist and feeling the heat of her body seep through the gown. She jolted, alarmed eyes looking up to him. ‘That’s better.’

 Though he would never admit it aloud, it felt right to have her beside him— to have his hand on her waist as though it was the most natural place for it to be, to have her melded against him. Grounding. Almost comforting.

It took a great deal of self-control— more than it probably should have— to resist the urge to let that hand wander.  

Remember to behave,” he warned in a low whisper.

The doors swung open before she could respond. 

A crescendo of noise, thunderous and clamouring— an overwhelming display of flashing lights. 

Shock rooted her into place and it wasn’t until his hand had insistently pulled her into the room, tripping over her own feet in the process, that Harri registered what was happening. 

There were cameras everywhere. Voices rose above one another, a cacophony of questions that she couldn’t quite catch. Green eyes bounced wildly from reporter to reporter, overwhelmed as bursts of light blinded her— white-hot, abstract sunbursts superimposed every time she blinked. 

Her heart, she was more than certain, had fallen onto the floor, her stomach rolling in a nauseating wave as mics were thrust into her face and Quick-Quotes Quills were poised to capture every word. It was an assault of demands— a racket that reverberated in her skull and down into her very teeth. 

Admittedly, she never liked dealing with the press, with the interviews— and she felt even less prepared than usual in a dress that did little to comfort or with the Dark Lord clutching at her. ‘Make it stop,’ a small voice begged when that headache sharpened from the smell of the camera’s rancid powder. 

It occurred to her then, as she took in the ravenous greed lacing their questions, that they were here to document her next to Voldemort — to physically capture her betrayal to Sirius, to those she loved. A silly thought, she knew. After all, very few people were actually aware who ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ truly was— but those that mattered did. There was a headline flashing in her mind: ‘Harri Potter Defects to the Darkside’. They would think she turned on them. And oh, how she felt sick at the mere thought, the shame, the guilt cresting— a wave threatening to swallow her whole. 

Images of a girl in the mirror, a girl she didn’t even recognise, were an uncomfortable reminder of what these strangers were seeing right now— what everyone in the Isles would look upon come the morning post. They weren’t going to see her. No, they were going to see exactly what Voldemort wanted them to see. 

A snake playing pretend at being human. 

A monster hiding in plain sight: ‘It’s all because you, yourself, are a horcrux.’

They would all know

Harri wrenched herself free from the hand caging her waist and, unthinkingly, curled into his shoulder. Her face buried into the hard muscle of him— a futile attempt to shield herself from those too-eager, too-fervid faces. And, Merlin, she didn’t care if she probably looked weak, frightened— nothing more than a girl trying to keep up the pretense of being an adult— all she wanted was for it to stop. For them to go away, to leave her in peace; to let her failures be her own and only her own. 

Green eyes screwed shut. Curled hands came to rest, splayed and shaking, against the planes of his chest, face pressing harder against him. 

Make them stop,” she pleaded into the starched fabric of his suit, a soft whisper in their shared tongue. If anyone had the power to do so, to give her some relief from the onslaught of flashes and endless questions, it was him. “Make them go away.”

Surprise, and then delight, flooded through their bond but Harri only half-registered it. Self-loathing, a feeling belonging solely to herself, was much more prominent anyhow. She was relying on him, the man who had caused this in the first place, the man who had ruined her time and time again, to help her

It left a bitter taste behind. 

The smell of sweet smoke, of cloves, of something sharp, refreshing— like the first frost of winter— coated her lungs. That loathing only increased when it, strangely enough, calmed her to breathe in. A shallow inhale was held until it burned.

Voldemort glanced down to the girl in surprise, mind turning over to process what had just happened. Delight— elation— took its place when he realised she was leaning into him— begging him for help. 

His hand lifted back to her waist to protectively slot her against his body, permitting himself just a minute, fleeting and brief, to revel in her willingness to cling to him. He didn’t even care she was clutching his shirt, was wrinkling the fabric or ruining the interview he so meticulously planned out. No, this was far better. And truly, what an image would it make having the Girl Who Lived held in a mockery of a lover’s embrace.

That was his justification when a fanned palm had skirted down to the beginning curve of her hip, gripping and caging; when he pressed himself closer to feel the softness of her chest and that erratic heart contained there. ‘Remember your relationship,’ reason cautioned. A damper to the moment they were having— but it was right. She was his newly appointed charge, after all, his responsibility; a pretense that was dangerously close to shattering.

With a forced, bright smile aimed towards the press, he made himself drop his hand. 

“My apologies, everyone,” he said, posh accent a confident drawl. That dazzling smile never once dimmed. “It would appear that my new ward is a touch camera shy.’

A round of congenial enough laughter, a few sympathetic clicks of tongues, rose from the wall of bodies before them. With the slightest jerk of his chin, Narcissa darted forward from the procession. 

With no small amount of reluctance, he pried the shell-shocked girl off him and relinquished her to the mercies of Narcissa. The heat of her still lingered, a phantom melded into him— a scorching burn that radiated out from his palm. 

Fingers curled in to resist the urge to snatch her back, the sharp twinge of jealousy when she relaxed in the woman’s hold.

His orders were a hiss of a whisper, mouth barely moving as it maintained that smile. “Inform the others to keep an eye on her and do not let her out of your sight.”

Harri only dimly heard him reassuring the reporters that he would take any and all questions, the clamour drowned out when Narcissa had draped a comforting arm across her shoulders. She was, mercifully, steered away from the curious onlookers, heart hammering and headache near about cleaving her skull. But yet, even as she tried to shallowly take in air free from his cologne and even as a drink was placed into her hands, soft coaxing words for her to have some, she couldn’t quell that nagging feeling of being cold, lost— unsure. 

“Potter!”

Green eyes lifted from staring down into her fizzing glass of champagne. Draco had come bounding out of the crowd, jostling aside scattered reporters and party-goers alike. Relief pricked at her, the pressure at her temples somewhat alleviated upon seeing the blond. 

“Draco!” She hadn’t even thought twice about throwing her arms about his shoulders.

It was an odd thing to understand how differently he felt compared to the Dark Lord, his angles not as sharp, his height not as imposing nor his chest as broad. The pureblood was everything Voldemort, decidedly, was not; boyish and familiar, the edge of adulthood not quite upon him. 

She squeezed harder as though trying to ascertain he truly was alright, unharmed— a heavy swallow, the champagne’s flute tilting dangerously as she yanked him closer.

An embarrassed cough a second later had her regaining an awareness of their current surroundings— a sheepish smile on her face in the way of an apology. She quickly released him. Draco straightened, face tinged scarlet and the tips of his ears burning as he fiddled with the tie at his throat. 

Vaguely, Harri registered Narcissa’s keen stare on them, pale eyes no doubt glinting with an assessing light. And quite suddenly, she was just as embarrassed as Draco was by her display of affection, especially with his mother lingering. Her weight was shifted from one foot to another, an awkward silence blanketing between the three of them. 

She hastily took a sip from her glass.

Mercifully, Narcissa seemed to understand she was an intruder imposing upon their reunion. Wordlessly pointing towards her husband with her own flute, she rejoined the throng of the crowd. 

Draco watched his mother retreat, her warning clear enough without even being voiced. The heat fanning his cheeks, much to his relief, had been tempered but, as he dragged his gaze to the girl before him, it threatened to come back with a vengeance. He cleared his throat, fingers smoothing over the lapels of his black suit jacket. 

“It’s good to see you again, Potter. After Hogwarts, I— well, I just didn’t,” he fumbled for the right words, brows drawn together. A deep line had appeared between them, creasing in tells of his rifling thoughts.

“It’s nice to see you too, Draco,” she finished for him.

“So. You’re the Dark Lord’s ward now? Moving up in the world, are you, Potter?” He tried for a joke— it fell flat. There was a bitterness behind his words as he reached over to grab a glass from the floating tray. The fizzing beverage was downed in one swallow.

The alcohol burst brightly across his tongue, bubbling and effervescent even in his throat as he attempted to wash out the taste of fear and nerves. While he couldn’t ever claim to understand his Lord’s intentions— none of them could, really— this was an entirely unexpected turn of events. After all, making the girl his ward? It was an angle he hadn’t been anticipating and, though it made sense he supposed, part of him still wondered if this was a nightmare he had yet to wake up from.

“Yeah, apparently so. Lucky me,” she mumbled and took another swig of champagne.

Lightheadedness was starting to sweep through her, a pleasant buzz that curbed the lingering traces of her panic attack— and yet, even that wasn’t enough to ward off the eyes. People kept staring at her, seemingly fixated, assessing, critical. Her grip tightened around the crystal stem of the flute.

“Be honest with me. This dress? It’s stupid, isn’t it?” she asked. “Everyone keeps looking.”

He blinked in surprise at the question. Tension drew his shoulders up, pale eyes darting about the crowd to see if anyone was listening— after all, among these people, his world, being too free with one’s thoughts could mean the same as a death sentence. Satisfied that no one was really within earshot, his gaze darted back to the girl— a slow drag down, a slow drag up. 

Admittedly, he had never seen her wear anything remotely close to this before and it was bewitching— a spell, a haze, that clouded any rational thought. Their school uniforms never revealed too much, the skirts long enough to not display too much leg, and her casual outfits always tended to be oversized, boyish— a bit too muggle

But now? Dressed this way? Well, she was radiant. A goddess guarded by the insignia at her throat that acted to stave off lesser men, a warning as clear as his Lord’s words had been: ‘She is not to be touched.’ 

His eyes snagged on that painted mouth— a distant memory of how those lips felt against his own at the Hufflepuff party. Petal-soft, supple. Eager

“You look divine, Harri,” he finally said.

He had to force himself to look away, gaze flickering up to her own.

She blinked in surprise— a snort and a good-natured chuckle. Leave it to Draco to find a way to cheer her up by over-exaggerating, she figured. Before she had the chance to tell him to stop teasing her, to give her an honest opinion, he had her hand in his— a warmth she didn’t even know her cold fingers were missing— claiming that there were people he wanted her to meet. 



As it turned out, the people he wanted to “introduce” her to were ones she was already, vaguely, familiar with. Draco had led her over to a small group of teenagers, faces she recognised from the Slytherin table, most of them already buzzed from the night’s generous, free-flowing champagne.

They approached and a hush fell over the circle. 

When the beat of quiet had stretched on too long, she tentatively greeted them in hopes of breaking the tension— it didn’t work. Even as the minutes stretched, none of them seemed comfortable to speak too openly around her, their eyes landing, more than once, obsessively on the medallion at her throat.

And of course, Harri hadn’t missed the wizards scattered about the room— ones she knew were from the meeting— glancing over to her every so often. She moved and so would one of them, trying to always keep in her shadow as though not willing to let her stray too far. It was beginning to make her mind pace and for an itch to flourish behind her breastbone, scraping the inside of her ribs raw in irritation. 

The room felt too much and too little all at once— stifling, crowded, the heat of bodies overwhelming. She downed the last of her glass before sending Draco an apologetic smile— a not-quite-an-excuse she needed some air— before threading her way through the parlour and to the open French doors. 

In sharp contrast to how it was inside, the air on the veranda was biting, refreshing. 

Snowflakes were lazily drifting down from the night sky, bright flecks of glowing white under the moon, and though Harri found herself shivering, she didn’t entirely mind it. Freezing was more preferable, anyhow, to burning— to feeling the scorching heat of watchful eyes that warmed her skin as they schemed and plotted and attempted to figure out what, exactly, her position was among their ranks.

She cupped pale hands and allowed the snowflakes to gather in them. They melted all too quickly against her skin. 

Clinging droplets remained; a pitiful echo of what they once were.  

Harri had realised, as fingers skirted over the snow covered balustrades, this was the first time she had been outside since Hogwarts— since he told her to remember the stars. A grim sense of foreboding at the memory, green eyes lifting to the sky to ascertain the skull wasn’t still hovering there— relief that it wasn’t anywhere to be seen. 

Arms wrapped protectively about her middle to shield off the winter’s wind, the hem of the dress dragged along the flagstone. The main landing of the balcony, seemingly having been cleared off at one point, was beginning to turn white again; a dusting that only accumulated the further she walked. 

A burst of laughter from inside had her warily looking over her shoulder. The warm glow from the manor was spilling past the arched panes of glass and the grand doors, the snow beneath her feet tingeing gold. 

There was the briefest idea to bolt.

Voldemort had disappeared, no doubt still handling the reporters he invited, and, as far as she could tell, none of his spies noticed she left. Not to mention Zivvy had yet to return so, perhaps, she was unable to find Sirius. ‘I have to tell him first.’

Whenever she thought of her ‘godfather’, his always smiling face and the familiar scent of motor oil and cinnamon, callously hearing the news from the paper that she had been snatched away— that he failed so miserably in protecting her— it did something terrible to her heart. The sorrow, the desperation, squeezed so tightly around it, constricting until its beating was reduced to a dull thud. She couldn’t bear for him to think she had abandoned him willingly— that she wanted this.

The crunch of heavy footfalls in the snow yanked her out of her melancholic thoughts.

The towering beast-like man from the meeting stood a few feet away, broad shoulders leaning heavily against a stone column. ‘Greyback,’ her mind supplied, eyes narrowing at the fact it was apparently his turn to guard her. 

However, faint warning bells were going off when she recalled not seeing him at the party before this moment— that he wasn’t anywhere to be found in the crowd. 

She uncurled her arms and straightened her spine, striving to appear calm, collected. 

“Ah, there you are, little pup.” Yellowed teeth flashed as he sauntered closer, clawed hands crudely stuffed into the pockets of his worn trousers and grey eyes catching the moonlight. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Harri eyed him, his words from the meeting floating to the forefront of her thoughts— of him begging for her to be given over to him. Instincts were screaming to be careful, to not look away even for a second— that he wasn’t like the other Death Eaters. No, he gave her the distinct impression he wasn’t afraid to bend the rules a bit. 

“You know, I honestly think you’d like being a wolf.” He paused a few inches from her, their toes nearly touching. “Your spine is wasted on being just a witch.”

Impatience flashed through him at her lack of response— a flicker of gold near grey irises at the open defiance in those green eyes. In a way, he could understand why his Lord was so taken with her— had looked at her with the same hunger he did when she walked into the room. 

Greyback leaned down to crowd her space, his face so close that he could feel her breath— or the lack thereof. He smirked when she had gone rigid. “I promise I’ll be gentle, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

A suggestive grin, a lecherous gleam that made his eyes darken. “For the bite that is. Can’t make any promises about what comes after. Never been really good at handling virgins, you know?”

A mortified blush fanned on her cheeks and Harri, for the countless time since arriving at Malfoy Manor, desperately wished for a wand to show him how ‘gentle’ she could be. Something dark, twisted, unfurled in her, spurred on by a vindictiveness that, perhaps, she wouldn’t entirely mind if Voldemort got his hands on this one. 

“You disgusting piece of—,” she hissed out only to be cut off.

“And here I thought that dogs were supposed to be good at obeying.”

Harri twisted on the spot to see Fake-Moody strolling towards them in the snow, posture relaxed but a spark held in his hazel eyes that made her fully believe he wouldn’t think twice before striking someone down. 

“A word of wise, Greyback? Go find someone else to stick your cock in. Or have you already forgotten our Lord’s orders? Because, if so, I can gladly call him if you need a reminder.” Fake-Moody said, head tilting towards the ruckus of the party. 

The werewolf snarled, conflict warring in gold-ringed eyes as though he were debating risking it all. 

In the end, however, he made the wiser choice; a growl of frustration, he spat on the snow before roughly clipping his shoulder against the wizard’s on his way past. 

“Lovely chap, that one is.” Fake-Moody grimaced and rolled his shoulder experimentally.“Always such a delight.”

Harri narrowed her eyes, taking in the man’s tailored clothes and, admittedly, handsome enough face. He didn’t look anything at all like the grisly professor she had spent time around— and oh, how it set her on edge. After all, how long had he pretended to be Mad-Eye? Did she even get to meet the real auror? Fingers curled into fists, her jaw tightening to prevent her teeth from chattering at the cold. 

Lifting her chin, she strolled past him, calling out with no small amount of disdain. “Thank you, Professor Moody.” 

A sharp laugh was her answer and, as she looked back, she saw a flash of white teeth in the night. “Right. I haven’t properly introduced myself, have I, Potter?”

In a theatrical bow, swept low and arms spread wide, he tossed her a wink. “Bartemius Crouch Jr., at your service. Though, these days, I’ve been going by Barty. Daddy issues, you know?”

She blinked at him, coming to the disturbing realisation that the dark-haired witch who had screamed at her wasn’t the only Death Eater apparently not of sound mind. “So, Barty, I have to ask. How long were you Moody?”

They had taken to walking back towards the glow of the manor, his footsteps easily falling in line with her own. The snow had picked up by now, an exorbitant amount of flakes carried on the swirls of arctic wind.

“A little over a year,” he said, head tilting to one side as a particularly loud wave of laughter floated out past the veranda. “Since the start of your fifth year.”

Harri stopped dead in her tracks. It all clicked into place. 

“You!” she seethed, rounding on him, fury bright in her eyes at the sudden revelation. “You put my name into the goblet! And the cup— you made it a portkey!”

Barty held his hands up, finding an odd sense of amusement in her anger. “Guilty as charged on all accounts. You really do hold grudges, don’t you Potter?”

She could scream— the urge to slap him or, perhaps, even bash his head in with a rock, was nearly overwhelming. There were bound to be some laying around. He had ruined her year, forced her to participate in a competition designed to maim and torture— had made it so the Dark Lord could be reborn— and yet he had the gall to be so nonchalant about it. ‘A grudge’ was perfectly reasonable, in her opinion.

The headache was back with a viciousness. 

Thin fingers massaged her temples in an endeavour to chase it off. Even though she wanted to be mad, to yell at him and seek justice for his slights against her, it was difficult to summon the energy to do so. Plus, in a twisted way, he had been a good professor and helped her, even if it was for his own gain. And the tournament was a distant memory at this point, so far in the past that she wasn’t even sure if it truly mattered anymore.

With a sigh, she looked to the manor and settled on asking in a quiet voice, muted and dim in contrast to the joy coming from the open doors of the veranda.  “Why did he throw a party tonight?”

The Death Eater went silent, his own gaze contemplative. “I had you in my class for almost two years, Potter. You’re a smart girl, I know you are. So you tell me.”

Goosebumps prickled at skin hidden under long sleeves— a ghost of a chill. She supposed she had already guessed the answer, had figured it out when the reporters made an appearance. It was just that she was half-hoping to be wrong, to be corrected. That, maybe, this was just what life was like in the inner circle of the Death Eaters: meetings, tortures, and soirees. 

Yet she was wrong; the man at her side had confirmed it. 

Voldemort needed her to be seen tonight in his arms, to be having fun amongst his most faithful and smiling for the cameras. She thought that maybe he would have been reluctant to reveal to the world he had the famed Harri Potter— that he would want to avoid inciting a rebellion so soon after rising to power. 

But no— no, her naivety prevented her from seeing the full picture. He wanted the Order to know— to force them into action and out of hiding. Because, next to Dumbledore, she was their most important piece, their hidden card: their Queen. And without their King on the board, they needed her back.  

“He’s trying to flush them out,” she muttered.

A beat of silence and a pit in her stomach.

“Come on, Potter.” Barty reached for her shoulder and steered them both towards the balcony. “He’s summoning you.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 34: Ballrooms and Waltzes

Notes:

Hello everyone!

I ended up watching Labyrinth tonight (one of my favourite movies of all time by the way) and I was just so struck by the ballroom scene that I just wanted to include one. I'm weak and can't help myself from indulging in my childhood obsession with balls and waltzes.

But as usual, thank you to everyone who has been commenting and just actively giving me feedback for this story! I appreciate all of you for taking the time to write out your thoughts! 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



With no small amount of reluctance, Harri was ushered back inside.

The room seemed twice as stifling now that she had a taste of freedom, an itch crawling across stretched skin and tingling pinpricks in numb fingers as they slowly thawed. There was no breeze, no refreshing bite of chilled air, no open expanse of stars above her— suffocating

She was split in two. One half wished to bolt for the veranda and let the winter take her for its own— to let herself breathe in the frost and bathe in the starlight. The other, however, wished to return to the quiet of the bedroom. To escape the constant thrum of indistinct voices carrying conversation and the sharp trill of stringed instruments being plucked— to get out of this dress and find whatever respite sleep may afford her.  

Neither of those wishes came to fruition.

Rather, she was being led through the crowd by Barty, weaving and threading through the mass of bodies dressed in ostentatious finery. She watched his feet, numbly following as he led them to the raised dais at the back of the room. It was only when he paused, her own steps pulling up short to avoid colliding, that green eyes lifted from the polished floor.

Looking past the stairs of white marble, a runner of emerald velvet cascading down them, Harri found herself gaping up at a massive high-backed chair. It rested there on the platform for all to see, imposing and commanding. ‘Well, it’s more like a throne than a chair,’ she thought dryly. Even from this distance, she could make out the twisting snakes carved into its dark wood and the intricate scrolls for the armrests. Coiled towards the top were two serpents, larger than the rest, their scaled bodies intertwined around a rather considerable ruby. 

Even she had to admit it was impressive— a testament to the power and absolute authority of whoever occupied its seat. But of course, there was only one person who could match the throne’s grandness, who could look at home, comfortable, in something so excessively luxurious and austere. 

Seated there, legs crossed and posture relaxed with a natural grace, was none other than the Dark Lord. Red eyes bore into hers from atop the platform— a casual motion, a wave of an open hand, and the Death Eater at her back was suddenly pushing her up the steps. 

Her feet were heavy and disinclined to move, the staircase seemingly having no end. Vaguely, it registered that people were staring as she made her way up onto the dais, their weighted looks making the hair on her arms rise. Those once too-loud conversations had quieted down to an unbearable degree; even the music seemed to soften.

She ignored it the best she could, eyes flickering to those scattered about the platform. A few she easily recognised. Lucius and Narcissa for one, the dark-haired witch she still hadn’t learned the name of, the identical brothers and— Snape. The breath that had been burning in her lungs was shakily let go, the familiar sight of the man’s pinched expression a balm to her nerves.  

“Ah, there you are Harri. I was beginning to wonder where you disappeared off to.”

Harri found herself determinedly avoiding eye contact with him. A small nod was all she mustered in response, her focus landing on the cloaked figure of Snape. Briefly, the man had looked over to her and she, desperately, tried to discern any tells in those impassive coal eyes— in the recessed frown lines in the corners of his mouth, in his rigid posture. Should she try to talk to him? 

He quickly turned away and went back to swirling the champagne in his flute. ‘Guess not.’

Helplessly, her gaze shifted down to the crowd below. Standing this high above them, their voices seemed even more distant, more blurred together— muddled. It was as though she existed in a different world, an outsider looking in. Unease knotted her stomach. And, for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out who was observing who— were they watching her or was she watching them? They kept daring to glance up, curiosity evident in the way they would slightly angle their glasses, their heads, towards her without being too obvious.

She quickly determined she hated it up here. 

Irritation, sharp annoyance, coloured their bond; a compulsion demanding her wayward attention be refocused. The Dark Lord had a tight smile plastered on a thinned mouth— one that did little to offset the displeasure flickering in scarlet eyes— and a pale finger was incessantly tapping the carved armrest. In the span of all but three minutes, somehow she managed to find a way to piss him off. ‘Bloody fantastic.’ 

His horcrux had done it again— she had the gall, the audacity, to ignore him. To not even so much as look at him or acknowledge that he had spoken. Voldemort followed her line of sight to where it had landed on Severus— that urge, the desire, to find a way to separate the two was back with a vengeance. 

Without any qualms, he pushed his disapproval forcefully through the open gates of their connection. It didn’t matter to him that it may have been slightly childish, he just wanted her to see him and only him— to stop her from looking to others when he was right there

Emerald eyes snapped to him and that disquiet was momentarily tempered, sated. He gestured to the backless bench beside his throne, its plush cushions velvet and overstuffed. 

“Sit,” he instructed firmly, tracking her movements as she, reluctantly, took the seat.

Voldemort busied himself with scanning the crowd of his followers, his acolytes, below. On the main floor, reporters and party-goers alike kept chancing glimpses up at them— at her. Admittedly, it inspired no small amount of gratification that their gazes kept shifting to the dais— that they, no doubt, were discussing what the Girl Who Lived was even doing here in the first place. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, fingers drumming on the wooden armrests. ‘Let them see. Let them all bear witness to Harri Potter at my side.’ After all, it was precisely what needed to be done— they needed to understand he was serious when he commanded she was not meant to be touched. That he had claimed her and given her an honour most of them could only ever dream of. 

Scarlet eyes watched her from his periphery, the unease spilling from her souring and tart. His horcrux was apparently uncomfortable, her shoulders drawn up and spine painfully taut— and her heartbeat. He could practically hear it hammering away, a phantom tempo felt as real as his own.

The floating tray was summoned over to them with a flick of his hand, a flute of champagne balancing atop it. 

“Drink,” he commanded. 

She hesitated to take the glass at first, eyeing it dubiously as though it might be poisoned or laced. Stifling the urge to scoff, he willed his magic out to prompt her. When her hand tentatively wrapped about the crystal stem, he banished the tray and watched, unashamed and in predatory obsession, when the rim was raised to that painted, rosebud mouth. 

As the girl had taken a sip, burning eyes snagged on the movement of her throat and the way it bobbed— an overwhelming urge to wrap his hand about it. To feel it work under his fingertips, to have her pulse send shockwaves out into his nerves— his palm burned at the mere memory of her body’s heat, of how it felt to cage her waist and hold her close. 

Fingers curled tightly in on themselves. 

He forced himself to look back towards the crowd.

Harri tried to understand why he had summoned her, considering he was seemingly content to sit in silence. She figured it was probably his way of gloating— of purposefully dangling her in front of everyone and ensuring they all had their fill. Of probably making certain that there was no mistaking it was, indeed, the famed Harri Potter who had joined them tonight. 

The flute tipped back and bubbles erupted on her tongue— a pleasant fizz and a radiating warmth in her limbs. 

She had taken to studying the Death Eaters scattered about, striving to understand their dynamics. Most of them were conversing among themselves, their voices too low for her to make out what they were saying. One of the twins, she realised, had a mole under his left eye— ‘Rabastan,’ she remembered, thankful that he looked mostly recovered by now. More than once, he had caught her staring but had yet to actually approach. ‘Love the gratitude.’

She took another sip. 

There was a blur of black and, from the corner of her eye, Harri realised the witch with the wild curls was approaching the Dark Lord. She did her best to not openly gape, truly she did, but it was proving to be rather difficult. 

The woman’s outfit was revealing, to say the least. A scandalous amount of cleavage was exposed by her silk dress’s plunging neckline while the hem’s slit teased an obscene amount of leg. Truly, the woman looked as though she invented the term ‘hourglass’— a twist of envy behind her ribs. 

However, that envy was soon replaced by a mortified blush, a heat fanning her cheeks, when the woman had leaned down suggestively and Harri ended up getting more than an eyeful.

The Death Eater was practically draping herself across the Dark Lord, the blood-red of her lips quirked into a sultry smile and dark, kohl-lined eyes alight with lust. A clawed hand had come to rest, fingers fanned, on his chest, her lips brushing against his ear. ‘Oh, he’s just eating it up,’ Harri thought venomously and tried not to dwell on the fact she may or may not have been just a smidge jealous. 

 Whatever she had said to him had left Voldemort with a smile, teeth gleaming and sharp— a bout of low laughter. That jealousy darkened, swirling and twisting in her chest, when the woman joined in and boldly perched on the armrest of his throne, the paleness of her thigh flashing.

Harri forced herself to look away when that hand on his chest started to trace idle circles, their laughter grating. 

When the tray floated by again, she quickly downed the remainder of her flute and grabbed another. ‘So apparently, he won’t talk to me but he has time to flirt? That’s rich.’ And truly, she wasn’t even aware of where this resentment was coming from— in fact, she should be thankful his attention was diverted— but she felt it nonetheless. 

After all, he had dragged her back inside, had put her on the pedestal next to him and for what? To make her sit in silence? To not converse with her but openly flirt with a woman who was obviously looking for something far less innocent than a smile and laughter? Reason cautioned she probably should stop drinking— who knew how much champagne she already had tonight— but she stamped it down with another swallow.

Voldemort briefly allowed himself to glance over to his horcrux. It was impossible to not notice her pursed mouth, how her gaze was firmly fixed, unseeingly, ahead— or how her grip had tightened around the glass’s stem. And, oh, how he could feel it in their connection, a living, unrestrained, wild thing that spoke volumes: she was jealous

Of all things, his horcrux was miffed that he was talking to Bellatrix, was allowing her to freely touch him and lean on his throne.

It would be a lie to say the idea didn’t thrill him, that it didn’t spur him on to laugh just slightly louder to stoke that flame. It was only fitting, truly— he had seen her embrace the Malfoy boy, after all; had watched as she let him openly leer while she had been so carefree with her smiles and girlish giggles. This was only levelling the playing field; a bit of a tit for tat.

“My Lord. Rita Skeeter is requesting an audience with you.” 

Scarlet eyes turned from Bellatrix to Barty. With a nonchalant wave of his hand, he sent the dark-haired woman back to the corner and nodded to let the reporter pass. 

The reaction from Harri was immediate. 

He could feel the tension flood back into his horcrux, that jealousy falling to a wave of sudden vitriol and hostility. ‘Interesting.’ A note was made to inquire about it later as a blonde sauntered up the steps. Her bejewelled cat-eye glasses caught the light, the lime green suit clashing with the poppy-red of her lipstick. 

“Your Majesty,” she simpered, dipping into a low bow before straightening with a saccharine smile plastered on those garish lips. “Allow me to express my deepest gratitude for such an exclusive. This will surely thrill our readers over at the Daily Prophet .” 

Voldemort flashed her a charming smile and motioned for her to come closer. His eyes danced with a keenness, his voice friendly as though he and the reporter were old friends sharing a secret. “I’m more than happy to oblige you, Miss Skeeter. You always do such a commendable job.”

Harri regarded the blonde with thinly veiled hatred— she could still vividly remember Skeeter’s ‘coverage' of the Triwizard Tournament. The reporter had twisted the truth and painted it to be Harri’s fault— had made it appear as though she were simply an unstable, reckless child looking for further glory and fame. And then, to top it all off, the woman had the audacity to mention her parents and their supposed ‘disapproval’ of her ‘stunt’. 

Her knuckles bled white from the pressure in which she held her glass, angrily tipping it back and draining the alcohol down her throat as that damned Quick-Quotes Quill poised itself above a floating notepad. 

The reporter reached up to primly bounce one of her curls. “Oh come now, you flatter me.” 

Rita leaned forward eagerly, holding a small mic between manicured nails. “Now tell us, what made you decide to take Harri Potter under your wing?”

The Dark Lord leaned back in his throne, fingers steepling and brows knitting together as though he were puzzling out an answer. Of course, he already knew his response— he was prepared for it, had rehearsed the emotions he needed to wear to sell it effectively. 

When he spoke, his words were slow, hesitant, “As you are aware, Albus Dumbledore was originally appointed as Miss Potter’s guardian. However, in light of recent circumstances, he is unable to fulfil such an important, and crucial, role in her life. After all, a teenage girl needs, now more than ever, a role model, a stable parental figure if you will, to turn to for guidance. Seeing how important she is to our community, it only felt right that I take her into my care.” 

The quill scribbled furiously as he spoke, the pages filling up. Rita clicked her tongue in false sympathy. “Of course! The poor dear, having to deal with such instability in her life. Considering the recent information that has come forth about Dumbledore, it’s a wonder he was even able to perform his duties as her guardian at all!”

Harri blinked owlishly, her spite temporarily forgotten. ‘What information?’ She sat up taller, inching forward and decidedly ignoring the way Voldemort had glanced over in warning. Judging from the tug on their bond, he was trying to catch her eye before she could speak, cautioning her to not open her mouth. 

She did so anyway. “What do you mean by ‘recent information’?”

Rita turned to stare at the girl, blue eyes glittering in hunger. It was an unexpected addition to the article to have a few words directly from the Girl Who Lived— but one that was eagerly welcomed. “Why, my dear, the fact that he was an alcoholic and of unsound mind.”

And Harri wasn’t quite sure whether to be outraged or laugh at the very idea— the libel that it was. Because, despite everything he had done, despite all that he had kept from her and his actions, there still remained the seed, the tiniest shred, of loyalty. One that refused to be fully diminished by fond memories of him at her bedside, of them laughing together at the horrendous flavours of Bertie Botts while he regaled her with tales of Lily and James Potter.

She settled on outrage, jaw tensing as she gritted out, “That’s a lie. He never drank. And he most certainly wasn’t crazy!”

As though a hound catching the scent of blood, the reporter rounded on Harri, that quill scribbling even faster. In her past experience with the Potter girl, her temper was as fiery as her hair and it always served to add an extra flair to any interview. 

“Oh you poor, poor, sweet girl. In such denial.” Rita looked to the man on the throne and nodded sagely. “Trauma from abusive guardians can do that, especially to children.”

The Dark Lord’s brow twitched at his horcrux’s outburst— at the way she was so adamantly defending Dumbledore. He supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him— she always had been a fiercely loyal little thing, even to those who wished her harm— but it still grated relentlessly. 

His hands tightened about the scrolls of the armrest, eyes darkening a shade at the looming risk this interview had at derailing. Magic reached out into their connection, striving to communicate his wish for her to sit there and be silent; it only just fuelled the fire in her.

“I’m not a child,” Harri seethed. Something was clawing up her throat, vision dimming on its peripheral edges. “And I’m certainly not in ‘denial’ nor am I ‘traumatised’!”

“Dear, you’re safe now! You can freely admit to it— no one would blame you,” Rita goaded, mic hovering near the girl’s face. “Not with the life you’ve had. I mean, goodness me, after the death of your parents, you nearly ended up in the hands of the person suspected of betraying them to You Know Who! And then having to deal with a suicidal alcoholic? I couldn’t even imagine.” 

A sharp taste flooded her mouth, a trembling in her shoulders. Harri couldn’t even believe the nerve of Rita to drag Sirius into this. Even if the man wasn’t actually her godfather, he was still family to her. The rational side urged her to calm down and recognise Skeeter was purposefully baiting her— to not give the reporter what she wanted. 

But, oh, her mood was already foul before this and now she just wanted everyone to feel it.  

“He was found innocent of those charges,” Harri bit out. 

“Oh yes, I’m well aware of that. But wasn’t that only due to a lack of circumstantial evidence? Considering his violent record, it’s entirely possible he was able to clean up his tracks quickly,” Rita suggested slyly.

Anger, cold fury; it washed through her as magic bubbled under the surface of her skin, just itching, begging, for release. It was ludicrous to even suggest that Sirius would betray her parents— insulting, really— especially seeing as their true killer sat next to her; that his real followers were currently in this room, conversing and drinking champagne as though all was right in the world. 

The flute in her hand began to quiver dangerously, vibrating and singing in a tell of what was to come. 

That warning increased to a sting, phantom words spoken directly into her mind: ‘Do not.’ But, Merlin, she didn’t care. ‘Screw it,’ she thought back with no small degree of hostility, glare fixed firmly on the reporter and that smug smile of hers— the woman even had the nerve to look to Voldemort for agreement. 

Harri,” Voldemort hissed, voice dangerously soft, a whisper meant only for her ears.

His attention was consumed by his horcrux, by the tremors racking slight shoulders and the ticked muscle jumping in her jaw— by that savage fury held in those green, green eyes. Her magic was almost palpable, a headiness, an allure that coaxed him with a signature so familiar. And while he might have encouraged it in any other situation, might have even helped her along with unleashing it, it wouldn’t do— not here, not now. 

It was too late.

The flutes about the dais shattered; a cacophony of sharp cracks as glass splintered and fragmented. 

Rita shrieked in surprise when the shards littered the floor, the glittering pieces catching the light of the chandelier. Champagne coated the platform, the Death Eaters, their clothes— tacky and sticky and poignantly sweet-smelling. 

Harri barely registered the gasps of disgust, barely felt the intense stares from those on the main floor as they looked up at the commotion— all she felt was that dying wave of anger and its accompaniment of a hand, heavy and viselike, landing upon her shoulder. Fingers squeezed in disapproval; she glanced up to meet crimson eyes alight with exasperation. 

“My apologies, Rita,” Voldemort said, not once breaking eye contact with Harri as he addressed the reporter. 

His horcrux flinched under his admonishment— a click of his tongue when she finally looked away. “It’s been an emotional day for Miss Potter so you must excuse her if she is feeling out of sorts. However, as you can see, this is what she has been reduced to under Dumbledore’s tutelage. But I can assure you, I intend on correcting any and all of her ill-mannered behaviours.”

Harri opened her mouth with a stinging retort at the ready, the words already forming: Skeeter deserved it so it wasn’t her fault and no, she wasn’t ‘ill-mannered’. However, his fingers dug into the tender spot of the shallow dip of her collarbone and, wisely, decided it wasn’t worth it. 

With a wave of his free hand, the shattered glass disappeared along with the nauseatingly sweet scent of alcohol. 



Rita had chosen to retreat after being dismissed by the Dark Lord, apparently unnerved by the look in his eyes that warned her to think twice about the contents of her article. With his command, the party had reluctantly resumed— a lull of white noise and endless chatter as the quartet of strings rejoined the fray. 

However, up on the dais, it was an altogether different situation.

No one dared to speak. Apparently, the Death Eaters understood when it was best to remain quiet whenever his mood turned foul— something that she, herself, had yet to learn. 

And as Harri watched the masses below, their bodies coalescing and swaying as most took to the gilded dancefloor, she found herself almost wishing for the woman in the revealing dress to come back. Maybe she would be able to put him in a good mood, make him forget her slip-up— wishful thinking.

She caught a blur of black when he unexpectedly rose from his throne, towering above her as an unreadable look burned in scarlet eyes. Before she even had the opportunity to question what he was doing, a hand, pale and elegantly shaped, was extended out to her— a command rather than an invitation.

Harri slipped her palm into his as she stood up, his fingers curling to encircle hers. 

“Come.” The instruction was her only warning as he led her to the marble steps, feet unsteady as he steered her down onto the ballroom floor. 

Yet, rather than guiding them out of the parlour as she expected, Voldemort directed them into the heart of the crowd. The bodies, dressed in a kaleidoscopic array of colours and fabrics and jewels, instinctively parted for them as water does for oil. 

The song had just ended and the dancers were already resetting their positions on the polished floor.

It was the hand suddenly at the nip of her waist that had her snapping back into the present, confusion and trepidation surging when he closed the empty space between their bodies. Harri blinked up at him, mildly taken back by the sudden contact— there was a brief thought to step away if it wasn’t for his hold’s unrelenting strength.  

“What are you doing?” she hissed out, acutely aware that the other couples on the floor were sending them pointed, careful looks.

He arched a brow, the left corner of his mouth lifting higher than the right. The hand holding hers squeezed experimentally, all too delighted when she jolted. “Dancing, of course. It is a party after all, Harri.”

Confusion gave way to alarm. She tried to tug her hand out of his, horrified at the prospect— but any protests that she didn’t know how to dance were swallowed by the beginning swells of a waltz. Without warning, he jerked them into motion and she found herself faced with no other option but to comply.

Her hand rose to his shoulder to steady herself as she stumbled to keep up with his pace. And there was an unwitting, uninvited thought as to what it must look like to an outsider: him pulling her along as a puppet master would to his marionette, sweeping them along without any consideration to her tripping. A lurch in her stomach at the concept. 

The fingers at her waist flexed possessively as he let his attention focus, undivided, on her. The girl was fragile, small in his arms— a wisp. She was so easy to guide into the proper steps, her weight nearly nonexistent as he positioned her to his liking with nothing more than a well-placed squeeze. ‘How easy would it be to break her?’ The question was intrusive that brought with it a painful awareness of how delicate her hands were in his, how fine the fingers, how thin the wrists— it wouldn’t require much effort, he supposed, to just snap them.

He hummed when he led her into a spin, noting the way she was skittishly looking towards the door as though wanting to flee. And he did consider she had good reason to: she must think him furious with that little stunt she pulled. But, truly, he wasn’t entirely. He knew the reporter was infamous for her habit of provoking people, of goading them into slipping up. Not to mention his horcrux, yet again, showed an aptitude for wandless magic— and it was difficult to reprimand in the face of such potential.  

“I’m not angry,” he muttered softly, pulling her sharply to the left. 

Harri, against her better judgement, let her eyes flit from the door and back to him. And, by Merlin, it was the most inopportune moment to let herself be swept away by his good looks— but she couldn’t help it. Not with the way the golden light from the chandelier was casting his aristocratic cheekbones into sharp relief— with the way the shadows played up the definition of his jawline. ‘It’s unfair,’ a morose thought as she became bewitched by his face— by that full, velvet mouth and by those dark lashes that framed almond eyes holding too many shades of red. 

Truly, he was a creature of beauty and when he spoke so softly, when he held her so tightly, when he looked so damn human, it made her all too easily remember her obsession— her yearning— for a boy trapped in a diary. 

“You’re not?” she asked hesitantly— part of her wondered if he was outright lying.

But when that smirk grew, an uneven curl on his mouth, and the next spin seemed almost a touch playful, she considered he wasn’t. That, for the strangest reason, he seemed to be in a good mood. 

The lightheartedness of the moment was forgotten when that hand at her waist drifted lower— a hyper-awareness of its heat as it trailed down to the beginning curve of her hip instead. A heavy swallow, her heart traitorously skipping a beat.

“Are you sure it’s appropriate to be dancing with me like this? Considering that you’re now my guardian?” she muttered as she pointedly looked to some of the reporters still lingering on the ballroom’s edges. 

It was a pitiful excuse, she knew it, but it was becoming difficult to think clearly as his thumb smoothed over the slant of her hip-bone.

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief at how naive she still remained. A taunting gleam in his eyes, that smirk morphing into a devious smile. “It’s just a dance, Harri.”

Voldemort suddenly pulled her closer, his hand leaving her hip to find purchase on the small of her back instead. That splayed palm slotted their bodies even more tightly together; a direct opposition to his words.

Distantly, he was aware of the soft press of her chest against his, the heartbeat contained there erratically drumming. 

“Besides.” He bent down to whisper against the shell of her ear. “They will not write what I do not want them to. Every article is screened before publication, either by myself or by Nott. So worry not, little horcrux, about what they might see.”

Dread settled as a weighted pit in her stomach and Harri found herself faced with the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How did she not see it before? Of course he was controlling the press— it only made sense. ‘Oh, the things I could tell them,’ a spiteful thought as he guided them to the right. 

And maybe it was because she had one too many glasses of champagne or, perhaps, it was because she was feeling a bit spiteful after everything he had done— or maybe it was even because they had this odd sense of congeniality at the moment— but she suddenly felt brave. Her tongue was a touch too loose, her thoughts a tad too free considering whose arms she was currently in.

“So, what the hell am I supposed to even call you now?” She scoffed dryly. “Dad? Father? Your Majesty? My Lord?” 

She knew she shouldn't have said it— but it was too late to take it back now.

The fingers at her waist suddenly dug in, the hand holding hers twitching— a tension in his jaw, in the lines of his body felt under her fingertips. And, oh Merlin, those red eyes suddenly appeared black, ravenous, as though he was already picturing her bending the knee and addressing him in reverence. 

Harri swallowed thickly, the faintest idea coming to mind that she had unwittingly opened a cage that should have remained closed. 

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he finally said slowly, as though he immediately wanted to take it back and demand that she only refer to him in worship. “As long as we are in private, that is. In public, however, or in front of others, it would be wise to show some respect.”

She nodded at that, mouth going dry at the look blazing in his eyes. He dipped her down without warning and her grip tightened on his shoulder in shock— those scarlet eyes were fixed on the column of her throat, a burning weight that had butterflies rioting in her stomach. 

Before she thought anything might come out of it, he pulled her back up and moved them onto the next twirl. There was a feeling of disappointment she valiantly strived to stamp down, to ignore.  

“So, am I— do I,” Harri fumbled for the right words. It was a Herculean task to string them together coherently, to find the correct ones to voice her fears, her reservations. 

It had been gnawing at her all night that she was, apparently, now his charge— that she was claimed by him. Before, she never considered it to be a possibility— but now the concept overfilled her with anxiety.

“Do you expect me to take the mark?” she blurted out. 

Voldemort refused to remove his eyes from her, taking in the worry and alarm bright in her gaze, her voice. It was a tempting idea— one that he entertained long into the twilight hours— to have her openly wear his brand on her arm. To have the entire world look upon her skin and tremble at the knowledge their saviour no longer belonged to them.

“No, Harri, I do not. You will never bear the Dark Mark, not now. Not ever,” he said, recognising the truth for what it was as soon as he spoke it.

No, the girl would never be forced to endure the symbol of fealty— not when so many already bore it. She was different, special, so unlike the common rabble that flocked to him and it was blasphemy to even consider turning her into standard stock. Not when she was made from him, from the marrow of his soul and born from his power— no, that wasn’t her destiny. 

A coldness seized her, her limbs suddenly feeling heavy and her knees too weak. The look in his eyes had changed, a rising hunger in them— a covetous thirst. His grip had tightened almost unbearably so. 

The traitorous thought from earlier came back, reaffirming the theory that kept buzzing incessantly in the back of her mind: he was never going to let her go. And even if she did escape, his body language relayed all that she needed to know; he would hunt her down to the ends of the earth until he found her again.

Their dance seemed far less innocent all of the sudden. 

Distantly, a clock chimed, brass bells ringing to usher in the beginnings of midnight. 

And Harri couldn’t help but wonder when it would be her turn to awake from this nightmare she had found herself trapped in.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 35: A Coin and A Phoenix

Notes:

Hello everyone! Just a few quick notes before you guys go off to read:

1. I changed some things around for the original Order members. I made it so Molly joined her brothers, Fabian and Gideon, in the first war as well as Arthur Weasley. And also Kingsley Shacklebolt because why not.

2. I was doing some chapter planning for this fic and having an opinion from you guys would be so helpful! Originally, this story was planned to have 4 arcs: The Hogwarts Arc, The Manor Arc (where we currently are), The Order Arc, and then the Aftermath. But to keep all 4 arcs in 1 fic would make this quite long so here are some ideas of what I can do:

A. Once we get to the Order Arc, start a new title so it will be split evenly into 2 arcs vs 2 arcs, making it easier to read and remember what chapter you last read + cut down on the number of chapters in this title.

B. Keep the first 3 arcs in this title and make the Aftermath arc its own separate title for who wish to read it since it'll be more of an Epilogue type situation.

C. Keep all 4 arcs in this one title

I just want to do whatever is easiest for you guys to read and keep track of! Just let me know in the comments what you would all prefer and we can go from there.

As always, thank you so much for the kudos and all the love!

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Time blurred. 

Seconds had bled into minutes and minutes had bled into hours— a jumbled mess that Harri, for the life of her, couldn’t quite recall the precise details of. The night only existed as a haze, too-many colours and swirling fabrics and free-flowing champagne blotting it all out. 

All she knew was that, one second, she had been in the ballroom— and then the next, she was here, back in the repaired bedroom and dead on her feet.

Voldemort had waltzed with her— though, truthfully, it was more him pulling her along than anything else— for literal hours, feeding her flute after flute of alcohol and forcing her to stumble along into his twirls and spins and twists. Admittedly, it had been somewhat fun in her delightful inebriation— but now? 

Now, however, she was paying dearly for such reckless abandon. 

Heaviness persisted throughout her limbs, her feet aching, her calves tight and shoulders strained. It was all she could do to keep her eyes open as Narcissa flitted about, easily undoing all of the efforts that had gone into making her facade, her mask, believable for tonight. 

There was another chime from the grandfather clock— a brassy melody that seemed intrusive to the pre-dawn hours. Angry, almost, and chiding, it reprimanded them for having dared to waste the night with such frivolities. How late even was it? She didn’t bother counting along, her mind too sluggish to possibly keep up. Rather, the windows told her enough. Through their heavy drapes and velvet cords, shafts of watery, gray light were already seeping through.

A soft groan, the awareness of a bed on her periphery— a bed whose actual owner was suspiciously absent— an enticing call. She knew from personal experience how soft it was, how downy its pillows and how silken its sheets. Merlin, she could easily sleep for the next day if someone let her (unlikely, of course, but a girl could hope).

Harri forced herself to look back to the vanity’s mirror. Lazily watching Narcissa’s reflection, it only half-processed, in the back of her all-too-fuzzy mind, the woman’s thinned lips and furrowed brows— and the silence. Tense, otherwise occupied, the Malfoy matriarch wasn’t speaking. ‘Perhaps she’s just as tired as I am?’ It seemed plausible. And anyhow, she severely doubted she would make an adequate conversationalist right about now. Small mercies, indeed.

A yawn clawed its way out as deft, nimble fingers unbraided her hair— a soothing drag of nails against her scalp. For a moment, just a moment, Harri allowed herself to sink into the quiet bliss.

Narcissa’s pale eyes flickered to the tired girl seated before her, those slumping shoulders and fluttering lashes earning the quirk of a smile. A tuneless melody, a soft hum, caught in her throat as she carefully worked a boar-bristle brush through auburn knots. In truth, she had been watching the girl throughout the evening, attention never straying too long— and what she had observed from the shadows was disconcerting, to say the least. From the violent outbursts to the shattered glasses to openly denying the Dark Lord with clenched hands and gritted teeth, she had managed to divine a fundamental truth regarding Harri Potter: the girl had a wicked temper. And that? Well, that was a dangerous thing to have in her— their — world.

That smile faltered.

The idle humming ceased. 

Painted lips slid downward as she blindly searched for any hairpins that may have gone overlooked. It was a harsh reality, but she had been at her Lord’s side for years now— long enough to know that lesser men had been doled out harsher punishments for slights less offending. But yet, this girl, against all odds, remained unscathed. Unharmed

It didn’t make any sense. 

And there was only one answer Narcissa could possibly think of as to why. Her stomach soured at the recollection of lingering touches and stolen glances. It was as though the man was possessed by some driving need to ascertain Harri was real, solid; to cage her with splayed palms and curling fingers and winding arms. That look when he first saw the girl walk in, how he had been eyeing her with intent the entire meeting. How boldly he had grabbed her hand, her waist, her— heaven forbid— hips on more than one occasion while dancing. 

Oh no, she didn’t have to be a legilimens to know where his thoughts had been. 

Narcissa gently set down the brush; a soft click in the quiet of the room. It was an unsettling truth but, despite how godlike he may seem, how ineffable and removed from humanity he came across, her Lord was like any other man: weak in the draws of flesh. And from the explicit tales regaled to her by Bellatrix and her time spent in his bed, she was able to glean well enough he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a gentle lover. 

And though her Lord he may be, she would be damned if she stood by and let him have his way with a child

“Miss Potter,” Narcissa said slowly, carefully— she figured it was prudent to show some respect considering the girl had just surpassed them all in rank. 

“Harri,” she mumbled sleepily in response. Truth be told, it always unnerved her when people referred to her as ‘Miss’. When they spoke to her with respect after spending her entire life being known as simply ‘girl’, ‘Harri’, or, more frequently, ‘freak’— and having someone like Narcissa Malfoy bow her head? Oh, that was even worse. “Just Harri.”

“Harri,” Narcissa amended, spinning the vanity chair around and using a damp cloth to wipe away the makeup.

Another melodic chime of the clock— the spell had ended, a veil lifted. In an instant, the girl was transformed back into the youthful innocence that painted lips and lined eyes tried vainly to conceal. 

Narcissa set the soiled cloth onto the marble countertop. “If anything should upset you— if you ever feel the need to talk— please do not hesitate to come to me. In turn, I promise you whatever you may say will remain strictly between us, one woman to another. After all, you are now a guest in my home and the charge of my Lord.”

Harri blinked up into those unwavering, cornflower blue eyes. It surprised her to see the vehemence, the fierceness— the bloodied and raw honesty— held in them; something constricted about her heart. A painful squeeze in her chest, an uncomfortable twinge, at how kind this woman truly was. 

Time distorted again; another haze of memories rendered into a tangled, chaotic mess. Flashing images of ginger hair, of tight embraces and a plate full of food being pushed towards her— of a scratchy sweater knitted long into the night so she wouldn’t feel left out come Christmas morning. It was startling to realise the sentiment rang the same— that warm, pervading feeling of a mother’s heart being extended. That Narcissa, for as formal and reserved she may be, was similar to Mrs. Weasley in that regard. 

Tears pricked in green eyes and lashes barely kept them at bay.

Guilt was a corroding force, souring and twisting. ‘If only she knew,’ Harri’s thoughts were contrite, rueful, ladened with remorse at the very idea she was deceiving the woman. And part of her did wonder if Narcissa would retract the offer to help, would perhaps look at her with abject horror, if it was ever revealed what she was— that she actually was corrupted, unnatural. That there was something inherently wrong and vile housed deep within herself.  

Horcrux.

Resolutely turning her head, Harri settled on a small nod for fear of trying to speak. She knew, after all, from how tight her throat was, that any words would fail. 

When Narcissa motioned for her to stand, she did so numbly. That exhaustion had sharpened, morphing from something physical and bone-deep to one rooted in her mind, her soul.

Chilled air licked along her spine when the buttons of the gown were undone. It was barely heeded, green eyes fixed unseeingly into the floor-length mirror; black snakeskin pooled about her feet, shedding away until cream-coloured skin was left in its wake. 

She was transformed once more.

There was a flash of scarlet, a soft whisper of fabric— the cool slip of silk against shivering limbs. It was a nightgown, she realised, a sleeveless affair that was entirely impractical for late December. Lace-trimmed, it grazed the space between her thighs and knees; a choice that straddled the line somewhere between modesty and scandalous. She had no doubt in her mind as to who had been the one to pick it out. 

When Narcissa held out its matching robe, sheer enough that it hardly provided sufficient coverage, she all too eagerly slipped into it.



A dry mouth and an acute pounding at her temples were what Harri had awoken to. 

Even from behind closed lids, she could tell the world was spinning, her head stuffed with cotton and a weight in her chest. It was difficult to draw in a full breath, her lungs refusing to expand and fill to an adequate degree. 

Green eyes cracked open— a stinging discomfort against the meek sunshine that managed to light up the bed’s canopy. Dazed and disoriented, her first thought was that she, perhaps, was dying. That, maybe, this is what it felt like; it certainly did fit the flowery descriptions she had always read in those dog-eared paperbacks Petunia was fond of. 

The floating vertigo, the inability to breathe, the incoherent thoughts. Hell, all she was missing was the ‘Prince’ that would— 

The weight shifted. 

A ripple of coiled muscle, a coolness against her exposed sternum— she blinked in confusion. ‘What the?’

Lifting her head, neck straining in the effort, unblinking, golden eyes met hers. ‘Oh.’ 

So apparently, she wasn’t dying after all— a relief, she supposed— and instead was just being crushed by Nagini. ‘Lovely.’ An exasperated groan, Harri flopped back down into the nest of pillows, a sleep-numbed arm coming up to drape across her eyes. Merlin, she needed water and an aspirin— or maybe eight. 

Morning,” Harri muttered, her voice scratchy from disuse. The scent of sweet smoke and something distinctly spicy—something sharp and clean— tickled her nose when she turned her head to burrow into the pillow.

Good morning, little one.” The snake pressed herself against the girl’s warm skin, apparently forgetting— nor caring— how great her weight actually was.   

A wheeze of air, a sharp groan. Harri had half a mind to tell Nagini to get off and find somewhere else to sleep— was about to do just that, in fact— when the bathroom door creaked open. 

The arm that had been shielding her eyes dropped down to the mattress, a frown twisting her mouth at the revelation she wasn’t alone.

Craning her neck to peer out past the bed’s open curtains, she froze. 

There, sauntering out of the bathroom and with wisps of steam curling about him, was none other than the Dark Lord. His hair was damp, that rebellious curl pushed back from his forehead, a towel slung loosely about his hips.   

Well. 

If her thoughts had been slow before, they now had ground to a complete halt.

Truly, she hadn’t meant to gawk— would forever deny she had even done such a thing— but, by heavens, she couldn’t help it. It was a jarring sight, a mesmerising one, that Harri found herself captivated by. In the entirety of her sixteen years, she, admittedly, had seen very few naked, male bodies. In fact, her prior knowledge was painfully limited to Ron and the Weasley twins as they ran shirtless about the Burrow during the humid summer—that or Lavender’s risque magazines tucked safely under her bed— but, oh. How different was he compared to them.

So incredibly different.

He looked to be carved from marble, the mastery that had gone into his creation one that would leave Daedalus himself frothing with envy. The man was unnaturally pale, all sharp angles and lines of muscle she never even thought possible. Somehow, he existed as a contradiction— slim yet broad shouldered, toned yet not overly so. It reminded her of a snake— how its strength was coiled under smooth skin, a testament to its hidden power and predacious nature.

And, Merlin be damned, but she swore she couldn’t find one flaw on him. Not a blemish, not a scar, not even a bloody mole— unnerving perfection

A stray droplet of water had dripped down from his damp hair; a cutting path that she tracked. It slipped around the contours of his body— past the smooth planes of his chest, past the definition of his abdomen, past the prominent cut of his hips and the beginning dip of the towel— she suddenly shot up, displacing a malcontent Nagini.

What are you doing in here!? ” Harri hissed, English forgotten in her sudden panic. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and up to her ears when she realised he had been watching her in turn. 

Voldemort quirked a single brow at her reaction. The flush of her face, the innocence of her response to seeing him half-naked, how wide those pretty green eyes of hers were— he memorised it all. And if someone were to accuse him of purposefully lingering in the doorway, of allowing her to study him uninterrupted— well, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong, now would they? 

“These are my chambers, Harri. Or did you already forget?” he asked, mouth curling in amusement. “I can come and go as I please.” 

He strolled past her tensed form tucked into his bed, the weight of her attention and the gape of her mouth burning into his bare shoulders. The briefest thought was entertained to purposefully drop the towel, to just push her a bit closer to the edge— he decided on mercy instead. After all, the girl already appeared as though she was going to combust, her cheeks nearly as red as the silk she was dressed in. 

I— But. What, no! ” Harri floundered as she watched him disappear into the walk-in closet. “That doesn’t give you the right to just— prance around naked!

Nagini uncoiled herself from the duvet and pulled her body up, scenting the air curiously. The girl’s heart was beating erratically, pounding as though a rabbit’s might, the heat rolling off of her rising— and there was something else that lingered that entirely betrayed her interest, her fascination.

Your heart rate is elevated,” Nagini said slyly, forked tongue flicking across the girl’s warm cheek.

Harri buried her heated face in open palms at the snake’s insinuation, mortification sharpening tenfold. It truly did feel like her heart was about to rupture, a betrayal to the finest degree— and not for the first time, nor for the last, did she curse Voldemort for regaining his old form. Hell, if he still looked like the creature from the graveyard, she was pretty certain this wouldn’t be happening. 

Nagini, please,” she begged— a wordless prayer for the ground to open and swallow her whole. Without a doubt, the Dark Lord had heard their exchange if the smugness in their bond was anything to go by.

A few minutes later and, much to her immense relief, he re-emerged from the closet fully clothed. Outfitted in a white button-up and pressed charcoal trousers, he was back to looking every inch the respectable politician the world knew him as— save for that knowing glint and roguish smirk. It made her simultaneously grit her teeth and her stomach to twist into knots. ‘This is so not healthy’ she thought, working vainly to forget the image of him naked— her mind, on the other hand, refused to cooperate. 

“Will you come and eat?” he asked, a command thinly disguised as an invitation.  

Green eyes snapped to him as she was pulled out of her thoughts. On the side table between the two armchairs, a breakfast tray had magically appeared—a pang of guilt when she was reminded of Zivvy. Had she been able to find Sirius? She sincerely hoped so.

Voldemort was already seated by the time she sank into the unoccupied chair, her legs shaking and feet aching. He was drinking black tea this time, she noted, overly-steeped and without any cream or sugar. Decidedly not following his lead, she poured an unhealthy amount of both into her cup, the amber liquid clouding and diluting.

It also hadn’t escaped her that he was watching her do so with an expression caught somewhere between disgust and alarm.

Green eyes narrowed in a challenge for him to comment on it— he didn’t. Having picked his battle, those red eyes shifted to the fireplace instead, the flames springing to life. 

They sat in a drawn silence for a few minutes, him sipping his tea and her picking at a flaky croissant. It nagged at her with how oddly domestic the moment felt. And admittedly, she wasn’t entirely quite sure as to which she preferred— this or his anger. At least the latter was easier to predict, to know how to properly counter. A violent exchange of action and reaction, it was their usual cycle and one that they both knew intimately. 

This, however, no this was a far cry from it— and it left her feeling off-balanced.  

Bare legs rubbed absentmindedly against each other, her fingers greasy from the butter of the pastry. Part of her debated rubbing them on her nightgown just to irk him— she didn’t. 

Harri found her gaze drifting over to the arched windows, mouth twitching at the grey morning. Beyond the terrace, the world was a stretch of mounting white— endless and pristine— the snow lazily spiraling down as though it couldn’t be bothered to hurry along. 

A perfectly dreary sort of day for a perfectly dreary sort of circumstance.

“We made the front page,” Voldemort hummed.

It was the weight of a newspaper being tossed into her lap that made her look down, red eyes boring into her profile. 

The nausea was back with a vengeance as she stared, rigid and in open horror, at their moving photograph. It was a catastrophe; an utter disaster. Her suspicions of how she had come across were confirmed, the queasy understanding that she, truly, was only playing the pretense of an adult— no amount of makeup or tight dresses or styled hair could ever hide the fact. 

No, her afterimage’s expression made sure that there was no fooling anyone: panicked, shocked, naive. She kept watching her own eyes go wide, a delayed response, before suddenly curling into Voldemort’s side; a scared child hiding behind her mother’s skirts. 

Everything looked wrong— disproportionate. That hand that possessively kept landing on her waist, roping her in closer, the triumph in those unblinking, scarlet eyes and that cutting smile that held too many teeth. He seemed so much taller than her, so much larger— so much more in control. They always said a picture was worth a thousand words: this one, however, screamed a million.

Harri ended up tossing the Daily Prophet onto the floor, decidedly unable to stomach it any longer. But yet, no matter how much she may be able to ignore it, others wouldn’t: no, her betrayal was forever cemented in ink.   

“They won’t rise to your bait,” she said, squaring her shoulders and meeting his gaze with vehement assurance. “The Order is mostly disbanded anyways, just so you know.” 

Voldemort blinked at her in mild surprise— a sharp grin quickly replaced the shock as he leaned forward, tongue clicking in mock approval. “Well, well. Look who has been secretly paying attention and is more aware than she lets on?”

He watched her bristle at his words. Amusement surged in him, both from her reaction but also her continuing ignorance of the world— of how this all worked. She truly didn’t believe that the Order would move to get her back— that he couldn’t draw those roaches out from every dark corner they had found a refuge in. And it was that innocent belief of hers that was almost offending— a crime in its own right—  that he couldn’t help but want to taint. 

“But of course, Harri,” he said slowly, smile fading. “That is where your naivety works against you, I’m afraid. They will come scurrying out from the shadows, desperate to reclaim you as a mantle for their war now that Dumbledore is incapable. And when they do, you can rest assured that I will thoroughly eradicate them— no matter their age or levels of involvement. I will not tolerate rebellion of any sort, do you understand?”

She watched him in unease, tongue in her cheek as she considered the weight of his double-edged threat. While some part of her did hope that they would, that the Order would put up a fight and not cow under him, some other part vainly wished they wouldn’t— that they would stay safe and not further risk their lives. 

Harri’s fingers dug into the plush armrest of the chair, green eyes nervously flickering between his own. There was the flame of a promise held in that hellfire gaze: he meant it. He was determined to destroy any and all who opposed him the very second they came forth publicly. And even with his vow to not personally harm those she cared for— a flimsy thing, truly, considering it would be his followers doing the fighting— there were still too many she couldn’t lay a claim to. Too many variables, too many strangers, too many unknowns.

Her mind turned over in time with her stomach— a sickening lurch. 

“Come.” Without warning or explanation, he downed the last dregs of tea in his cup before marching out the door. 

She watched his retreating form with a dumbstruck expression, the intensity of their moment suddenly cleaved. 

Deciding there was little other choice but to comply, she followed after him, slipping into his shadow as a half-eaten croissant and moving photograph were altogether abandoned.  



It was precisely at eight in the morning, not a minute after and not a minute before, when the morning post was delivered. For many, it was a familiar routine, a daily ritual to make sense of their mornings as they blearily perused the recent papers over their coffee and lukewarm oatmeal. Even better? When that ‘news’ was tantalising, sensationalised— worthy of reading. One might even say that ever since Marvolo Gaunt had risen to power, the news certainly had become just that. 

The Daily Prophet, in particular, had received an explosion of subscriptions as the one-and-only exclusive source to all things regarding their new Sovereign. It was a unanimous opinion that their new ruler was a man of mystery, of charm and intrigue, and decidedly one that the public was hyper-fixated on.

So when the papers arrived with the bold headline of “Harri Potter Change of Guardianship to His Royal Majesty”, it naturally elicited different reactions.

For some, it was one of joy to see the man plastered on the front page next to their saviour— a relief that the two driving, integral forces of their world were friendly enough. 

For others, it sparked a moment of irrational jealousy upon seeing the redhead cling to their object of fascination.

And for a select few, it was a moment of indifference— a quick thought of ‘they look nice together’ and ‘good for her’— before flipping to the sports section to see who had won the last of the quidditch finals. 

But in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, that headline was soon to become a point of contention, of horror and despair.

Sirius Black had found the paper awaiting him, as usual, next to a cup of black coffee and an English spread. Part of him was already expecting to see an article discussing a new policy recently implemented or another interview that the man seemed keen on doing whenever he could— the eyeroll that it inspired. As such, one can easily imagine his surprise, his shout of dismay, upon seeing the daughter of his dearly departed friends in the arms of an incognito Dark Lord.

Trembling fingers reached for the paper, grip tightening about the edges and wrinkling it, as coherent thought momentarily fell to shock. 

Grey eyes frantically scanned the article— a distant thought pondering if wizards could have a heart attack. Could they even die in such a muggle way? He considered the possibility that he may be about to find out. Surely this had to be a hoax— an elaborate joke played on them— or a cruel nightmare his mind had conjured? Because that certainly seemed more plausible than the alternative— that this was actually real

But the date stamped into the paper’s top-right corner, the smell of bitter coffee, the distant chirping of a few daring songbirds on the windowsill and the sounds of foot traffic on the sidewalks. No, his imagination wasn’t creative enough to summon such vivid, visceral details.

This was happening.

“No. No, no no no,” he chanted under his breath, the strength seeping from his knees as he collapsed into the nearest chair. “No, fuck! Remus!” 

In the background, he could hear the hurried steps of someone rushing down the grand staircase, the creaks and groans of the old house being disturbed— the panicked calling of his name and the slamming of doors. He thought to respond— to yell he was in the kitchen— but his throat constricted, impossible to even swallow, to move, to force the words out.

The world blurred, obscured, slowed as the image of his goddaughter curling into the Dark Lord’s side remained crystal clear. It imposed itself on closed lids— that large hand spanning her waist and slotting her against him, that smug glint in those damning red eyes and triumphant smile. 

“He has her,” Sirius managed to grit out. “Somehow, the bastard has her.”

Just behind him, he could hear the slight breaths, the small pants of exertion, as Remus pried the article from his hands. He slumped back into the chair, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the growing headache. ‘How? How could this happen?’ Fear gripped him, his mind racing and turning and gears grating.

It didn’t make any sense. 

One minute, Dumbledore dropped contact and Severus— ‘the snivelling coward,’ a venomous thought— had as well. Though Dumbledore had always been a secretive man— it wasn’t so unusual for him to disappear off to Merlin only knew where every now and again— it had been days without any word from him. And as far as he knew, Harri had been at the Burrow for Christmas: he and Remus were scheduled to pick her up this week to celebrate the New Year together. 

So what the hell went wrong? 

A soothing hand landed heavily on his shoulder, its thumb rubbing insistent circles into the bone— a poor attempt to calm him. Remus didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. The grim mood of the kitchen spoke loudly enough, the spark of shock flowing freely between them. 

Sirius shrugged the hand off and half-twisted around to peer up into a scarred face. There was a flicker of fear hidden in those amber eyes, something adrift and untethered lighting them up.

“How the hell did this even happen?!” It was a useless question— neither of them knew the answer, after all— but Sirius couldn’t help it. The words were pitched by a biting edge— a surge of desperation. 

When Remus hadn’t responded, calloused palms scrubbed over his face. The urge to reach for the half-empty bottle of whiskey tucked away on the top shelf was stamped down, the guilt churning his stomach. He had failed. He had failed his one bloody job— when his best friend asked him to be a godfather, it came with the expectation, the vow, he would keep their child safe.

And he failed

It was a complete and utter catastrophe. 

“Lily and James would never forgive me,” Sirius whispered, something dark, something black, twisting around his wretched heart, threatening to squeeze until the beating stopped

“Sirius, you couldn't have—”

“Don’t!” he bit out, shying away when that hand reached for him again. “They trusted me, Remus. Me. To keep her safe and look at her now—I told them I wasn’t cut out for this. I told them so many times.”

Grey eyes fixed unseeingly out the dirt-caked window, its glass fogged over from years of neglect, the tranquil beauty of the falling snow thoroughly lost on him. He knew what Remus was going to say next, knew it in his bones that it was time to come face-to-face with the dirty secret he had kept hidden all of these years— it did little to prepare him, however, for the underlying hope in his friend’s voice. 

A wrench of a knife in a festering wound.

“The ‘Change of Guardianship’ can’t be legal, not with you being her actual godfather. We can contest it, make it public—”

“We can’t.” This time, Sirius did get up, stumbling feet carrying him over to the dusty cabinet where the whiskey bottle was calling his name. 

A pop of the cork being twisted out, the sloshing of amber liquid; he didn’t bother with a glass as he lifted the rim to his mouth and tilted it back. 

“Of course we can! We have the legitimate papers and—”

“We can’t, Remus.”

“And why not?!”

“Because we don’t have those papers!” Sirius set the bottle down with more force than necessary— a sharp clink against the granite countertops. “We don’t have those damn papers because I’m not her actual godfather! We can’t contest a bloody thing!”

The ensuing silence was unbearable. 

Sirius took another swig— a bitter grimace at the heat slipping down his throat. “Lily and James, we never got to finalise any of the papers. They never signed them before they were— you know. It’s why I couldn’t argue with Dumbledore about the Dursley situation. He's been her legal guardian this entire time, wherever the hell he is. We only told her it was me because that’s what her parents wanted.” 

Remus fell quiet for a minute before firmly nodding, voice firm, “Fine. We find another way to get her back then.”

He scoffed as the werewolf rustled about the kitchen, opening one drawer after another. “And how do you propose we do that?”

Grey eyes regarded broad shoulders shrewdly when they suddenly tensed. 

“With this,” Remus muttered.

The sound of metal being placed onto the wooden table filled the kitchen— a damning sound for a damning sight. 

There, resting innocuously against the rough grain and chipped grooves, was a coin. And not just any coin— the coin. An impression of a phoenix rising up, its wings spread majestically, glinted on the metallic surface; he felt like he was going to be sick. It’s unexpected appearance brought about a whirlwind of too many emotions. Yearning. Resentment. Sorrow. Hope. 

It was a pipedream that carried with it a bittersweet past; he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t act.

“Where,” Sirius whispered, a tongue darting skittishly over chapped lips, “did you get that from?”

Remus hovered near his side, his voice taking on a wistful note as he refused to look away from the medallion. “I held onto it as a memento. For old time’s sake.” 

That hand had come to rest back on his shoulder— rather than shrugging it off, shaking fingers grasped at cold ones. That coin, he hadn’t seen it since the First War— since he had been a young kid fighting alongside his friends in the pursuit of justice. Since he had proudly declared himself a ‘freedom fighter’, bolstering the title with enthusiasm; a testament to his naivety and the false bravado afforded to him by his youth. 

He hadn’t seen it since he had lost two of his closest, dearest companions in the quest for a better world

“We can’t,” Sirius mumbled, trying to find reason, an argument. “We just can’t.”

Too many had already been lost to the war and too many had left behind loved ones because of it. True, they had the victory the first time around— but at what cost? Plus, it wasn’t even them that had managed to defeat the Dark Lord. 

No, it had been a child

His gaze flickered back to the moving image of a girl— a girl so familiar to him yet somehow a stranger. The makeup. The dress. Everything about her seemed less like Harri, less like an echo of Lily and James, and something, well, else. Merlin, he was going to retch.

“We have to, Sirius. They are our only hope to get her back, we both know it. And we need Harri in order to defeat him. Dumbledore has said as much, remember?” Remus advocated, a bitter truth lacing his words.

Oh yes, he was well aware of her destiny. She was important, beyond so; only a fool would deny it. But the fact they had propped her up as their Chosen One, that they had placed her on a pedestal and kept her to be played as their trump card when the time came— none of it sat right with him. 

Sirius looked from the newspaper back to the gold coin, heart leaden in his chest and shoulders suddenly heavy from the unseen weight of responsibility. Was it worth the risk? So many had finally found their peace in the aftermath, had settled down and moved on with their lives.

Molly and Arthur finally, finally, had the family they always so desperately wanted after the deaths of Fabian and Gideon.

Kingsley had carved a spot out for himself in the government.

Minerva was living out her dream of teaching.

And he was about to ask them to jeopardise that security by throwing it all away. 

Though, what other choice did they have? As much as it pained him to acknowledge it, the truth was that they did need Harri back; even more so now that Dumbledore had disappeared. It was almost enough to make him want to laugh and spit in the face of Fate, to curse it and demand to know why, just why it had felt it appropriate to place a girl not even in her majority at the mantle— to have her be the one to lead them into battle and rally their people.

The decision was splitting his conscience, his very morality, in two.

Without warning, a knife— the one that had accompanied his now abandoned breakfast— had been uneasily pressed into his open palm. The blade was suddenly wicked-looking, its edge sharp and weight crushing. 

“Call them, Sirius, and they will come.” 

Tentative fingers curled about the handle, knuckles bleeding white. His mind raced in a last-ditch attempt to find a valid alternative, to stand his moral ground and assert that no, they most definitely weren’t doing this— that they could find another solution that didn’t involve more lives being senselessly lost, more blood shed, more painful memories dredged up.

But another part knew there wasn’t any. That, whatever he may say, would lack conviction, reassurance. 

That this was an inevitability; it always had been.

A sharp hiss of a breath, he pressed the serrated edge into his palm: blood welled up along the line, a scarlet trail dripping down onto the grimy floorboards. Before he could talk himself out of it, Sirius pressed the coin into his weeping hand.

The metal heated— a soft glow.

And there was a thrill— a rush of exhilaration that he thought had long-since been tempered— when that phoenix turned animated, its wings flapping as it looped about the medallion’s edges. 

It was time for the Order of the Phoenix to be reborn.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 36: A Gilded Cage

Notes:

Hello everyone!

This chapter was actually inspired by a thought JingleBat had in one of the comments! They had asked to see how Harri would react to having new clothes and this is was such an excellent opportunity to do some character study that I couldn't pass it up! So thank you, JingleBat, for comment and I hope you, in particular, enjoy it 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text


The Dark Lord marched out into the study and Harri, having determined there to be little other option but to, followed in close pursuit. 

Unlike the bedroom, there were no happily crackling flames here— instead, it was a persistent chill that awaited them. She had only paused for a second, nose scrunching up in distaste and a shiver crawling along her spine, but it was enough for him to notice. Crimson eyes cut over his shoulder, an amused question held in them: Well— are you coming?

Compared to herself, Voldemort hardly seemed bothered by the change in temperature, his strides long, unaffected. Purposeful. ‘Must be nice,’ a spiteful thought as she hopped the narrow gap onto the carpet, green eyes casting about for the culprit. And, ah, there it was: a deadened mantle. 

Arms curled about her torso to ward off the cold. From a cursory glance, it was evident the house-elves had yet to stop by. The heavy, velvet drapes still remained firmly drawn, shutting out the weak winter’s sun. There was a thick layer of long since cooled ash in the fireplace— a testament it had been allowed to die out sometime in the night— while the crystal tumbler and its matching, half-empty decanter littered the side table. Admittedly, such a scene painted a bleak picture. The study looked near abandoned; disorder where she had come to expect the opposite. 

She lingered by the twin armchairs, waiting for him to settle down and relight the fire. He didn’t. 

Rather, Voldemort walked right past them without a second glance or acknowledgment: the study was, apparently, not their final destination. Her mouth twitched into a frown, the question burning where they were going— what he was possibly planning dragging her around in her pajamas— when she saw it

There, just past a set of broad shoulders, was a door wedged inconspicuously between two tall bookshelves. A door that, Harri was more than certain, hadn’t been there prior. Not in their dream meetings, not when he first brought her here. 

It was new

Her curiosity was piqued, her mind running rampant as to what might possibly be behind it— and, naturally, that meant entertaining the worst case scenarios. Sure, it seemed innocent enough, plainly carved and nothing too sinister, but looks could be deceiving— hell, she certainly learned that lesson the hard way. Not to mention she had pulled quite the stunt with Rita last night. Even if he said he hadn't been upset back then, she wouldn’t put it past him to change his mind now— given how mercurial his personality was, such a thing was entirely possible. Maybe it was a torture chamber? A prison cell?

Without forewarning, the ominous promise of a reunion with someone she “missed dearly” surfaced in her mind. And, oh, how there was a pit settling in her stomach when she realised, belatedly, one crucial detail: he never indicated whether it would be a happy one or not. 

She suddenly grew roots. 

Her feet faltered, halting midstep and refusing to budge— a foolish notion, most certainly, to prolong the inevitable but it couldn’t hurt to try. And, by Merlin, how that unremarkable door now seemed so intimidating, terrifying— an unknown she didn’t want to explore. 

There was a burning in her chest, her lungs, a lurching sensation when she noticed he stopped before it. 

Burning eyes met her own— a hellish red cutting through the shadows— an unreadable look glinting in them. She had the thought to protest when his pale fingers curled about the silver handle; to say she didn’t want to know, to see, to, perhaps, apologise and beg him to let whoever had been taken go. 

Her tongue, however, had other ideas. It remained a deadened weight in her mouth, useless and refusing to work— ash. Ash was all she could taste, dry and gritty as though she hadn’t had a drop of water in months.

The door was slowly pushed inward. A slanted ray of sunshine cut through the study’s gloom, a soft creak on polished hinges— 

Harri could only gape in confusion. 

Rather than some atrocity, some bloodied violence, it was a glimpse of a four-poster bed that greeted her. 

From what she could make out, it was obscene in size and grandeur; beautifully made, no doubt about it, with ornate flowers and scrolls carved into the frame. And even from this distance, it gleamed. The wood had been enchanted to be gilded, shimmering and sparkling gold through the sheer gossamer curtains draped at each corner. A quilted headboard was lined with an assortment of powder blue and cream pillows— far too many to be considered necessary or essential— the bedspread toting a matching scheme. 

Harri glanced warily back to Voldemort. Whose room was this? It certainly wasn’t his: no, the colour palette was the furthest thing from the monochrome dreariness he seemed to prefer. Here it was almost cheery, airy, light—  feminine. 

She trailed after him, dumbstruck, when he tilted his head in a nonverbal cue to go in. 

“Oh, sweet Merlin,” she breathed.

Just as the bed indicated, the rest of the room was equally, beautifully, breathtakingly done— a testament to the sheer wealth and opulent tendencies of whoever designed it. High windows, double-paned and encased with blue silk, let in obscene amounts of natural light; the sun glittered, playing off the intricate gold trim on the vaulted ceilings. Truly, this was a homage to something straight out of the Rococo era— a room fit for a princess, a queen. Her head spun from the sheer detail of it all. 

“Your personal chambers,” he said softly, hovering near her shoulder. Pride swelled in him at how taken off-guard she seemed, how enamoured and doe-eyed. 

The idea had come to him a few days ago as he debated and mulled over the ways to start fostering some trust, some faith, in their relationship— and the solution? Well, it was simple. Ingenious, really. As she was made from him, from his soul and marrow, there, surely, had to be some similarities in their personalities. It only made sense then that she must also value having her own space— and, of course, found pleasure in beautiful things, in luxury, as he did. Judging from that starstruck gleam dancing in those wide eyes, he had been correct.

A half-smile twitched on his mouth as she spun around wordlessly to take it all in. Finally, finally, they were getting somewhere

“Mine?” Harri echoed, completely bewildered.

Her gaze jumped from the ivory brocade of the chaise lounge to the marble fireplace to the—  not one but two— doorways that indicated there was even more. It felt nearly blasphemous, wrong, for her to be in here— like she was a maid, the help, who was going to be caught lingering in some place she certainly shouldn’t be. And if this was meant to be his form of a gift, what was the catch? The repayment he would eventually demand? Her tongue rested in her cheek, part of herself unwilling to break the magic of the moment by daring to ask. 

“For you to destroy at your own leisure, of course. Should you ever feel the need to do so, that is,” he added coyly, hands dropping to her shoulders and giving her a light push forward.

Voldemort watched as she stumbled about in uncertainty, self-satisfaction nearly overflowing, overbrimming. That possessive beast, the one that seemed to arise whenever in her presence, was content, nearly purring, singing, ‘look at how benevolent I can be’ ‘see how I can provide for you.’ After all, in his past experience, women tended to love nothing more than being showered with gifts— especially ones that came from him— so why should she be any different? And if showing her a peek of the life that was awaiting her, of the affluent comfort he could give, then he wasn’t above flaunting such.

Harri opened one door tentatively, the overhead light flickering magically to life— a choked noise of surprise. Rows and rows of dresses, of formal robes, of expensive things that proudly broadcasted their pricetags, lined the walls. Even the more simple ones were deceiving in their luxurious fabrics, their painstakingly tailored cuts.

She allowed her hand, pale and small and nervous, to trail over them, eyes flickering to the drawers that undoubtedly held more clothing. At the center of the closet stood an island, jewels sparkling brightly behind their glass displays.

Unbidden, Harri was drawn to a set of black pearls. They were luminous in their shine, strung neatly, uniformly, into a necklace— her sight went out of focus as she felt their coolness, their weight and perfectly smooth surfaces. 

‘It’s all for me,’ the thought was slow, hindered by a dazed stupor. Distantly, a memory materialised, an unwanted presence— the sharp voice of her Aunt warning her to not touch anything in the master bedroom, the visceral recollection of a cruel hand upon her cheek. Oh yes, she could still vividly remember that day— the day she had been caught with Petunia’s pearls in her grasp. Possessed by the sight of them, an 8-year-old girl mesmerised by their splendour, they were forbidden to her. She knew it, she was aware, but one day they had been left out in the open— and, for once, not around the woman’s thin neck. 

Her cheek had smarted for days afterwards; an angry, red discolouration that made her afraid to even look at that necklace ever again. 

The pearls were tossed forcefully back into their velvet box, her hands violently retracting as though burnt. 

Heart pounding behind her ribs, Harri spun slowly to peer down the rows of clothing, the strangest revelation overcoming her that these were made for her. Tailored

Not some hand-me-downs that were tattered and too-large. 

Not some cast-offs that weren’t even meant for a girl. 

Not something she had to roll up ten times over just to see her hands. 

No, these were new— every single one. 

A pang of guilt— ash soured in her mouth. And, oh, that voice was back. That mocking voice proclaiming that an ugly little thing like her— a freak— should be content with her lot in life; that she should be grateful to have something to wear at all. 

She fled from the closet, the air suddenly too thin, too little— not enough.

Voldemort had taken to hovering near the fireplace. And even though he wanted nothing more than to follow her, to see her face and take gratification from her reactions, he didn’t. Rather, he was graciously allowing her the space to explore, to take it all in; another act of benevolence on his end. Thin fingers plucked an original Faberge egg from the mantle shelf, idly turning it over and noting the vine pattern— waiting, waiting, an itch of impatience when she had yet to emerge. 

Part of him debated marching into the closet and demanding to know what she thought: the suspense was killing him, after all. In fact, he was ready to do just that when he felt it. Her discontentment— that sudden wave of disgust, of repulsion. Such strong feelings that slammed into him like a wave, blindsiding, wholly unexpected

Fingers tightened about the tchotchke, threatening to shatter it. Had he done something to upset her? Did she not like the clothes? Was she snubbing his efforts to please her— all of his hard work?

He breathed through his nose, crimson eyes narrowing as he slowly, so slowly, set the porcelain egg back onto its stand. ‘The ungrateful little shrew,’ was his venomous thought as he eyed her trailing out from the closet, her expression pinched. The notion of the dungeons came back to him, his lip curling into a sneer. There was an appeal, admittedly, to locking her away in the damp earth if she was set on being uncooperative, unappreciative.

“What do you think?” he asked. The question held a bite, a subtle warning for her to tread carefully.

She sank down on the edge of the plush mattress, the downy top bending under her weight, green eyes surveying the room in bewilderment. Had she been in any other state of mind, perhaps she would have heard the threat behind his inquiry— would have paid attention to his tone, his body language— but she didn’t. No, it was all lost upon her, too many thoughts screaming that she didn’t deserve this. How she was overstepping, how being at the center of such luxury when so few would ever get to know such things, was inherently wrong

Images of the broom closet flashed by— tucked under the stairs with its sliding grate and so little light, how it made her feel safe to be sequestered away. Out of sight. How that spare bedroom, so spartan and so small that it could barely fit a mattress, was her refuge; a familiar comfort. And, most damning of all, she missed them— she missed the intimacy, the ability to spread her arms and touch either wall. Because right now, she felt too on display. Too vulnerable. 

Taking up too much space and being a nuisance— an inconvenience. 

Green eyes finally landed on him, unsettled, confused. When she spoke, the voice that came out was timid, unsure, struggling for the right words. “It’s just— a lot.

Voldemort pushed off the mantle, equally confused. There was something to her words, the hesitation in them, the guarded air about her that threw him off-kilter. Narrowed, discerning eyes swept over her, frown deepening— it was clear that it wasn’t just a simple dislike for the room, for the clothes, that was holding her back. With all of the subtlety of a skilled Legilimens, he probed at her mind— surface level, of course, but enough to glean what he needed to know.

A storage closet, dimly lit and undercut by a haze of dust, materialised in his mind's eye. ‘Why, now, is my little horcrux thinking of a closet?’ he mused, abruptly withdrawing before she could become wise to the fact of his prying. A note was made to investigate it further, to puzzle over its meaning, when he was free to do so. 

With long strides, the Dark Lord crossed the length of the room to stand before her. A pale hand darted out to lightly, gently, tilt her chin up, thumb pressing into the vulnerable point beneath her jaw. 

Scarlet eyes locked with emerald ones as he evenly met the warring conflict in her gaze. “You are my horcrux, Harri, a product of my magic and an extension of myself. Something as precious, as rare, as yourself deserves to live in luxury— not squalor. Do not be fooled into thinking you are lesser because you are not.”

Harri blinked up in surprise, his words slow to process. There was such conviction behind them, blazing and adamant, that she found it difficult to continue to look at him— a traitorous flip in her stomach, a skip in her heart. He was so sure of her worth, of her importance, that it was jarring. Disconcerting. But oh, how it brought about an unbidden shiver— goosebumps left in the wake of such a declaration.

She wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to know what it meant.

Mercifully, he looked away first. Red eyes strayed up to land possessively on the scar that had started it all: their story, their connection, everything they had was owed to that little lightning bolt half-obscured by auburn hair. The strangest urge overcame him to press his lips to it, to worship it— to see if he could feel the piece of himself that resided deep within her.

He didn’t— couldn’t

After a beat, and with much reluctance, his hand dropped away. There was still another surprise to be had, after all, another gift that would hopefully rectify the situation.

With a sharp snap, a small cage draped in velvet appeared on a pedestal behind him. A cupped hand was extended for her to take— a revel in the warmth when she did so, delicate fingers slipping into his as she accepted his support. 

A smirk lifted the corners of his mouth as he guided her to the cage, eyes ravenously glued to her profile. “Let it be said that Lord Voldemort always upholds his promises. Despite your little outburst in front of Skeeter, you still performed rather admirably last night, Harri.”

She let her hand fall from his, heart rate elevating, spiking, at the mere idea of what might be concealed under the veil. An uneasy glance was aimed at him— a valiant attempt to ignore the warmth in her chest at his praise— waiting for him to give permission. Fingers trembled when he did so, both in anticipation and excitement, as they fisted the velvet— she tore it off. 

Amber eyes stared unblinkingly up at her, a beak chirping excitedly— a flurry of feathers when great wings flapped.

“Hedwig!”

It was a rush of elation, of pure joy— of animated bliss — that swept through her as she fumbled with the cage’s lock. The good-natured pecks at her fingers made tears spring forth, lashes stubbornly attempting to keep them at bay. With a proffered arm, the owl stepped obediently on it, her face burrowing into the softness of snowy feathers.

In the whirlwind of the past few days, she had, somehow, forgotten her faithful companion and truest friend that saw all sides to her life. The fame and the mistreatment, her existence as both ‘Harri Potter’ and, during the long summer months, ‘girl’. But now they were reunited; a  silent vow never to be separated again. 

“Thank you,” Harri rushed out. Hedwig trilled on her perch of flesh and bone— a twitch of a smile and a delighted laugh when she realised how much she had missed the sound. 

Voldemort towered over her, watching in appraisal, in approval, at the reunion taking place before him. It was nearly humorous that the smallest of things managed to move the girl to tears— could make her tremble with happiness and actually thank him. After all, here she was, standing among such wealth that any like-minded aristocrat would go weak in the knees for— with a closet that any respectable witch would pine over— and yet, it was an owl, one that didn’t even cost him a sickle or a knut to procure, that moved her.

Indeed, his horcrux was an odd little creature.

“Of course,” he said nonchalantly, moving closer to her crouched form, head tilted in thought. 

Crimson eyes snagged on that carefree smile of hers. How often had he seen it directed at others? In the memories he had witnessed? During the party with the Malfoy's son? And even if its true recipient was the owl, it still remained that he had been the one to induce it by proxy— a feat in itself. Something dark blossomed in his chest, writhing in delightful self-congratulation at the very idea he was bearing witness to something she so readily showed her friends. He had just proven they weren’t as privileged as they might believe themselves to be— that he, too, could elicit such a reaction. That he finally could lay claim to the same experience as everyone else. 

They weren’t special.

But, then again, neither was he. 

That delight fell to hunger— an aching, obsessive revelation he wanted more. It was a truth he was keenly aware of, a critical flaw to his character; one that had marked his childhood and the same that pushed him, urged him, to steal from others at Wool’s. The fact of the matter was that he had never been content in sharing— in having the same as everyone else. He demanded distinction from the masses in all regards— from his possessions to his appearance to his experiences. And as he watched the redheaded girl before him croon and cry— his horcrux— the idea he wanted, needed, to see all facets of her took firm root. 

He would demand to see those parts that she had yet to show anyone else. He would be privy to experiences, any and all, that she had never laid claim to before now— he would get to know Harri Potter as intimately as he knew himself. 

It was an intense urge, his chest gnawed raw by it; a toxic desire that sang to reform her in his image. To make it so she was no longer the ‘Girl Who Lived’, their public’s saviour, their champion, but a special version— a shadow— that only he was apprised of.

“A witch needs her familiar, after all. Consider it a late Christmas present and an incentive for your future cooperation,” he mused under his breath— an internal struggle to repress those damning thoughts from overthrowing his will.  

He tried to reason one step at a time. Not to rush, not to be rash, not to push too much. They had an eternity together, after all, so time would be of no consequence. 

And some things were worth waiting for— some things were all that much sweeter, that much more satisfying, when patience was exercised. 

The Dark Lord forced himself to take a step back. 

A step back, a small concession, yet the hardest thing was to look away. To stop staring so openly at her small frame, to stop from drinking in the bright glee in those too-green eyes and that smile splitting a rosebud mouth. 

He ended up finding refuge at the window— an acceptable distance between them— eyes scanning the acres of manicured, snow-ladened lawn.  

“I should warn you, however.” Red eyes flickered to her reflection in the pane, noting how she was still crooning at the bird. “She will not be able to deliver letters.”

Her happiness came crashing down, sputtering out like a flame doused by frigid water.

Of course, one of her first thoughts had been that Hedwig meant freedom. That she would have the ability to send messages to her friends— to assure them she was fine and to caution them against doing anything too rash without relying on Zivvy. That maybe, just maybe, he was allowing her a show of faith, an opportunity to prove herself (which she, admittedly, had full intentions of taking advantage of). 

But, as always, he was already one step ahead. 

A bitterness coated her tongue as she returned Hedwig to the cage. It was a struggle to keep her face impassive, to not show her despondency at having her plans crumble before they could come to fruition. 

Her eyes drifted from the snowy owl back to him, his figure severe, imposing, sharply contrasted against the watery winter sun streaming through the tall windows.

“If she tries, I’m afraid she will not get past the wards at the property line. And speaking of wards,” he said, resisting the urge to smile. So palpable was his horcrux’s dismay, her frustration, that he had guessed correctly in what the owl had represented for her plans. “This room is rather, let’s say, well-equipped. Only those who you give permission to can enter, save for myself, Nagini and Narcissa, of course. Though I would highly recommend you think twice about who you let in. However, should anything go awry, do not fear— I will know right away.” 

And for the first time since entering the bedroom did Harri become aware of the magic dancing across her skin. It hummed faintly in the background, thrumming in time with her pulse, her heartbeat. She glanced towards the door in horror, his warning registering fully. ‘He’ll know whoever comes in here.’ The recollection of him threatening Draco rushed back tenfold, a new meaning to it that made her stomach clench. As though it wasn’t bad enough that he was already threatening those she cared for, he was now lording the threat over her head that he would see all, know all— a merciless god. 

A glare was aimed at the spot between the Dark Lord’s shoulders, protest at the ready that this wasn’t fair.

“And of course, this should go without saying, Harri, but if the idea ever crosses your pretty little head.” Voldemort spun on his heels, red eyes darkening in the shadows. But even from this distance, Harri could see the promise in them, the challenge daring her to even try. “If you attempt to Apparate or leave the property without permission, I can assure you that it will not be a pleasant experience.”

Green eyes tracked him as he crossed the room, the patronising smile sent her way making her grind her teeth.

“I do have some work to attend to, but if you find yourself needing me, or wanting for my company, do feel free to call,” he said casually, as though they hadn’t just discussed the fact she was bound to the mansion.

His mouth lifted into a smirk when he spied the way her jaw was tensing. With an open wave of his hand, he passed through the doorway without even looking back. “I have already briefed Narcissa on my expectations so she will relay them to you once she arrives.”

The door swung shut— she screamed. 

It was only until he was fully gone that she allowed herself to do so— a quick little yell of frustration— hands scrubbing exasperatedly over her face. Only he would turn a gift into a threat and a bedroom into a holding cell. But then again, a part of herself even wondered why she was surprised— how many times had she thought to herself he was a control freak? 

Eventually, Harri pulled herself up from the ground, her legs aching, smarting. A sense of unease was quick to replace the frustration as she warily eyed the bedroom, stomach churning in agitation— how much would he know of the conversations that took place in here? He hadn't said, of course, but the uncertainty filled her with nerves. And though she always possessed the vaguest suspicion, hearing him confirm she couldn’t Apparate away, wouldn’t even make it past the wards, only made it all the more apparent of how damned she truly was. 

Falling down onto the chaise lounge, knees pulled up to her chest and not caring in the slightest her bare feet were on the expensive furniture, her forehead fell against hard bone. 

The room, with all of its luxury and warm colours and splendour, seemed hostile now— unfriendly. He hadn’t given her a bedroom, a space to call her own, a sanctuary from the world: he had given her a cage. Albeit it was a marvelously gilded one but still one nonetheless.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 37: Manners Are Needed

Notes:

Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but I ended falling asleep early so here it is now 💕 It's a tad longer than usual but some of you guys were asking to see how Harri's friends would react to the photo so I wanted to include that scene for those who are curious! 💕

As always, you are all amazing, and thank you for reading along!! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“-Ne. ‘Mione! Her-Mi-O-Ne!”

Hermione blinked dazedly, brown eyes attempting to regain their focus. It was at the insistent call of her name, the sharp annoyance in the tone, that forced her to realise she’d done it yet again: she had slipped off into her own little world. Most would agree it was her nastiest habit— ‘dreadfully rude and terribly impolite,’ as her primary school teacher often reprimanded—but it was one she never had quite managed to break. 

Though, today of all days, she figured such a vice could be excused.

The gears had been turning— grinding and grating against one another for over an hour now— as she attempted to make sense of the article sprawled on the table. It was a puzzle she was determined to solve but one with too many of its pieces missing. Jagged-edged. Incongruent. Refusing to fit together, no matter how she tried. 

Absolutely, utterly infuriating.  

Shaky fingers went to curl tighter about the mug between her palms, a half-smile, apologetically troubled, aimed at the boy across from her.

“Sorry, Ron. I was thinking,” she mumbled, sipping from the scalding coffee and burning her tongue in the process. 

The morning had started out like any other at the Burrow. Everyone had been busily fussing in preparation for breakfast—  a fast-paced hustle she would miss come the time they returned to school— good-natured chatting and jokes interspersed among the yawns. The air was warmed, both by the fire and the bodies crowded at the impossibly long table, every chair mismatched and the plates not from one complete set. Mrs. Weasley had taken to frying bacon, the sizzle accompanying the sounds of everyone gradually waking up— a comfortable sort of chaos that seemed at place in the eclectic home of dizzying colours and magically knitting needles. Safe. 

Happy. 

Pleasant. 

And then it showed up. 

The post arrived and everything was thrown off balance. 

Now, the morning was a grim affair. No one dared to speak, to venture aloud their thoughts or give their horror a voice. The warmth that had been once so comfortable turned stifling, sweltering— suffocating. The bacon had been altogether abandoned and the spread on the table forgotten— a shame, truly, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat any of it. Not with the way her stomach was lurching at the mere idea of food. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had long since fled upstairs, heads bowed together in urgent, low whispers and their footsteps heavy on the rickety staircase. 

The twins remained huddled at the other end of the table, subdued into silence for once.

Ginny— pale and waned as though she had just seen a ghost— was gnawing her thumbnail down to its quick, brown eyes fixed out onto the snowy yard beyond the latched window. 

And Ron— well. Ron was Ron. Somehow, he managed to keep ahold of his appetite in spite of everything and was thoughtfully chewing on chilled pancakes.

Her own gaze bounced back to the Daily Prophet, a sourness coating her tongue. It was a disturbing shock, to say the very least, and she wasn’t quite sure which was more alarming: that photograph or the contents of the article. It was all news to her— Dumbledore being Harri’s legal guardian, Sirius lacking the official papers. Part of her nearly felt betrayed, her mind jumping to the conclusion Harri had hidden such. After all, it was a recurring theme in their friendship as of late. Hiding. Lying. Refusing to confide where they once had so readily. 

Unbidden, images flashed by in her mind’s eye— of a love bite on the pale slope of her neck. Of bruising circles under green eyes from nightmares that she refused to voice. Of a recent obsession with the library that should have brought them closer, not pulled them further apart. Yes, it was a disappointing truth that, at some point, they’d grown distant— that secrets hung like shackles about their friendship. 

She took another piping sip, brown eyes narrowed on the headline before flickering down to the table. Considering the context of everything— the libel being spouted against Dumbledore, his mysterious disappearance, Harri staying behind at Hogwarts only to be photographed next to Voldemort— something was wrong. What had possibly happened over the holidays?

A splayed hand carded through her curls, snagging on a knot, tongue pressing into the hollow of her cheek. When Harri hadn’t shown up in time for Christmas, they’d all assumed that she was kept at school later than anticipated or had gone off to Grimmauld Place— but never could they imagine this. That, somehow, Harri Potter, with her questionable luck and reckless behaviour, ended up in the hands of the Dark Lord. 

Merlin. 

This was a disaster.

Hermione had to force herself to look back to the photograph— a twist in her stomach. It was a disconcerting sight, truly, one she couldn’t quite make heads or tails of. And despite having shared a room together for near-on six years, Hermione almost didn’t recognise the girl in the paper. Not with the heavy makeup, the revealing dress, the intricate hairstyle— especially not with the way she was, seemingly of her own admission, finding solace in the arms of her parents’ murderer. An unsettling thought took root of Persephone, outfitted in clinging snakeskin and shrouded in darkness, in the embrace of Hades. Deities who ruled the underworld, destined to cause mortal strife and terror— to reap chaos and destruction in the wake of a love even the heavens trembled to behold. ‘Don’t be silly,’ common sense berated. ‘This is Harri you’re talking about. He wanted her to look like that.’ And yet, despite the likely truth in the rationale, in that he had arranged it all, a small part, a less logic-driven stream of consciousness, kept nagging that maybe this was fate

Against her better judgment, she recalled Harri’s performance in their redesigned Dark Arts class. How she seemed to be able to use the spells without any problem, despite the verbal opposition to them. How even herself, having read the textbooks from front to back, memorising the incantations and wand motions, couldn’t summon results the way her friend did. No, to Harri it was as natural as breathing— a second nature. But surely, even with that predisposition—

“Do you reckon she’s on his side now?”

Brown eyes widened as they snapped back into focus. They landed on the boy across from her, his face pinched as though entertaining the idea made him ill.

“Ronald!” she hissed, forcefully setting down the chipped mug. Coffee splashed dangerously up its side, just barely cresting the rim. “Of course not!”

And that’s all it took for her own doubts to clear off— a verbal assertion, a spoken conviction. This was Harri. Their Harri. Their best friend— and, by Merlin, how the guilt gnawed at her that she’d even considered it was possible. After all, it was ludicrous, really— how often had her life been threatened by the Dark Lord? How often had she been hurt because of him? In danger? Why would she ever defect in light of that?

Ginny abruptly pushed her chair out from under the table— a sharp, grinding sound of wood against wood— as she rounded on her brother. Her eyes were alight with fury, her freckled nose scrunched up as a finger jabbed at the paper. “Don’t be stupid, Ron. Harri wouldn’t ever! Or are you forgetting who it was that saved me in the chamber?”

Hermione tracked that finger as it landed directly on the Dark Lord’s face— on that glow of triumph in too-red eyes and that cheshire grin of too-sharp, too-perfect teeth. And that’s when it hit her, all of those little details that had been seemingly missed before. How possessive that hand seemed about her friend’s waist, how it pulled and reeled her in closer— how he positioned them to make it seem as though they were on congenial terms. And true, Harri had leaned in first— but the panic in those kohl-lined eyes relayed the reality: she was taken off guard.

She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, recalling how her friend had acted throughout the Triwizard Tournament. It’d been a point of complaint nearly every evening on how much she thoroughly hated the press— that she despised the interviews and being bombarded by the cameramen more than anything else. And, judging from her expression, it was likely she hadn’t been told ahead of time what to expect.

It wasn’t out of romantic feelings she was clinging to the Dark Lord— it was fear

“I mean, you have to admit,” Ron protested, the tips of his ears scarlet at being chastised, “she’s looking pretty cozy next to the slimy git!”

“Oh, come off it!” Ginny sniped back, hands flying to her hips. “You’re being an idiot! Why would Harri join him?!”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione interjected when the siblings’ bickering pitched in volume. “I don’t think so. I mean, just look at her face, her body language. She isn’t there willingly.”

Ginny nodded in a show of agreement, beaming at the fact Hermione had taken her side. Ron quieted down in turn, busy with using his fork to push the blueberries around on his plate.

A second had passed before he asked, brows furrowed. “Do you think the Order is going to get back together?”

Brown eyes trailed over to the staircase Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had wandered up, the memory persisting of how hushed their voices were, how flighty and how nervous the look on their faces had been. It would seem that it was a real possibility— that it was already in motion— and, seeing as they’d yet to return, she considered they were discussing the likelihood of it as well. And though a battle strategist she may not be, nor really having been privy to the Order’s inner-workings before, she considered it only made sense they’d become fixated on saving Harri first and foremost. So if that was the case, she decided in that moment, steadfast and resolute, she wanted in. 

With a click of her tongue, Hermione flipped the Prophet over, unable to stand the sight of that photo any longer. Down the table, the twins rose in unison, a detached ear hanging from a string in the hands of George. She made eye contact with them, their faces serious and a tightness in their frowns— a slight tilt of Fred’s head, an open invitation to follow if she wished.

She did.

Rising from her seat and abandoning her mug, she muttered, “I believe so.”



Narcissa had arrived promptly half an hour after the stroke of nine.

She paused for a second, a second and nothing more, outside of the door, hand lightly curled and poised to rap on the wood. In truth, it was an odd location for a bedroom— one she couldn’t quite understand the reasoning behind. If one wanted to leave, they’d have to waltz right through the Dark Lord’s personal study— and seeing as he, above all, valued privacy, wouldn’t it have made more sense for the girl to be placed elsewhere? Then again, she supposed he had his reasons. At least this way, the girl was kept close, within reach, protected— not that anyone would ever dare raise a hand to her now. 

But still, the entire situation defied the logic of who her Lord was and his preferences.

The only thing she could find actually comforting about this all was that they weren’t sharing a room— a bed— as she’d originally feared. That, in particular, Narcissa knew she couldn’t tolerate. As it was, it already had been a test of strength, an affront to her own propriety, to leave the girl in his room last night— and she wasn’t keen on the idea of encouraging such an arrangement any longer. 

Chin lifting, two sharp knocks were given out of courtesy— a twist of the ornately crafted handle and she stepped into the room. 

Oh. 

Well. 

If she’d been confused before, she was utterly bewildered now. 

It was clear, to anyone with two eyes and a working mind, that her Lord was giving, strangely enough, preferential treatment to his once-enemy. Oh yes, this bedroom, these apartments, practically screamed it— broadcasted so loudly, so startlingly, that he held her in high regard. The sheer wealth, the opulence— even Severus, who performed quite admirably in his appointed task during the Hogwarts raid, hadn’t been this generously rewarded. True, he’d been given a cottage in the Welsh countryside for his efforts— but that paled in comparison to the luxury bequeathed to the girl. 

Just who, exactly, was Harri Potter to her Lord?

Narcissa stepped further into the bedroom, pale gaze casting about and taking note of every little detail, every piece of finery— every stitch of silk, every piece of gold— before landing on Harri. She was curled up on the couch, still in her lace-trimmed nightgown and head buried between her knees— a slip of a girl drowned in silk and a cascade of too-red hair. 

For the strangest of reasons, the sight made her heart squeeze— an edge of guilt in the knowledge of her participation in uprooting such a young life. 

And it was there, in that very moment, in the quiet only offset by birdsong and the rustling of barren oaks and the whisper of snow spiraling down, that Narcissa Malfoy made a vow. A vow to herself, a vow made in secret and with none to bear witness but whatever powers may be: she would help this child. She would follow her Lord’s order and do what she may to prepare the young witch— to guide her, teach her to navigate the treacherous waters of high society and, hopefully, bestow some armour onto her that she could bolster against the cruelty of men. Oh yes, this was to be her oath. Her promise. Her life’s affirmation.

Squaring thin shoulders, a spark of determined fire in her chest, she strode towards the chaise lounge. Fingers twitched, the oddest urge to reach for the child— a fear she had to tether her down lest she float out of reach, out of sight— mounting. She settled for extending a hand instead, palm cupped in an invitation. 

“Child, come,” Narcissa said as gently as she could. “It’s time to get dressed.” 

Harri lifted her head from the perch of her knees. Green eyes blinked slowly, the pulls of sleep still fogging her thoughts, her limbs. She’d drifted off, she realised— how long for, however, was an entirely different question— her body stiff and sore from the position she forced it into. And it was with a weary mind, a yawn burning in her throat, that she found herself staring up into the painted face of Narcissa. 

The woman was as elegant as ever. Snowy blonde hair was piled high upon her crown, her complexion complemented by the high-necked, champagne dress she was wearing— a drowsy thought offered up that she looked like a fairy. But not just any fairy. No, she was Titania, the Queen of them all.

Red lips quirked into an encouraging smile— a shot of warmth in her veins at the fact such a thing was directed towards her— a shapely hand extended for her to take. And take it she did. Harri slipped her own fingers into Narcissa’s palm— smooth and friendly and comforting— allowing the woman to help her off the couch and guide her towards the bathroom. 



She found herself seated at the vanity, more alert than before as green eyes bounced about. ‘Merlin.’ The bathroom had been the one place she’d yet to explore and a part of her had secretly hoped it would be normal to some degree. That it wouldn't be overdone— how could it? It was a bathroom, after all. But oh, how wrong that line of thinking had been. 

White marble, gold-veined, encased the countertops. Delicate filigree, also in a golden lustre, outlined the vanity’s mirror, glinting and gleaming. A clawfoot tub had been pushed near the arched window to overlook the manor’s spiraled hedge garden, its feet ornate and its porcelain pristine. But most absurd, and for reasons that entirely escaped her comprehension, was the crystal drop chandelier that hung down from the centre of the ceiling— ridiculous. She eyed it incredulously, unsure what to make of it— well, any of it— tongue resting against the roof of her mouth. ‘Just how wealthy is Voldemort, anyhow?’ she thought, trying to count the individual teardrops and failing. He must be considerably so, seeing as he was throwing around money with little care. 

It made her head spin.

A vague feeling of sickness, of guilt, lurched in her stomach. Her eyes averted themselves from the light fixture down to the hands in her lap. Maybe if she kept ignoring it, didn’t look at any of it, it would all go away— cease to exist. That maybe, just maybe, she’d wake up in her bed at Hogwarts and this all would be some convoluted nightmare her mind—

“I think this shall be suitable enough for today.”

Her head snapped up at Narcissa’s voice, frowning when the woman had come back with fabric draped over her arms. Right. Somehow, she managed to forget about the closet. 

The closet with those dresses— those expensive, expensive dresses. 

Green eyes latched onto the gown as the older woman laid it across the vanity, tongue pressing deeper into her cheek. Could she refuse it? Could she simply ask for her oversized jumper— hole be damned— and tattered sneakers? Realistically, no one could force her to wear something she didn’t want to, right? Red eyes flashed in her mind— the cloying film of heady magic, the cool slip of it against her skin, the honeyed light that coaxed and cajoled. Well. Maybe one person could. 

Hesitantly reaching out, she rubbed the fabric between her fingers, noting how smooth the wool actually felt. At least it was a mercy, she supposed, that Narcissa had managed to find one of the less intricate dresses— a heavy piece suitable enough to ward off the winter’s chill. It was almost black, a floor-length affair with slightly puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline drawn low enough to put one’s collar bones on display. Curious fingers skirted up to the silver buttons, the bite of their metal cool to the touch. Each one was stamped with the design of a rose, polished and eye-catching. In a uniform line, they ran from the nipped, v-shaped seam at the waist to an inch under the collar— proud soldiers standing to attention.

A resigned sigh, she was about to look away, to give in, when something peeking out from the corner of the dress caught her attention. Brows pulled together as she gingerly lifted the fabric— a choked noise in the back of her throat. 

Underwear

More specifically, a brassière. Resting innocently against the folds of wool, it was of a deep, emerald silk, delicate lace trimming the fabric— surely this wasn’t for her? It couldn’t be. But, then again, who else was it meant for? 

“Mrs. Malfoy, can I, um,” Harri stumbled over her words, tongue uncooperative, “well, I mean— what’s that?”

Pale eyes lifted from the task of sorting out stockings— an internal debate as to which ones would match best— to follow the pointed look the girl was sending the dress. Narcissa frowned, a mirror to match the redhead’s confusion, upon realising what she was referring to. Of course, she was aware the girl had been mostly raised in the muggle world— perhaps these things simply didn’t exist there? But, if not, what else did they wear? “Why, dear child, those are your undergarments?”

“Oh.”

Well, Harri had figured that was the case— yet, it didn’t make it any less startling hearing it confirmed aloud. Sure, she had seen lacey bras before— she wasn’t that sheltered, heavens no. Lavender, for one, had always been quite proud of her lingerie collection, all too eager to flaunt it and ask for opinions. And she was well-aware people wore them sometimes under their everyday clothing— that some women had no qualms about spending an exorbitant amount on underwear alone. But those women were not her. Throughout her entire life, she’d only ever worn the plain, yet functional, white bras and underwear that came in the plastic three-packs from the supermarket— and she was fine with them. Content even. Hell, she never even thought once about replacing the original ones Aunt Petunia had, reluctantly, bought for her when she started puberty— one of the rare instances in which she received something new from the Dursleys. It had always been her thought that there was no need: who was ever going to see it anyway? 

But now, seeing that perplexed look on the prim, pureblood’s face— one that relayed utmost confusion— Harri considered that she, perhaps, had been doing something wrong her entire life. That, maybe, she didn’t know what it meant to be a woman— an accusation that Lavender often liked to throw her way— that it was completely wasted on her. 

Reservedly, she picked the bra up in an attempt to see it from all angles, bewildered only further by its unnecessary frill. There was lace where lace wasn’t needed, silk that was completely useless in function, mesh where it most definitely didn’t belong. And the strangest thought occurred to her, as she spied the matching bottoms, that prompted her to ask even though she already suspected the answer. “Mrs. Malfoy, did you pick out these clothes or—?”

Narcissa hovered at Harri’s shoulder, painted lips twitching into a frown as she plucked at a strand of auburn hair. Reaching for the vanity’s drawer, she paused at the question, a single brow quirked. “I did not. It was my Lord, in fact.”

Retrieving an emerald silk scarf, Narcissa loosely gathered red hair at the girl’s nape before securing it with the strip of fabric. Her hands landed on Harri’s shoulders and gave a slight squeeze. “Though, I must say, he has rather impeccable taste. Now, do you require further assistance to get dressed or shall I leave you alone?”

It took Harri a moment to recover from the admission that the Dark Lord, of all people, had gone clothes shopping— and not even just clothes but underwear as well. She wasn’t entirely sure whether she wanted to cry out in mortification or simply laugh at the absurdity of it. And, by Merlin, how unsettling was it to realise he knew more about her body than she did. Hell, when was the last time she had gotten measured for anything? Not for a while, if ever.  

An adamant shake of her head, she sent Narcissa a sheepish smile. “Oh, no. No, I’ll be fine on my own.”

Green eyes followed after the woman as she left— a shaky sigh when the door clicked closed. For a moment, she simply stood there in her nightgown, hands on her hips and fingers drumming against the jut of bone. Part of her debated refusing to wear it— the underwear, the dress, any of it— a rebellion against Voldemort and his need to dictate her life down to her clothing. But then another part was undeniably curious as to how it might feel— how she might look. After all, she never considered herself to be the sort to wear this kind of thing— that she never would buy it on her own or even give it a second glance in the shops. 

Curiosity won out.

With a groan, she pulled the nightgown over her head. Skin prickled, shivers passing through her at the nipping cold, flesh pebbling. It took her some time, an embarrassing amount she’d never admit, to fumble through the complicated clasps— a slew of under-breath curses— triumph when she finally managed it.

That triumph, however, was quick to fall to disappointment when she caught sight of her reflection. Fears were confirmed tenfold— a wince when she realised she looked as ridiculous as she thought she would. And yet, somehow, there was a relief to be found; a relief that she, oddly enough, wasn’t changed. 

That she was still herself, still wholly unsuited to all things lacey and delicate and girly. No, such things were made for girls like Lavender, Hermione. Feminine, young women who took pride in their appearance and who possessed all of the grace afforded to the notion of the fairer sex— not for a too-thin wisp of a tomboy who spent her time playing quidditch and collecting bruises as a hobby. It was an unerring truth, a comfort in the fact that Voldemort could never, ever change it.

A roguish smirk, she stepped into the dress pooled about her feet, ignoring the fact it fit her like a glove as she did up the front buttons. ‘Though, all things considered, it does feel quite nice.’  



Narcissa had been waiting in the parlour for the girl to return, a pair of small, black heels dangling from between her fingers. When Harri had settled on the lounge, she knelt down, reached for her foot and slipped on one shoe— ‘she’s quite delicate.’ It was an offhanded, assessing thought, pale eyes critically noting how small her feet were, how shapely and thin the ankles. Truly, the girl was a product of her lineages— of centuries of fine breeding. All the more pity she was raised among muggles

“My Lord has instructed me to teach you our ways and instill some etiquette into you,” Narcissa explained, nimble fingers doing the silver clasp on the heel before placing her foot gently back to the ground.  

It was all Harri could do to keep from scoffing. Of course he’d feel as though her manners were lacking. What had he called her again? Right— feral. And while it was true she rarely used ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ around him, she felt such a thing was warranted considering he was the Dark Lord. After all, one would have to be completely mental to be courteous to the person who was, single-handedly, the cause of all of their strife— their worry, misery.

Arms crossed defensively over her chest, a scowl pinching her features. “Maybe he should learn some etiquette as well, seeing as he kidnapped an underage girl. I’m pretty sure most wouldn’t consider that very ‘proper’, now would they?”

Narcissa rose to take a seat next to the girl on the chaise. It took more effort than she’d care to admit to stop the quirk of a smile at her spirit, her backbone— that fiery temper. “Clothes and your looks will only take you so far, child. Unfortunately, you are now a part of our world and that is the reality. It’s best to make sure you are prepared for it.”

The older woman reached out to tuck an errant lock of auburn hair behind Harri’s ear, pale eyes lighting up with excitement. “Besides, it might be fun. All of the dresses, the balls. My sisters and I went through it and, not to flatter myself too much, I do know a thing or two. I was never allowed a daughter of my own to educate so I do hope you can forgive me and my selfish desire for this to happen.”

Harri blinked, taken aback by the sudden display of affection— a wrench in her stomach, a burning lump in her throat. This woman, who barely even knew her, was offering guidance and to impart knowledge onto her that seemed only at place in a mother and daughter’s bond. She didn’t know how to navigate this— how to deal with it. Unbidden, unsummoned, unwanted tears pricked at fanned lashes, blurring and distorting the fair visage of Narcissa Malfoy. And, for the strangest of reasons, she didn’t quite feel sixteen anymore— rather, she was four. Four and comprehending Aunt Petunia’s sneers— why she had slapped away greedy, small hands clutching for her, reaching for her, the livid protests: ‘I’m not your mother.’ 

She was five and understanding her own was dead— was never coming back.

She was six and realising that she was a freak and freakish girls didn’t deserve lullabies to chase off the nightmares.

Memories flitted by of a dark broom closet tucked under the stairs, an ear pressed against the metal vent and eyes closed to pretend that it was her aunt singing to her and not her cousin. 

And, oh, how those memories consumed her. 

The darkness brought it with a tidal wave— an ache that gnawed away in her chest, a hollowness that refused to be sated. Her hands flew up, the heels of her palms grinding into her eyes— a desperate attempt to stop that feeling that scratched and tore in time with her heartbeat. She tried to tell herself, a pitiful mantra, she was almost an adult. That she’d survived on her own long enough without a mother— that she didn’t need one. A lie. A lie that crumbled so easily when faced with the opportunity, the could-have-been.

That hand at her ear had quickly retracted and Harri drew in a shaky breath. Somehow, having no contact felt better than having any at all— that the air suddenly seemed not as thin, not as scarce without the woman touching her. 

“Sisters?” she managed to ask, voice hoarse and bidding for a distraction— a way to move forward.

Narcissa warily eyed the girl, the squeezing of her heart tenfold at the abrupt appearance of tears. She had withdrawn her touch in surprise mostly— surprise that such a simple gesture managed to reduce the girl to a shaking mess— and terror— terror she’d overstepped a boundary of some sort. Was it wrong to voice the relationship she wanted with the girl? That it was impossible, considering who they were and what sorts of creatures they were by design? Either way, when presented with a segue, an opportunity to change topics, she gladly took it.  

“Oh, yes. I have two older ones,” Narcissa hummed, eyes fixed forward to allow the girl at her side an illusion of privacy. “One of them I don’t speak to. The other, however, you’ve already met. The woman with dark curls? Bellatrix. She’s the eldest of us.” 

The tremors were slowly subsiding— a thankful prayer that she managed to escape further mortification by weeping in front of the refined woman. Harri eventually allowed her hands to fall back to her lap, a stinging rawness in her throat. “Bellatrix?”

The memory of the woman yelling at her surfaced— the revealing outfit as she perched on Voldemort’s throne, the lust in those dark eyes when she gazed upon him. “She’s a little—”

“Much?” Narcissa supplied, mouth a knowing curl. “I am aware. All the same, however, I do love her. Oh!”

The older woman clapped her hands at the realisation of what she’d been forgetting. She reached forward to the coffee table, retrieving the plain, wooden box resting there. Fingers trailed over the lid, an apologetic look shimmering in pale eyes. “One last addition to your outfit needs to be made before we leave.” 

Harri frowned when Narcissa withdrew a black ribbon from the box— a broach, similar to the one she’d worn last night, pinned to it— before clasping it about her neck. It rested proudly at the hollow of her throat, the metal warm against her skin rather than cold. 

“I noticed Voldemort was wearing a similar one yesterday,” Harri muttered, tracing over the raised impression of a snake consuming its own tail. “What is it?”

Narcissa tried her best, truly she did, to not outwardly flinch at the carefree use of her Lord’s name— tried, being the keyword. It was becoming more and more apparent, the longer she spent in the girl’s company, it was a habit of hers— a habit that should probably be broken. After all, those under him could not, dared not, to say it aloud. Then again, Harri Potter wasn’t exactly like the rest of them, was she? She bore no mark on her forearm, didn’t publicly bend the knee— an oddity.

“It’s my Lord’s personal insignia. His public crest, if you will,” Narcissa explained slowly. “Many houses create one unique to their family and it’s often customary for wards to wear them on their person. It helps to identify who is under the care of what house when blood relations are not present. Do you understand?”

Harri blinked once, twice, acid in her mouth as her hand retreated from her throat to the chaise lounge— nails dug into the plush fabric, squeezing and twisting and clawing. And despite the merit in the idea, the soundness of it, she was humiliated. Humiliated for the fact that he was openly branding her as his— that, despite everyone already having a clear idea of whose “care” she was under, he felt the need to go this extra step. 

“It’s a collar,” she stated plainly, resentment bleeding into her voice. 

Though Narcissa did try her best to refute the claim, to deny it, she was unable to. With a small, sympathetic smile, she stood from the couch. “Come. We have much to do before the day is over.”

And as Harri was led from the bedroom, she strived to ignore the heaviness of the silver now at her throat— how the luxurious fabric seemed constraining and how the silk underwear chafed her skin. 

She tried to ignore the fact she’d been dolled up, once again, to suit his preferences without any say— that she was going out into the world looking a bit less like Harri Potter and something other. Something foreign. Different. That currently, everything she wore belonged to him— a testament to his claim.

But, most of all, as she was led down the empty marble halls, she tried to ignore how it felt as though he were there. A phantom embracing her, draping about her body in a possessive shroud— a whisper in the back of her mind, an endless looping: Mine.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 38: Just Another Day At The Office

Notes:

Hello everyone! This chapter delves a bit more into the political structure of the wizarding world under Voldemort's rule— I had received a comment that someone was interested in seeing more of the changes under Voldemort's reign and wanted to give you guys a bit of a glimpse into it! As we progress into this story, politics will be sprinkled here and there as references and plot points, especially with the Order's uprising!

I hope you guys enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“Your Majesty, please!” A balding man, beady-eyed and with a too-long, too-hooked nosed, pleaded. “I’m innocent, I swear it!” 

The desperation had turned his normally deep voice high, reedy, the confusion and fear moving him to quake. He had been seated on a single, wooden chair in the recessed pit of the main floor, forced to be under scrutiny by those floating above him— a spectacle, a form of entertainment for an omnipotent, cruel audience. Chains were heavy about his squat neck and thick wrists, suppressing his magic and access to his core. And even in the dim lighting, the sconces’ flames tinged green, it was evident he was sweating profusely.

Voldemort thought it was unsightly. Unpleasant. Revolting

He leaned back into the throne, crimson eyes cutting through the darkness— a taunting glint. Idly, he couldn’t quite refrain from entertaining how it must feel. How it must be to suddenly, abruptly, be cut off from something one had known their entire life— a wizard’s constant companion since birth? From nature’s greatest gift possible? How it must be to suddenly feel useless and incapable of even so much as lifting a finger— of not even being able to perform the most rudimentary of spells? Was having one’s magic restrained the equivalent of losing a limb? Were there any phantom pains, sensations, itches where one might think, for the briefest moment, that they could discern a severed connection?

How would it be to suddenly become inferior? Muggle?

No small part of him hungered to know: a vile side, a cruel voice that whispered he ought to leave the chains on the man to see how long it would take for his spirit to crumble and his mind to unravel. Though, judging from his quivering state, he was already halfway there.

Despite the distance, he could so clearly make out the whites in the man’s eyes. Frantic, shifty, that murky brown gaze was lifted in a vain attempt to squint past the floodlights veiling the court— a pitiful attempt to find an ally who might believe his innocence. Not that he would, of course. 

Not here. 

Not in his court. 

Long legs crossed, one over the other, fingers drumming against the armrests. And there it was— predatory satisfaction. A warmth that bloomed in his chest, an intoxicating, rousing sensation brought on by another’s fear. That visceral reaction to being cornered— that desperation to outrun Fate closing in. That heavy layer of sweat glistening upon the man’s brow, the way his chest rose and fell with panicked breaths— he could almost imagine the state of that poor heart. A phantom sensation as he pictured holding it, the flutters and pulsating rhythm as it beat— the warmth, the blood coating the crevices and dips between his fingers. And, oh, how tempting it would be to just squeeze

Nails dug into the scrolled armrests— varnish flaking off into their beds— knuckles bleeding white. These trials always brought out his more sadistic side. There was just something about revelling in bringing those who irked him to heel— to see them beg, plea, prostrate themselves before him in search of mercy. 

Little did they know mercy was not something Lord Voldemort was inclined to.

‘Calm yourself,’ logic reprimanded— a reminder of who it was that needed to sit in this seat. That it was Marvolo Gaunt: their fair Sovereign who only sought to upkeep order, peace, by enacting on the people’s justice. 

He pried his fingers off the scrolls and brought them to steeple in front of his chest instead— a calming inhale, a calming exhale. It took more effort than he’d care to admit to smother that malevolence, that smirk, to keep those unholy thoughts from showing so clearly upon his face— but he managed. Eventually

Crimson eyes tore themselves from the quaking man to flit about the dais, taking note of the respectable distance his most faithful, Nott and Malfoy, were standing from the throne. The other members of his “council” were scattered about on the staggered platforms floating above the pit, their forms shrouded in black and austere on the wooden benches. They were waiting for him to move first— silence. Apart from the rattling of chains, the courtroom, with all of its black marble and polished obsidian, was quiet. Heavy. Oppressive. A thick blanket that stifled, suffocated a show of fealty

He spared a quick glance back to the wizard on trial— an inner-debate as to how much longer he should draw out the torment of waiting. How much more was reasonable before it began to look cruel? But still, it was so heady— an arresting thrill that shot through him— to know the man was this desperate. That he was already trying to procure his favour, assert his innocence, before even being accused of anything. Utterly pathetic

Tongue swiping over his canines, he straightened himself on the throne. An open hand motioned, quick and careless, for the charges to be read. 

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward on cue, poised and collected. He took a moment to clear his throat and unfurl the scroll, a sonorous charm glowing on the wand tip pressed against his throat. “Bertie Higgs stands accused of breaching section five, paragraph eight, subsection b of our guiding tenet The International Statute of Secrecy. Witnesses have testified to his usage of magic in the presence of no less than five muggles as well as willingly seeking intimate relations with the intent to expose wizarding society. Furthermore, it has been confirmed that the wand submitted for evidence was a spare, illegally obtained and undocumented within the Isles of Wizarding Britain. In accordance with the Law of Wandholding, section a, paragraph three, all wands must be publicly registered to the witch or wizard who is its primary user and must have imports paid should it originate outside of the Isles.”

“Your Majesty, please! I didn’t, I swear— I would never,” Higgs pleaded, thrashing in earnest against the bonds holding him. His words, however, were quick to be drowned out by the gasps and jeers from the crowd above. 

A damnable crime, most certainly, and one that would have been irredeemable— that is, if it had happened. 

Oh yes, everything Bertie Higgs had been accused of was a lie— a fabrication done in the name of suppressing a potential rebellion. Truly, it was almost too easy: paying off a handful of his more obscure followers for their ‘testimony’, of slipping an unregistered wand into the man’s seized possessions and making sure that the Aurors found it when he was arrested. Hardly a challenge at all— just as it was covering up the unfortunate deaths of Tiberius Ogden and his poor wife. Who would have thought that a fire caused by a gas leak could be so devastating? The smirk that threatened to surface was smothered. 

Voldemort made motion for the false witnesses to deliver their rehearsed speeches, propping his chin up with a fist in an effort to look contemplative. In fact, he even went as far as to track each one as they stepped up to the podium, to give a nod or a frown whenever required— to appear wholly invested and as though he were weighing all of the presented “facts” for the press scattered on the edges of a room. Yet another lie.

Yes, Higgs’s fate was already predetermined the very second he had been shackled to that chair. 

There would be no innocent verdict. Not today. 

It was almost a shame as, by all accounts, Bertie Higgs was a rather outstanding citizen. Moderately wealthy, clean track record and decent lineage, not too outspoken nor too involved in politics. Rather, his fatal flaw, the thing that damned him, were his connections. Upon researching the pureblood, it was discovered Higgs had been rather close to both Tiberius Ogden and Rufus Scrimgeour, the trio often seen hunting in Norfolk on the weekends. And that meant, to some degree, he might have similar beliefs to the deceased men. Beliefs that were dangerous and more aligned with Dumbledore, with revolution, with reform that had no place in the future he was envisioning. And, quite frankly, he didn’t need the headache of another potential uprising when he was still attempting to eradicate the poison left behind by Dumbledore.

Of course, it was also within the realm of possibility Bertie Higgs did not hold the same principles as his hunting buddies. But still, the threat remained that he might be stupid enough to adopt their ideologies in a show of solidarity, in remembrance. ‘No, it’s best to cut out the root early,’ he thought, leaning back once again as the last witness provided their false account. 

“I have heard enough,” he finally said, voice projecting in the chamber without a sonorous. He sighed, a heavy, remorseful sort of sound, as he rose from the throne, brows pulled together in a show of regret. “I hereby sentence Bertie Callum Higgs to life in Azkaban for knowingly, and intentionally, breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Furthermore, for the illegal possession of an undocumented wand, I hereby order it to be snapped, his magic bound, and for all assets, properties, and bank accounts to be seized by the Citadel and all titles, both personal and familial, henceforth stripped.” 

The man’s cries for mercy, for reconsideration, were barely heeded as he turned on his heel— nor were the screams when the Aurors dragged the wizard away.

It was only when he slipped down the narrow corridor behind the throne, shielded from the public’s eye, did he allow himself to bask in the contentment of what he’d done. One more threat taken care of; one less thing to jeopardize his legitimacy. 

He was untouchable

And, by Merlin, wasn’t that just an exhilarating conclusion to arrive at? After so long— so long — of playing this game, of learning the rules, the ins and outs, the tricks, he was above it all. Now, he had power— had just demonstrated so. And it wasn’t just of the magical kind but legitimate power— the ability to make true the one thing any respectable pureblood, halfblood, feared the most: he could completely erase their standing in society. Oh yes, he’d spent his entire life around them, running within their circles and coming to terms with the most fundamental truth about them: they clung to their titles, their legacies as a beggar would to a gold coin. Their reputations and connections provided them with a false sense of security— merit afforded through inheritance rather than earned. 

And now he could take it all away.

One damning word, one wave of his hand, one mere signature and he could render their noble houses to ash without so much as a word of contestation otherwise. 

The corners of his mouth lifted, crimson eyes glinting in the shadows. 

Invincible



The Dark Lord had retreated to his office with the hopes of making some progress through the stack of paperwork towering precariously on his desk. After all, these past few days had found him rather negligent of such duties— though, considering why, it couldn’t be entirely helped. Or, more specifically, who . Flashes of red, of an incomparable green, materialised— what was she possibly doing right now? Was she settling in? Coming to terms with her life now? Adjusting?

‘Probably not,’ a dry thought, mouth twitching with a wry smirk. Oh no, considering his little horcrux, she was probably spitting and rebelling however she may. Narcissa would have her work cut out for her, that’s for certain. 

His gaze snapped back into focus, eyes drifting down to the bill before him. This was the sixth time he had tried to read it in the past twenty minutes alone— or was it the seventh? Either way, he found himself terribly distracted, the words distant and refusing to register in his idle mind. Fingers drummed in an irritated tempo against the wood grain, tongue smoothing over his front teeth— a scoff of annoyance. 

Well, he was smart enough to recognise when it was time to concede.

The desk’s chair was pushed out with more force than necessary, his strides long as they carried him over to the bar cart. A sharp pop echoed in the stillness of the office as he uncorked the decanter— scotch splashed noisily into the tumbler, amber liquid sloshing up its sides. With a hum, he took an absentminded sip, relishing in the burn that slipped down his throat, before turning to the grand windows that overlooked the atrium. 

What was once known as the Ministry looked, for the most part, the same as it always had. Dark and grim, the wood floors— nearly a mirror’s surface in how much they were polished— still remained, as did the black brick composing the concaved walls. The grand fountain in the centre of the foyer hadn’t been removed, nor had the panels of glass that demarcated the offices reserved for the higher-ranked officials. Everything seemed the same— and, yet, somehow incredibly different.  

There were subtleties added that, if one paid enough attention to, relayed the era that had been ushered in— a period of change.

Even though that grand fountain still stood proud, no longer did it showcase a rearing centaur and a cloaked woman soothing him. Rather, it was himself that took their place. An impressive statue, his likeness had been captured sitting upon a golden throne, Nagini draped about his shoulders. And under them, supporting their weight and carved into the stone base, were muggles— that had been Lucius’s idea. A final touch that, he had to admit, sent a rather powerful message.

The banners, once emblazoned with the Ministry’s ‘M’, still hung from the rafters, from every corner, but were now a black velvet. And in the place of that ‘M’ was a silver ouroboros— his crest. The snake had one eye visible, startling red and animated to blink as it swallowed an inch more of its ever-lengthening tail.

Yes, the changes were there. Tastefully done, of course, as to not upset the public too much but still there, nonetheless.

He took another swallow from the crystal-cut glass, crimson eyes flickering down to the workers below. Some of them had been kept— those more akin to sheep than people— to carry out the tedious tasks allotted to them. Such as the Weasley boy. He could see him now, that shock of orange hair as he carted about a box of files and papers— a drone unable to ever deviate simply because it wasn’t in his nature.  

On a whole, however, it had been a purge.

Entire departments had been eradicated— the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, for one. The Wizengamot had been thoroughly disbanded and replaced with his high-ranking followers— save for the minor sprinkling of neutral parties kept only for appearance’s sake. And the main power had been shifted to rest utterly in the newly-formed Acting Council— a hand-selected few that were given the privilege to enact laws and give him advice. Or, at least, publicly. Vincent Avery, Bartemius Crouch Jr., Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Cantankerus Nott, Evan Rosier, Thorfinn Rowle, Marcus Travers, and Corban Yaxley: all members of the Sacred 28. His most loyal. His most obedient. Of course, his other followers had found positions within the new government— but it was the core families he appointed to be directly under him. The ones whose names meant something— those who had garnered their own pledged loyalties from lesser houses. 

This was his new Citadel. Competent, controlled—everything set by his design. 

And yet, while gazing out into the atrium usually sparked some joy— while he normally could relish in seeing his golden self gleam or his banners proudly waving— this time, it didn’t.

This time, he felt hollow. Distracted

He knocked back the glass, draining the last remnants of scotch as his mind wandered. Without the trial to occupy his attention, without the bloodthirst to provide that spark, his thoughts kept drifting, per usual, back to his horcrux. That broom closet still haunted him, still persisted and puzzled— and, no matter how much he mulled it over, he couldn’t quite make sense of it. Then there was the matter of her reluctance, her discomfort in accepting the bedroom— that look of fear, of guilt in those too-green eyes. 

Fingers tightened about the glass, the feelings of vexation swelling in his chest. Very few things escaped him— even fewer could claim to leave him bewildered— but this was one of them. 

Wandlessly, he summoned the scotch bottle and held out the tumbler to refill itself. A flick of his wrist sent it flying back to the barcart a moment later— an idle swirl of the alcohol in his glass. Severus Snape came unwittingly to mind, his eyes narrowing in deliberation. Out of everyone, he was the one man that might be able to fill in the blanks, seeing as he spent the most time around the girl. 

And that’s all it took for him to decide to summon the headmaster.

A few minutes had passed, the ticking of the wall’s clock filling the quiet in the background, and, ah— there it was. A hesitant rap on the grand, double doors. ‘Well, he certainly made good time,’ an idle thought as he took another sip. 

The doors parted of their own accord, his back to them and gaze fixed on the scurry of the crowd below.

“My Lord.”

“Severus,” he finally muttered in return after a prolonged pause. 

Red eyes slid over his shoulder to study the potions master kneeling a respectable distance away. The ice in the glass clinked— a deafening sound. He turned on the spot, hand shooting out to grip the high back of the chair at his desk. And yet, he made no move to take it. Rather, he only motioned with a tilt of his head for Severus to rise, watching shrewdly as the man did as he ordered. 

“I was hoping you could help me with something, Severus,” he said, voice low— a lilt to it as though it were a request rather than a command. Of course, only a fool would think otherwise. “Your muggleborn love, Lily Potter— she had a sister, did she not?”

Snape went rigid, heart a quickening tempo. A vague sense of dread seized him, arresting and merciless, at the casual mention of Lily— why did his Lord feel the need to suddenly bring her up? How many years had it been since he inquired about her? How many years since he murdered her in spite of his pleading otherwise? It put him on edge. And outwardly, he knew his expression was schooled into perfect neutrality— but even that knowledge didn’t stop the tension in his cheeks, in his jaw from feeling too tight. 

“She did, my Lord,” Severus said slowly. “Petunia Dursley.”

 “And Harri, she went to live with her muggle relatives, correct?” Voldemort pressed, glancing down to the scotch and swirling it offhandedly.  

Severus blinked in surprise— the Dark Lord had just so casually used her first name. And he wasn’t quite sure which was more concerning: that or the vaguest sense of fondness in his voice when he had said it. “Yes. That is correct.”

“And you’ve spent time with this Petunia? Tell me, how did she feel about magic?”

Red eyes lifted from the tumbler to stare evenly into dark ones. In truth, part of him had already guessed the answer— already knew what it might be— but there was a driving need to hear it confirmed aloud. Muggles, after all, tended to either have one of two reactions to magic— both of which, often, were rooted in subconscious jealousy.

“My Lord?” Severus echoed, brows pinched in confusion at the turn of conversation. He debated if he misheard the question to begin with— that his addled mind was playing tricks on him. And yet, the impatience in those scarlet eyes— the fingers that were beginning to drum against the side of the glass in his hand, each tap ringing dully— confirmed he hadn’t. “Petunia seemed, well, rather disturbed by it. Lily confided in me, once, that her sister was envious to the point she had written a letter to Dumbledore. Apparently, she begged to be accepted into Hogwarts but was denied, of course. After that, the two didn’t have much contact.”  

Voldemort hummed, his gaze narrowing in contemplation. And there was the truth of it, the crux of the issue that he was attempting to solve with his muggleborn agenda: those who didn’t possess magic, who couldn’t feel it, often considered it a disease, something dangerous. To be feared . Sometimes, it was even something to be corrected, depending on the beliefs of the parent. But yet, in all cases, envy was always, always the true underlying cause. 

“I see.” The Dark Lord shifted, grip tightening on the chair. “And, do tell, in all of your years watching over Harri, did she ever mention her home life? Was there anything unusual?”

Thin lips twitched into a frown as Snape tried to recall anything— any complaints, any bemoaning of hers regarding her muggle relatives. However, he had, admittedly, never been that close to the girl, especially not while at school— but just as he was about to admit to his ignorance, one specific memory came flooding back with startling clarity. “There was one incident at the beginning of her second year. She arrived with a broken wrist and had to be healed by Pomfrey before the feast even began. According to the diagnostic report, it had been broken for at least a week and was improperly mending. The girl claimed it was a result of a fight with a muggle boy so Dumbledore nor myself were particularly concerned. Potter always had been a reckless child and it wouldn’t have been the first time she sustained injuries in a scuffle she initiated.” 

Voldemort froze. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe— cold fury. It crept in, making a home for itself within his chest, burrowing in oh-so-deeply. The scotch started to vibrate, to quake and ripple of its own accord, his magic looking to dispel some of the anger festering inside. She had come back from summer vacation with a broken wrist, an injury that had occurred a week earlier— and yet, her muggle guardians didn’t see fit to take her to a hospital? 

“Her relatives knew she had a broken bone and didn’t think it was appropriate for her to receive muggle treatment first? And Dumbledore was dismissive of this negligence on their part?” Voldemort asked, voice far too calm, too even. 

And, by Merlin, hearing it said aloud, it all sounded rather condemning. Images flashed by in Snape’s mind, unwitting recollections of a green-eyed girl returning from the summer holidays— how much thinner she was compared to when she left. How her eyes seemed a touch duller, how there were little details that he originally dismissed as her being clumsy— bruises on her arms, her shoulders, her skin, scratches and scars that hadn’t been given a second thought. How she always seemed to flinch at loud noises and shy from the crowds— that despondent air she always took on when the term neared its end.

Coal eyes searched the Dark Lord’s in alarm, things suddenly clicking into place— and, oh, how it filled him with horror. Why didn’t he see it before? He visited that house himself— had witnessed how she withered under Petunia’s sharp glare and how she was seemingly content to hide behind him until her aunt left. What else had been missed? What other warning signs had been flagged before him that, by design of his own mind, he remained blissfully ignorant of?

“My Lord, you don’t think—?” Severus trailed off, unwilling to voice aloud the possibility. 

Voldemort took one last long, slow sip from his glass, draining it as his mind began to turn. It could entirely be a coincidence. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, her behaviour, her guilt and her flightiness— those feelings of being unworthy— no, those were too real to stem from anything innocent. Those were the attitudes of someone who had it beaten into them— who never knew how to fight back and get out from under another’s thumb. And if anyone was painfully aware of the cruelty of muggles, it was him. Oh, yes, he knew how vicious they could be— how they so easily hated, so easily loathed. 

“What I believe,” he mused, “is that a visit with the Dursley family is in order.”

Before he had the chance to dole out further orders, a quick knock on the door interrupted him. Voldemort looked over in exasperation, foul mood worsening at the unexpected sound. All he wanted to do in this very moment was seek out those parasites and demand answers. To hear from their own lips what sorts of vile things they had committed against him— her— nature’s very own precious gift— to divine vengeance in her stead if she would not claim it herself. It was a blinding need, a twisting, knotting sensation in his stomach— the rhythm of war drums beating steadily in his veins.

And yet, here was an intrusion to prevent him from doing just that.

With a bitten off growl of annoyance, he, wisely, set down the crystal tumbler before his grip could tighten and shatter it. “Enter.”

Lucius Malfoy had edged into the office, blond head bowed and shoulders drawn taut. “My Lord.”

Silence fell over the room as the man jerkily, hesitantly, made his way to the desk, pale eyes cutting over to Severus in a silent question. A file was tucked under his arm, the yellowed edges of parchment curling out of the leather binding— it was extended out in an offering, his throat clearing nervously. “I felt it was prudent to bring this to your attention seeing as you wished to be alerted to any activity relating to Sirius Black.”

The Dark Lord’s gaze flitted to Lucius’s face, eyes narrowed as he tried to discern what possible sort of information was being brought before him. True, he had placed an alert on the man for the simple reason that, out of all of the Order’s known members, he would be the one most willing to stake everything on getting Harri back. Surely, if anyone would be foolish enough to band together the underground organization, it would be the man who had just lost everything.

But still, he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon— nor for anything to come about from the notice.

Voldemort snatched the file from Lucius’s lax grip— lip curling into a sneer at the nervous air clinging to the pureblood— before thumbing through it. It mostly contained receipts of recent purchases and recent sightings: nothing truly amiss. If this is what he had been interrupted for— something so mundane as Sirius Black waltzing about London on a shopping spree— then even he wasn’t so sure that he could lift the Cruciatus in time to preserve the man’s sanity.

But then he saw the grey folder: Daily Observations.  

And, oh, how quick was that anger to ebb into excitement— elation. Satisfaction

Red eyes scanned the hurried scrawl of the notes, the corners of his mouth lifting. This is what he’d been waiting for— what his patience had sown. After all, he had placed Wormtail outside of the Black estate for nearly two days now, instructing him to keep track of any arrivals that came or went— and how he delivered. His very own Judas; a rat betraying his friends once again in a hasty move to curry favour and secure praise. It almost was enough to move him to laugh at the sheer irony, the lunacy: Pettigrew had just repeated the same actions and surveillance that led to the deaths of James and Lily Potter. And here he was, so readily turning on the remaining two.

“You are certain?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius said, dipping his head respectfully— a cool relief flooded through him at the Dark Lord’s abrupt change in mood. “Grimmauld Place has had an unusual amount of activity over the past day.” 

Voldemort spared a quick glance over to Severus, his gaze turning flintlike for a moment as he remembered their conversation. “You are dismissed, for now. But do be ready, Severus, for when I call again.”

Without waiting for a response from the potions master, he trained his attention back to the logs detailing all of the Apparitions that had been occurring outside of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. But, if memory served him correctly— it often did— the residence was declared abandoned. And that meant a sudden increase in foot traffic could only point to one thing. 

“Bring me the registry of Sirius Black’s holdings,” he instructed to the air— a snap of his fingers and a thickly bound tome appeared. 

Age-worn pages magically parted for the entry he demanded to see— success. A wide smile, one full of teeth, glinting and gleaming and sharp, split his mouth, crimson eyes darting wildly across the page. They landed obsessively on the properties listed under the man’s name— triumph. ‘Grimmauld Place. Tertiary residence, vacated,’ he mused, his theory confirmed tenfold.

Of course, he had to give credit to Sirius Black— it was, indeed, awfully clever. Who would have thought that the Order would gather in a supposedly empty ancestral home in the middle of London? A home that was rumoured to be extraordinarily warded and whose masters could dictate those that were to be let in and those who were to be kept out.

Clever, of course, but also incredibly stupid

It would appear that, for all of his wiles, Mr. Black had forgotten one crucial, important little function of familial wards: they could never refuse those who had the blood in their veins of the original caster. 

And how lucky was it that he so happened to have three direct descendants of the Black family at his disposal.

Oh yes, the Order was doomed— within his grasp and ripe for the taking. It was that knowledge that brought about a glee that overshadowed all else— made every annoyance seem so inconsequential in this very moment.

He was going to win.

Glinting eyes lifted from the file, a fire alight in them. “Fetch me Bellatrix.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 39: Number 12 Grimmauld Place

Notes:

Hello every one, here's the next chapter that you have been waiting for! I ended up splitting it into two parts because it ended up being quite long (almost 19 pages in total) so the second half will be up once I've had a chance to edit it all.

Apologies to everyone who also was waiting for a chapter yesterday—I had a really crummy, stressful day and ended up going to bed pretty early because of it.

As always, you guys are amazing 💕 Thank you for reading along and for every comment, kudos, and bookmark!

Hope you guys enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



More people had shown up on Grimmauld’s doorstep than Sirius could have ever expected. Standing outside, sheltered under the front porch’s overhang from the spiralling snow, breaths crystallising out into puffs, they had come touting their coins, their summons— a fire in their eyes and gold held next to their hearts. Apparently, most of them had clung onto the medallions for the same reason as Remus: sentimentality. They were mementoes belonging to a long-passed era— ones that still carried on, still belied, the slightest shred of hope

Hope that, one day, there would come a time when those coins would be something more than an added, forgotten addition to a junk drawer. 

Hope that, one day, the gold would heat and glow and beckon.

Hope that, one day, the phoenix would reanimate and the call to arms would sound. 

And so it had. 

This morning, when the post had arrived and they all heard the trill of birdsong, had felt the burn and saw that fiery bird diving in emboldened loops, they knew: the time was now.

Sirius held open the door— a squeeze in his heart—— and they flooded into the kitchen: longtime friends and comrades and lovers and family alike bringing rushed greetings and fleeting hugs. Hell, he couldn’t even recall the last time he laid eyes on some of them. How long had it been? How long since he’d last seen Hestia Jones or Charity Burbage? Had last been in the same room as the Advanced Guard? He couldn’t quite say. But nonetheless, it was a rush of memories, of nostalgia— the sharp ache of hope growing, rooting between his ribs, the traitorous whisper of ‘this might actually work.’

A dangerous sort of optimism. 

Those who could fit found themselves seated around the long, wooden bench in the galley. Others were content to be scattered about, either standing or leaning against the walls. Some faces were painfully familiar— those were the ones he knew personally, were his own comrades— but a handful were entirely new. As he rose from his chair, a glass at the ready to toast their reunion, grey eyes landed on the group of teenagers. 

Lovegood’s daughter was here, a dreamy expression as she whispered to Hermione Granger, and so were the four youngest Weasleys— how on earth they managed to convince their mother to allow them to come was completely beyond him. He sent them a small smile when he caught their attention, a dip of his head in gratitude. 

“Wel—” Sirius started only to be cut off by a sudden pop.

The sound reverberated in the kitchen— a gunshot crack that drowned out the dull roar of overlapping conversation. Its effect was immediate. Everyone fell to silence in a wave, wide-eyed attention fixed on the source of intrusion. And there, standing atop the dining table, bare-foot and spinning around in a daze, was none other than a house-elf. Purple eyes bounced from face to face, her knobby fingers wringing the pillowcase shift. 

Sirius slowly lowered his glass, confusion pinching his brow— it most certainly wasn’t Kreacher, that much was obvious. “Uhm— could I help you?”

“Sirius?” The house-elf questioned, owlish eyes landing on him, voice quivering just slightly. “Sirius Black?”

He blinked, bewildered— the elf was looking for him? And though there were distant warning bells going off that someone had sent the creature— that it probably wasn’t wise to verbally confirm his identity— he took a step forward all the same. “Yes?”

A hand shot out to grip his forearm— an unspoken warning. Sirius glanced over to find Remus’s expression set into a stern scowl, mouth tight, grim, exasperation clear in the minute shake of his head. 

A switch had been flipped. 

The house-elf lept down from the table, bare feet slapping dully on the wood floor as she rushed towards him. Joy, excitement, bled onto her face, those too-long fingers clutching at the hem of his coat and yanking at it repeatedly. 

“Oh, Mr. Black! Zivvy has been looking everywhere for you, Zivvy has!” Fanned ears fluttered as the words spilled out into a rushed mess. “You was not at your main house, you was not! Zivvy had to go to every property to find you, she did. I bring news from Miss Potter, sir!”

Sirius stared down at the creature. ‘Miss Potter?’ The words were distant, foreign, refusing to stick in his addled brain— did he possibly hear that right? Did the elf mean Harri? But, then again, there was only one Potter that she could possibly be referring to— a lurch in his stomach. 

He sunk down to one knee, hands curling around the thin arms of the creature. Of course, a logic-driven stream of thought was arguing this could very likely be a trap— that it might not be Harri contacting them at all but rather someone pretending to be her. Hell, it could be the Dark Lord himself. And yet, he refused to fully believe it— to throw away, squander, the one opportunity they may have. Because if there was a chance, even the slightest one, that the house-elf wasn’t lying— if it was truly her trying to contact them— then that might mean they could get a message back to her in turn. And that was enough: hope. He clung to it as a man might to driftwood amid a tempestuous sea— a precarious, unsteady life rope. 

A manic look glinted in grey eyes as his grip tightened, voice strained. “Harri? Do you mean Harri Potter?! She sent you?!”

The house-elf gave a spirited nod. “Miss Potter wants you to know she’s fine at Malfoy Manor and for ‘Padfoot’ to be careful!”

Relief and despair. They pulled him in opposite directions simultaneously; a vacillating tide as though his mind couldn’t quite determine which to feel first. It was truly Harri if she was referring to him as ‘Padfoot’— but that only made the situation all the more damning. On one hand, it was a comfort to know where, exactly, she was— that she was apparently unharmed and still holding onto her fighting spirit. 

But, on the other hand, it was his worst fears confirmed: the Dark Lord had put her right into the middle of his snake pit— and with his cousin, nonetheless. How were they possibly to infiltrate it? And where would they even start in formulating a plan that involved breaking into a villa, undoubtedly, patrolled by Death Eaters? One that was, more than likely, well-warded to top it off? 

He rose on shaky feet— an equally, shaky huff of laughter. Shit: it perfectly described the situation. 

His mind began to turn— a dizzying pace that made his temples throb, a cadence of dread. The scattered mumbles and whispers from those gathered at the table went unheeded as manic need took over. Kitchen drawers were opened aggressively; a whirlwind of chaos as he looked, frantic and panicked, for something to write with. This elf was, seemingly, their one way to contact her at the moment— their one way to let her know they hadn’t, wouldn’t, abandon her— and nothing else mattered. His world tunnelled, narrowed, a click of his tongue in annoyance when he opened another drawer to find nothing. 

“Sirius.” 

A low whisper interrupted his frenzied search. 

Grey eyes flickered up, for the briefest second, to find Remus hovering at his shoulder. The man’s face was pinched in worry, alarm bright in those amber eyes. His hand settled on his shoulder, large and firm. 

“We need to leave,” Remus said with a pointed glance to the bowed heads around the table, their conversations a low whisper amongst themselves. “If that house-elf came from Malfoy Manor, they’ll know where we are.” 

“I know.” Sirius shrugged the hand off his shoulder— an ‘a-ha!’ of triumph when he found a scrap of parchment stuffed into a drawer of knick-knacks, crumpled and discoloured. ‘Just need a quill.’ He rummaged deeper in the drawer, frowning when he only found a nib and an almost-dried-up inkpot. “I’ll just write this and then we can go.”

Remus groaned when Sirius pinched the nib between his fingers, the ink staining his nails as he scrawled messily on the scrap. 

“I mean it. We need to leave.”

“Just one minute!”

Sirius ignored the huff from his friend, tongue pressing into his cheek as he considered what to possibly say. Most would probably agree it was ridiculous he was taking the time to write her a letter, of all things— especially in the face of something as urgent as fleeing— but there was a nagging feeling he had to. That, if he didn’t, he would regret it. That, if she didn’t see the note, didn’t read how much he— they— needed her, that they were going to rescue her, she might give up. 

That maybe, just maybe, she might lose faith. 

Hope.

“Padfoot,” Remus hissed in warning. There was an itch in his chest, an urgency that seemed near overwhelming— a sinking feeling that it was too late.   

Sirius felt it long before anyone else. 

There was a shimmer, a ripple, a quake in the wards giving way— bending — the sharp sounds of Apparition out on their front doorstep. 

Curses blurred together under his breath. Grey eyes snapped to the long hallway before bouncing back down to the parchment. He willed his hand to write faster, for the words to come more quickly— a failing endeavour.

A moment later, Shacklebolt, outfitted in violently purple robes, came rushing into the kitchen. His wand was out and clenched tightly in his palm, a thin layer of sweat above his brow. “We’ve got company. I’ll try to buy some time but you all need to go .”

The Auror nodded once before dipping down the darkened corridor. A beat of silence stretched as his warning sunk in— chaos.  

The benches were abruptly pushed out from under the table as people leapt to their feet, their voices frenetic as orders overlapped in the din. Two women wordlessly slipped their wands from their holsters, their greying hair pulled into tight buns, before grimly trailing after Shacklebolt. Sirius spared them a quick glance, immediately recognising the pair: Vance and Jones. The women were famous among the Advanced Guard for their duelling— no doubt an asset that would give whoever was crashing their meeting a run for their money. 

Grey eyes flickered back to the letter, breath caught in his lungs as he gave it a quick read-through. Outside, the snow had ceased— a standstill as the world slowed, its own frozen, icy breath caught. 

Remus fished a medallion out of his waistcoat before marching over to the group of teenagers huddled against the wall. He placed it firmly in Hermione’s palm, wincing at the sounds of spellfire— at the crackle of magic in the dry air and the sharp tang of electricity upon his tongue— the distant shouts carrying over into the kitchen. 

“These act as portkeys. Each one has been keyed into our secondary base— everyone put a finger on it, make sure you are touching it, and say ‘Ignis te invoco,” he said, rushing the explanation when there was a particularly loud crash. “We’ll regroup there as soon as possible. Molly, it’s best if you go with them.” 

Another round of shouts, of barked out orders. The grating sound of something shattering, most likely one of the grand bay windows in the parlour, had his stomach souring— a flutter in his chest. Molly sent him a firm nod as she rearranged the children— a quick squeeze to his hand— before their bodies blurred away into a streak of orange. And not a moment too late, either. 

The deafening clatter had Remus whirling on the spot, shoulders drawn taut at the realisation that the front door had been blown off its hinges. Apparently, the time Shacklebolt managed to buy them had run out.

“Oh, cousin dearest!” A feminine, high-pitched voice crooned, off-tune and sickly-sweet. A reedy cackle was there to follow the crack of spellfire and the scent of smoke lacing the air.

Sirius felt his blood freeze. It turned to ice in his veins, leaching at his warmth— oh, yes, he knew that voice. Knew, all too well, who had just arrived— who had come for him. Bellatrix bloody Lestrange.

“Shit,” he muttered as he rolled up the parchment. “Shit. Shitshitshit.”

Heavy footfalls were the only warning they had that people were beginning to flood into the house. ‘So much for the wards.’ In spite of being its so-called ‘master’, it would appear Grimmauld Place was intent on treating himself and his cousin as equals— was refusing to pick a side. And not for the first time did Sirius find himself cursing the Black family ten times over.

Grey eyes darted furiously about the kitchen— flashes of orange streaking his periphery as medallions activated— for the house-elf. And there, amidst the chaos of shuffling feet, its large ears flattened, stood the creature. Slipping his wand out of its holster, fingers tightening around the warming wood, he darted forward.

Roughly grabbing the creature’s hand, he shoved the rushed note into her calloused palm. “Find Harri. Find her and give this to her. Do you understand?!”

Comprehension dawned in those too-wide, too-large purple eyes. A second passed— just one though it felt like an eternity— before the elf blurred away from Grimmauld Place. And perhaps it was foolish of him to think that the creature, the poor thing it was bound in servitude to a family that revered the Dark Lord, would follow through on the request. That it was pure, complete foolishness to put all of his faith in such a small, nearly inconsequential being— that everything was riding on a simple letter.  

But he figured, if the elf had sought him out upon Harri’s request to begin with, there had to be some merit to the idea. That the creature, surely, must feel some shred of loyalty towards her to do her bidding— and that would have to be enough. Faith

A scream interrupted his thoughts. The acrid smell of burning flesh, bright colours of unknown spells being traded across the walls in a sickening light show. There were crashes of things being broken, shattered, furniture that had lasted through the decades crumbling before the might of the wizards duelling within the halls. 

Shouts were drifting closer to the back of the house. Magic was heavy in the air. A particularly startling thud resonated, the dull sound of flesh meeting wood— and it was the vaguest, most sickening suspicion that it was one of their own that had fallen. 

A flick of his wrist sent the heavy door to the kitchen slamming shut. It was a false sense of security, he knew— a locked door wouldn’t do much, after all, in light of everything— but at least it dampened some of the noise. Grey eyes flickered over to McGonagall, Burbage at her side. The latter, an older and squat woman with a flintlike stare, passed Remus her own coin— a subtle shake of her head in a warning for the two men not to do anything reckless. 

And then they were gone, consumed by an inferno. 

Remus turned around, the gold medallion held between two fingers. “Kind of Charity to lend us this since someone apparently misplaced theirs.” 

Sirius barely had the time to retort, save for a roll of his eyes, before the kitchen door was blasted off the dull, brass hinges. As natural as breathing, a second nature, he fell into a duelling stance at Remus’s side. And somehow, despite their situation, despite the destruction being reaped in his home, despite the fact they’d yet to escape, a thrill of a rush passed through him. 

It was a glimmer of understanding this was how they were in the past— just as it had been back then

Back then when it was himself and Remus and James, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, ready to take on the world. Hell, if he concentrated, thought hard enough about it, he could have sworn James was right there with them— right there in this dingy kitchen, cocky smile and all.

“It’s just like old times, eh, Moony?” Sirius threw up a hastily constructed shield just as a yellow spell came shooting out from the shadows— it melted against the Protego with a violent sizzle. And though he had no idea what it was, what it would have done if it landed true to its target, considering the screams from earlier and the revolting smell of burnt flesh, he could make an educated guess. 

“That letter better be worth it,” Remus muttered vehemently, wrist snapping to send a blindly directed Impedimenta down the corridor. “Because if we survive this, I might just kill you myself.”

Sirius had been about to laugh, to point out his friend adored him too much to ever act upon such a threat, when the werewolf was suddenly blasted off of his feet. The man had been careened into the dining room table— a stomach-churning crack when his head collided with the table’s edge. “Remus!”

He spun on the spot, eyes blazing, a nasty spell of his own ready to be volleyed back— he froze. It felt as though he’d been doused in cold water; a bracing sensation that left him numb, save for the curling pit of dread. 

“Fuck.” It was the only coherent thing that came out— his first and foremost reaction— upon seeing his cousin in the doorway. 

During the height of Voldemort’s first reign, he had had the displeasure of crossing wands with her once. It was when he had refused her offer to join her and abide by whatever twisted idea of familial loyalty she had— and he just knew she had never quite forgiven him. Or, at least, that’s what the gruesome scar on his back said. 

“Well, well, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you, cousin?” Bellatrix questioned, tongue clicking. Her wand, as warped as she was, tapped thoughtfully against her chin as she glanced over to the crumpled werewolf— a soft ‘tut’ in a mock apology. “Mhm, so sorry about the mutt. I find it difficult to sometimes control my power.” 

It was jarring with how casual she spoke— how quickly her attention was diverted. How flighty her mind was. One second, she had been fixated on Remus and then, the next, she was rounding on him. 

Those dark, hooded eyes glinted with a frenzied sheen— manic. Predatory. She took a step forward for every step he’d taken back, her wand twirling over between manicured nails. And then, quite suddenly, unexpectedly, those vermillion-painted lips split. 

A row of gleaming teeth, perfectly straight and perfectly white, the unnerving smile was offset by a stray curl that had fallen above her brow. “ Busy, indeed. But you know, I do believe my Lord would very much like to have a word with you.”

She struck without warning. 

Fluid and quick, a viper lashing out, her wand movements were near a blur. The shield that had been thrown up shattered against the electrifying purple light hurled his way, unable to withstand the brute force. The spellfire narrowly missed his shoulder and sailed on to the kitchen’s window— the glass shattered. There was a high-pitched screech as the pane splintered, glittering fragments exploding into a fine dust.

His retaliation came as a poorly directed Stupefy, feet tripping as he scrambled to get out of the kitchen.



In all sense of the word, Harri loathed ‘pureblood propriety.’

She loathed their complicated etiquette and conventions. She loathed their need to always act prim and, most of all, she loathed what was considered ladylike behaviour— that, especially, was something that kept chafing. Her entire morning had been spent memorizing what constituted a ‘proper’ place setting— not that she would ever be in charge of organising anything remotely close to a soiree, Narcissa had assured— and how to sit properly at a dining room table. But the greatest insult was that she had been taught how to politely cut up and chew her meal without making excessive noise— because, apparently, not doing so was an affront to gentile company. 

It was only day one, a few mere hours in, and her head already felt too small, too crowded— throbbing— as she was told, over and over again, everything she knew was wrong. Uncivilised.

Hell, at this point, she was debating on begging Voldemort to lock her away as he’d originally threatened. At least that way, she might be spared the misery of these lessons and the headache that accompanied them.

It didn’t help either that Narcissa was a merciless teacher. Strict in her rules and high in her expectations, it was impossible to fully please her. And it was only after no small amount of begging— of finally picking up the stem of her wine glass as instructed— that she was begrudgingly granted a momentary respite. 

She immediately fled to the balcony for the five minutes allotted to her, the need for fresh-air mounting. And even though it was still winter, the snow heavy about the manicured lawn, glinting brightly in the day’s light, she found herself thankful. Thankful for the air that froze her lungs and the sharp sting every time it was pulled in. Thankful for the meek sunshine and the subdued birdsong— thankful for the solitude

Fingers dipped into the snow dusting the veranda’s balustrade, the cold seeping down to her bones. Numbing. Ignoring when feeling was lost, the skin flushed in an angry shade, she idly packed small balls into her palm before hurtling them over the balcony. Green eyes squinted into the distance as if to see how far she’d thrown them— the twitches of a frown when she realised she couldn’t. ‘Merlin, it’s just excessive to have a yard this big.’ 

She brushed frosted-over fingertips against the wool of her skirt, only to pause at a tugging sensation on her dress’s hem. “Zivvy!”

It’d been nearly two days since the creature disappeared— and, admittedly, she had started to fear the worst as to what it might have meant. Part of her worried Zivvy hadn’t been able to locate Sirius— but a greater part feared that the elf had been punished for her request. ‘At least one of those things hasn’t happened.’

Chancing a quick glimpse over her shoulder, she crouched down, voice a whisper. “Did you manage to find him?”

The house-elf had given a hasty nod. Knobbed fingers, gnarled and thin, held out a crumpled piece of parchment, pride shining in purple eyes. “I did, Miss. I did indeed! He has given Zivvy a letter for you.”

Giddiness swept through her—the jitteriness of nerves, anticipation— at the fact Sirius had written to her. She expected him to give a simple message to the house-elf— or, perhaps, not even one at all— but this? This exceeded her expectations. What did he possibly have to say? Green eyes flickered back to the balcony doors to ensure, for an added peace of mind, they were truly alone, before reaching for the scrap.

Unfolding it carefully, her tongue, pink and skittish, darted out to wet dry lips.

 

Prongslet— 

My dear, brave girl. You truly are your parents’ daughter through and through, as Gryffindor and as fearless as they were— absolutely genius on using a house-elf to communicate with us. The Order is being rebuilt, as you have probably already guessed. Dumbledore is missing but we are prepared to fight at any cost. We will rescue you, have no doubt about that, the very second we figure out how. “Dark Lords be damned”, remember? Until then, be strong, Harri. Do not give in and do not bend, especially to him. Stand tall and firm, show him you will not be cowed. And remember how much you mean to us, how important you are. Moony and I love you, no matter what happens. Continue to use the elf to reach us for the time being.

We are coming.

- Padfoot

She scanned the note once, twice, three times, reading and rereading it again for good measure. Part of her wondered if this could, possibly, be a figment of her imagination? A cruel trick her mind was playing to incite hope— to make her believe. The usage of her nickname. The reassurance of their love, despite that bloody photograph in the morning post. The promise they would rescue her— that she was important. All of it seemed too surreal, too perfect— how long had she been waiting to hear such words? And, by Merlin, did they make her heart squeeze and wrench and twist. How those words made something warm in her to bloom— warm enough to not even register the snow numbing her kneecaps and seeping into her dress. 

Tears blurred the words together— a jumbled, convoluted, strung-together mess of slanted letters and flourishes. A breath burned in expanded lungs. With a shaky sigh, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand when one tear slipped past fanned lashes and onto the parchment. ‘They still care.’ 

She felt like she was floating— bobbing along, her relief too great to allow reality to tether her down. ‘They saw through Voldemort’s stupid plan and are coming for me.’ 

They care. 

They care.

They care—

Just wait until they find out the truth about you.’ It was a betrayal— a traitorous little whisper that seemed all too eager, too ready to bridled what was once-unbridled happiness. ‘Didn’t Sirius make that same promise before: ‘Dark Lords be damned?' Don’t tell me you already forgot about what happened?’ She shook her head to banish it, teeth sinking into the flesh of her inner cheek. ‘You’re wrong. Dumbledore isn’t here to stop him this time. Sirius will come, he will.’ 

It had hit her then, a spark of fear joining the fray of her emotions. Fingers traced over the last line of the note, that part bolder than the rest. More pressure had been applied when writing it— more conviction — the letters recessed into indents. ‘Sure, he’s coming but does it even matter?’ 

Her gaze drifted to the manicured lawns stretching out before her— an endless sea of white. A perfect image of purgatory— a mockery. ‘This place is crawling with Death Eaters. Not to mention Voldemort. If Sirius comes here—’ It would spell carnage. Destruction. Death. Blood shed on both sides. And, as much as she held little love for any of the Dark Lord’s followers, the very thought of Narcissa, of Draco, of Severus getting caught in the crossfire soured her stomach.

The tang of copper flooded her mouth— a belated realisation she’d bitten down too hard.

“Hey, Zivvy,” she said hesitantly, squinting out into the distance and into the treeline that seemed impossibly far away. “How did they seem? Were they okay?”

The house-elf squirmed as those grimy fingers knotted the pillowcase. “Miss, I shouldn’t say but when I was leaving, more wizards had arrived. They were not nice at all, Miss, not at all. Mistress Lestrange was there, I heard her, I did.”

Her head snapped to the house-elf in alarm. The Death Eaters— Bellatrix, of all people— were at Grimmauld?! That meant— no. ‘No, no, nononono,’ her thoughts were panicked, a pale, shaking hand cupping her mouth. It meant he was right. Voldemort knew where they were— was already making his move before the Order could act. And, oh, how did that threat of his from breakfast, the one in which he declared no one would be spared, resurface with startling clarity. Hell, she felt sick. Her stomach clenched, warning that it was close to expelling its contents.

She found herself with her hands firmly on the house-elf’s abnormally thin shoulders, her voice wavering, “Did they escape?! Zivvy, did you see if they got out in time!?” 

“No, Miss. I didn’t see. Zivvy left to give you the letter, Zivvy did.”

‘Oh, sweet Merlin. What if they didn’t get out?’ Her thoughts were spiralling out into panic, alarm, images assaulting her of Sirius bruised and bloodied— of Remus shackled like a wild animal and spirit broken. Of their heads awaiting the proverbial chopping block, the wicked edge of the guillotine’s blade poised above their outstretched necks. Fear clawed the inside of her chest raw— a tremble to her shoulders and a quiver to her chin as that lurch in her stomach turned dangerous

She couldn’t protect them. 

Help them. 

Save them. 

Not this far away. 

She was useless and it was all her fault

Her fault for not escaping fast enough at Hogwarts. 

Her fault for getting captured in the first place— of lingering to help when she should have been running. 

Her fault for spurring the Order on like this— for sending them a message to begin with.

 What if Voldemort only knew because he had tracked the house-elf? And, if that was the case, then she damned them all unknowingly— damned them when she was supposed to be their saviour. All of this was her mistake but they were the ones slotted to pay.

She tried, tried and tried, to swallow back the tears, to force the lump down in her throat so she could speak. It was a valiant attempt but didn’t quite stop her words from coming out as wavering, weak. “Zivvy, please. Please, you have to go back and help them .”

The house-elf opened and closed her mouth— and Harri could so clearly see the conflict in those purple eyes, the words ‘I can’t’ already on her tongue. 

And, oh, how it twisted her own conscience to push— to plea and beg when the poor creature had already been put into a compromising situation because of her. However, pride and morality were so easily suffocated by desperation. “Please.”

Tears stung and distorted the white world around her, the once-comforting birdsong drowned out by the ringing in her ears. All she could see was the blurry outline of the elf— and, finally, a slow nod of a too-large head. 

“I’ll do it, Miss. Zivvy will help Sirius Black and the others escape.”

Harri choked on a relieved sob— gratitude filling her to the brim— as she pulled the creature into an embrace. Granting a quick peck to the leathered skin of the elf’s cheek, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Harri!” 

She released Zivvy quickly at the call from Narcissa, her eyes flickering to the balcony’s doors. On unsteady feet, she rose, grimacing at the wet patches on her knees from where the snow had melted— and yet, she barely noticed the discomfort. Rather, all she felt was the letter. 

That note between her fingers was searing, a scorching, burning weight— tender sentiments that set her throat on fire with unleashed tears. It was a disconcerting reality to be faced with the fact this may be the last thing she would have from Sirius: a hastily written message in barely legible scrawl. If Zivvy was too late, if she couldn’t help, this would be the final, earthly reminder of the man: a dead man’s last words. 

‘Stop it. Stop thinking like that. Everything will be fine.’ 

“Harri? Are you out there?” Narcissa’s words floated out clearer, her footsteps nearing. “It’s time to resume your lessons.”

The scrap of parchment was rolled up and stuffed into her bra— an inward curse at the lack of pockets— before drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m coming.”

Green eyes flitted, one last time, up to the sky, pale and white and heavy with snow-ladened clouds, her silent prayer an earnest one: ‘please let them be safe.’

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 40: Blood Is As Good As Gold

Notes:

Hello everyone! I guess I should have /technically/ made this into two chapters but I feel like that would have just been cruel to leave you guys with such a bad cliffhanger so tada! Here's a giant of a chapter.

Some warnings and words of wise to everyone before you start reading. Please be mindful of the Graphic Violence tag— there's some gore in this chapter and, while I try not to be super explicit, it's a tad bit more descriptive in this one.

Also, there's a warning for sexual content in this chapter so please be aware of that. I did tag this fic as Explicit because it'll start getting a tad bit more from this point forward. **though any sexual content will have a purpose, I promise! It's not just meaningless**

Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! There's a lot going on but I just wanted to combine it all into one so you guys don't have to wait between uploads for me to edit two separate instalments.

As always, thank so much for the love and the kudos you guys have given this fic! You are all amazing 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



When the house-elf had arrived back at Grimmauld Place— a soft pop as she materialised in the abandoned parlour— it was to the sight of absolute carnage. 

The air smelt of lingering smoke, of sour sulfur and brimstone, its acridity overpowering the usual mustiness of the old house. 

Several of the walls sported charred patterns— abstract streaks and bursts and swirls— where errant spellfire had consumed the faded, floral paper. 

On the floor, glass was strewn about from the shattered bay windows— a once-grand feature of the mansion now destroyed. They caught the reflection of the weak, midday sun; glittering diamonds interspersed among the rubble. 

Most disturbing, however, was the body that laid askew across the front door’s threshold.

From what remained of her face, the woman was obviously middle-aged. Dulled, glassy eyes fixed sightlessly up at the ceiling, a wisp of her brown hair loosened from its bun and falling limply across her face. A good portion of her neck and shoulder had been burnt— the skin singed and blackened— her mouth contorted into a pained grimace. 

Zivvy stepped around the body, hands wringing into the pillowcase shift— the dead woman belonged to the Order. That much she knew. Seeing as the severe, austere robes and metal mask were missing from the corpse, she wasn’t a follower of the Dark Lord. A heavy swallow. What if she was too late? What if Sirius Black was also a burnt body by now, hidden away deep in this grim tomb of a house? 

How would she tell Miss Potter she failed?

Her throat bobbed at the prospect.

Disinclined feet finally budged, the glass underfoot barely heeded. Wide, purple eyes darted about as she picked her way through the parlour, hands burying deeper into her pillowcase at the twitchy urge to clean. This was any respectable house-elf’s worst nightmare. And though she wasn’t employed by the Black family, she did find herself bemoaning the fact that the portraits hadn’t been spared. Some had large chunks of their canvas missing, their inhabitants missing from their splintered frames— quiet. Their usual chatter was noticeably absent, a blanket of eerie silence settling into the dimness. It didn’t bode well.

A yelp was smothered when one of the remaining chairs— three-legged and heavily leaning to one side— finally collapsed. It may as well have been a gunshot in the stillness. A plume of dust, of ash, puffed up and her steps quickened. 

Further down the narrow hall, two bodies were slumped over one another: one masked, a Death Eater, and the other older, grey-bearded. She scampered past them without a second look, a shiver settling across her clammy skin. It still surprised her— though it really shouldn’t, considering the family she served— with how quick humans were to turn against one another. To kill their own kind. How brutal, cruel , they could be. ‘But not Miss Potter.’ Thin lips tipped up into a smile, knobbed fingers relaxing in their hold on her shift—  yes, not Miss Potter.

The smile didn’t last long.

It slipped when a clattering noise near the back of the house drew her attention. Owlish eyes looked to the sound, blinking rapidly— a rush of excitement, of relief. 

Thin body pressed against the wall, she scampered in the shadows, ears fluttering in a betrayal of her nerves. Perhaps she wouldn’t fail after all? It had been a comforting thought until she saw, at the end of the hallway, the kitchen door hanging by a single hinge on its frame. 

Creeping up to it, she peered around the edge. In the middle of the galley, half-hidden under the table, was an unconscious man— a man that, unlike the other two hovering nearby, was unmasked and uncloaked. She just prayed this one wasn’t also dead. Merlin, what was she going to tell Miss Potter otherwise?

“What should we do with ‘im?” One man, bronze-masked, had asked. Offhandedly, he nudged the man under the table in the ribs with his foot. 

A low groan rendered the quiet— a stifled cry of relief on her end. The unconscious man was, apparently, very much alive. And that, at least, meant she could hold up some part of her bargain. 

“Wait until Lestrange is done with her fun, I guess.” The other man glanced up to the ceiling when it quaked above their heads. “Merlin, there isn’t going to be anything left of Black at this rate.”

Purple eyes shot to the ceiling, fanned ears perking up. ‘Black? Sirius Black?’ If Black was still here, then— the house-elf hopped from one foot to the other, hands smoothing over her shift. She could get him out. She could make Miss Potter happy and prove to the witch she was capable

Determination glinted in wide eyes as they snapped back to the Death Eaters lingering in the kitchen. ‘First things first,’ she thought resolutely, drawing in a breath and holding it. The familiar tingle settled on her shoulders, her body bleeding from view as the concealment charms worked their magic. 

Slipping into the galley, the unstable door creaked at the disturbance of being pushed. Both bronze-masked men whirled on the spot in sync, wands at the ready— not that it helped much when an unseen force levitated them from the ground. With a snap of her fingers, magic heeded her command, their cloaked bodies slamming against the ceiling before plummeting back down— a sickening crunch. 

She waited for a second, watching them apprehensively. When nearly a minute had passed and they showed no signs of getting up, the breath that was held was slowly let go. The transparency veil melted off her skin, goosebumps prickling her flesh at the sensation. 

More gently, the unconscious man under the table was lifted into the air, his limp body floating towards her. Grasping his chilled hand, she gave a nod before pulling his prone form down the hallway. “Come. We must save Sirius Black.”



There were very few things that Sirius Black could say genuinely struck fear into his heart. The list, he had no reservations about boasting, was incredibly small. It was his recklessness, he supposed, and that accompanying bravery— though some might say it was stupidity— that afforded him such a luxury, such strength. His cousin, however?

Undoubtedly, she was at the top of that very small list.

Though, he could argue it was perfectly warranted— only a fool would not be scared witless to face down Bellatrix Lestrange in battle. The woman was cruel beyond measure, ruthless and with a creative, quick mind— a deadly combination that often made her the victor more than not. A bloody force of nature. 

At the moment, he found refuge behind an overturned couch, his heart hammering wildly behind his ribs and his breaths laboured. It was a second of respite only afforded to him thanks to the black mist he’d sent out into the room— a low-blow, most certainly. And yet, it was a move he couldn’t feel ashamed of.

It wasn’t as though he was a terrible dueller— no, that was far from the truth. In fact, all vain pride put aside, he was probably the best among the Marauders; a fact that was bolstered by how many times he had defeated his friends in low-stakes matches. Rather, the crux of the issue was that his dear cousin was good

Terrifyingly so.

While her sisters had always been avoidant of violence and gore and bloodshed, Bellatrix thrived in the face of it all. She had no qualms about using offensive magics or tapping into the darkest of spells— and, Merlin, her imagination was a frightening asset. The solutions she managed to think of, the series of spells and when to utilize them for maximum effect, was unprecedented— unforgiving. Not to mention her reflexes were the biggest problem. He tried, oh he did, to find an error in her legwork— to see if she preferred one side more than the other— or to guess her spells by her wrist movements. But he just couldn’t. Their entire fight thus far had pushed him onto the defense, his spells barely landing. Hell, it had gotten to the point he was hiding behind overturned furniture to rethink his plan. And though he would never admit it aloud— would rather swallow his own tongue than say it— he was, begrudgingly, impressed more than anything. This entire situation was a painful reminder why she was considered the Dark Lord’s right hand. His most trusted general— his personal Cerberus. 

The woman was a nightmare.

A pained wheeze escaped him at the abrupt, sharp twinge in his leg. His hand reached down to clutch at his lower thigh, the blood seeping out warm, tacky. Sticky. Grey eyes flickered to it— a mistake— his stomach souring at the gash several inches above his knee. A few moments ago, she landed a rather nasty Diffindo on him and the bleeding was only spurred by his constant movement. And it was with that awareness of pain that all of it trickled into awareness; the bruises; the soreness in his limbs; the sweat that clung to his skin and skated down his back in a river.   

It was a simple, damning fact he was taking quite the beating. 

In the background, somewhere out in the cloud of blackened mist, he registered she was coughing— a wince when that cough devolved into a delighted squeal of laughter. The sound was a chilling one; chilling in a way that he felt down to his bones and straight into the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t a happy noise, by any means. No, it was deranged; an ever-present reminder of the woman’s fragile sanity. 

“Merlin, fuck me,” he muttered, head flopping against the couch’s upholstered back. Too many thoughts rifled by, too many incoherent snippets and half-baked ideas, on how to get himself out of this mess— and oh, what he wouldn’t give to have that bloody coin right now.

“Well, little cousin, aren’t you just full of surprises!” Bellatrix wheezed out, the last syllable catching on a cackle. 

A smile parted painted lips, her tongue running thoughtfully, contemplatively, over the front-most set of her gleaming teeth. Her wrist snapped forward and wind curled about her feet, the fog dissipating as a result. The room, when it cleared enough to see, was destroyed; a pretty picture of chaotic upheaval. Chairs were fragmented, walls were cracked; the mantle was cleaved in two, the windows shattered. It was far from its pristine, elegant glory— an indiscernible shadow of what it once was. And yet, despite all that, something was missing— her target

Dark eyes bounced about the entertainment parlour, her smile splitting wider. Pointed boots picked their way through the rubble, the stray pieces of wood snapping dryly and shards of glass crunching underfoot. It was almost a pity, truly, that the room had taken the brunt of her aggression. Once handsome oak floors were splintered where entire boards had been ripped up from their nails— other places had escaped with the mercy of scorch marks. Remnants of the beautifully-crafted chandelier now lay in a fine dust. The drapes— ugly things, she recalled— had been burnt on their silver rods, the upholstery foam from the chairs yellowed puffs scattered about. Her mother would have had a fit—  and oh, she reveled in that knowledge. This is what she lived for. 

The chaos. 

The product of destruction by her own design. 

The power personified of her wrath

She circled about the room, heels clicking in a deafening staccato as her eyes landed on the couch. “Though, I must confess to being a touch disappointed, Sirius.” 

A swell of anticipation filled her chest— a frantic beating of her heart; the very moment before a wolf sinks its teeth into a rabbit. “After all, you’ve only been defending. I wonder if this is what happens when you run with mudbloods and traitors— you get soft.” 

Sirius gritted his teeth at her goading, ears straining to pinpoint where her footsteps were. Of course, he wasn’t enough of a fool to rise to her bait. Undoubtedly, she thought him to be one but that didn’t mean he was

Grey eyes flickered over to the doorway, his breath coming in laboured through his nose. It was a few feet away but it was his only hope, his only chance— he knew she put down anti-apparition wards in the room. Hell, that had been the first thing he tried— and almost passed out as a result from the pressure. But if he could get out into that damned hallway, he might have a chance. It was a questionable plan— who knew how many reinforcements she had brought, the logistics if he’d even have the strength to make the jump— but if he could get out, make it to the kitchen and find Remus, they could escape. Together

A foolish hope— but one he clung to all the same.

Sirius twisted past the edge of the couch, willing his sluggish body to move , to cast a spell in haste before she could spot him

“Diffindo!” he yelled, putting a good deal of power behind the curse. It was blindly directed, his aim limited by his hiding spot.

The very second he had done so, the woman had casted a Flipendo his way. It collided with the overturned couch, sending it flying into the wall behind him— and clipping his shoulder in the process. 

Sirius gave a sharp cry of pain as he was knocked off-balance by the force. A hand grasped at his shoulder, teeth sinking into his bottom lip at the tenderness. There was an alarming grinding sound when he tried to roll it— a hiss sucked between his teeth. ‘The bitch,’ he thought venomously, scrambling to his feet to rush at the door. But just as he was about to reach it, a screech caused him to freeze.

Unwittingly, he stopped short at the inhuman sound, eyes widening as they fixed on Bellatrix— and where the slashing charm had landed. 

The woman stumbled back blindly, her hands frantically grappling at her face— blood . There was red everywhere, gushing freely despite her panicked attempts to stanch its flow. His feet rooted in place, shock an accompaniment to his nausea as he traced the path of the wound. Luckily, the cursed seemed to have missed her eye— but that was the only mercy. From what he could see under slickened skin, it extended from the top of her brow bone and curved towards her ear, ending just below the pulse point at her jaw. And though he wasn’t a stranger to blood— had seen enough of it in his lifetime, that was certain— for some reason, he felt sick by the sheer amount that was coming out of her. 

Her pale hands were coated scarlet, the crevices between her fingers dripping— red. So much red. 

“You bastard!” she screamed, bestial sounds of fury and pain tearing from her throat. “You fucking bastard!”

And through the shock, Sirius registered this was his first blow on her all day— and that it had happened quite by accident.  

He wasn’t quite sure what to do at the moment— fight, flee, perhaps knock her out— but he hadn’t even had the chance to contemplate his decision before the air shifted. Writhed. It was as though a switch had been flipped, the shrieks subduing off into an unnatural quiet. Struck by morbid fascination, he watched as she lifted her stained hand from the wound, both their eyes glued to it. 

Thick droplets splattered the floor beneath her feet, tears dripping free— a stark contrast between the lightness of her and the gore seeping under her nailbeds. The smell. A sickly sweetness, cloying in his throat and metallic on his tongue, permeated the air. He felt ill. And then slowly, ever so slowly, she raised that hand to her mouth to drag her tongue across her palm.

Her lips were stained, glistening wetly in the dim lighting, her chin dyed. When she smiled at him, those white teeth were coated red. There was a different sort of maliciousness entering the depths of those dark eyes— a new madness shining so brightly. 

“Oh, dear cousin, you are going to regret doing that,” she spoke softly, the lilt of a laugh— as fragile and alarming as glass breaking— edged into her voice.

He bolted for the door. 

Spurred on by her promise, he willed himself to run, to flee. To not stay around to test the validity of her promise or the earnestness behind her words. While it may be true she had yet to throw a single killing curse at him throughout the entirety of their duel— a leniency, no doubt, afforded to him by their shared blood— his faith in her self-control at the moment was waning. And he'd been so close to freedom, the pain in his thigh forgotten, the ache in his shoulder suppressed by adrenaline, so very close: he never made it.

Just as his fingers grazed the doorknob, a sickly blue light shot through his shin. 

A revolting, wet snap filled the air. 

There was a moment of delay, his mind unable to fully register what had just happened. A moment of nothingness, numbness— a standstill. But then his world exploded

Pain, one that words escaped to describe, seized him. His lungs spasmed in an attempt to scream, his mouth contorting though no sound came out. It was inevitable when he fell to the ground a second later.

Hands fumbled blindly along his leg, panic dulling his coordination. Bone splintered and pierced the skin, the fabric of his jeans, jutting out in a grotesque salute— it looked wrong. Blood wept freely from the puncture, staining the hardwood; by the heavens, he swore he could taste it too. The urge to retch overcame him. Bile burned as it came up, splashing onto the floor, the rawness in his throat stinging in his sinuses and causing his eyes to water. 

He kept chancing glances down to his shin, breaths coming as short pants. Wrong. It looked so, so, so wrong . And no matter what he did, no matter how much he gripped his knee to stem the pain or how much he wept and rocked, it wouldn’t stop. His nerves were flayed, fried, overloaded, spots pockmarking his vision. 

“My Lord said he wanted you alive,” Bellatrix murmured, nonchalant and blasé as though her cousin wasn’t close to fainting. 

She circled about his prone form, the heels of her boots clicking loudly until she hovered above him. Scarlet drops, large and darker than the puddle gathering below him, fell thickly onto his cheek— Black blood joining Black blood. 

“But he never said I couldn’t have some fun first.” Bellatrix crouched down, her warped wand trailing, almost tenderly, across his cheek. It dragged through the errant drop of her own blood, smearing it further. “And I do believe some bonding time is in order, don’t you, cousin?”

He barely felt her blood drip onto him; barely heard her words or could barely contemplate what she meant by “bonding time”. All he saw, focused on, was the pulsating pain and that door before him. A trembling hand outstretched to reach for the handle, darkness creeping on the edges of his vision. So close— so tauntingly close that he could reach out and take it if he only tried. 

A new wave of pain slammed into him.

The word ‘crucio’ distantly registered, the anguish a different sort than the type that radiated from his splintered shin. That reaching hand withdrew, his spine arching as the curse layered on its own signature of torment. Everything grew incrementally darker, fading away as the seconds ticked on; he was drifting out. Drifting away from the edges of his scraped nerves— the flame held to them— the tremors in his beaten body, the molten copper slipping down his throat. Away from the screams he knew was coming from him— he could feel, after all, how his vocal cords worked, how his jaw ached— and the demented glee of his cousin. Away from 12 Grimmauld Place and into the unknown— a liminal space where his consciousness wasn’t tethered, wasn’t bound, a space safeguarded from the pain and hurt and—

He was brought crashing back down.

The spell ended, reality a crushing weight. It took him a moment to realize why she stopped— why that blasted door was open when it hadn’t been for him. It took even longer to piece together the fuzzy outline of a small creature standing in its threshold.

Sirius blinked through the haze. Was this real? Or a figment of his imagination? Bellatrix seemed to be equally surprised, her dark eyes wide and mouth dropped into an ‘oh’. If she was seeing it too, then, surely, the house-elf was actually there? It was either that or they were both suffering from hallucinations. Either seemed plausible, frankly speaking. 

“What are you doing here?” Bellatrix hissed, expression smoothing into a cool disdain as she recognised the elf. Had Narcissa sent it to check up on her? It wouldn’t be the first time— her sister was something of a mother hen, after all. She clicked her tongue, wand brandished in a dismissive wave. “You can go and tell your master that I’m perfectly fine and will be back shortly.”

When the house-elf made no move to leave, brown eyes narrowed on the creature. “Well? Are you deaf? I said go!”

“You will not touch Sirius Black again!” Zivvy said, chest puffing out in a form of pride at being able to, for once, deny a direct order. 

Bellatrix only had a moment to blink— mouth dropping in outrage at the defiance— before a burst of magic collided squarely with her sternum. She was thrown backwards, limbs askew and wand flying, into the overturned couch— a dull snap. The already ruined frame crumbled beneath the force of her body, her head cracking against the wood. 

When the witch hadn’t gotten back up, the elf gave a satisfied nod, ears fluttering in excitement. She rushed over to Sirius a second later, purple eyes wide when they spotted the wound. “Not to worry, Mr. Black, Sir, Zivvy is here to help!”

Twisted fingers skirted over the broken leg, fanned ears flattening at the groan of pain the man had given. Face screwed up by determination, she willed magic into his broken body— willed it to right the bone and to stanch the bleeding. It wouldn’t be a perfect fix of course, not with how rushed it was, but it would have to do for now. 

Zivvy had given a delighted clap of her hands when the bone clicked into place and the skin slowly mended. Purple eyes flickered to his face, relieved when the pain eased from his brow, his mouth, and confusion replaced it. Yet she didn’t waste time as she hurried around to his back, trying to push him to his feet.

“You,” he mumbled, sitting up as thin hands propped his torso. “You’re back?”

“Yes, Sir. Harri Potter sent me to protect Sirius Black, she did,” the house-elf explained hastily, gaze shifting over to Bellatrix. The woman was still unconscious among the debris. “But we must go now, Sir. Before she wakes up.”

Part of her regretted having to move the man so quickly, knowing full and well that the pain in his leg was still there. But apologies could be made later, she figured, once they were in the clear. 

A snap of gnarled fingers summoned the floating body from the hallway into the room. The effect was instant. Devastation crumpled Sirius’s face, his features drawn by grief— Zivvy shook her head adamantly, hands thrown up in a placating gesture. “Oh no, no, Sir. He’s not dead! Just unconscious.” 

All Sirius could manage was a low exhale— shaky in nature but grateful enough— the sheer relief almost enough to make him fall back down. And he wasn’t sure what he did to deserve this— what god had decided to be merciful and take pity on him— but he sent a prayer out into the universe anyway, thanking whoever it was that Remus had been spared. 

It was then he registered that a cold hand, childlike in size, slipped into his own; an abrupt tug at his navel. That was the only warning he had as Number 12 Grimmauld Place, in all of its smoking glory, bled from view. 



If there was one absolute truth to Lord Voldemort’s character, it would be this: he was a man of high expectations. Unwavering, unyielding expectations that demanded to be met.

If there was a second? He was a man who liked things to be followed through, thoroughly and cleanly— to be completed without delay or excuses or loose ends.

So when his most faithful, his most well-equipped general, had wandered in, bruised and bloodied with half of her face mangled, it went against both truths— an egregious error. And, Merlin, how his teeth nearly cracked from the pressure in which he ground them. 

Crimson eyes, burning in their displeasure, drifted to the two bronze-masked Death Eaters flanking Bellatrix. They were currently kneeling in prostration, the witch’s blood soaking into the dark carpet runner of his office. ‘At least they have the decency to be repentant,’ he thought scathingly, studying how their heads were bowed, their eyes glued to the floor. 

“Get. Out,” he eventually hissed, addressing no one in particular. 

But they knew, all the same. 

The two men scrambled up, too quick to escape, to flee from punishment—  not that they would avoid it entirely, of course. Oh no, he’d deal with them later. But even then, even as he glared at their retreating bowed forms, he had half the mind to drag them back— to personally see to it they would never dare, dream, of disappointing him to such a degree ever again. Perhaps removing their fingernails might get the message across? After all, no one actually needed them. Or, maybe, he should just crush their beating hearts under his heel for their incompetence? That, certainly, would send a clear message. ‘Calm yourself,’ logic advocated— a rational side quick to jump to the forefront and argue these men, these failures, were disposable chattel; nameless faces to make up the bulk of his ranks and ones that he shouldn’t expend the effort on.  

His lips pulled back into a sneer. Merlin, he despised it when his own mind, his own reason, worked against his impulses. 

Once the door shut, he rounded on Bellatrix from the other side of the desk, paperwork long forgotten. Leaning against it, his ankles crossed and his hands anchored on the table’s edge to steady himself— a viselike grip. It was rare for his general to disappoint— even rarer for her to show up in defeat, looking as bloodied and wounded as she did now. Red eyes narrowed into slits. His mouth pressed into a thin line. For her sake, he found himself wishing, hoping, she had a valid excuse for allowing the Order to slip through her grasp— some sort of miraculous explanation for her inadequacy and for failing, so spectacularly, a direct command. Because even he highly doubted that her years of companionship—her loyalty— could spare her from being on the other end of his wand if not. 

And oh, how the darkest parts of him sang for retribution right now. To divine her punishment without hearing whatever flimsy justification she may make— to remind her, exactly, what happens when one can’t follow through. It was a losing battle to rein it in.

Knuckles bled white from the pressure in which he was gripping the desk, mildly surprised that the wood had yet to give way. The quiet in the office was thick, ladened with tension— unease. But she wouldn’t dare to speak first. Oh no, she wouldn’t; not if she had any self-preservation. His jaw clicked, the muscle in it feathering as he glanced over to the clock— tick, tick, tick.  

“What happened?” he finally gritted out, unable to stand the silence— that damnable ticking— any longer.   

“My Lord.” Bellatrix swallowed thickly, the feeling of his magic, the electricity in the air, warning her to be careful.

As much as she enjoyed his presence— as much as she especially enjoyed the lesser, more intimate corrections he usually bestowed onto her in private— his true disciplines were ones she’d always been careful to avoid. After all, he was the one who taught her everything she knew— and no one, no one, could say he was a man known for patience or leniency. 

“We stormed Grimmauld Place, per your instructions,” she said hastily, tongue darting skittishly over suddenly too-dry lips, “and had even gotten inside. Most of the Order managed to escape through portkeys, but we successfully captured both Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.”

His jaw tightened. 

An eyebrow quirked incredulously at the information, some part of him unable to believe her audacity in admitting that she’d captured not one, but two , of their key targets— yet still managed to let them escape under her watch. And faintly, he was aware of his magic seeping out— lashing lazily as a feline might with its tail when angered—  the oppressive force gunning for the bowed woman. It seized her, settling across her shoulders and forcing her to keep looking down. ‘Good,’ he thought vindictively, baring his teeth when she shuddered under the sheer weight of it.  

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Bella, but you’re saying you had not one but two of your intended targets— and you, what? Let them escape? Defied my orders and disappointed me?” he questioned callously, voice frigid— and all the while, that damned clock kept making noise

Tick.

Tick.

Tick

It abruptly shattered, falling from the wall in a rain of glass, and a deafening clatter as its metal face bounced against the floor.

Blissful silence.

Bellatrix flinched against the sound, her whimper barely stifled. Once his magic retreated enough, she looked up, dark eyes furiously blinking to clear them from the blood dripping above her brow. “My Lord, please! It wasn’t my fault! I had Sirius Black, ready to be delivered to you, when a house-elf interrupted me. I would never willingly disappoint you, you know that! I am loyal.”

He stilled at the information, eyes narrowing. They cut across her face, a discerning sweep, to detect if a lie hid there— if she was purposefully deceiving him. She wasn’t. Oh no, that much was clear— was always clear when it came to his Bellatrix.

Leaning off the desk, he eased his grip off the edge marginally. “A house-elf, you say?” 

The woman nodded eagerly— a spray of wild, black curls— and crawled forward a few paces. “Yes, my Lord! It was a house-elf who spirited away my filthy, blood traitor of a cousin!”

His vision blurred— went unfocused as crimson eyes locked, sightlessly, on the door. This was certainly unexpected; an unforeseen complication. Mind mulling it over, he shifted the weight from one foot to another, replaying her exact words. It was true elves were powerful creatures— ones capable of extraordinary feats— and that their magic was only limited slightly by contracts to avoid them using it against the immediate family they served. But it wasn’t exactly common knowledge that the creatures could attack those it wasn’t bound to. And the question remained who it belonged to? If it had been sent to retrieve Sirius Black, who had sent it? Who had knowledge of the raid and the foresight to act on it? Perhaps another Order member? Or an unknown ally? 

“But please, my Lord, my sister is also loyal to you! She would never act out willingly against you,” Bellatrix rushed out.

Red eyes blinked once, then twice, coming back into focus. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth, the bewilderment only mounting when Narcissa was brought into the fold. He looked away from the door and back down to the kneeling witch, eyeing as her lower lip quivered. “Your sister?”

“Oh, yes! I recognised that house-elf. It is in the employ of the Malfoy family but believe me when I say this isn’t Narcissa’s doing!”

Suddenly, it all clicked.

The damning puzzle pieces fell into place, slotted against one another oh-so-perfectly— and how that fury was back with a vengeance

It was a cold, undulating thing in his chest, winding between his ribs as the urge to humourlessly laugh overcame him. ‘Of course.’ Oh yes, now he was getting a rather clear idea of who possibly sent the creature— the only person foolish enough to actively, and consistently, inspire his wrath. 

His lips thinned in displeasure, his fingers twitching with the involuntary need to wrap them around her throat and squeeze . He gave her freedom— a chance to wander about without him breathing down her neck— and this is what she did? Find new ways to spite him? Ruin his plans? The idea to seek her out at this very moment was more than tempting. His tongue brushed over his canines, the prick of them a telltale sign they were close to elongating in his temper. Apparently— though he thought he’d already made it crystal clear— she still was ignorant of the fact that being rebellious was not in her best interest. But fine. If she needed another lesson, another reminder, to get it through her pretty little head, he was more than game. 

Long legs carried him the short distance to his most faithful, a pale hand reaching out to gently tilt her chin up. Judging from that look in her eyes, the fear dancing so vividly in them, it was clear he was openly wearing his frustration— his dissatisfaction. When his words came, they were soft, a murmur, an attempt to be soothing, “I believe you, Bellatrix. Narcissa is not to blame for this.”

The Dark Lord watched in mild interest as the woman relaxed into his touch. Her hooded eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moments, her expression smoothening as though she were relishing in his contact— his supposed mercy

Allowing her the illusion of peace, his attention drifted to the considerable cut on her face, finally taking the chance to discern the extent of the damage. His hand wandered gently, tenderly— almost lovingly— from her chin to trace the outline of it. And, oh, how it was near impossible to stop the smirk from unfurling, the spark of satisfaction, when she hadn’t even flinched at his fingertips grazing it.

“What a shame,” he muttered, the pad of his thumb digging into the worst of the wound. 

The blood began to flow more freely under the unrelenting pressure and he found himself staring, transfixed, at the way it had begun to well— at the way it started to drip as it was disturbed from clotting. On his periphery, he watched for her reaction— the keen eyes of a predator searching for weakness, for any indication she wanted to pull away; to deny him, to cry out that it hurt. She hadn’t. ‘So obedient,’ an idle thought, that smirk growing wider— and that smugness was only goaded on by the faintest pull at the pit of his stomach. That tell-tale sign of something ravenous unfurling, thriving— blooming

Perhaps, a distraction first would be warranted before he sought out his horcrux? 

Something to temper his rage just a touch?

“To ruin such a beautiful face,” he whispered softly, voice low, coaxing, “it’s almost a sin.”

Reluctantly, he lessened the pressure. Pulling away from the purposeful prodding, from instigating and testing her limits to pain, he clicked his tongue in deliberation. Magic was willed carefully into the wound, directed to fix it, mend it— save for the faintest trace of a silver scar. After all, she did need a reminder of her failure; a suitable lesson to never underestimate her opponent, no matter who they were. To warn her that he wouldn't be so merciful, so forgiving,   the next time she happened to slip up. 

Voldemort glanced down to his hand, fingers flexing absentmindedly at the sight. He was dyed with her blood, the scarlet finding its way into the dips, the crevices, the grooves of his skin and under his nailbeds. 

There was the softest sound of a whimper— a dismayed little noise—  from Bellatrix. 

A trembling hand reached out, hesitant fingers curling about his palm and guiding it back to her. All the while, dark eyes watched his own to see if he would protest. 

Head tilting, he allowed it, curiously absorbed as she placed her lips to the tips of his fingers. Her tongue darted out, rather boldly, to run along the length of his index finger— that pull became stronger. That hunger, that ember low in his stomach; these were things he, unfortunately, had become all too familiar with since regaining this form— and, Merlin, how that heat only grew when she pulled his fingers into his mouth. 

She cleaned him, lapping away her blood staining his skin— truly his most loyal of loyal. Who else would be willing to dirty themselves just to make him pure? Who would lower themselves in such a way? 

Truly, this was the greatest surprise to his day: that feeling of the swipe of her tongue, the heat of her mouth, the drag of her teeth against his knuckles. An unexpected— though much needed— distraction that he couldn’t quite turn down; one that Harri will probably thank him for later, if not for the fact Bellatrix was willing to take the brunt of his emotions right now.

But, speaking of his little horcrux— a spike of irritation ripped through the desire. 

His fingers abruptly curled in her mouth, mercilessly pushing down on her tongue as he lorded over her. Perverse amusement glinted in too-red eyes, his nails biting down into the soft muscle— a cruel sort of strength as her bottom jaw was forced open wider. ‘How easy would it be to tear her tongue out?’ It was a passing thought, pressure increasing as though he were deliberating— would she even resist? Try to stop him?

She started to squirm slightly— a choked noise when his fingers crept closer to the back of her throat. A soft exhale escaped him; a huff of amused laughter when tears sprang to her dark eyes and her hands remained firmly on the ground. It was her confirmation, he knew, her vow that she wouldn’t push him away— deny him. This was precisely why he adored his Bella— always so willing to entertain him, no matter the cost.  

When two tears leaked free, rolling in fast tracks down her cheeks, he released the punishing hold. 

Transfixed by her mouth, he hummed at the way the blood that stained her lips had been smeared further across her chin, the colour diluted by her saliva. It wasn’t until he felt eyes glued to his face that he glanced up. 

Desire. So clear was it in her gaze, adoring and open; vulnerable in a way he knew, for a fact, she never was with her husband. Hands, trembling, shaking, unsure— a silent request for permission— went to greedily clutch at the fabric of his trousers. Her long nails were distracting pinpoints of pressure against his flesh— a thing he struggled to ignore as he stared down at her impassively, arched brow raised. 

“My Lord,” she implored, her words ragged— the request was one they both knew she didn’t need to lay out plainly. Oh no, it was one they were both quite familiar with— intimate with— by now. 

An indulgent smirk and a mere nod was his answer. 

He watched silently— the spark of interest catching on steel wool— as her fingers, clumsy from the loss of blood, fumbled at his belt. Eventually, she got it, the sound of the buckle catching free startling in the quiet— deafening.

His head tilted to the left as she worked on the buttons, the zipper— a gliding whir offset by the laboured quality her breathing had taken on. She didn’t even seem to mind that she was still kneeling. No doubt, the ache in her legs would have been noticeable by now— he hadn’t allowed her to get up even once in the past hour, after all. 

Yet, rather, she was entranced, possessed, consumed by her one task. 

That smirk only grew.

It always amazed him with how keen she was, how much she desired him— how desperately she sought to please him even when she stood nothing to gain. Though he had countless followers— and countless other partners— there was something about Bellatrix that elevated her to a different level. A diamond glinting among coal in the extent she went for him, never rebuking nor refusing. And he wondered, offhandedly, if this— this obsession — was more so a result of her own personality or the famed Black madness. Perhaps, it was both. 

He was yanked from his thoughts when she reached into his trousers and pulled him free— a hiss of a breath when her lips stretched to envelop him. 

One hand unthinkingly reached behind him to the desk’s edge, fingers tightening at the flat pull of her tongue running up his length, over his head. A shiver, light and creeping, passed through him, his shoulders tensing as he allowed himself to feel it. To allow that earlier anger be consumed by pleasure; to let that resentment fade so he could face his horcrux without the overwhelming urge to snuff the life from her. 

His eyes slipped shut at a particularly insistent drag— a demanding swallow— the hum that vibrated all the way down his shaft. Merlin, she was brave. Just minutes prior, she had been cowering and pleading before him— and now look at her. The audacity. A groan was stifled as her tongue traced a pattern of swirls, her cheeks hollowing.

Red eyes were forced back open. They drifted down to watch as those dark curls bounced in time with the enthusiastic rhythm of her dipping head— too bold

The hand not gripping the desk knotted itself into her hair, pulling her closer as his hips snapped forward; a breathy laugh from his chest when she went lax instead of fighting. 

He held her there for a few moments before easing away— a mercy to let her breathe. Bellatrix pulled back ever-so, her pace slower as she breathed through her nose, wet eyes flickering up to him with pride. And, oh, how satisfaction filled him at the sight. 

Their gazes were only held for a heartbeat before his head tilted back towards the ceiling. The pale column of his throat was exposed, working hard to swallow, that smirk never once leaving his face. She began to move earnestly again, coaxing him to the edge— darkness . It rose up in him, that edge of toxic desire; a monster less than a man in the moment. Liquid fire may as well have been poured into his veins, the cliff face beckoning him ever closer— a song for him to fall, to sink, to succumb.    

And so he did.

Behind closed lids, a flash of green eyes— far too bright to be human— taunted him; a rosebud mouth, unblemished, cream-coloured skin. Red. Red hair, bright and rich and earthy; a colour taken directly from nature’s own portraits of autumn. 

He came silently, wordlessly, chasing after the girl that haunted him in his mind’s eye.

It was, seemingly, a second nature to Bellatrix. She easily swallowed the evidence of what had just occurred between them, lingering for a few seconds until he went soft in her mouth. A muffled, wet pop filled the office when she pulled away, dark eyes fixed on him— adoring, bright, anticipating

Eventually, he uncraned his neck, gaze sliding back to her when she started to fumble with the clasp on her robe. Tongue clicking, he reached down to cup her jaw— she paused. 

His thumb carefully, assessingly, brushed over her high cheekbones, frowning when he noticed where the similarities between her and Harri both started and ended. His touch wandered down to her chin, pulling absentmindedly at her bottom lip before slipping into the heat of her mouth. And it wasn’t for the first time he found himself wishing for the impossible: he wished it was a different girl on her knees before him. He wished it was her who was here, wanting, yearning to please him— basking in his attention and begging for more.

What a pipedream.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix asked when he hadn’t said anything. Had she done something wrong? Hadn’t she given him what he wanted? 

He sighed, reaching down to tuck himself back into his trousers and redoing his belt. It hadn’t escaped him that there was an anxiety— a nervousness— in that dark gaze now; a fear as though she worried she had offended him. He sent her a small shake of his head. “Wonderful as always, Bella.”

A hand was extended to help her up from her sore knees. It brushed back a wild, errant curl from falling into her eyes— brown instead of green. Wrong. So very wrong. 

“Go get cleaned up,” he instructed, his hand returning back to the safety of the desk. “You have blood all over you.”

She nodded perhaps a bit too quickly. 

He turned from her, rounding the desk and barely heeding the clicking of her heels, the sound of the door closing. Rather, he was staring intently at the blood she hadn’t fully cleaned from his hand. It was drying on his skin, flaking off as rusted specks. 

He figured he should probably seek out his horcrux. To demand to know what she had done; to berate her for her rebellion— to make her understand the consequences. But Bellatrix had done a formidable job in easing his anger.  It was still there, of course, but simmered low, contained— bubbling rather than boiling. 

And, Merlin, all he wanted was to bask in the glow for a bit longer— to bask in that high brought on by the fantasy he had come undone to.

“What to do with you, Harri?” he muttered, spelling away the caked blood from his hands.  He leaned against his desk’s chair, attention drifting back to the window overlooking the atrium.  “What to do with you, indeed?” 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 41: Dancing Snowflakes and Terrible Dreams

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Here is the next chapter you've been waiting for! I have the one after this already written but I just need to give it a read through before posting— it should be either up later tonight or sometime early in the morning.

As usual, here is my daily appreciation for you guys! Seriously, the comments and the kudos are just amazing. Thank you so much 💕 I get so excited to read through your comments and to hear your thoughts + reactions.

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. 

No matter how hard Harri tried to focus on Narcissa’s words, on the task at hand, she just couldn’t. Everything was distant, blurred. Muted; her ears stuffed with cotton, her sight unfocused. And despite her best attempts to tether herself down, her mind was insistent on wandering. 

Leaving far behind the informal dining room of Malfoy Manor, she found herself drifting to Number 12 Grimmauld Place instead.

It was a frantic search, endless rooms and endless parlours— a desperation to find a sign of those she held most dear. Yet, there were none to be had. The musty house was too quiet, too still; suspended as though in a void without time or sound— forever immortalized in one specific moment. Dust was her only companion, the swirls floating hazily in the air as she disturbed its final resting place. Quick puffs danced upwards in agitation; an overbearing presence that served as a reminder that no one was here. 

Rather, its masters had abandoned it— had left it to ruin, to the ravages of time, its furniture encased in sheets and its windows murked over.

A mausoleum in the middle of London. 

She pressed on, all the same. 

Throwing each door open, cries of names formed upon her tongue but died before they could be released. The floorboards creaked louder with each step, ridiculing— taunting— that such a quest to find life within its peeling walls was futile.  

One minute, she had been on the landing, helplessly glancing down one long hallway; the next, she was rushing down the rickety staircase. Flying— taking the steps two at a time, a magnet drawn to the kitchen. 

Her heart pounded erratically behind her ribs, her mouth suddenly too dry, too parched. Swallowing was a herculean task; a surprising difficulty. The oak door, once far away, suddenly was there— a blink and she was standing before it. It rested askew on its hinges, warm light flooding out from its cracks. ‘No. No, don’t go in there,’ some part of her pleaded, writhing to gain control over a body not-quite-her-own. 

As though orchestrated— a marionette on strings—   her hand had flattened itself against the splintering frame.

Stop it. Don’t go in.’ The voice tried to become louder— shouts that echoed and bounced around inside of her skull— begging her to forget, to leave. 

She couldn’t.

Directed to push on that door, she was helpless to do anything but. It parted with an aching groan— a protest as the hinges tried to support its weight— the kitchen’s light rushing out in a salute. 

Her mouth dropped in a silent scream. 

Body seized by the cold, horror stole the air from her lungs. 

At the head of the long table, his body slumped over and glassy eyes trained upon her, was Sirius. His skin had gone blue— as frozen as she felt— his lips pale and beginning to crack at the lack of moisture. A wild, black curl had fallen listlessly into his face, obscuring one eye but doing little to hide the look there— an unspoken accusation. 

Remus was arranged across from him, throat slit and staining the wood in his place a darker shade. Blood had long gone cold, chilled and congealing into a puddle. And in those amber eyes, the same question was captured in his final moments: why didn’t you save us?

She wanted to scream. Wanted to cry out, to deny it wasn’t true— that they were fine, alive, that there was still time to— 

“Merlin, Potter. You really are terrible at this,” a voice had scoffed— a disbelieving humour rooted in the words that resonated, out of place, in the kitchen. 

Harri blinked. 

The daydream shattered. Evaporating, curling away— all it left her with was a vague sense of wanting to be sick. 

Malfoy Manor was slow to materialise back around her. The informal dining room sharpened into focus; a room with its cream-coloured wallpaper and walnut furniture, with its ostentatious luxury and opulence. Green eyes darted about warily, not quite willing to believe this was reality and not the murder scene at Grimmauld Place. 

A shallow breath was a poor attempt to soothe her unsettled heart. She looked to the arched windows for support instead, eyeing the wintery scene with a detached surrealness. Outside, snowflakes— perfect and symmetrical by nature— had begun their lazy descent down onto the veranda; a captivating show beyond the French doors. A fire crackled somewhere behind her, warm sparks contained behind a metal grate. The heat did little to fend off the chill. 

‘It was a daydream. That’s all. Just a daydream,’ reason advocated, trying to discredit the fear causing her hands to shake. She glanced down to them, their tremble drawing her attention— a frown at the cool metal against her palm. A polished knife, gleaming and wickedly serrated, was held in her left hand, her fingers curled tightly about its ivory handle. And before her, an incomplete place setting rested on a blush placemat. None of the utensils were straight or aligned, the napkin haphazardly folded on the plate and the glasses scattered without a care— mayhem

Right. 

The place setting.

It took a moment for her addled mind to remember what she’d been doing. Narcissa had decided today was the day she would be tasked to set a table— and, judging by the stifled snorts coming from the corner, she was going about it entirely all wrong. 

“I mean, honestly. This is quite basic stuff,” Draco chastised, a good-natured smile pulling wide as he goaded her. It wasn’t every day, after all, that he found something he could lord over Harri Potter as being better than her at. “What? Don’t tell me it’s too difficult for you?”

He opened his mouth to tack on another taunt— to perhaps prod her into snapping back— when he noticed something was off. She looked waned, her mouth pressed into a grim line and her eyes, those startlingly green eyes, a touch too glassy. His jaw closed with an audible click, gaze bouncing down to the trembling knife held in her hand. 

“Draco! Manners,” Narcissa reprimanded from across the table, painted lips— a brilliant shade of red— twitching in their corners to fight off a frown. 

Under the politely indifferent mask she tried to wear, consternation still peeked through— a dismay that bordered on horror. Admittedly, she thought this was the best place to start: who could really botch setting a table? Well, apparently Harri Potter could, that’s for certain. And though she would never dare to admit it aloud, Narcissa found herself secretly agreeing with her son.

Manicured nails drummed rhythmically on the table— the only physical sign she would allow of her frustration. Pale eyes swept across the poorly arranged plates, fine brows pinching at the way everything had been thrown together without regard to size, function, or colour. The sight was nearly painful. And it took an effort, more than she would care to admit, to find her composure. There was patience needed, she was well-aware, when it came to teaching the girl. After all, she was raised among muggles— the lack of refinement wasn’t her fault, all things considered. 

With a drawn sigh, Narcissa quickly turned on her heel. “I believe a short break is in order. Let me go see if afternoon tea is ready to be served.”

Draco glanced over, watching as his mother fled the room in a hurried manner. It was out of habit that he winced at how particularly loud the clicking of her heels were— a sign that her patience had been run through. As much as he loved the woman, would always do so, her largest fault was her lack of tolerance when it came to poor manners— and, Merlin, he was grateful every day that he had been born a boy rather than a girl. It was a torture he could only imagine growing up with his mother’s helicoptering, authoritarianism as a daughter compared to a son. Unfortunately, that was a hell reserved for Harri at the moment— the briefest flickers of sympathy. 

He turned to the girl when he was certain his mother was gone, lips thinning at the fact she didn’t even appear to notice. A hand tentatively reached out to unfurl her tight fingers from the knife’s handle, easing it from her grasp and setting it down. 

Out of his periphery, he watched her curiously. His mother may not have noticed that something was upsetting her— bothering her—  but he had. Oh yes, he’d been around Harri long enough to recognise the signs, the tells, those minute signals that something wasn’t right. Seven years of watching definitely made him intimate with her cues— an obsession fostered ever since she had rejected his hand, his friendship, in front of the Great Hall all those years ago.  

“What's wrong?” he finally asked, voice kept soft, low. 

Harri blinked when a hand came to rest upon her upper back— right between her shoulder blades— and guided her into a chair. She thought maybe to protest at the simple touch. To tell him he probably shouldn’t— who knew who was watching, after all— but her tongue remained uncooperative. 

Once settled, he pulled out the chair next to hers, rotating it so they faced one another.

And, for a moment, all she did was stare. 

Helplessly, wordlessly, all she managed to do was look at Draco. 

It was a surprise, admittedly one that touched her, that her daydream hadn’t escaped his notice. Did he have a sixth sense? Perhaps he was psychic— and wouldn’t that make things so much easier? At least that way, she wouldn’t have to say aloud everything she wanted to. Wouldn’t have to explain the house-elf, what she had done; wouldn’t have to confess to the hastily written note stuffed into her bra, or how the Dark Lord was intent on murdering everyone she cared for. Wouldn’t have to gush about how he had sent his Death Eaters to march on Grimmauld Place, or repeat his ominous warning— one declared so casually over tea— how ready he was to annihilate— obliterate—any who had the barest association with the Order. 

If he was psychic, then at least he would know she was scared beyond all reason. That she felt as though this was her fault— would know intimately the guilt that ate away at her during the long, moonlit hours of the night and well into the rosy-fingered dawn.

If he was psychic, then maybe he would understand how this situation was entirely due to her mistakes, her existence— her everything. That things only turned out the way they did because she dared to breathe— was Voldemort’s damned horcrux; the sole reason he’d come back in the first place. 

If he was psychic, then maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone. 

So, so alone

But he wasn’t, was he? 

And she couldn’t, wouldn’t,  implicate him any more than she already had.

“It’s nothing,” she said. The excuse sounded false even to her ears— too hollow, too unconvincing.

Harri bit her lower lip, resolutely looking back to the windows and the snowy scene to stop the tears— because, surely, she would cry if she had to face any longer that open concern he was looking at her with. Oh, yes, she knew. 

She knew she would break down so easily if he pressed any harder— and that was something neither of them could afford. If— when, she corrected herself— Voldemort found out what she’d done, she wanted Draco to at least claim innocence. To say he wasn’t privy to her sins— that it was entirely her own doing, her volition, and that he wasn’t an accomplice.  To spare him the difficulty of picking a side by coercing him into keeping her secrets— into sharing the burden.

Truthfully, that was just another guilt she wasn’t prepared to shoulder. 

Draco watched her thoughtfully. Pale eyes flickered across her turned profile, her silhouette lit by the weak winter’s sun. ‘Merlin, she’s a terrible liar.’ From the way she was gnawing on her lower lip to the way she was refusing eye contact, her bluff was pathetic . Though, in a way, it was also endearing, reassuring even. This was the same old Potter he always knew. The same who wore her heart on her sleeve; who still shouldered the weight so no one else would have to. The same that still held onto that infuriating habit he could never understand— a saviour complex so ingrained, so damning, that it was nearly admirable.

“Come on, Potter.” He nudged her knee with his.  “I’ve watched you for almost seven years now. Long enough to know that whenever you make that face, you’re lying. Trust me when I say, on a good Slytherin authourity, you are absolutely terrible at it.”

A laugh— one she hadn’t meant to do but one that came out of its own free will— bubbled up from her chest. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, mouth tilting up into a watery smile. It was just like him to find a way to insult and comfort her at the same time.

“Almost seven years, Malfoy? Huh, that makes you sound like a stalker, you know that right? Should I be looking into restraining orders?” Harri said, unable to help herself.

 Draco smiled at her reply— a relief when those green eyes lost a bit of their dullness. “What? Don’t you realise how lucky you are to have the full attention of the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy? I daresay Parkinson would be frothing at the mouth to be in your position. Consider yourself blessed, Potter.”

She shook her head slightly, the corners of her mouth quirking higher. Eventually, she turned in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she eyed him in a playful incredulity. Merlin, how she missed their usual, snide banter. It almost felt normal— almost. Comfortable. Like, if she tried hard enough, she could picture them back at their secret spot near the lake— could see them huddled close against the autumn chill, their laughter free and unburdened. Hell, she could even feel in her palm the phantom rocks they used to skip— a friendly competition, always accusing the other of cheating or jesting at the lack of skill.

What she wouldn’t give to go back to those times.

“Careful there, Draco.” She raised a brow, scoffing at the smugness in his eyes. “I’m worried for you. Don’t you know an inflated ego can cause your head to swell? And then where would you be without your pretty face? Though, I guess all things considered, Pansy would still probably drool over you.”

“Oh? Is that a note of jealousy, I detect?”

She rolled her eyes, fingers skirting around the silk placemat on the table. “Oh please. Of Pansy? Never.” 

Silence stretched between them— a moment of quiet where all he did was study her. And for the most damning of reasons, he felt so warm. A warmth in his chest that came from the fact he managed to distract her, had cleared the storm and temporarily eased her worry. He had always been of the firm opinion, after all, that smiles suited her more than frowns. 

And truly, Merlin, how her smile could compete with the sun itself. 

His knee bumped against hers more deliberately this time, voice serious though his grin remained light-hearted. “Good. Because she doesn’t even compare to you, Harri.”

Harri glanced over to him, index finger halting in its tracing of the knife’s ivory handle. Teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she considered Draco, trying to discern if he was teasing her— if this was part of their game of banter— or if it was genuine. Did he actually mean those words? Was he being earnest? Sometimes with him, it was hard to tell. 

This wasn’t one of those times. 

From one look at the seriousness in his eyes, the hard determination glinting in their depths, she knew he was trying to be sincere. And for some reason, it twinged in her heart— a sharp taste left behind in her mouth. It brought on recollections of her slip of control— of when she kissed him in a drunken haze and when her face heated when he had said she looked divine , of all things. Part of her wished he would stop it. Stop staring at her with a light she was unfamiliar with; stop trying to ruin their moment. That he would go back to being just Draco— the boy she could be snide around, could trade stinging retorts with and always count on to be a pain in her side.

The Draco where she didn’t have to question, wonder— didn’t have to try to rein in this painful beating in her chest. 

She wanted that Draco back.

The smile on his face slipped when he saw her contemplate everything— when that teasingness and openness in her shuttered. He leaned in, his hand coming to rest on the table near hers, not quite touching but hovering close all the same.

Green eyes glanced down to that hand— more specifically, at the way his little finger nearly nudged hers. 

 “I mean it, Harri,” Draco said softly. “I’m not alone either in thinking it. And now that you’re dressing like this? Well. It suits you. You look— good. Beautiful, really.” 



He had been watching them from the shadows. 

Curious as to what was unfolding before him, he refused to materialise into a solid form just yet— what might he catch? Be privy to that he normally wouldn’t be? Rendezvousing lovers sneaking stolen moments the second a watchful eye disappeared? Or just friends— friends far too close for his own liking? 

In either case, he despised it. 

The earlier mood Bellatrix had helped put him in was fading— rapidly— that fury back when he saw how carefree she was around this boy . How easily she doled out those cursed smiles, how infectious her joy. How his horcrux was so casual and, much to his irritation, flirting so naturally— where had she learned to act this way?

Crimson eyes tracked that hand as it rose to the table— the audacity of it— to linger near hers. Touching— almost touching what that whelp certainly had no right to. 

Spite flooded him.

He stepped forth from the shadows, gaze narrow and hands clenched behind his back. Yet, on his face he wore a serene picture; an expression of congeniality in the way his mouth curved into a smile and his brows relaxed.

A lie.

All of it a lie.

“I find myself agreeing with you, Draco .” Emphasis had been put on his name— and, oh, how pleased was he when both of their heads snapped to the corner of the room from which he emerged. “Our Harri is quite beautiful, is she not? Especially now that she’s out of those muggle rags.”

 And even though he had said our, there was an implication behind the word that suggested quite the opposite. A subtle warning, a challenge resting in crimson eyes— a deterrent meant to keep the boy from verbally agreeing.

It was sating when the boy’s hand had retracted to his side— a blur so quick that he may as well have been burnt. Even more so, though, was the wide-eyed shame so clear in that pale gaze— the terror at being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

His smile widened. 

There was a quick, mumbled greeting of ‘my Lord’ followed by a chair being hastily pushed back— a movement on the edges of his vision as the pureblood bent in half in a bow. Yet, the Dark Lord barely minded him. 

Rather, his attention was consumed entirely by the girl.

Those green eyes, unblinking and doe-like, held a sheen of fear; a shock so blatant in them that he could nearly feel it himself. And compared to the fear of Draco, this one was different— it was personal. Enticing

“Harri. Come.” He tilted his head towards the door, his cupped hand extended out in less of an invitation and more of a demand— an ultimatum that left no room for questioning. “Accompany me on a stroll, will you?”

Harri glanced uneasily to Draco. It was difficult to not see the hidden tension in the line of his shoulders, the way he was so stiff, so on edge. A thick swallow. 

Her attention drifted back to Voldemort— when had he arrived? What did he all see? Why was he here? Her heart hammered at the possibilities. ‘What if he knows?’ It was a thought that did little to quell her inner-panic, to calm her thrumming pulse. And somehow, a ‘stroll’ sounded far less innocent than he was trying to make it appear.

His calmness wasn't something not to trust.

She wasn’t sure how she could tell it was but she could. He was putting on airs, was pretending for whatever reason that he was fine, collected. Another heavy swallow as green eyes bounced down to the hand waiting for her. Merlin, how could a hand be so intimidating?  

Her head dipped in a small nod, an acquiesce to his request, as she rose from the chair on unsteady legs. Whatever was going to happen, she figured it was best to be as far from Draco as possible— and that meant she couldn’t stay here. ‘But maybe he doesn’t know? Maybe he’s just mad about something else?’ an unhelpful voice supplied, disinclined feet unwilling to step any closer to him. 

She stalled for a second by smoothing out the pleats in her dress. Yes, maybe that was it. After all, how could he know what she’d done? Unless Zivvy ratted her out, of course— but that was unlikely seeing how loyal the house-elf appeared to her. Plus, it wasn’t as though Voldemort was her master. He couldn’t just order her to tell him everything— right?

A deep breath through her nose and she was crossing the room. Attention fixed on the extended hand, she did her best to ignore how cold his skin was against hers— how small, insignificant, her fingers were in comparison. 

But, most of all, she tried to ignore the firmness in which he held her as he led them away from the crackling fire and dancing snowflakes.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 42: His Greatest Masterpiece: "The Girl Who Lived"

Notes:

Hello everyone!

I just wanted to pop in to say thank you so much to those who have been reading along and telling me that you've been enjoying this story! 💕It means the world to me as a writer.

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Voldemort guided them down an empty corridor— the ivory hall abandoned but no less pristinely kept than the rest of the manor— the girl at his side attempting to keep up. She had to rush to match his stride, one step of his equating two of hers. 

Silence grew in the place of conversation— weighted, stifling, nothing to occupy the other from their thoughts save for the out-of-sync clicking of their shoes. Since leaving the dining room, not one single word had been spared between them. She remained stubbornly mute; he wasn’t inclined to engage, either. Oh, no. It was best to let her stew, he figured— let her worry and panic and let her mind race with the roar of too-many thoughts. Let her sweat it out.

Hell, he might even get a confession out of her without prompting.

It was an idea that, admittedly, piqued his interest— an idea that brought with it images of her on her knees, of her tear-stained face as she begged for his forgiveness and absolution.

A pretty, dangerous image.    

Out of his periphery, he kept finding himself looking to her. They were stolen, little glances edged by impatience, crimson eyes searching, seeking, for any sign she was going to buckle. However, it would appear his little horcrux was more fortified than he originally thought. From the pressed line of her mouth to her straightened spine, to that stubbornly lifted chin and those green eyes set forward, she was utterly unabashed. Unapologetic

Disbelief chased the tails of fury at the sheer audacity. 

Exhaling through his nose, he tried to remember the plan he had thought of back in the office. He would give her some more time, another chance to confess— to explain herself and the rashness of her actions— and he would be lenient. He promised himself he would; an exercise in the patience extended to his unruly horcrux. And if she didn’t admit to her wrongdoings? Well. That was a bridge to cross later.

Wide, grand doors suddenly materialised at the end of the hall. 

A gallery awaited on the other side— a long hall with glass for the ceiling, one wall plastered with an array of fine works, the other mirrored. Sculptures rested on scattered podiums, busts and lifelike renditions, their marble polished to a shine. Oh yes, this room was the true testament to the wealth and prestige of the Malfoy name; a collection in the making that spanned centuries. 

Much as it was in the corridor, the room was eerily quiet. It was a tranquil space, one that felt near sacrilegious to even breathe too loudly in for the fear of drawing attention away from the magnificent art.

Harri followed on tentative feet, brows pinched in a look caught somewhere between amazement and confusion. Why had Voldemort brought them here? Her marvelling, however, was cut short when the Dark Lord paused in front of a gilded frame. She squinted at the plaque, mouth silently forming around the words: Druella Black (née Rosier) (fl. 1955).

It was a dark painting, shadows stretched long by the crackling fireplace in the backdrop. There was a delayed moment before she considered it was probably enchanted. And, sure enough, the flames danced in the mantle and the damask curtains swayed on an invisible breeze. ‘Perhaps it was someone he knew?’ Her head tilted as she considered the portrait and the empty, high-backed chair. 

She thought to ask him outright but found herself entirely unable. The silence was as intimidating as his carefully blank expression— and both demanded caution to circumvent. 

Thankfully, he spoke first.

“Narcissa felt the obligation to bring the frame with her.” Crimson eyes slid from the canvas to the girl at his side, their hands— a belated realisation her palm was still held in his— untangling as she withdrew. There was the strangest urge to grab it again. To tighten his fingers around hers and demand she only let go when he allowed it.

He watched her for a beat, gaze flickering down to her hand before finding her eyes again. His throat cleared and he turned back to the frame. “It was sometime after Grimmauld Place was labelled vacant. She said that it wouldn’t sit right with her to leave her mother behind in an empty house.”   

Well, if Harri had been confused before, she was downright perplexed now. It circled in her mind, the word ‘vacant’ sticking more so than the woman’s identity. Fine brows knitted together, bottom lip held between her teeth as she tried to make herself appear busy with studying the sombre background. How could Sirius’s home be considered abandoned? And a part of her just couldn’t resist the impulse to know why. “Vacant? What do you mean Grimmauld Place is vacant?”

The Dark Lord hummed noncommittally— and how difficult was it to keep the triumph, the smugness, from peeking through his disinterested facade. Oh, she just damned herself. Truly, she did. It was so clear in the way of her interest. Her body language— how she was thoughtfully chewing at her lip and how her head tilted as though she were trying to figure it out. Her voice— the lilt in it that betrayed the confusion at the news. The girl was all but verbally admitting she knew the Black manor was far from being empty.

“Whenever a pureblood inherits an estate, they are required to register it in the Ancestral Properties Holding codex,” he explained. “Sirius Black registered Grimmauld Place as a tertiary residence and, therefore, vacated. Quite a shame, really.”

He turned from the portrait, measured strides absentmindedly carrying him to a different one. And it was with his back turned that he finally allowed himself to smirk— to smirk at the fact she was giving chase, eager on his heels.

Silence settled back into place, only punctuated by the soft glide of her dress and the whisper of his robes billowing out behind him. But it was in the quiet that he could practically hear the gears of her mind. They scraped and screeched against one another, vainly turning despite missing a crucial cog to smoothen out their rotation. Though, even more telling was her presence in their bond. She lit it up with her bewilderment; a wild, living thing that bounced between them uncontained. 

It was almost too easy.

Unbearably so.

His steps came to a halt in the center of the marble showroom, his smile wide, outwardly good-natured. With an open hand, he indicated for her to explore.

The girl skirted past him cautiously, the blatant distrust on her face smoothing out as the distance grew between them. In its place, open fascination took up residency— wonderment. She slipped between the podiums, attention captured by the statues posed in a myriad of ways. And, oh, how he couldn’t resist simply tracking her— studying her— as she circled about.

Contentment.

It bloomed unexpectedly— a momentary distraction from his anger— as he noticed, for the first time, what she was wearing. A dress. More specifically, a dress he had picked out. It clung to her in a flattering fashion, the bodice tight and the waist nipped, before flaring out ever-so at her hips. The scooped neckline highlighted the slope of her shoulders, the grooves of her collarbones, and, most importantly, the curve of her throat. His insignia lay there, glinting and nestled into the hollow. He found himself transfixed by the pendant— that is, until his gaze shifted just slightly and he saw it . On the right side of her neck, peeking out from underneath the velvet ribbon, was a shimmer of silver— teeth impressed into her skin as a scar that never fully healed. So much bolder than a little brooch could ever be— his claim. It would be an outright lie to say the sight, the very knowledge, didn’t fill him with pride. Victory.

Hell, it was even almost enough to make him forget her shortcomings— the entire reason they were here— right then and there.

Throat clearing, he forced himself to look at her in her entirety— a full picture rather than one or two details. Truly, she appeared at home among the art. Down to her cream skin, nearly the same shade as the marble busts— save for the rosy flush of life in her cheeks— and her gently carved features, she could very well be mistaken for part of the installations if she remained still— autumn personified. Perhaps this is where she should stay? In this gallery, cloistered and sequestered away with all of the other priceless artifacts. It would be easy to curse her with eternal sleep, after all— oh, so very easy. 

He could picture it now: her laying on a bed of roses amid the grandness of the showroom, her brow eased in sleep and her expression serene. And at least with those too-green eyes permanently sealed shut, that willful nature always sparking in them wouldn’t be a problem. Nor would her sharp, reckless tongue. He could be content to stare at her, to enjoy the loveliness of his horcrux without the disobedience that accompanied her waking state. He could—

No

No, he couldn’t. Because he knew, deep down, that it would be a lie to claim otherwise: he would never be content with just looking.  

Hands that had laced behind his back squeezed tight.

“Though, the strangest thing has been happening as of late. There’s been quite the flurry of activity coming from Grimmauld Place, despite its supposed vacancy,” he said casually. “One can’t help but wonder if Mr. Black might be attempting to move in?”

The goading hit its mark. 

Her spine went rigid, her next step a stumble. Green eyes shot up from their admiration of a handsome bust to land on his nonchalant expression. ‘He knows.’ Though calm he appeared, there was the unbidden image in her mind— an association made without meaning to— of a coiled snake ready to strike.

She cursed herself for being stupid. For not seeing it sooner, for not hazarding a guess as to why he had shown her the portrait to begin with— or why he brought up the Black ancestral home. ‘But, then again, maybe he’s just trying my bluff? Maybe he doesn’t actually know?’ 

A tightrope appeared before her; a fine, balancing act required to not incriminate herself by accident. Should she just keep playing the innocent? 

The gallery suddenly was too quiet, too empty—too smothering. An uncomfortable revelation of just how, exactly, secluded it was from the rest of the manor. Would anyone hear her if she screamed? Would they even help? ‘Probably not.’ Her stomach soured. 

Rather than responding, she remained mute. Her feet instinctively moved on to another statue— a bid to purchase further distance and to remain well out of reach. Logistically, she was aware he wouldn’t kill her. Oh no, he would refuse to do anything that might harm his soul in the process. Yet still, testing the bounds of his patience wasn’t exactly something she was keen on. 

‘So. She’s going to keep playing dense,’ he thought spitefully, tongue running along his teeth as she moved away on faltering legs. He mirrored her steps. A few forward to match her few backward. At first, it was a delightful little game— a dance they were engaged in—but one that he found was quickly losing its appeal.

“Did you know, Harri, that whenever a house-elf leaves the wards, its destination is magically logged?” he explained, his clipped accent drawling in his ire. “Well. Then again, judging from your expression, I suppose not. But you can imagine my surprise when a certain elf, one that I had assigned to you out of good faith that you wouldn’t abuse its powers, had appeared not once but twice at Grimmauld Place.” 

Crimson eyes narrowed marginally as her hip clipped a podium in her haste. The marble bust atop it wobbled precariously. And only vaguely was he aware of a sharpness— acidic and astringent— coating his tongue; a sign that his fangs were threatening to elongate in response to his rising temper. 

Curses ran through Harri’s mind as he moved closer. Hellfire stared her down— flames flickering in his gaze— the lines of his body both somehow entirely too tense and too relaxed.

Danger

Her pulse drummed deafeningly in her ears— a rhythm of dread— her heart beating at such a pace that her ribs ached in an effort to contain it. Merlin, why couldn’t she feel her fingers? Why were they so numb— almost vibrating? And hovering just over his shoulder, at the very end of the narrow stretch of the room, she could see the door. The way out. Her freedom. Every instinct was a plea to get out— an unnerving sense of deja vu that she had been in this position far too many times for her liking. 

The graveyard resurfaced, bringing with it all of the viscerality and terror she hoped would have been dulled by now. Caked in dirt while darting behind tombstones to evade the monster that emerged from the cauldron— the nauseating sense of being cornered without an escape. ‘And look where you are now,’ a snide voice remarked. She tried to ignore it, hands curling in on themselves— a quiet gasp of pain when the bone at her hip bumped against a sharp corner and pinpricks were left in its wake. 

It was a damning revelation, as she looked into those red, red eyes and was faced with the heated cut of his anger: the man before her was still the same monster, the same devil, from back then. 

No matter the face he wore, no matter the voice he spoke in, he was the same.  

He was the same.

Fight or flee.

Fight or flee.

Voldemort stalked closer— a sadistic delight twisting in his chest at the very fact the back wall was drawing nearer and nearer. She was running out of space. And one of two things were going to happen: either she would submit— realise she had no escape— or defy him by attempting to run. He hoped it was the latter. Oh, how he hoped— he prayed she would struggle, would fight, would give him reason to act upon his darkening mood.

“And how interesting is it, Harri, that this elf showed up on the very day I sent my Death Eaters to Grimmauld Place?” He was nearly whispering at this point. The words carried all the same. “That this elf in question managed to spirit away both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin from right out underneath my most faithful?”

Despite the situation— despite the gravity of it and the danger looming— Harri found herself blindsided by a rush of hope. An odd sense of optimism. Relief. ‘They got away,’ she thought with breathless wonder. ‘Zivvy did it.’

She was brought crashing back to reality when the bust nearest to her suddenly ruptured. It exploded with a thunderous crack; a shower of marble and a cloud of dust. 

Green eyes snapped back to the Dark Lord, her breath caught at the way his jaw had clenched and his shoulders were drawn. Magic was a sickening, electric pulse in the air— suffocating. It went straight to her head.

The ground beneath her unsteady feet spun; a wave of vertigo threatening to make her buckle.

Fight or flee.

Fight or flee.

Fight— flee.  

She bolted for the door. 

As though he were merely humouring her, she had made it a few paces past him— past the sculptures and the long row of paintings— before an unseen force slammed into her side.

One minute, she had been sprinting. The next, she was thrown into the air, feet leaving the ground as she was tossed about like a ragdoll. The ensuing impact was equally unexpected when she was pinned against the wall.

A wheeze, a low groan of pain, bubbled up as the air was forcefully expelled from her lungs. Her shoulder smarted— throbbed — as it collided with the mirror. 

A blur of black: the Dark Lord was suddenly there, crowding her— caging her— his face pulled close.

“You foolish girl. Do you have any idea of what you have done?” he seethed.

It was a frightening conclusion to come to, Harri realised as she stared up into his face and tried to regain her breath, that Voldemort was not the type of person to yell when angered. He was not the kind to scream or turn red like her uncle— not the kind to use his fists like her cousin. No, he was the type to remain outwardly intact, composed; the type to speak evenly and get his point across with cold words. 

She wished he was the first kind. 

She really did.

At least then, she would know what to do. She would know what to avoid saying or how to de-escalate and appease him— but she didn’t. Here, pinned under his wrath, his magic, she was at a loss for how to respond appropriately. And that terrified her.

“I was going to grant those who renounced the Order clemency. I was going to forgive and pardon them if they merely complied. I even instructed Bellatrix to bring back your precious friends alive,” his words bordered on parseltongue, glowing eyes searching hers for comprehension. “But you have marked them as fugitives. As traitors. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, that house-elf— they are all damned because of your recklessness.” 

The world that had finally come back to her melted away just as quickly— a dizzying whirl of colours and ringing sounds. She looked for a lie, for a bluff— for any tell he was deceiving her. There wasn’t any to be found. 

A bitter medicine; a creeping bile in the back of her throat. This was her fault, just as she’d originally feared. ‘They could have been safe,’ she thought in horror, his admission looping. ‘But I ruined their chance.’ 

Breaths came to her as pants— too rapid, too short to be fulfilling. Not enough . Far from enough; a rising sense of panic that only sought to dull the brightness of the gallery. He wasn’t the forgiving type. Oh yes, that was a truth she’d come to know quite intimately— and she highly doubted he would be willing to extend that mercy again.

It eventually registered that he had a hold on her wrist— a wince when fingers tightened and pressed her harder into the mirrored wall. But even through the physical pain, all she managed to cling to was his mention of Zivvy. 

‘Why did he bring her up?’ 

Why was the elf being implicated when all she had done was follow her orders?

Harri fumbled for words, her tongue too heavy, unwilling. “What did you do to Zivvy?”

His burning gaze slipped down— a brief moment of weakness— at her gulps for air that forced her chest into his own. The swell of it was heaving in an effort to steady her intake. And a good portion of himself— the side not distracted entirely by the sensation of her heart thrumming behind her breastbone, the soft curves— the vindictive, twisted side— thought this was perfect . ‘Good. Let her understand what her rebellion has cost them.’ 

Mouth parting, cruel words at the ready on a silver tongue— he paused.

There, sticking out barely from the corner of her neckline, tucked away into her undergarment, was a scrap of discoloured parchment. 

Voldemort latched onto it, eyes narrowing as though its presence offended him. Fingers skimmed callously past the scooped opening of her dress: he plucked it out. The effect was instant. She started to protest, demanding for him to stop— that he had no right to read it— his lip curling into a sneer.

Yet another secret his horcrux was harbouring. 

Admittedly, it was unassuming; a crumpled scrap, barely legible scrawl, tattered and torn and wrinkled. His mouth twisted into a perplexed frown. With a flick of his wrist, his magic pushed outward to keep her in place.

He turned from her and unfolded it. 

By now, she was thrashing in earnest, attempting to uselessly unstick herself from the wall. The yelling sharpened— pitched in volume— a pleading quality that only spurred him on. What could have possibly gotten her so worked up?

Stillness followed the seconds where he scanned the letter’s contents— a weighted hush. 

The bold declaration they would not yield to him— the encouragement for her to do the same. The words impressed deep into the paper, the force, the passion behind them as they were engraved by the sharp nib of a quill: “ We are coming.”

The intention was slow to sink in; a burrowing into his skin like sand sifting through a sieve. They were coming to steal what wasn’t theirs. To thieve away something that had already been denied to him for sixteen long years.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered dangerously— a hiss contained in their glass cages, the threat of rupture impending— his magic welling up with a savagery that moved him to bare his teeth. How dare they— how dare they

His wrath bled outwards as it consumed the note in his hand— a brilliant flame that curled away into a plume of blackened smoke. Ash scattered to the floor, peppering the white tile underfoot with the phantom words from the Order. 

A choked gasp on his periphery. 

Red eyes, narrowed in incensed ire, snapped back to his horcrux pinned against the wall, scrutinizing, studying— dissecting. Initially, he had thought it was a simple request made in passing; an innocent demand to save her ‘family’ and without any greater plotting involved. She was, after all, a bleeding heart.

He was wrong.

This, oh this,  was a greater betrayal. From what the note implied, they had been passing messages were conspiring together. That there was more to her intentions than a naive wish to save them— that she was still looking for a way to escape. 

“You’ve been communicating with them,” he accused, voice low and deceptively even. 

Admittedly, it wasn’t even her betrayal that ate at him the most— it was the fear . The fear at the prospect of her being stolen— sequestered away somewhere he didn’t know and without any idea on how to get her back. The terror that it was she could be destroyed the very second they found out what she was. Because, undoubtedly, they would. They would so callously attempt it once they discovered how precious she was to him. But yet, this girl— this slip of a girl still thrashing with all of her might against the mirror— remained entirely clueless to the danger she would be in if they succeeded. And it was that lack of awareness that enraged him more than anything else. 

“What did you do?!” Harri demanded again. “What did you do to Zivvy?!”

Images suddenly flooded her mind’s eye as he slipped in without warning. Vile. Revolting. Stomach-churning. A house-elf flashed before her— a decapitated body, skin waxy and knees knobby, a pillowcase shift stained with rust and a stump of a neck slickened. A too-large head rolled away on the flagstone, purple eyes wide, glassy. Merlin, she could smell it. The tang of copper— the cloying, metallic sweetness as it settled heavily on her tongue.  

She was going to be sick. 

Voldemort stalked over to her, hand darting out to grip her jaw— a bruising hold— and wrenched her face up to him. “That elf sealed its fate the second it raised its hand against a witch. Though if you must know, Harri, should I summon its body? Let you look upon it until you’re satisfied? Until you have come to understand what you have done?” 

She registered as fingers dug in—  cruel points of pressure that ached on tender bone— green eyes blinking owlishly. ‘He killed her.’ But why? Why when all Zivvy had done was follow her orders? Why when the house-elf was so innocent in all of this? The vision of the Dark Lord began to blur, to distort— warmth. An errant tear slipped past her lashes, rolling in a scorching path down her cheek. ‘He put her down like a dog.’ 

“You’re a monster,” she breathed out, the venom behind the words dulled by disbelief. She jerked away, freeing herself from his hold. The emerald silk that had been tying her hair back slipped— a soft cascade of red waves, a rebellious strand falling into tear-filled eyes. “A fucking monster.” 

“That may be so,” he agreed all too-lightly— a heavy weight in his chest as he forced his magic back into its cage; an uncomfortable sensation as it shifted under his skin. He took a step back, chin lifted. “But I am the monster you can never outrun, Harri.” 

The invisible force holding her against the wall disappeared.

She slumped against the floor, auburn hair spilling past her shoulders— as fiery as the look of contempt held in a mutinous, green gaze. Her hand rubbed at its twin’s sore wrist, the bruising there only adding more dry kindling to the fire in her chest. 

“Let the elf’s death serve as a valuable lesson to you, Harri,” he said. “Your actions now have consequences. You want to be treated as an adult? Then fine— this is what it means to be one. Everything you do, every move you now make, has repercussions you must be prepared to face.”

Overwhelming resentment writhed in the empty spaces between her ribs, her breathing laboured as it inhaled, exhaled one truth: she wanted to hurt him. In this moment, she wanted to make him pay. It sang in her, the tempo of war drums pounding in her ears. 

He bared his teeth when her vitriol coloured their bond. Sharp— polluting. Canines elongated into fangs, catching the bright showroom’s lighting with a wicked glint— an instinctual attempt to make her submit. If she wanted to fight, then alright. He was willing to oblige, even if logic once advocated for leniency. All too easily, though, was that voice lost amid the cacophony of his own emotions. All too easily did it disappear, fade, when confronted by something more primal, more bestial— savage.  

Harri rose on shaking legs, eyes flashing at the sight of his fangs and slitted pupils. It sparked something in her— a feeling she didn’t quite understand but one that wound her too tightly, too tensely. It made her teeth clench, her fingers to shake— a prickling on the back of her neck as she realised he was trying to make her yield. She hated it. 

Hated this feeling.

Hated that he was lording over her.

Hated him

“Is that so?” Her words came out as a hiss, her tongue slipping into their shared language under the influence of anger. 

The world about her tinted red as he unwaveringly took a step forward. Rationality had been overruled by her temper, those war drums near deafening as their beat drowned out all common sense: that he was the one with the wand, the one that had control over his magic, the one that towered and could easily wipe the floor with her without blinking. But, sweet Merlin, could she care less. 

Her chest felt too tight, her blood molten— acidity on her tongue. “So you what? You murdered a house-elf for obeying orders? For what she was forced to do? How is this supposed to be a ‘lesson’?”

Voldemort could practically see, feel, the frayed cords of his control slipping— twisting, breaking, unraveling. Part of him was caught between appreciating her bravery— her spirit— and the magic seeping out of her with a signature so close to his own. Yet, that admiration was altogether eclipsed by the fact she was spitting on his mercy. She should be grateful— should be kissing his robes— for his generosity in using the death of one, measly servant— one already doomed— to teach her this lesson. She should be grateful he hadn’t forced her to watch its execution— that he refrained from using someone far more important to her in his example. 

In all sense of the word, he had been forgiving. But yet, she was scoffing at his efforts.

Harri,” he warned quietly, willing her to hold her tongue and to stop talking. 

In a moment of weakness— a mistake — his gaze flickered down to the column of her pale throat. The hurried pulse there was a siren’s song, one that sought to completely obliterate the crumbling walls of his control: how easy would it be to bleed her out? To bite and tear into her flesh? To find the piece of himself deep inside and crush it between his teeth? 

He could end this all right now, right here. Free himself of this complication and further defiance— he could . And truly, it was a marvel— a sin almost— that she possessed zero awareness of how fragile she actually was. As she crowded his space, chin jutted and shoulders squared, she had no idea how vulnerable she was— how easily he could extinguish her life with the same effort of snuffing the flame from a candle. 

“You’re upset because I— what, exactly? Chose my friends, my family, over you!?” She felt adrift, consumed by both ends of a bond overbrimming with rage. And part of her wondered if these feelings were her own or if they belonged to him as well— that she was mostly being swept along by the tide of his emotions. That she wasn’t even allowed to feel without him staking some kind of claim in it. “Well, newsflash, I’m never, ever going to willingly choose you— ‘horcrux loyalty’ be damned! Because, guess what? I don’t owe you a single, fucking thing!”

Small hands reached up in the space between their bodies and planted themselves firmly on the center of his sternum— a forceful push. The strength was enough to make him stumble back a step, crimson eyes widening in shock. 

A shattering sound.

It filled the quiet behind them, one of the mirrors on the wall cracking— a spider web pattern splintering down its center. And, for once, neither of them could figure out who had done it: was it him or her?

He was quick to recover. 

Crimson eyes cooled— a glacial frigidness— as they trained themselves on her. He noted with clinical dissection that her chest was heaving and her skin was flushed with anger—her magic. It called to him, sang to him, appealed in ways that were treacherous— he completely loathed it. 

The flames in him froze in the wake of something colder, darker; something far worse than rage or simple anger. It was an acrimonious entity that took root in him, deified— a consecrated power that brought the world to his feet and made nature quiver, bow to his will. The same force that moved the heavens to part and for the stars to shine in his name, divine his glory in their celestial bodies— dangerous

He threw his head back, gleaming, even teeth offset by fangs, and laughed. It was a sound, however, that was mirthless, without delight.

“Oh, Harri. That is where you are wrong. You will choose me and do you want to know why?” He stepped forward calmly, measured steps carrying him until the toes of his shoes bumped against hers. “Because you are mine. Made from me, a piece of my marrow and magic— and simply put, I am the only one who will ever understand you. I hear your insipid, little thoughts, dear horcrux. I know of your worries of what might happen should your friends ever discover your true nature.”

The Dark Lord towered over her, a cruel glint harboured in his gaze. His words were entirely too composed, too factual. “Let me save you the trouble of guessing— they will kill you.” 

All too quickly did those war drums fade. Their aggressive rhythm trailed off, taking with them the strength they’d lent her to act out in the first place. And oh, how did those dancing flames in her stomach reduce down to smoldering embers— dying coals— in the face of something so glacial, so inhospitable. She swallowed uneasily, voice wavering in her protest, “You’re wrong. They would never—”  

“They will turn on you. Tear you to shreds for defiling the scales of nature— for corrupting the very essence of what makes them mortal,” he interrupted her, eyes darkening. 

His mouth twisted into a wry smirk to mock her naivety, her ignorance to the truth of the situation. 

“No. They—,” Harri fumbled for a response, tongue uncooperative and unwilling. Somehow, hearing it come directly from his mouth made it the sinful, gospel truth—  one she didn’t know how to deny. Images of Dumbledore resurfaced, unbidden; images of a green light and a wand pointed at her back with no apparent remorse.

Slender shoulders took on a tremble, her knees turning lax— her own weight acted as a force against her, a struggle to support. 

“They will rip you limb from limb if it means destroying my soul in the process.”

She mutely shook her head in adamant disbelief. Her friends, gentle and kind, would never dream of it. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Sirius, Remus— they loved her too much to ever consider it, right? 

But, then again, if she was so sure, why was she so cold?

“The second you admit you’re a horcrux, they will burn you alive. They will crack open your ribs and crush your heart to find the piece of me inside of you,” he spoke softly, tone a caress of a whisper— a deceiving tenderness. 

Stop it,” she begged. Her heart was beating too quickly, nausea a sickening wave. An acrid taste flooded her mouth, her senses, something in her squirming and writhing and clawing the insides of her raw. They wouldn’t— they couldn’t. ‘ You know he’s right .’

“They will immolate and renounce you. Forsake you. Peel your skin from your flesh and reduce your bones to ash all in the name of the greater good,” he pressed, unrelenting and unwavering. And, oh, how the hopelessness spreading across her face— the quivering of her lower lip and the panicked sheen in those green, green eyes— was utterly thrilling. “You will become less of a human to them and more of a threat to—”

Shut up! ” 

The itch in her chest rose to a crest— an explosion. Pieces of shattered statue and errant mirrored shards levitated from the ground, flying towards them with an alarming speed. Merlin, all she wanted was for him to stop. Stop speaking, stop saying such hateful things— stop planting those seeds of doubt. 

Without tearing his hungry gaze away from her, a hand— flattened and fingers spread— willed an undulating, silver shimmer to encase their bodies. 

As the incoming debris made contact with the wall of light, it disintegrated— a fine, glittering dust settling about their feet. 

“Believe me when I say I have seen your heart, Harri Potter. I know it like the back of my hand.” He reached out to sweep a strand of auburn hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “And it is mine.” 

He crowded in closer, pressing her body against the mirror. A knee slipped between her legs, the fabric of her dress engulfing him, his forearm coming to rest above her head. It was almost a charming sight, admittedly, with how small she was under him. 

Without her anger to prop her up, without her chest puffed out in faux bravery and her magic to act as a shield, she was so small.

So very small.

“And as for what you owe me? Well, that would be everything,” he said, mouth curling into a cruel smile. “Every breath you take. Every morning you open your eyes. Every feeling you have, every laugh, smile, and tear. They are all due to my mercy, my soul for bringing you back to life sixteen years ago when you were dead in your crib.”

“Please, stop,” she begged, eyes slipping open when the hollowness in her chest grew too great. His words were painful with how raw they were— with how they stripped down her defenses and burrowed in deep. Every inch of her feared it was all true: that he had seen her heart and knew of the anxieties that had found a home within its chambers, its spaces. In the light of that, how was she supposed to deny it? “And I-I’m not yours. You can’t just own— control— another person like that.”

He scoffed. That sardonic smile lifted one corner higher than the other. “Oh, but can’t I?”

“I can make you feel pain,” he stated plainly, attention fixing on the lightning bolt scar and willing his intent, his displeasure, into it. 

The effect was instant.

A scream tore from her as white-hot pain blinded the world, robbing her of her sight, her senses. 

It was a painful reminder of when he had touched her scar for the first time upon his rebirth— a searing agony that brought with it the sensation of being flayed alive. Or, at least, what she thought it must feel like. Every nerve ending was licked by an open flame, scraped and severed— a branding iron shoved down her throat. Blistering, burning, her skin bore the brunt of imaginary flames, copper slipping warmly down her throat.

Her spine arched from the mirror, tears slipping down waned skin, her teeth nearly cracking from the pressure in which she clenched them. She wanted to die— wanted to faint, to—

As abruptly as it started, it ended.

The pain was suddenly cleaved in two as though it never existed to begin with.

Her knees unceremoniously gave out— a secret relief that he was supporting her weight— as she slumped forward into his chest. She stared down at the porcelain tiles beneath their feet, furiously blinking to clear the blurry haze from her sight. ‘What was that?’

“Or.” A hand drifted up the back of her neck, slipping under her hair to gently hold her in place. Nimble fingers massaged into each raised knob at the juncture where her spine met the base of her skull. “I can make you feel pleasure.”

Their bond was summoned forth with a vengeance.

It was a sharp contrast to the pain; a soothing balm to the persisting tremors. Green eyes slipped closed at the warming heat, the glow superimposed behind closed lids breaking up the darkness— a welcomed friend. She sighed in relief, fingers twitching for entirely different reasons as her mouth parted. An instinct demanded she move closer to the source. 

So she did. 

Distantly, she was aware that she was burrowing deeper into him. That her cheek was nuzzling into his chest and that her legs parted further— that she, most definitely, shouldn’t be doing any of this. Rather, she should be rearing back, should be disgusted— should scream at him for doing something so underhanded, so cruel, after the pain he just imparted.

 But just as the thought was entertained to move away, the glow doubled down— a particularly strong wave that rolled through her, leaving her boneless. A hitch in her breath, head lolling— a losing battle. She was carried away by the scent of sweet smoke, of petrichor— of something she had no name for: a comfort found that chased away the taste of lingering metal. 

It was utter bliss

“I can make you sleep forever, if I so wish. I can read your every thought, force myself into your dreams, possess you as I do with Nagini,” he explained, voice slightly strained.

He had to reach down deep inside of himself to ignore the feelings of the bond— the pull of the light— in favour of making his point. It was harder than he would care to admit. 

A muscle feathered in his jaw when she leaned in and the memories of what had occurred in his office with Bellatrix were summoned— of who he imagined upon achieving release. The knowledge was an unwanted visitor— a taunting by the design of his own mind. 

Of its own accord, his hand found itself threading through her auburn strands and contracting slightly to tilt her face up. 

His breath stuttered; a half-realised, half-formed thing caught in his lungs. 

Oh yes, this look was one he had seen so many times before in his dreams, in his free time— a haunting sort of expression that refused to leave him in peace. It was one of inhibition, of pleasure. Rapture

One that he found nearly impossible to not act upon.

A punishment, truly.

Her lips were parted, a wet sheen, her eyes glassy and unfocused— an eclipse set against a ring of emerald. There was a rising flush to her cream skin— not one of anger, most certainly— a rosy shade that crept across her cheeks, her chest; a dusting of colour. The lines of her body were entirely too relaxed, too malleable by the poisoned honey coursing in her veins. 

Part of him could sympathize— he understood all too well, after all, what it was to feel the magnitude of their bond. And for one so young? So inexperienced? Well, who could fully fault him if he entertained the idea of crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed? 

‘Focus,’ logic reprimanded. It was right, of course: he was trying to prove something, after all. But, Merlin be damned, was this a double-edged sword. 

He cleared his throat and reluctantly released her from the bond’s hold. “Did you think it was normal for me to be able to control you this way? That I could do this with anyone? All of these things, Harri, are within my control because you’re my horcrux.”

She surfaced back to reality with a gasp. 

Her head fell back against the mirror when his hand unthreaded itself from her hair, auburn crown resting against the splintered surface. It was an uphill battle to try to regain her wits, to refocus herself— a herculean task on par with capturing smoke between her bare hands. The aftereffects of the glow circulated in her veins, pulsating in time with her heartbeat— an arresting feeling that left her untethered even without access to the source.

Shallow inhales, trembling exhales, filled the space between their bodies as she stared squarely up into the overhead light. There were spasms in her muscles, minute little twitches, as it tried to come to terms with the extremes it had been vaulted between— a pendulum of torture and damningly sweet fulfilment. 

Dimly, she noted that Voldemort was still supporting her weight— and that, judging from his own laboured breaths, he hadn’t escaped the experience entirely unscathed.

He was just as susceptible

As affected.

‘Serves him right,’ she thought vindictively, throat snagging on a swallow. But, oh, how hyperaware was she of him right now. Her skin felt too stretched, too thin, too tight as it registered the heat of a body above hers, the knee held firm between her legs, the rise and fall of his chest— the way she could feel his exhales fanning across her neck in warm, quick puffs. She refused to look away from the ceiling, cheeks heating at the prospect of what she might find if she dared to glance down. Hell, she wasn’t that brave. 

Rather, she focused on his words. The warnings. The threats. 

They all shuffled through her sluggish mind, turning over. ‘He’s right.’ Panic drowned out the lingering, euphoric flares, their brightness dimming with each passing second. ‘None of this is normal.’

The Dark Lord took a second to collect himself— a low, shaky exhale, his shoulders tensing—  before he straightened his spine and untangled their legs. 

He smoothed down the front of his dress shirt, chasing away imaginary wrinkles, and righting his tie.

When he eventually spoke, his voice was contemplative, controlled, “I do not want to spend an eternity doing this with you, Harri. The sooner you can accept everything, the better, and easier, your life will be.”

She slumped down against the mirror when he stepped away, head straining with an effort to look at him. However, before she could release a stinging retort, he had already reached the door. 

He paused for a beat, hand hovering above the handle, before sparing a glance over his shoulder. “I’m assigning a guard to watch over you until I can trust you not to behave foolishly when you are alone.”

A glare was her response.

Still propped against the fractured mirror— green eyes swirling brightly with indignation and animosity, her skin retaining that agreeable blush— he found himself momentarily transfixed by her.

It was only when he realised that he was openly staring that he snapped out of it, jaw tightening.

The door closed forcefully— a resounding echo of a lock engaging— before he could tempt himself into rising to the bait of her continued defiance. Truly, the girl knew how to test the limits of his patience; to prod at its boundaries and overexert it given the first opportunity. 

And it was as he apparated away, determined to put even further distance between them, that he, unwittingly, revisited the notion of putting her to sleep forever. Of keeping her cloistered away in a museum instead.   

His greatest masterpiece: “The Girl Who Lived.”

 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 43: An Extended Olive Branch

Notes:

Hello everyone— apologies for not posting yesterday! We are having some terrible storms that have knocked out our power so I had to finish this chapter on my phone and am uploading it from it as well **so please excuse any mistakes you may find or formatting errors! I tried to catch them all but some may have slipped past me**

Also, thank you to everyone who has been commenting and giving kudos to this story! 💕I appreciate every single one of you!

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri felt sick. Nauseous. A roil in her stomach that made it churn in the most unpleasant way. There were too many voices, too many emotions, crammed up inside of her— an overflowing well that had nothing to catch it all. 

And yet, oddly enough, she felt hollow.

Despite being overstuffed, there was the most confusing juxtaposition— one that, truly, made no sense whatsoever— of emptiness. A gaping maw settled into the center of her very chest, cold and unforgiving. With every inhale, every exhale, every shaking breath, those frosty tendrils seeped out, robbing her of heat and turning her fingers numb.

‘He’s right.' The voice was a strain, a chime as clear as a bell, amidst the cacophony of white noise. ‘None of this is normal. No living thing should exist to house another’s soul. Yet, here you are. And you know, deep down, he’s also right about what would happen if you told them what you are.

Fine brows pinched together. Her throat snagged on a dry swallow. And though there was no actual cruelty, no bite, to the thoughts, they still stung nonetheless. Then again, Voldemort had made sure they would, didn’t he? When he had laid plain the horrors of her friends’ hypothetical betrayals, he had just been coaxing to the surface a noxious, rooted fear.

Perhaps there was some merit to the idea he had seen her heart.

Her auburn head lifted from the hidden space between her knees, the twinge in her neck nearly unbearable. The coolness of the fractured mirror against her back was an ever-present reminder of what had just happened— of where she was. Sharp pieces dug into the wool of her dress, not quite puncturing but relaying the threat they could. She rocked back slightly, testing them— a grimace when the shard slipped between the fabric’s weave and prodded at bare skin. 

She arched away.

Green eyes cracked open to study the white powder clinging to the folds of her skirt. Right. It was the remnants of  a bust that had been obliterated— not just destroyed but reduced to nothingness— in the face of the Dark Lord’s anger. The dust bonded with the grey wool, refusing to part even when tired hands tried to sluice it off. A futile task.

With a sigh, her attention drifted about the showroom, drinking in the destruction. It was quiet now, disturbingly so— even her own breathing didn’t make much of a sound in the grand scheme of it all. And whereas she once found the room to be beautiful, it had taken on an inhospitable quality. Menacing. The eyes of the sculptures seemed colder now, their noses upturned and brows heavy with reproachful distaste. The portraits remained empty, their frames abandoned. Hell, there wasn’t even a clock to provide background noise.

Voldemort had said she would be getting a guard, right? Or, at least, she thought he did. Truth be told, it was all a bit hazy. 

She glanced mutinously towards the door. Normally, she would have run by now— would have bolted for it— but one fact kept her on the ground: he locked it. Oh yes, she had heard the deafening click of it, the message clear enough— this was to be her waiting room. Her new purgatory. But how long was she supposed to remain shut away in here? Surely he couldn’t expect her—

The door handle turned.

Standing in the doorway and whistling to himself in wonder at the damage was a handsome young man with deep, brown eyes. 

“No.” Her head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud, a groan slipping out. “Merlin, you’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Barty took one step into the room and then another, gaze flitting about the gallery. A cheeky smile lifted the corners of his mouth— a wide turn given as he took in the cracked ceiling and the splintered wall. 

“Oh. Narcissa is not going to be pleased,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes when he finally looked to Harri. “Not at all.”

“Blame your Lord,” she mumbled, nose scrunching at the hand offered to her. “I’m guessing you’re my babysitter?”

That cheeky grin grew when she eventually accepted his hand and he lifted her off the ground. Once she was settled, he swept into a low, over-exaggerated bow. “Barty Crouch Jr., at your beck and call, my Lady.” 

She blinked, taken aback. This couldn’t be happening— it couldn’t . Oh, how she wanted to scream— to go hunt down Voldemort and force his hand to choose someone else. But, knowing the vindictive bastard he was, he probably selected Crouch for that very reason. He knew it would get under her skin. But who could really fault her if it did? After all, the man had spent almost two years in disguise— had spent two years lying and deceiving her. Hell, in hindsight she even liked— respected — him as her professor.  

And the entire time, he had been a Death Eater.

Her shoulders squared as she swept determinedly past him, trying to ignore how he was practically nipping at her ankles— or how he had referred to her as ‘my Lady. ’ A shiver, a creeping dread, passed through her. Was that also Voldemort’s doing?



Severus Snape had come to the conclusion, as he busied himself with sorting through the ledgers and the endless written requests for classroom supplies, that operating a school was far more work than he could have ever expected.

Far more work.

And as he squinted at the slanted scrawl of the previous headmaster— eyes strained by the effort to decipher its meaning— he found himself wondering how intact Dumbledore’s sanity had been. After all, who, in their right mind, would willingly inflict such torture upon themselves? Who actually wanted this position? Merlin knew he didn’t.

With a heavy sigh, a forced sound that betrayed his irritation, he threw the scrolls back down onto the desk. Wiry fingers reached up to massage gingerly at his temples. He’d need another Invigoration Draught at this rate— or a drink. 

A very stiff drink.

Though being made into a headmaster appeared, on the surface, to be a great reward— a responsibility personally afforded to him that bespoke of his capabilities— part of him debated if this was his Lord’s secret punishment. Maybe this was his retribution? A mercurial way to pay him back from all of those years playing both sides? Of toeing the grey areas in both camps? It wouldn’t be out of the man’s character to use a double-edged sword, after all. Oh, most definitely not. 

Another strained sigh. 

Dark eyes roamed about the office, mouth twitching. Most of Dumbledore’s belongings had been cleared away— the horrendously painted teacups, the glass dishes of lemon drops, the tattered house slippers—  reducing the clutter of the space tenfold. What was left was barren. Impersonal

It was the way he liked it.

Though, he did decide to keep one thing: the hourglass sculpture. 

Tucked into the corner, it was massive and made from refined, curved glass that was suspended between brass rings. Every hour, on the hour, it would tilt itself over with a soft chime— a melancholic, resounding melody. And it was this very chiming that had weary eyes shifting over. The turner was in the process of resetting itself, the fine grains of obsidian sand slowly trickling through the funneled opening. 

He couldn’t quite say what moved him to keep it— was it because he felt that something of Dumbledore’s should remain here? That it wouldn’t be right to completely erase the man’s presence? That it helped to ease a touch of his guilt? 

Or was it simply because it was relaxing to watch?

In either case, he always found himself captured by it— a magic in its own right with how the tension bled from his body as quickly as the sands slipped.

Of course, peace could only last so long. Oh yes, it was a tentative, flighty thing in his life— never settling too long to allow him to adjust to its presence.

One second, the office had been just that: calm, quiet, tranquil. Then, the next, there was a sharp sting radiating throughout his left arm— a deafening crack as the newly-constructed wards bent, willingly, around their creator. 

The Dark Lord had arrived.

His head snapped up in surprise and he scrambled to get to his feet— only to be motioned to remain sitting. Coal eyes narrowed ever-so as he settled back into the chair. It was unusual for his Lord to visit him at Hogwarts— had he ever, actually? He couldn’t quite remember. All the same, judging by the dull burn from the mark, this wasn’t going to be a pleasant, social visit. 

“My Lord,” he said in a way of greeting, voice lilting with an unspoken question.

There was no answer to be had right away.

Rather, the man was busy pacing the length of the office, his movements fluid— a deadly grace— his broad shoulders tensed. 

Apprehension slipped into the spaces where shock had been. And it was out of instinctual, pure habit that Severus found himself probing at his mental shields— a precaution to ensure they were still in place. It was a safety net he developed; a way to feel more secure in the Dark Lord’s presence. Not that it would do much if he decided to peer into his mind— a shudder at the memory of how once his defenses had been torn to shreds.

Voldemort stilled.

Eventually, crimson eyes flickered over to the headmaster. His feet ceased their endless march, his fingers tightening in their laced position behind his back— a tensed exhale through his nose. It was still humming within his system— the temper and anger leftover from the encounter with his horcrux. Reduced to a susurrating whisper in the back of his mind, it was an endless cycle of patience advocated and violence urged. A tug between letting her be and the need to make her submit. One side was winning out. 

Winning out by a landslide.

So naturally, he left. 

He, the great Lord Voldemort, had left behind a girl with deathly green eyes and flushed skin and soft curves— he ran away. And though he tried to veil it under the guise he was simply coming to pick his follower’s mind— Severus would have illuminating thoughts, he was certain, on the girl’s infuriating nature— it was still a bitter medicine to swallow: he had fled like a coward. 

His lip curled. A derisive scoff. He crossed over to the rather empty bookshelves, sightlessly taking in the titles on their gold-leafed spines. “I confess myself requiring your advice, Severus. You have spent years around the girl, have you not? So tell me, has she always been this defiant? This— this vexing?” 

Snape blinked, attempting to understand if this was some poorly-concocted dream— if he had fallen asleep at his desk at some point— or if one of the darkest wizards in their history was actually in his office, inquiring after the ill-behaviour of an ex-student of his. He cleared his throat when red eyes glanced over and fixed him firmly with a look that relayed a thinning patience. “I— I have found that Potter has always been quite ungovernable, my Lord.” 

Voldemort whirled around, long strides crossing the room before his hands, forcefully, found the desk. Fingers splayed, he leaned forward, gaze narrowing. “Really, Severus? Six years of watching her and that is all you have to report? Ungovernable?”  

A stone sank in Severus’s stomach at the sudden snap— at the incensed heat in the Dark Lord’s eyes and his scathing tone. He helplessly glanced over to the hourglass, debating whether or not to magic it away to safety should his Lord decide to act upon his temper. It would be a pity, after all, to lose it. 

Nails drummed against the wood and coal eyes retrained themselves on the Dark Lord. ‘Merlin, what did the girl do now?’ And more importantly, what had happened to their conversation? Hadn’t she listened when he told her to endear herself to the man? To comply and avoid acting out? Then again— this was Harri Potter. Of course she didn’t listen. When had she ever?

But then the strangest notion came to him that his Lord was asking for his opinion right now— for assessment and advice. And perhaps, this was as good a chance as any to sway him— move him— to leniency? A dangerous thought, most certainly, but one that, once formed, refused to leave him alone. If the girl herself wouldn’t listen, maybe his Lord would? 

He wetted chapped lips before explaining carefully, slowly, his words spurred on by that calculating glow simmering in scarlet eyes. “She is resistant to authourity, my Lord, much like her reckless father was. If pushed too hard in one direction, she rebels by going the other. From what I have observed, she values freedom and the autonomy to lay down her own terms— more so than others her age.” 

Merlin, this was a risk— he knew it. This could so easily backfire, could reap the opposite of what he was intending. But he had to try, nonetheless. 

“Praise is also something she tends to respond well to. It was how Dumbledore managed to earn something of a rapport with her.” Snape straightened further in the high-backed chair, relieved when that sneer slipped from the Dark Lord’s face and transformed into a frown instead. “I witnessed it multiple times, in fact. He would always compliment her, commend her efforts, before requesting something of her. And she always acquiesced.”

Voldemort leaned off the desk, mind turning over with the new information— gears set into motion on how he could spin this all to his advantage. “What else?”

“She also places high value in her friends and family.”

The rhythmic drumming on the desk ceased. “Family?”

“Loyalty runs deep in her and, if you can win it, it seems to be rather unshakeable. For instance, she was all but ready to turn against Sirius Black to the extent of holding him at wand point,” Snape muttered sourly, mouth pressing into a grim line at the memory of the Shrieking Shack— of being rendered unconscious and blasted off his feet by her overpowered spellwork. His head had smarted for days afterwards and his ego more than bruised by her little transgression— something, of which, he had only quite recently forgiven her for. “However, upon learning he was innocent and her supposed godfather, her opinions quickly changed.”

Voldemort took a step back, a smile, cunning and sharp, lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘So, family is the answer, is it?’ It was a light dawning at the end of the tunnel— a revelation that made things click into place. 

“You’ve been quite insightful, Severus,” he said softly, too many ideas— too many plans— already forming in his mind. “Very illuminating, indeed.”

And just as abruptly as he appeared, the Dark Lord bled away from the office. 



“You’re really going to follow me everywhere?” Harri asked when the quiet between them grew insufferable. 

The long hallway was filled with the clicking of her small heels against the checkered, marble tiles, their echo offset by the heavy footfalls from Barty’s boots— and, oh, how her eye twitched at the very sound. Ever since leaving the showroom, he was never more than five paces behind her; a faithful shadow dogging her every step. She huffed at the fact, spitefully picking up the pace as her feet carried her to the only place she knew to go— her cage.

Returning to the bedroom was the only option. 

Well, the only safe one.

She didn’t feel quite like returning to the informal dining room after what happened— couldn't bear Draco’s concern or Narcissa’s questions— and she wanted to avoid bumping into a certain man with red eyes. Oh, she’d be fine if she never saw him again. 

The tension from their little encounter had yet to fully leave her shoulders. Her throat was still inflamed from screaming— a painful drag with each swallow— and her wrists were discoloured by the first signs of bruising. And everywhere, there was dust . Finely-milled marble in her hair, on her clothes, under her nails— an itching that she wanted gone. She wanted to remove the offending insignia— a collar— she had been forced to wear. 

She wanted to strip out of the wretched clothes Narcissa had wrangled her into.

She wanted— Merlin, how she wanted— to shed the silk underwear that had begun to chafe her skin incessantly— an unpleasant reminder that everything had to be approved by him first. 

Oh yes, the first thing she was doing when she got to her “bedroom” was taking it all off and drawing a bath. A glorious bath— the purifying kind that could scorch her skin and burn away every lingering trace he left behind. Hell, she might even toss a few dresses in the fire for good measure. 

It was a mollifying idea. The image of those cursed dresses consumed by flame had her smiling slightly. 

“Everywhere you go, I will also.”

That smile slipped into a scowl. 

Barty shortened his strides to stay in her shadow, voice kept light, cheery. “But this could be fun, couldn’t it? We never got to bond much outside of the classroom.”

“Yeah, well, if you remember correctly, I was busy fighting for my life,” she sniped back, chin lifted as she stared stubbornly ahead. “In a competition, mind you, that you entered me in. ‘Bonding’ was the least of my priorities.”

His response came as a bark of laughter.

Out of her periphery, Harri noticed two men lingering down the side corridor, their heads bowed as their conversation was carried in whispered tones. She paused for a second to size them up, noting their dark robes and the hard set of their jaws— but they weren’t faces she could place a name to.  

When the pair realised they were being watched, their gazes lifted. Twin pairs of dark eyes glittered in a cold assessment that, admittedly, had her shifting her weight uneasily. However, just when she thought they were going to cause a scene, they did the unexpected. They bowed. In harmony, in sync, their heads dipped slightly. 

A show of reverence

Her stomach knotted. 

She hurried past them with a renewed urgency.

The double doors to the study swept open for them without prompting. She shivered at the awaiting cold. The fireplace was empty and void of life, the coals dead and the drapes drawn. It would appear the office’s ‘master’ was missing— a sigh of relief. At least she could prolong bumping into Voldemort for a bit longer. 

Some of the rigidness left her shoulders as she marched to the carved door wedged between the bookshelves. Her room was equally cold when she slipped inside. Much like in the office, there was no fire here to fend off the winter’s chill. It seeped in eagerly, hungrily, through the tall panes of glass. A gust of a breeze lifted up the damask curtains in a playful dance. ‘Hedwig’s still gone.’ 

The window she’d left open for the owl was the culprit for the blustering wind, her cage empty with no signs she had yet to return from her afternoon flight. ‘Well. At least one of us should be enjoying the day,’ she thought bitterly, pausing when the heavy footsteps halted. 

She spared a questioning glance past her shoulder.

“I can’t come in, remember? Not unless you invite me,” Barty explained, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the grandiose finery of the bedroom. He let out a low whistle, appreciatively eyeing the glittering, gold frame of the bed. “Merlin. Our Lord has really outdone himself, hasn’t he?” 

Our Lord. 

A muscle in her jaw feathered at the man’s words— a twitch above her brow. 

Her fingers flew to her throat, grappling with the velvet ribbon that held the brooch and tossing it forcefully to the glass coffee table. It bounced with a clatter, once, twice, before rolling off under the lounge, out of sight. It could stay there, for all she cared. Let it gather dust and rust and be altogether forgotten because she’d be damned if she was to wear it again. 

“He’s not my Lord,” she bit out with no small amount of venom. 

The silence that had followed her proclamation was painfully drawn— a taunting.

It was a silence that said he didn’t fully believe her. A silence that all but said ‘fine, keep deluding yourself.’ 

It made her want to gnash her teeth— and the idea was revisited to burn the dresses in a childish retaliation. Oh, now more than ever was it tempting. Truly, it was. The only thing that was forcing her to stay her hand was the fact that he probably would take her punishment out on someone else— most likely Narcissa— to ‘teach her a lesson.’

That or, knowing the sadistic bastard he was, he wouldn’t replace them— would be more than content to let her wander around in her underwear or a bathrobe until she begged for them back.

The imagined scenario left a bitter taste. 

 “I’m taking a bath,” she said, eyes narrowing when he dipped his head, that wry smile never once leaving his upturned mouth.

“And I’ll be here.”

She watched, disbelieving of his audacity as he settled into one of the armchairs in the study, summoning forth a book from the shelf and getting comfortable. Apparently, guarding her night and day truly meant every single hour, minute, and second.

With a frustrated cry, she slammed the door shut.  



The bath, as it turned out, was as glorious and wonderful as she initially thought it would be.

And sure, she may have made it a touch too hot— the steam that curled off the water’s surface fogging the mirrors, the windows, the heat scalding her skin pink— but she didn't fully mind it. The pain was a good sort; the kind that provided the relief she sorely sought after. It calmed the spasms in her muscles, soothed away the lingering headache— ebbed her troubles with each rippling lap against her chest. It seared away his persisting handprints, his phantom touches. 

It was a pain she had complete control over. One that she dictated— a sensation made entirely of her own making; an unerring reminder she was alive. That she still held some form of mastery over her own body, despite what Voldemort may think— that she held some domination over her own flesh, her nerves, her feelings. 

A breathy sigh escaped her as she tilted her head back. Auburn strands floated in a halo about her shoulders, darkening under the water— searching tendrils lazily dancing on the surface. 

“Why did you not call for me, dear child?” Narcissa had suddenly appeared amongst the swirls of mist, brilliantly painted lips twitching in displeasure. “If you had, I could have drawn the bath for you.” 

Harri reared back in surprise, arms flying to her chest in a bid for modesty. The water sloshed dangerously up the clawfoot tub’s side, cresting the rim— a noisy splashing as it met the porcelain tiles. “Mrs. Malfoy!”

The arched brow from Narcissa only made her cheeks tinge pink— and it wasn’t just from the water’s heat. She squirmed under the scrutiny, body curling in tighter to shield herself—her too-sharp curves and too-knobby knees— from the woman’s pale gaze. Today, truly, wasn’t her day, was it?

Narcissa clicked her tongue as she kneeled next to the tub. “Oh, come now. We’re both women. There’s no need to be so shy.”

She was about to protest that yes, there was very much a need, when she was interrupted by a sharp exclamation of surprise.

“Heavens! You’re going to burn yourself at this rate! Get out at once—”

Harri chanced a glance, frowning to mirror Narcissa’s expression. She followed that pale gaze down— past the cream-coloured skin reddened to a punishing glow— to the slowly darkening circles about her wrists. His fingerprints were manacles; ugly discolourations that bespoke of violence. Hatred . ‘Oh.’ She flexed, fingers curling and uncurling to test the soreness— a grimace.

Suddenly, elegant hands filled her line of sight, one of them reaching for her palm. The touch was gentle, calming— yet, she flinched all the same.  

Narcissa’s frown deepened at Harri’s reaction— at how she shied away as though a startled foal. Her thumb absentmindedly ran across the fine bones in the girl’s hand, turning it over slightly to see the extent of the bruising. When she had been told by her son, waned in the face, that the Dark Lord had whisked the girl away in her absence— and that the art gallery had been reduced to a war zone— she thought the worst. Justifiably so. It was part of the reason why she had rushed over the second she received word that she had returned to her apartments. 

A bitterness took root in her heart— the fouling taste of regret. She clicked her tongue, gaze flickering over to Harri’s other wrist. It was no less mangled— no less maimed. She’d require a salve at least; maybe some ice and a potion to help manage the pain. 

The steam curled up in dancing whorls between them; an unbearable moment of drawn quiet. The tub’s spout dripped in a steady rhythm— quiet little ‘plops’ that edged their way to the forefront of the silence— the ensuing ripples a whisper across the surface. 

Unable to contain her curiosity— the not-knowing a wicked force that battered against her resolve to hold her tongue— Narcissa asked softly, “What happened, child? Why was he so angered?”

Harri stared down at those fingers massaging her hand; a jarring sense of just how tender the action was. Did this woman hold nothing but benevolence? Kindness? Compassion? Truth be told, she would have expected differently from the upturned slant to Narcissa’s nose and the unimpressed arch to her brows— and yet, here she was. So warm, so kind . And a part of her wondered, when Narcissa discovered what she had done— what sins she was committing by merely breathing— would any of this change? Would that open heart shutter close? 

Would she forsake her?

Voldemort was certain of it. 

He had been so sure that her friends, her family, those she’d known for years, would do so without hesitation— why would a woman that had been in her life for mere days be any different? Something twinged in her chest at the very thought. 

She had been about to open her mouth, to quietly confess, when another, different thought crept in: what if she was endangering Narcissa right now? What if, by telling her feelings— by confiding and trying to relieve the crushing burden held on her shoulders— that it was enough to put a target on the woman’s back? To make her a convenient card for Voldemort to play whenever she stepped out of line?

Green eyes shifted uneasily about, remembering all too well his warnings about the room. He said he would know what happened within its walls— that nothing would escape his notice. There was no safety here; nothing kept sacred. 

She retracted her hand back to her chest, studying the lapping waves instead. 

Narcissa watched the girl for a second longer before sighing. All things considered, she supposed that her withdrawal— her distance and suddenly closed-off demeanor— couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t as though she knew the girl intimately enough to be privy to things that may be considered private affairs— plus, she served the Dark Lord. That was an added complication.

She shoved down the feelings of disappointment. Maybe one day, if she was lucky enough, the girl could come to trust her. That, perhaps, there might be a time when she shared her wishes, her troubles, and would find an ally in her rather than an enemy. But for now, she would have to be patient. 

Rising on stiff knees, Narcissa sent her a thin smile and reached for the bathrobe slung across the vanity’s chair. She held it out in expectation, head turned in the illusion of privacy. “Come, then. Before you scald your skin any more.”

Harri rose from the tub. Water sloshed off her— a river rushing down her shoulders, her back— the sound deafening in the vaulted room. Cold pricked at her, despite how heated her limbs were, and she eagerly leaned into the plush robe. 

Narcissa hummed— a mindless tune— when she started on the task of towel drying the girl’s hair. The damp clumps parted— strands of red that caught the overhead light. “I’ll send for an elf to bring dinner to your rooms.”

The tension that had been sapped away by the bath returned with a vengeance. 

Harri felt her shoulders go taut at the mention of a house-elf. She whirled around, throat bobbing past the lump that had settled in it. “No!”

Judging from the shock on Narcissa’s face, she considered she must be wearing her panic pretty openly. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care or to hide it. 

Guilt gnawed at her— a hungry, merciless thing that caused her heart to hammer. Images resurfaced of a decapitated body. Of blood slicking down waxy, gray skin and of sightless, glassy purple eyes. Too glassy

“P-please. No elves,” she fumbled for the words, eyes squeezing shut. She couldn’t bear it— couldn’t bear having a reminder of Zivvy so soon.

It took a second for Narcissa to recover from the shock of the girl’s adamant protest— and then, eventually, a slow nod came. “Alright. No house-elves.”



The women found themselves seated on the chaise in the main room, the fire relit and the shadows dancing. Narcissa hovered at her shoulder with a critical, watchful eye as she spooned broth into her mouth.

It tasted like nothing. 

Undoubtedly though, she knew it was most likely fit for a king. After all, everything at Malfoy Manor was. But to her, she might as well have been drinking water— tasteless. A pity, certainly, but these days found her appetite waned and her tongue dulled. 

She tore off a chunk of the baguette, still warmed from its time in the oven, and chewed it mechanically. 

Spoon to mouth— swallow.

Spoon to mouth— swallow.

Rinse and repeat. 

“Draco is leaving for school soon,” Narcissa chimed in when she was content the girl would continue to eat without being watched. “The Monday after New Years.”

“Oh?”

Harri frowned at the information, brows pinching together. If Draco was already leaving, then that must mean their winter holidays were coming to an end. And that must mean— well. What exactly did it mean for her

“I will miss him, of course,” Narcissa continued in a strained attempt to make conversation. Her gaze roamed about the dimming bedroom, noting the way the flames stretched long across the cream walls and the crackling heat chased off the evening winter’s chill. “But it’s for the best, I suppose. All children have to grow up at some point.”  

Harri set the spoon down on the silver tray— a sharp clink of metal against metal. She couldn’t handle any more of the soup. Not with the way her stomach was intent on doing somersaults and flips. 

Time was being lost on her— slipping away quicker and quicker with each day, each hour, each bloody minute. How could it have been this long already? Monday would mark sixteen days— a full two weeks and then some. Almost half a month.

Half a month since she’d been taken. 

Her heart plummeted— how much longer was she expected to stay here? ‘Forever.’ And it was that thought, the concept she might never leave again, that made the world seem as though it were closing in— a painful constriction in her lungs.

The flames, their array of bright warmth, danced before her behind the metal grate. She found herself staring listlessly into them— a plea of sorts as though she could divine answers in their light, their dance.

She couldn’t, of course. 

“Did he say anything?” Her question came out small— even smaller when set against the grandness of the room. It was barely a whisper, her lips hardly deigning to move, to waste the effort of voicing something so useless. “About me? Going back to Hogwarts?”

Narcissa allowed herself to look back to the girl, pale eyes fixing on her turned profile. The orange glow lent a charming, almost serene, quality to her even though her expression was quite the opposite. The lowered line of her brows. The tightness in her mouth. The delicately pointed chin stubbornly held to stop it from trembling. 

A heavy sigh, her hand drifted to the girl’s knee— an apologetic sort of squeeze. “I’m afraid you will not be returning. My Lord has ordered you to remain here.” 

Green eyes slipped shut, screwing up so tightly that neon starbursts punctuated the darkness.  She knew it, of course— knew it in her bones, her marrow, the deepest reaches of her heart.

And yet, still, that didn’t stop the pang of disappointment from shooting throughout her chest. 

How much more of her life would he be content to steal?



New Year’s Eve had arrived without fanfare or warning— a blink of her eye and the end of the month had already dawned. Time seemed to spare no one, least of all her, from its dutiful march onward, despite how much she wished it would.

A tentative knock sounded in the quiet of her bedroom.

“My Lady, the party is starting,” Barty said, voice muffled by the heavy oak. “I’ve been sent to escort you downstairs.”

Harri looked up from where she had been letting Hedwig affectionately nip at her fingers, green eyes looking sharply to the closed door. She was still in her night robe, as she had been throughout the entirety of the afternoon— well, days, to be more accurate—  and she had no intention of changing. 

In fact, she hadn’t left her bedroom at all during the past week. It was understandable, of course, that the knowledge of someone shadowing her every move dampened the desire to explore— and she was more than content to remain in seclusion until Voldemort called off the ridiculous idea.

There was a belated wince when she realised he had called her ‘my Lady’ again. The man had taken up the infuriating habit of referring to her in such a way, even when she told him to stop. It made her teeth clench.

She looked back to the owl when she felt wide, amber eyes settle on her. There was a keen reproachfulness in the owl’s gaze— a sharp clicking of her beak in admonishment as though to say ‘you can’t stay here forever.’ 

To some extent, she knew she couldn’t.

But she’d be damned if he thought she would go to a party, pretend to have a good time and dance with him again for hours— oh no, she refused. They had, mercifully, not seen each other since their little ‘encounter’ and she was more than happy to keep it that way. 

“I’m not going,” she called over her shoulder, not bothering to open the door.

Rising from the chaise, she undid the latch of the window. A few snowflakes— tidings of the beginnings of an incoming storm— slipped past the pane, carried on by the crisp night breeze. They stayed on the sill for a moment, whole and perfect and magical, before melting away into teardrops.

Hedwig wasted little time. There was the flap of great wings, a flurry of feathers, before the owl was rising into the sky. 

She watched her companion disappear under the new moon, the glow of her white plumes just catching the softness of the starlight— an ache in her heart. And, oh, how she yearned to trade places with her companion— to be the one up there among the clouds and the swirling snow and to feel the wind lash about her face. 

To be free.

She forced herself to turn from the window.

Stretching her arms out over her head, a crackling along her stiff spine, a popping in her shoulders, Harri found herself settling on the floor in front of the mantle. The flames had dipped dangerously low at this point, the chill slowly creeping in as an unwanted visitor. 

And that’s exactly how she greeted the New Year. Toes wiggling in front of the dying coals, cold and alone and with only the distant ruckus from downstairs to alert her to the close of December.  



Voldemort had wandered into the darkened study with the pleasant thrum of alcohol and the high of the night’s events.

When Barty had relayed that his little horcrux was refusing to attend, it, admittedly, made him see red. A blatant rejection— not subtle, tactful, whatsoever. For the fewest seconds— a handful, really, in the grand scheme of the night— he debated on dragging her out of that cursed bedroom. Debated on throwing her to the wolves of his followers and showing her exactly what happened when his orders were refused.

Yet, he hadn’t.

Rather, he allowed her that little defiance— a mercy. An olive branch. He was exercising Severus’s judgement by granting her a degree of freedom— some autonomy. One soiree was a single drop in a larger puddle, after all. And if he was being truthful, he was glad he had shown this much restraint. 

As much as he would have loved seeing her on his arm, undoubtedly her sour mood would have affected him— would have led to flared tempers and regrettable actions on his end. And Merlin knew that tonight, of all nights, he should be spared from that. It was his birthday, after all. 

Not that such a day held much currency or weight. 

But still, he figured he was allowed one night— one night— without raising his blood pressure. 

He only hoped she would see it the same way: a mercy, that is. That he was attempting to reach a tenuous sort of peace with her— some sort of compromise. A gift

Plus, it wasn’t as if the evening had been a complete disaster. Certainly, there were worse things than spending a few hours in the company of beautiful women and the highest quality of champagne. All in all, he had been in a good mood— a pleasant one, even.

That is until he dismissed Barty from his post and was left staring at her door.

It stood out in the shadows, the silver of its handle a glint— a siren’s call that drew crimson eyes. He stared obsessively at the door, a part of himself wanting, willing, for it to turn— for her to open it. Could she feel him hovering? Did she know he was here, waiting ? There was nothing stopping him from storming in, of course. No locks. No magic to deny him. Nothing— except it would be a shallow victory. 

Near meaningless. 

How long was she going to avoid him? Play out her little tantrum? 

And for what, exactly— because he told her the truth? The truth that she desperately needed to hear? 

His lip curled back into a sneer as he glared at the affronting door, with all of its fine scrolls and woodwork, and the knowledge that it was literally shutting him out. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he took a half-step closer, hands twitching as he neared that taunting doorknob. ‘Open it,’ he thought. 

Open it.

The hand hovering about the doorknob dropped away.

A growl of frustration. 

Metal danced on his tongue. Claws scraped at his chest— raw and inflaming inside. ‘Open it,’ the voice all but seemed to taunt, even as he turned on his heels and fled

Long strides carried him away from that cursed door, from the few inches of wood separating her from him, but he could feel it at his back. Even when he was retreating, there was a quality, a sentience, that seared into him— hateful. Accusatory

Yet, hope moved him to spare a glance over his shoulder. 

Hope, a flighty, fickle, foolish thing that, for the briefest moment, had him believing she was going to open it for him . That, at the last second, she would throw wide that door and then— then what? What was he possibly hoping for?

She didn’t.

Jaw tightening, the heavy door to his own bedroom swung shut behind him.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 44: His Summons (pt. 1)

Notes:

Hello everyone! My apologies again for the late chapter— some personal issues came up yesterday that I had to take care of.

I ended up having to split this chapter up again because it, somehow, was almost 20 pages in length. So the second half to this one will be up as soon as I finish editing it! **I'm sorry, I know how much you all hate cliffhangers**

Also, just a quick shout to you guys because I love taking every chance I get to shower you all with my gratitude! You guys are seriously amazing and such gems for commenting, bookmarking, and giving kudos to this story! Truly, thank you for your love 💕

**also, ps to anyone else who writes their own fics. This browser app called ZenWriter— seriously the best thing. I swear my productivity has increased tenfold using it 😂 I highly suggest everyone check it out if you want to change it up a bit!**

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Monday had arrived all too quickly for her liking.

The morning had found Harri more sullen than usual, a bitterness caged in her heart and disappointment heavy in her soul. It had been with a foreboding she’d awoken to the dreary morning and the utter stillness of the house— a foreboding brought on by one, inescapable fact. Today was the day Draco would be leaving. 

Unlike herself, he would join the influx of returning students to the stone halls of Hogwarts— would find a bit of prolonged freedom until the summer vacation would begin. 

Unlike herself, he would get to pass his free time waltzing about snowy Hogsmeade on the weekends, partake in bouts of friendly house rivalry, and have his greatest worries center around upcoming exams. 

Oh, yes, unlike herself, he would get to enjoy all of the privileges and independence afforded to youth— a self-determination that went hand-in-hand with the distance from his parents. It would be a joyous time, undoubtedly, one that could lend him a sense of normalcy in an otherwise unstable life. And had it been any other year, she might have been inclined to feel the excitement as well— the anticipation.

But, as it stood, this wasn’t like any other year. 

Rather, Hogwarts, it seemed, would remain out of her reach for the foreseeable future. 

She groaned— a heavy sound that bemoaned the entire situation— an arm slinging over her eyes. It wasn’t fair. Merlin, it wasn’t. And as she lay there in the bleak, slanted rays of light— hazy little things that slipped through the gaps in the damask drapes—  ribs expanding and collapsing with tiny, shuddering breaths, a nest of pillows cradling a sleep-worn head, she couldn’t help but wonder one thing: would Hermione be returning today? Would Ron? Ginny? The twins?

Would they be bright flashes of orange hair and rust-coloured sweaters scattered around the Gryffindor table?

Would they find themselves in the common room, huddled in front of a warming fire, and laughing at too many stupid jokes? 

Would they be cheering in the stands come quidditch season, bundled up in their house colours against the foggy, morning chill? Or go to parties on the weekends, passing the night away with the companionship of firewhiskey— only to severely regret it the next day?

Though, part of her knew, in retrospect, none of that was going to happen. More likely than not, they would miss the Express today. With the changes that had happened over the break— with Dumbledore no longer being Headmaster— she couldn’t see them willingly returning to school. 

And, of course, she also knew they’d miss her— that they’d feel her absence as real as she felt theirs. 

But still, it was a traitorous idea— crushing— to consider everyone would move on without her— a sting in the back of her throat. How much longer would it be until they all eventually forgot her? Carried on with their lives as normal while she was stuck in this gilded prison? 

But wouldn’t that be for the best? ’ a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.

As much as she hated to admit it, it probably was. 

If they could leave the Girl Who Lived in the past— a ghost left to only haunt in the furthest recesses of their memories— they could avoid needlessly risking their lives for her. Avoid dying with her name on their lips and a plea to save them when she just couldn’t

She drew in a shuddering breath. Yes. It was for the best, even if she hated it.

A sharp rap, quickly followed by another, had her lifting her head from the pillows. Auburn hair spilled over ivory sheets— a whisper in the quiet of the room as she shifted— green eyes cutting through the dimness to the door. It would appear that Narcissa had arrived, ready to start her day earlier than usual. Not that it could be helped, of course. After all, she had begged quite a bit last night to be allowed to send Draco off.

When the door’s handle turned, she allowed herself to slump back down to the bed. The woman’s greeting went unanswered, the sounds of faucets coming to life and the cabinet doors opening, closing, trailing off into background noise. Her attention shifted to the curtains when they were magically pulled back, their golden ties securing them— a painful blink against the flood of light. 

Outside, she found the glimpse of the winter sky to be a reflection of her mood. A never-ending sea of grey, heavy with the ominous warning of an incoming storm— stifling, choking, depressing

A perfectly miserable beginning to a perfectly miserable day.



If there was one thing Harri considered she might never get used to, it was the ordeal of dressing. In particular, she knew she could never get used to the sheer amount of effort that went into making one’s self ‘presentable’ according to the high standards of purebloods. 

‘Or,’ she thought grimly when a soft, boar-bristle brush ran across her scalp, ‘maybe it’s just Narcissa’s standards.’

In any case, it was exhausting. 

Today alone had taken almost two hours between washing, dressing, and styling— and for what, exactly? It wasn’t as though she was going anywhere. Like the days before it, today would be spent within the halls of the manor. Hell, she’d be content to throw on tattered sneakers and a jumper at this point— at least those were comfortable. But apparently, that wouldn’t do. 

Oh no, she had to be trussed and dolled up even though it didn’t make any sense. 

A drawn, suffering sigh, she watched as Narcissa’s hands twisted her hair this way and that in the mirror. Under normal circumstances, she might have just relaxed under those nimble fingers combing her scalp— would have eased into a gentle lull of conversation and breathed in the comforting lilac scent of the woman’s perfume. Today, however, she had no patience for any of it.

No patience for conversation.

No patience for relaxing.

No patience to continue to sit still.

Narcissa, apparently, felt the same.

The woman’s own impatience could be seen in the outfit she’d picked out for her to wear. Today was a simple affair of black cotton and a sharp dip of a ‘v’ in the collar, the lace-trimmed hem skimming her ankles and the sheer sleeves puffed. 

Such impatience was clear in the way her hair suffered from the lack of an intricate braid or bun. Rather, it’d been left down today— a cascade of fire tumbling loosely down her back— with only a few strands artfully twisted. 

It manifested in how her face was kept mostly bare, apart from a light coat of mascara and a sweep of a rose-tinted blush high on her cheekbones. In the way her accessories were kept minimal, save for— much to her dismay— the black ribbon with the insignia brooch pinned at its center. 

Yes, Narcissa was in just as much of a hurry as she was— a small mercy, she figured, as she kept glancing to the clock ticking away on the wall. They were losing time— valuable, valuable time—and it was agonizing

Just when she opened her mouth to ask if they were done— to assure Narcissa this was good enough— the woman had given a satisfied hum.

“There, that should do it,” Narcissa muttered, setting the brush down. 

Finally.

She nearly bolted from the vanity’s seat.



The women had found themselves in the floo parlour— an awkward affair of prolonged silence. Draco had yet to arrive, same as Lucius, and Narcissa wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood.

Harri gnawed at her bottom lip, weight shifting under the blanket of an uncomfortable quiet. Green eyes drifted about in a bid for a distraction, taking in the dove grey hue of the walls and the lack of furniture. This was a room, she’d found during her previous excursions around the manor, to be usually locked— a precaution, no doubt, only recently put into place. Forbidden. And it was with a mild curiosity she took in all of the details. 

The parlour was less decorated than other areas of the mansion, though it would be misleading to say it wasn’t equally luxurious. Especially so when compared to the one at the Burrow. There was a single fireplace of white stone, grandiose in its size— tall enough, most certainly, and wide enough to fit at least four people comfortably— a crystal-cut bowl on its mantle holding shiny, black powder. Windows lined the wall, floor to ceiling, their frames draped by lilac silk. The curtains were tied back with navy cords, allowing the light to flood in with all of its sullen magic.

The door creaked open. 

Harri glanced over to see Draco and his father waltz in— a flurry of movement by her side as Narcissa rushed to draw her son into her arms. 

She watched the scene unfold with some intrigue, blinking in surprise at the nuance of it. In a way, she supposed she should have felt some shame for intruding on the family’s intimate moment— that she was encroaching where she most definitely shouldn’t— but, by Merlin, was it fascinating

The coldness of Lucius— a quick handshake with his son and a firm dip of his head, a subtle warning to behave

The warmth she’d come to expect from Narcissa— a tender glow as she rubbed her thumbs over her son’s cheekbones, a mistiness in her eyes as she tenderly referred to him as ‘little dragon’.

The mortification— and yet also the blatant affection— from Draco as his skin flushed, begging for his mother not to embarrass him.  

All of it painted an interesting portrait— one that, despite Lucius’s attitude, made something writhe about her heart. It coiled tightly, squeezed— a gaping pit in her stomach that bespoke of hunger

Hunger for something she never had.

Might she, though? In a different life, might she also have had this?

Might she have had a parent’s stern warning to keep out of trouble? A mother’s tender touch? A lovingly bequeathed nickname? In a different sort of life, would she have had to face tears over her departure— soft, soft words relaying how much they loved her? It was a fantasy, admittedly, she indulged in quite often as a child— a fanciful dream that always made reality a touch more bitter.

‘Freakish little girls don’t deserve parents,’ her aunt’s voice clawed to the forefront; an unwelcome loop as it sneered and mocked when confronted with the picture of what a family should be. 

Her polite smile turned tight— forced. A facade, a mask she was all too practiced in wearing. 

And, suddenly, it was her turn to say goodbye— a quiet expectation as Draco stepped away from his mother and turned towards her. 

She rushed forward.

Not caring about his parents hovering in the background— the calculation held in a twin pair of blue eyes— she threw her arms about his shoulders. It was as though her body acted of its own accord, seeking out the comfort the boy had always provided— the gentleness of his presence that somehow unerringly managed to disperse the encroaching darkness.

He went easily into her embrace, thin arms caging him close— a sinking realisation he was truly leaving. One of her few allies in the manor; a remnant of her old life. A friend who could make her laugh, could reminisce with— one that made her hope and forget. And he was leaving. 

She registered warmth about her middle, an imperceptible tightening, as he returned the hug— a prickling in her eyes as she slipped them closed to ward off the tears. And, oh, how right this all felt— safe. There was a soft firmness to him— edges not as jagged, not as sharp as a certain, red-eyed man’s were. A day and night difference; one that comforted where the other terrified her. She tried to distract herself from the sensation by inhaling deeply, her face turning into the crook of his neck. Merlin, when had he gotten so tall? 

Sandalwood and orange peel, a decidedly boyish scent most suited to him, clung to his skin, his slicked-back hair. It made her heart ache, made her whispered words come out shaky. “If you see them, let them know I’m okay and that I miss them.”

His response came in the way of a squeeze about her waist— and she knew, from that alone, he would try. 

It was an effort to step away. 

‘He’ll be back,’ logic reasoned— a hollowness that was reflected in her watery smile. But, without Draco here, who else would she have? Who else could she count on?

“And don’t get into trouble. Or, at the very least, don’t get caught,” she said, aiming for a lightheartedness that fell flat. “Merlin only knows how terrible you are at sneaking out.” 

Past his shoulder, she registered— felt— the watchful stares of his parents. A warning was there for neither of them to overstep their boundaries— she did her best to ignore them. Green eyes met pale ones, gazes interlocked as one refused to look away from the other.

“Oh please, when do I ever get caught? And hey.” Draco shoved his hands into his school trousers, mouth tilting up into an uneven smile. “With you gone, maybe Slytherin will have a chance at the quidditch cup this year.” 

She laughed— muttered something in response— but Draco barely heard it. All he could focus on was the ringing falseness of his own words; shallow sentiments that meant nothing. There was so much he wanted to say— so much to tell her, assure her of— but he couldn’t. Not with the way they were being watched, picked apart, every touch, every smile, every word exchanged between them dissected— a prickling on the back of his neck at the glare from his father. 

Admittedly, he was terrified. Not for himself, of course, but for her. When he returned in a few months, what might he find? The same girl— the same girl with defiant, emerald eyes and a smile that could blind an entire room? Or a shell? Something broken down, defiled— something crumbled under the unrelenting pressures of his Lord? 

Would he find anything at all?

It was that thought in particular, the uncertainty, that frightened him the most. 

“Take care of yourself, Potter.” He swallowed hard, eyes flickering to the fireplace before looking back to her. On his next words, his mouth barely moved— a whisper, a plea— meant only for her ears. “Please.”

Lucius stepped forward then; an icy shadow at his son’s shoulders. He noted how close the two were standing, the sheen of tears in green eyes— a thread of camaraderie, of affection strung so tightly between them. It was enough to make his lip curl, his gaze drifting up to that lightning bolt shaped scar on her brow. How many times had he warned Draco already to distance himself from her? End their ‘friendship’ before his Lord took notice? And yet, here they were: the boy willing to defy him for this slip of a girl. 

A pale brow twitched, his hand shooting out to grip the back of his son’s neck. “Come, Draco, or you will miss the train.”

Lucius roughly shoved Draco into the mantle, cold glare fixed on the dumbstruck girl as his free hand grappled for a dose of floo powder.

Yes, where his son might see friendship— perhaps something more— he only saw death. Destruction. An awaiting ruination

And he’d be damned if he let any of that happen.

Harri could only return the small wave from Draco, mildly taken aback by his father’s abrupt interference. They were consumed by verdant flames.

She stared at the spot where they once had been, at the blackened ash and the dying green embers— he was gone. 

Draco was free

Free to spread his wings and roam without a collar heavy about his neck. ‘At least one of us gets to be,’ she thought bitterly, hand reaching up to touch the velvet ribbon, flinching at the bite of cool metal.  

In the wake of their disappearance, the room lapsed back into a hush.

The mother at her side sighed deeply— an uncommon show of distress— that had Harri wanting to reach for her. To reassure her, relieve her of some of the heartbreak, that it was only for a few months. A few months, a handful of weeks, and Draco would be back— he would.

A small, pale hand sought Narcissa’s, only to abruptly withdraw at a sudden cough.

She whirled around, eyes widening at the appearance of Barty in the doorway. When had he gotten here?

Barty tilted his head toward the hallway, his tone bordering on almost apologetic. “He’s summoning you, my Lady.”



Her guard had led them to a dining room. It was the same one, she belatedly realised as the heavy doors swung open, where her unveiling to the Death Eaters had taken place. 

The wooden table, long and polished to a dark sheen, was as empty as the ornately carved throne at its head. Off to the side, the obsidian fireplace was unlit, casting dim shadows about the imposing space. 

The emptiness, however, did little to quell her nerves.

Her heels clicked against the tile underfoot to match the thudding of her heart, gaze warily drifting to the shadows in expectation. The memories of what had happened here last time summoned forth a fresh dread, her throat drying— what had he planned now? After days of silence from him, what was he possibly angling for?

Narcissa faithfully brought up the rear of their small party, flanking her in. She could feel the woman’s eyes glued to the back of her head, could feel the warmth of her exhales against her neck and could smell the comfort of her lilac perfume. Harri breathed in deeply, craning her neck back to look uneasily at the older woman— a silent question.

The answer came in the form of a hand landing on her shoulder. The reassuring squeeze didn’t tell her much what to expect, only that she’d be by her side through it all. As if it would help much.

What, really, could Narcissa do in the grand scheme of it all?

Nerves constricted her throat— an uneasy swallow. Green eyes found the shadowed corner again, half-expecting the Dark Lord to step out at any second. 

He didn’t. 

Rather, it was just the three of them. The three of them with their out of sync, uneven footfalls. 

The hand still on her shoulder guided her— with no small amount of reluctance on her end— into the empty, carved chair to the right side of the table’s head. This was the same seat she’d occupied during the last meeting— the same seat where she’d been put on display and then later forced to sign away her rights. A shiver crept through her at the memory.

Fingers ran skittishly over the scrolls of the armrests, tracing out the image of twisting snakes and unfurling roses, leaves, and stems. Further down the table, she registered the screech of wooden feet against tile as Barty and Narcissa took their places— a frown upon seeing how far away they were. Rather than sitting closer, they found their places near the middle of the table— so far away

She glanced over to the throne, unease settling in. Just the knowledge alone of how close she was to him, how isolated she was from the safety rope of Narcissa, made her stomach churn. The churning only worsened with the revelation that this chair was a chair reserved for a guest of honour. A chair reserved for someone important ; someone held above all others. It was made apparent by the fact the other spots were plain— lacked the carvings and the ornate scrollwork hers did. The seat she was shepherded into was an echo of the throne itself, made intentionally lesser but still kept distinct. Set apart. It was almost as though—

‘It’s fit for a Queen.

Suddenly, she found herself with the desire to get up and move further down the table. 

The silence dragged on as neither of her companions saw fit to speak. Despite catching their eye several times— small smiles from Narcissa, a tilt of his head from Barty— they remained mute. Dread slipped down her spine, unnerved by their stillness— their waiting

She anxiously picked at the table, restless— where was he? He summoned her here, pulled her away from her routine— so shouldn’t he be here by now?

The door opened— a sharp click as the handle turned and the air parted with a heavy whoosh.

Harri glanced over to see a dark haired woman— eyes hooded and hair a mass of wild curls— sweeping confidently into the dining room. Much like she’d been dressed at the party, the black silk of her dress clung too tightly to her frame, too revealing and too immodest for polite company—  and, Merlin, how she wasn’t sure whether to be awed or be mortified on the woman’s behalf. Behind her, two identical men followed— ‘Rabastan,’ her memory supplied as she recognised the one she’d saved from Voldemort’s Cruciatus— their twin expressions fixed into boredom. All the same though, they trailed faithfully in her shadow, their chins lifted and their hands laced behind their backs.

The grand doors closed with a muffled thud.

And then it hit her— a swirl of venom, of loathing. Bellatrix Lestrange. That’s who the woman was. Green eyes narrowed as she watched her cross the room with a graceful sway to her hips, a smirk pulling wide on burgundy lips. There was a new scar, she noticed, skirting around the contours of the woman’s face— and though she hated to admit it, such a thing did little to detract from her beauty. 

The ghostly words of Zivvy were unbidden. It was Bellatrix who had been at Grimmauld Place that day— Bellatrix who’d come equipped with a vengeance and a bloodthirst. ‘His most faithful’ is what he had called her— and she’d be a damned fool to not piece two and two together. The new scar. The fact someone had recognised the house-elf— had been the cause of her murder.

Her hands curled into fists on the tabletop, her heart hammering for altogether different reasons. Bellatrix was the reason Zivvy was dead.

“Harrikins!” Bellatrix crooned, teeth gleaming and far too sharp to match her simpering tone. “I was hoping to run into you again!”

There was the slightest flicker of animosity— an undercurrent of jealousy— hidden in those dark eyes upon seeing where she sat. And though it was quickly replaced by something more congenial, stuffed down and glossed over by a gleam almost akin to excitement, Harri saw it all the same. And, oh by the heavens, how it felt like a shred of victory. 

A muscle feathered in Harri’s jaw at the falsey sweet nickname. “Funny. I was hoping for the opposite.”  

Narcissa abruptly pushed her chair out from under the table, flitting over to her sister. The hand placed on Bellatrix’s forearm was a subtle warning— an unspoken plea to tread carefully. It was an unerring truth to her sister’s character that she was a fickle thing in need of entertainment— entertainment of which that was generally at the expense of others. And she couldn’t mistake that glint in her sister’s dark eyes. Oh yes, she knew what that meant. But it was madness— suicidal, really— to even attempt such a thing with the girl— their Lord’s charge— after she had been declared off limits. And even if Bellatrix occasionally warmed his bed, she was fairly certain such familiarity wouldn’t spare her if he found out.  

“Bella,” Narcissa greeted, attempting to inject as much warmth as possible into her strained voice. “How have you been? It seems as though it’s been ages since we’ve last seen each other! Really, you must stop torturing your sister and come by for tea more often.”

Bellatrix glanced over to her younger sister, gaze bouncing down to the hand resting upon her arm. ‘Ever so cautious,’ she mused, clawed fingers— nails painted black and wickedly pointed— lifting to lovingly pat Narcissa’s cheek. “Cissy! It has, hasn’t it? I’ve been better, especially now that our Lord healed me.”

She jerked her chin to draw attention to the new scar stretching across her face. A dry bout of laughter tore from her throat, her voice sly, “But you know our cousin. Such a temper.”

Coal eyes slid over to the girl, a vicious smirk lighting up her expression. Bellatrix ignored the cautioning squeeze on her forearm, gaze locked with Harri’s. “Sirius truly doesn’t hold back. No matter though, we had our fun. And I imagine he’s far worse off than I am— I’ll gladly take a little scar over that any day.”

Harri’s fingers twitched on instinct, the urge to reach for a wand she didn’t have mounting. The heat that had settled into her stomach rose up into her chest— brighter, brighter, brighter. Flames danced there, the taunting smile dry kindling to her anger. 

Around her, the dining room bled away— tunnelling, narrowing, until all she could see was Bellatrix. Her words processed, their hidden meaning clear: she confessed to torturing her not-quite-godfather. Had confessed to her sin of laying a foul hand upon him, of causing him pain . It moved her to see red, the twisting flames rising up, uncontained— a threat found in the white noise drumming in her ears.

How dare she?

How dare she?! 

‘Hurt her. Make her pay,’ a rich voice chanted from somewhere deep within her— an encouragement, a coaxing to push her to the edge. And it was with a startling clarity she could . She may not be able to raise a hand against Voldemort— may not be able to exact her own justice against him— but when it concerned his followers? Oh, she was more than certain she was capable. 

And what could they do to her if she decided to act upon it?

Nothing

‘She touched one of your own and has the audacity to gloat about it,’ it sang, willing her to earn her pound of flesh— to taste it between her teeth and revel in its bloody glory. ‘Will you really let her get away with it?’

‘No,’ she thought firmly— hands curling in tighter. They were trembling now, she realised, struggling to contain something. Acidity, tart yet welcomed, bloomed on her tongue— metallic in nature— an ache in her gums that throbbed in time with her frantic pulse.

The world came back to her.

One minute, she had been seated, and then, the next, her feet were moving on their own accord, carrying her with an unnatural speed towards the woman. 

“What did you do?!” Harri demanded.

Images assaulted her mind— a brutal onslaught. Sirius in agony. Sirius bleeding. Sirius screaming for mercy— Sirius hunched over the kitchen table at Grimmauld place. Sirius, the man who always held a smile, who always had a joke at the ready— who always tried to see the best in people and in every situation— had been tortured . And now? Now she wanted revenge.

A reedy laugh, strung too high and grating, left Bellatrix. She roughly shrugged off Narcissa’s tightening grip, ignoring her sister’s pleas to stop. Rather, she took one step and then another until the tips of her pointed boots bumped against the girl’s. 

Standing face to face, dark eyes idly swept over the redhead, taking in her delicate stature. ‘What a small thing,’ she thought in amusement, noting how the girl was several inches shorter than herself. And yet, she knew how to make herself so much bigger. True, her shoulders trembled in rage, but those eyes— those bright green eyes nearly aglow— danced like a curse. Like wild, wild spellfire. There was an appeal to her, that much Bellatrix could see, found in her boldness, in her spine— a quality to almost admire. And it was so entertaining with how quick she was to rile over something as insignificant as a blood traitor— to see how quickly she lost her temper without even knowing the full details first. 

That cheshire grin widened.

“Are you sure you want to know? After all, such details aren’t meant for children.” Bellatrix clicked her tongue in mock sympathy, giggling at how the blaze in those green eyes fanned. A hand rose to lovingly pat the top of her auburn crown, retracting it with a peal of laughter when the girl lashed out and firmly pushed her away. “I wouldn’t want you to have nightmares, Harrikins. Such nasty things shouldn’t be put in a pretty little head like yours.”  

Bellatrix stumbled when Harri shoved her again— another bout of giggles fed by the girl’s sharpening ire and the feral way she was baring her teeth. She easily swatted away Narcissa’s desperate hands, fending off their attempts to pull her back. “Temper, temper!”

Magic sang in the air.

Dark eyes darted over to where the fireplace had suddenly sprung to life, blazing flames lashing out past their grates and licking the tops of the mantle. It would seem the girl was still prone to bursts of accidental magic in the face of anger— a lack of control that only inspired a new sort of giddiness. Oh yes, she could taste it. 

The girl was a powerhouse.

A catalyst. 

No wonder Dumbledore had kept such a tight leash on his precious champion. There was a quality so raw to her, something just waiting to be polished and shaped. What might it be to—

Bellatrix’s train of thought was derailed as it hit her in full force: the taste . The headiness, the shadows swirling in it— it was glorious. Glorious yet familiar. Too familiar. It was an overwhelming sense of deja vu, her mind whirling as she tried to place were she felt such magic before. 

It was her Lord’s

She choked down a noise of disbelief. 

Harri tried to control her temper— truly, she did. She had tried to distract herself by counting down from twenty, had tried through the pain of her nails biting half-moons into the softness of her palms— had tried through imagining her happy place at the Burrow. Yet, it was all futile, pointless, in the wake of Bellatrix’s words, her taunts, her squeals of laughter and mocking hands. And so when the fireplace erupted into an inferno, when all of the lights overhead flickered and hissed, and the ground trembled underfoot, she decided to say ‘fuck it’.

That’s it. Feel it, Harri, revel in it. This is all you.

Merlin, how good it felt. She was just so spiteful, so angry, that having an outlet for it was pure bliss. Her anger at being treated like a child, at being kept in the dark, at the appalling things this woman had done to Sirius— she could feel it all leave her body with each trembling exhale that translated into magic

It sang around her, crackling through the air, over her skin— a shield and a sword all in one.

“Call me ‘Harrikins’ one more time, Bellatrix. I dare you.” 

A sudden gust of wind, as sharp and uncontrollable as the storm raging in her, tore through the room. Her body vibrated with the power behind it.

It was electrifying, a thrill and a shock to her system— sunspotting flares that danced behind her eyes. Everything felt too alive, too much yet too little, a feeling that whispered this wasn’t enough

‘Good, Harri. Good. Listen to your instincts, feed them.’ 

She did just that.

And, for a moment, she could have sworn that her skin sparked— that it held a charge that could light up this very room as her nerves fired, volatile and untempered. It was a feeling only backed by the glee of seeing Bellatrix stagger under the gale— at seeing the wind tatter her clothes and leave a cut behind on her cheek. There was a line of red welling up; a scarlet tear rolling down her cheek. Green eyes latched onto the sight, ignoring the clatter of chairs falling to the ground or the way the window’s panes rattled in their frames, the drapes whipping around and the chandelier swaying dangerously. 

The air in the room thinned— oxygen sapped away as her winds stole it— a feeling of sheer power in her veins. 

‘Careful.’

That was all the warning she had before everything stopped .

As quickly as the howling manifested, it died down, taking with it the strength it had lent her. In its place was a jarring sense of loss, of fatigue— a weariness that haunted her down to her marrow.

She panted, her breathing laboured as the world slipped out of focus. Her fingertips tingled with pinpricks, the lack of sensation turning them numb, cold. 

‘Your core is too unstable to handle such magic without a wand. You’ll end up exhausting yourself at this rate.’ 

Exhaustion— oh, how fitting of a description was that.

Harri stumbled, the flames in her dipping down too closely to the wax, running out of wick. A shaking hand rose to rest over her heart, attempting to slow its punishing tempo— Merlin, it felt as though she could retch with how the adrenaline coursed in her system. But yet, despite all of that, the feelings of hatred remained.

It took Bellatrix a second to recover herself, a searching hand lifting to her cheek only to find tacky warmth. She glanced down when her fingers pulled away, eyes widening at the wet glint of blood on them. They quickly bounced back to the girl, narrowing in contemplation. The earlier delight ebbed, turning cold as seriousness replaced it. Just who was Harri Potter to the Dark Lord? Who was she to have a magic signature so close to his own? To be able to conjure up such power without even having a wand?

None of it made sense.

The cords in her went taut at the idea— an overwhelming need to dissect her. To tear apart the girl’s body in search of answers, to accuse her of stealing something so precious. To find that core of hers, the glowing traces of it, and sink her clawed nails into it— to claim it for her own.

She slipped her warped wand from its holster, her tongue running slowly over her painted lips.

Harri’s attention snagged on the curved piece of wood in Bellatrix’s hand, mouth twisting into a frown. ‘A wand, huh? That’s what I need?’ She took the silence as confirmation. 

Barty had chosen that second to step up next to her shoulder, ready to put himself between the two women. 

“Give me your wand,” Harri gritted out, her palm extended in expectation. Despite recovering her breath, her words were still too breathy for her liking— too feeble, uneven. But hell, she’d be damned if she shied away from Bellatrix’s challenge. 

“You know I can not, my Lady,” Barty said stiffly, taking a step forward to place himself in front of the girl— a human shield from the obsessive hunger shining too brightly in Bellatrix Lestrange’s gaze.

He spared a glimpse over his shoulder to Harri, frowning at the exhaustion so clear on her face, before turning back to Bellatrix. Oh yes, that look in those dark eyes— that crazed yet confused look— relayed all he needed to know: she felt it too.

Those who were used to dark magic, who regularly practiced it— bathed in it— were finely attuned to its nuance. Every user had an underlying current that lent them a unique flavour. And their Lord’s? Well. It was unmistakable. 

He had seen it before, of course— moments when he was teaching where he thought he could sense that familiarity. Back then, he chalked it up to his imagination. Though, feeling it in all of its unbridled glory? That was damning— irrefutable. There was something more to them. But yet, whatever Harry Potter meant to their Lord, their strange connection, he hadn’t deemed it justified, or appropriate, for them to know— and it wasn’t in their place to try to figure it out either. They were his followers . They weren't privy to knowing every reason for every action of his— and trying to toe that line was a dangerous, reckless thing to do.

Something of which, if Bellatrix was smart, she’d recognize. 

Brown eyes locked with hooded ones. He had given the slightest shake of his head— the only warning she’d receive— to sheath her wand and not say or do anything else. Though he held respect for her, her capabilities and skills nothing to scoff at— and as much as he didn’t want to willingly cross wands with her— none of it mattered in the face of following his orders. 

Tension, weighty and wound too tightly, palpable in its astringency on their tongues, stretched on. For a moment, no one dared to move. To speak. To so much as blink

It was a game of seeing who would crumple first— who would make a move or back down. 

It was a game interrupted by the grand doors swinging open.

Six heads snapped in unison towards them, the sound disturbing the hush. Horror, mutually felt by all, rippled through the room as the Dark Lord stood in the threshold, crimson eyes narrowed in displeasure. 

“Well now,” Voldemort drawled, words scathing, clipped, “isn’t this a sight?”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 45: His Summons (pt 2)

Notes:

Hello to all of my lovely and precious readers! I ended up receiving so many comments on the last chapter, including from users I haven't seen before in the comment threads, so I just wanted to say thank you!! 💕

As promised, here's the second half! It's a bit long— I ended up having some things I wanted to add in while I was editing lol.

You guys are wonderful— enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Flashes of lights— solar flares far brighter than the overhead stage lanterns warming his skin.

Wisps of acrid powder curling out from the cameras— offputting in its smell and hazy in its residue. The smoke settled over the room as a veil, more puffs added when another went off without warning.

Reporters jostling to get their exclusives, some greener than the rest— hungrier— in how they elbowed the crowd and thrust their microphones into his face.

And though he was outwardly smiling, was acting congenial, amicable even— a wave there, a nod here, always posing to allow the press to capture his best side— Voldemort was quickly tiring of it all. 

His patience was thinning

The endless buzzing, the rapid-fire questions, the chattering were all bringing on the twinges of a headache— a stab at his temple in-sync with every camera’s flash. And he couldn’t quite help but allow his attention to wander. Under the pretense of appearing thoughtful, he kept looking over to the clock, obsessively counting down the minutes, the seconds, until he could return to Malfoy Manor. 

To her.  

The clock ticked on— an excruciatingly slow march.

His smile tightened at another burst of flash.

“Your Majesty! Tell us, how is your new ward faring?” A voice called out from the mass of obscured bodies, their faces shadowed by the lights that shunned them. Another nameless spectre demanding an impossible answer. “I noticed she wasn’t present at the New Year’s Eve party. Is she doing well?”

‘Is she doing well?’

Recollections surfaced of his destroyed bedroom, the walls and the furniture in tatters. Of an art gallery reduced to finely-milled dust and of an agonized, twisting body suspended against a shattered mirror. Of screams falling to panting gasps— of cream skin flushed in ecstasy and emerald eyes blown wide.

Is she doing well?

His fingers drummed against the podium, teeth sharp behind what he, hoped, was a warm-enough smile. No. He supposed she wasn’t doing well. But he couldn’t say that, could he?

In the end, he settled for clicking his tongue and a sympathetic shake of his head. “Harri is still adjusting, as you can imagine. It is a big change, after all, considering the situation with her previous guardian—” 

A sharp, melodic chime from the clock interrupted him before he could say— lie— anymore.  

He could near damn well sigh in relief.

Though perhaps just a touch too hasty, Voldemort dipped his head, gaze sliding over to the polished clockface before landing back on the shadowed masses. “My apologies, gentlemen, but that is all I have time for today. Please direct any further questions you may have to Mr Nott and I assure you that he will relay them to me at a later date.”

He barely registered as Nott stepped forward, his dazzling smile a bit too stretched. ‘Finally .’ A last wave, a last nod, and he was stepping off into the darkened antechamber behind the podium. 

Anticipation filled him with each step, cresting and rising as feet carried him swiftly down the corridor to the Apparition point. All morning, he’d refrained from leaving early and suffered through meaningless paperwork and needling questions. All week, he’d abstained from forcing his presence onto her— a bid to grant her autonomy, distance— despite how that rebelled against every fibre of his being. His very principles.  

All bloody week, he had fought down that urge to make her see she could never be rid of him— force her to understand that truth. But yet, he remained steadfast to Severus’s advice.

Today, however, that farce would finally end. 

He loosened the tie around his throat, destination in mind and ready to seek out the prize awaiting him, when something gave him pause. A glimpse of emotion— a glimpse that quickly became a tidal wave. 

Her anger

Bright spots of it punctuated his own conscious, arresting and blinding. For a moment, it was all he could feel. Focus on. Such fury was a feral thing— the kind that gnawed at its bindings, jaws frothing and maw snapping. Wild.

Livid

And then, as quickly as it came, that anger slipped away— a wisp curling into the vast emptiness of his mind.

Brows knitted together— what possibly had set her off now? His tongue clicked in exasperation at all of the possible answers. ‘So much for today being a pleasant affair.’

The world blurred away. 



Voldemort had followed that red string between them— clutched at that living filament of their bond— all the way to the grand doors of the Malfoy’s formal dining room. And it was there he found himself unwittingly pausing, feet disinclined and fingers unmoving. Instead, he was frozen, seized, by magic. 

It seeped out through the wood, slipping through the grains and subtle knots in the ancient oak, to cocoon him. His lips parted on their own accord, baser instinct moving him to scent the air. It flooded his mouth; a dance upon his tongue as nuanced as finely-aged wine. There was an intoxicating quality to it, raw in its refinement but complex enough to relay it was not simple by nature. And it was warm. Merlin it was. It crept into his mind, wrapping tightly about his consciousness— an underlying urge that begged to draw closer to the source.

Hers.

Undoubtedly, it was. The signature was so similar to his own but with just enough variation to make it unique— a mystery he’d yet to fully puzzle out. But he knew that it was his horcrux, felt it more accurately, by how that magic vibrated in his bones, his marrow— a joyful resonance that was cut off far too quickly for his liking.

His jaw snapped shut as that magic withdrew, eyes narrowing into slits of displeasure— a beast internally pacing in his chest at the wrongness of it all. Something wasn’t right. 

The doors parted at the wave of his hand. 

Emotions cycled through him at the scene beyond them— a struggle to keep his expression neutral. 

There was shock in seeing the room overturned. In seeing the chairs scattered about the tiled ground, the drapes ripped from their rods, and the mantle singed where flames had gone unchecked.

There was awe induced by her. By those inherent abilities, that inclination for destruction, that never ceased to surprise him.

There was concern— oh, there certainly was— when she stumbled on her next step, exhaustion clear by the slight sheen on her brow.

But, most of all, he felt anger . Vexation, irritation— displeasure. Such feelings offset everything else when he realised how quickly she had burnt through her magic. ‘Foolish,’ he scoffed inwardly, taking in the waxy quality of her complexion. But wasn’t that just like his horcrux? To act so recklessly, so thoughtlessly, by attempting to call upon magic without a proper conduit and an underdeveloped core.

And then he saw the confrontational stance everyone had taken— that anger flared. 

Narrowed eyes flitted between the room’s occupants, landing first on Bellatrix. Her wand was drawn, ready, her cheek bleeding and a glint in that coal stare he was all too familiar with— obsession. They flickered to Barty next, the man standing between his horcrux and his general, a human shield. And Harri, every inch of her simmering with rage

“Well now,” he drawled, words scathing, clipped, “isn’t this a sight?”

Multiple heads snapped towards him in unison. There was a ripple throughout the room as they processed who, exactly, had interrupted their standoff— a ripple of horror and chagrin. It was a delayed second before they regained their wits, sinking into a bow— save for one. 

One who stood defiantly, chin lifted despite the tremble in her shoulders and the shaking in her knees. 

His lip curled as he marched forward. Long strides crossed the tile, the heels of his Oxford shoes a deafening click that filled the silence. Without even faltering in his stride, Voldemort unsheathed the elder wand from its holster— a wide sweep and the parlour reset itself. Chairs were magically corrected, the singed marks vanished, the curtains reattached— but he barely paid it any mind as he returned the wand to his robes. Instead, all of his attention was firmly latched onto the girl standing amidst the once-chaos. 

His horcrux refused to budge under his glare or, for Merlin’s sake, have the tact to at least look somewhat apologetic. Fury still shone in the depths of those green eyes— a glow lent to them by its presence— and something else he couldn’t quite place. Apprehension? Wariness? Whatever it was, there was a distinct feeling she was sizing him up— a humorous thought, certainly, if it weren’t for the dire condition she’d foolishly put herself in. Because try as she did to hide it behind her bravado, he could sense her exhaustion. He catalogued it all. That way she kept swaying on unsteady feet, her chest rising and falling unevenly as though she couldn’t catch a breath, her knees— well, he considered they were two seconds from buckling. 

The girl was going to kill herself at this rate; burn herself up in this reckless, undisciplined use of magic. Yet, she didn’t appear to recognise— or be remorseful of— the dangers of her actions. Once again, it’d be up to him to correct that oversight. ‘Truly ungovernable,’ he thought viciously, finding there to be truth in Snape’s assessment of her character. 

Harri couldn’t quite remember the last time she laid eyes on Voldemort. Nor could she quite remember the last time they had even been in the same room. Unfortunately, it would appear her luck in avoiding him had run dry.

She watched in silence, struggling to draw in a full, satisfying breath, as he crossed the room. And for the life of her, she couldn’t help but remember their last conversation and how that had gone. Memories were summoned by the fury so vividly painted on his face— unpleasant, unwanted things that did little to help unknot her nerves. 

The torture. 

The harsh words. 

The immeasurable bliss.

All of it was a whirlwind of phantom sensations— a whiplash that had her reeling by just recalling it. That ache in her sharpened at the memories, the ground suddenly like quicksand.

‘Any advice on how to deal with this?’ she thought tentatively. 

Silence echoed in her mind in response.

‘Oh, so now you’re silent.’ Of course, leave it to that voice to abandon her when she needed it the most— especially considering it was its encouragement that led her to her current predicament. She fought down a scoff, hands curling when the world tilted to the left a bit too much to her liking. 

Of course, she could recognise she probably overdid it. Hell, there was nothing more she’d like than to sit down before she retched everywhere. In fact, if she was alone, she might have laid down on this very floor, how it would look be damned.  

But she couldn’t right now.

Merlin, definitely not now. 

Not with the way he was stalking towards her, lip curled and fury hellfire in his gaze. Not with the way he was pinning her with that glare, his disdain evident when she didn’t bow like his other sycophants— as evident as his thoughts were. Oh yes, she didn’t have to be a mind reader to know exactly what he was thinking: childish, reckless, impudent. The list could go on. But it was precisely why she couldn’t sit down or jump out of the way of the impending trainwreck— because it would look like she was backing down. And she’d be damned if that happened. 

Gritting her teeth, her hands curled in even further— pain. It nagged at her when nails bit half-moons into her palms— a threat to draw blood. But it worked, at least, to not focus on how enticing a chair seemed at the very moment.

Stubbornly lifting her chin, trying to ignore its tremble, she levelled him with a fixed look. A challenge in its own right. A challenge that dared him to point out she hadn’t greeted him, hadn’t bent the knee— for him to start out their first meeting in days with the fight she so desired. 

Voldemort paused in front of Harri, looming. The tips of his shoes met hers as he allowed his attention to roam across her face, sharp and discerning. Part of him was aware that he shouldn’t be so upset that she was using her magic— her birthright— especially not when it was so splendid. Instead, shouldn’t he be more upset with those that had let her continue her little tirade? Who did nothing to stop it even though they were fully aware of the effects such magic could have on those underaged?

Yes, he considered he should be.

He tentatively drew in a shallow breath to scent the air between them, brow arching at the hostile quality she’d taken on. Without looking away, Voldemort tilted his head towards Barty on his left, tone casual despite the heavy accusation. “Is this your idea of guarding her, Barty? Standing by as she does whatever she pleases and endangers herself to the point of exhaustion?”

Harri’s scowl slipped, mouth dropping. “Wait— no, he didn’t—”

“And Bellatrix,” he said, gaze still locked with his horcrux. “Did you happen to forget my warning? The one in which I specifically declared Harri Potter to be off-limits? That any affront to her would be one to me as well?” 

There was a simpering, keening noise from the woman that he decidedly ignored. 

“As for everyone else, why was I not alerted the second wands were drawn against my charge?” he continued, voice slipping from something casual to something colder, more demanding— and oh, how it carried in the silence of the room. “I confess myself disappointed. Especially by you, Narcissa. I expected better vigilance.”

Harri’s eyes widened at his accusations. “It isn’t Narcissa’s fault— or Barty’s! You can’t blame them!” 

He turned from her to properly dole out punishment, calculated fury swirling in his mind, when he felt it

The sensation came before her hand did— a pull at their bond, a tug at the edge of his awareness, and one that he didn’t instigate first. There was a pleading quality to it, an underlying desperation that searched and probed and prodded— a golden frequency that vibrated between them when her soul touched his. 

Voldemort whirled back around, gaze darting down to the tightening hand on his forearm before lifting to her face. He searched her expression, drawn and marked by the shadows of fear— and a healthy dose of animosity, as well— to see if she even knew what she was doing. However, judging by how insistent that pull was, coaxing and emboldened as he didn’t shove it away— and considering how closed off her posture remained, the tightness in her jaw— probably not. It was more likely the horcrux acting on its own will, he figured. 

But still.

It was a significant development— a sign that the connection between them was becoming more established as the days went on, even if she rebelled against such a thing. That this was fate. 

Inevitable

And oh, how it filled him with the oddest sense of victory. 

His hand wrapped around her wrist when she abruptly tipped to the left, fingers digging in. A lethargic pulse rose to meet him, his mouth opening to say something—

“My Lord— please! You know that was not my intention!” Bellatrix cried. “I would never mean to disappoint you!” 

Crimson eyes slid from the girl to Bellatrix. He sneered when he noticed she had raised her head without permission— had brazenly spoken without it. She seemed to sense his mounting displeasure; her bottom lip wobbled as she quickly averted her watery gaze to the ground. 

“But yet, you have disappointed me,” he said coldly, “haven’t you?” 

This time, she did attempt to stifle the whimper; he heard it all the same. Yes, the truth was Bellatrix had disappointed him today— a rare occurrence, certainly, but uncommonly frequent in the past few weeks. First Grimmauld Place and now she was overstepping her boundaries, in spite of his warnings. Frankly, some humility would do her good.

‘However, Bella isn’t solely at fault.’ Crimson eyes returned back to his paling horcrux, head tilting ever-so in consideration. More than likely, Harri had been the one to rile up the woman— especially considering only one of them was currently bleeding. She’d have to be dealt with too but the conundrum lied in how? He couldn’t very well punish her in the usual sense— especially not publicly should it undermine whatever budding authority she was slowly finding among his followers. It was frustrating

So incredibly frustrating— this thin line he found himself walking.

A muscle feathered in his jaw.

Pushing his irritation out into the Dark Mark, the edge of his frustration was slightly tempered by the drawn, inward gasps. His magic pulsed in a wave, feeding into the channel strung between him and his followers— a rolling tide of pain. And, for good measure, a reminder should they think of disobeying in the future, he specifically targeted Bellatrix and Barty. They were his generals, for Merlin’s sake, his most trusted. Out of everyone, he expected them to be able to behave. 

Their groans were the loudest— an echo against the vaulted ceilings. 

Higher-pitched, throatier, their pain extended far beyond that of Narcissa’s or the Lestrange brothers. 

He watched as Harri leaned around him to take in the sight, attention latching onto the way her mouth dropped in shock. Oh yes, that was a good look on her. And without even turning, he knew what she was seeing: blood. Blackened blood, to be exact. On their forearms, the Dark Mark had cracked and blistered by invisible heat, weeping ink onto the tile below. 

It was a good reminder for her, he supposed, of what he was capable of. 

Sympathy was clear in green eyes as they landed on Barty— and, interestingly, it remained there when they shifted to Bellatrix. Though it was duller, less apparent, pity and something nervous danced in her eyes— a curious development that his little horcrux was apparently uncomfortable with their suffering.

He half-twisted to take in the doubled-over form of Bellatrix. The woman clutched uselessly at her arm, tremors to her shoulders and a bead of sweat on her brow as she tried to fight off the unseen flames licking at her broken skin. Dark blood dripped from the crevices of her fingers into a puddle, the snake writhing and its jaw gaping. ‘Appropriate reparations.’

“Stop it!” Harri protested, tongue slipping into their shared language at the presence of his magic. “It’s not fair— he didn’t do anything!” 

Voldemort glanced back at her. Another curious development: despite her distaste for the man, she was apparently fine protecting him. Was this her famed saviour complex? He clicked his tongue, addressing his generals and withdrawing his magic from their marks. “After this meeting, I want you two to stay behind.”

“Exactly. He did nothing. And you.” Voldemort considered Harri, noting how her anger was still simmering under the surface— how her magic paced restlessly under her skin. You need to calm down.”

Harri gaped at him, taking an unbalanced step back in offense. He had the nerve to tell her to calm down? Him— the one who always lost his temper? Who tossed her about like a rag doll when he saw fit? Who was making two people— albeit one more innocent than the other— bleed out onto the marble? Who was always the one to get physical and destroy things? Granted, she was guilty of that as well— but, considering their track record, he was more of the repeat offender. 

A soft groan registered and green eyes shifted over to Bellatrix’s hunched form. Admittedly, a small part of her— a dark side that she would deny ever existing— did find some degree of vindictive joy in the woman’s pain. After what she’d done, it was justified. But all the same, it still felt wrong with how quick Voldemort was to turn on her— hurt her. 

Whatever happened to loyalty?

Her tongue ran skittishly over her lips, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned away from him. “Don’t tell me to calm down!”

His eyes narrowed when she stepped back. “Why don’t you just take a seat and we can get on with our day, hm?”

“Or, here’s a better idea, I leave and we go back to ignoring each other for the rest of our lives? I think that’s a better plan, don’t you?”

“You are acting like a child,” he gritted out, frustration rising, “and I need you to stop.”

“Oh, fuck y—”

Her words were cut off when his hand shot out to grip the back of her neck. 

Fingers were an unrelenting press as they burrowed into her pulse point. His palm was a heavy heat, his thumb a scorching arc across the topmost knob of her spine— and there it was. The light. The pull. That bliss that sought to melt away the anger, the negativity— that leached away the magic crackling under her skin, begging to be released. 

And, for a remarkable second, the world steadied itself. 

For a moment, the ground stopped tilting and the dining room was a bit less fuzzy. It was odd, considering how she felt like she was floating— a contradiction that both grounded and released her. That warmth settled in her chest, lending her a strength not entirely her own—

It vanished.

Just as quickly as it began, it tapered off. 

There was a dazed delay where she wasn’t quite sure what had happened— a confused blink, an owlish stare. How could he have ended it so quickly? How could he have taken that light away so callously? And, oh, how there was something in her whispering that it wasn’t enough— that she needed more of that buoyancy, that comfort, that tranquillity. She even thought to beg him for it back when the nausea came rushing in— bile in her throat and lightheadedness sweeping through her— when she caught that smug glint in those red, red eyes.

Harri bit down on her tongue instead; a flood of copper. 

That hand around her neck moved to engulf her own. It wasn’t so much as a gentle interlacing of fingers as it was a constricting pressure— one that lightly crushed the fine bones and made them ache. She tried to dig her heels into the tile but he was already dragging her over to the chair near the throne. His free hand pulled it out as the other forced her into it— a bruising vise about her shoulder.

‘Merlin,’ she thought when her knees buckled under the pressure. How much strength rested in that one hand of his— a deception hidden in its elegance. An uneasy swallow snagged in her dry throat when he lingered for a moment, nails blunt against her pulse. It jumped under his touch, her gaze set sightlessly forward as she tried to ignore him looming above her. Rather, she focused on how jelly her legs felt— the bones seemingly brittle— and the relief it was to sit.

Her heart thudded dully in her ears in the vacuum of the quiet. She belatedly realised she was listening for sound— for his breathing, for something to break up the monotony. But the more she searched for it, the less she found. He was eerily quiet, impossibly so, reduced down to heated eyes and a cooling hand on her neck.

A phantom.

A second later, that hand dropped away and it wasn’t until the throne was pulled out that she dared to exhale. Green eyes darted across his relaxed form, his fingers steepled and legs crossed; a king at ease in his court. His magic settled languidly over the vaulted ceiling and exposed rafters— a sentient guard— as the scattered Death Eaters found their places once more. 

Harri chanced a glance to their waned faces. They looked as terribly as she felt— especially Barty. Concerned by the blackened blood still oozing from the mark, she caught his eye only to be sent a half-smile. It was a cocky, little thing, one that didn’t quite hide the pain in his eyes but, oddly enough, embraced it. She wondered briefly if the torture had gone straight to his head.

Her gaze snapped down to the table when a vial appeared before her. It was a soft pop— an echo amplified by the quiet— one summoned by magic. An orange liquid was housed inside, the fizziness making the substance jump playfully in the glass bottle. Her brows drew together as she recognised it was a Pick-Me-Up Draught— a potion made familiar to her after nights foolishly spent in the company of firewhiskey-laced punch.

Drink it,” he commanded, leaning back in the throne. 

She did contemplate, momentarily, snubbing it— a fitting middle finger to him and his lack of manners. But, then again, considering how she felt as though the Express had mowed her down, she figured maybe this was as good as any of a time to let her pride go.

Shrugging and uncorking the bottle, she tilted it back— a pleasant burst of sun-ripened oranges on her tongue. And as she swallowed, she was keenly aware, all too much so, of red eyes glued to her. They watched, fascinated, dissecting, contemplating with a discomforting sort of attention that seemed to track the movement of her throat bobbing.

Mercifully, the mantle abruptly sprung to life to save her from the awkwardness of the moment. 

Green flames lit up the dining room— a bright contrast to the weak, winter’s sun streaming in through the tall windows— the roar and crackle the only warning heralding the arrival of two goblins.

Harri blinked in surprise, looking about the room to find everyone else’s faces schooled into nonchalance. Apparently, she was the only one taken back by the unexpected appearance of the creatures. Amusement flickered in their bond. She twisted in her seat to glare at the Dark Lord, who, apparently was entirely focused on the quivering flames. 

The goblins were a hooked-nose pair with teardrops of onyx for eyes, beady and unnerving to look at for too long. They bowed in unison to the man on the throne— the ever-so-slightest dip of their heads— and, much to her unbridled surprise, Voldemort returned the gesture. ‘Since when does he bow?’ Green eyes narrowed at the exchange, mildly disturbed by the sheer nature of it. Knowing who he was and what he stood for, the little regard he held for those deemed underneath him, humility wasn’t his strongest suit. But yet, the creatures had managed to earn what the Dark Lord, typically, did not freely give. 

“Your Majesty, on behalf of Gringotts, let me extend my warmest expressions of gratitude for choosing us for your needs. I am Alnott, Head of Wizarding Relations.” The slightly taller of the two stepped forward, his face heavily lined and his hair tufts of white on top of a balding head. His head tilted to the other goblin. “And this is Fargor, certified in Notaries and Official Documents.”

Harri studied them with a morbid curiosity. In the past, her knowledge and interactions with goblins had been limited solely to the bank or Professor Flitwick. The former, she’d found, were always confrontational and curt, as though dealing with wizards was a chore deigned to be necessary and not a pleasure. And of course, she knew they were in complete control of their economy. The race minted their currency, as well as most precious, metal objects, so, naturally, they did command a sort of respect. 

But to see them giving said respect? No, that was odd. Were they always like this if one had enough money to flaunt? Or was the man at her side just that powerful— that frightening— that even goblins, who were generally neutral in their world’s politics, felt it prudent to show him some version of reverence? 

She shuddered at the idea— and shuddered even further when the one called Fargor smiled. His teeth were too pointed, too sharp behind razor-thin lips, his eyes glinting in a cunning way that set her on edge.

“And I am assuming this is the girl in question?” Fargor asked, snapping closed his gold pocket watch. 

Her spine straightened when both goblins’ attentions settled on her. And it was out of pure habit that she found herself helplessly looking over to Voldemort for an answer— for guidance. What was she expected to do? To say? But yet, all he’d given was a curt nod. Once again, he had left her stumbling in the dark, uncertain and unsure until pity was taken upon her— a marionette awaiting the directions of its strings. ‘How typical.’

Fingers curled about her chair’s armrests, nails biting into the wood, the varnish flaking off.

“Indeed.”

“Excellent! Then all we need is a bit of her blood to begin,” Alnott explained, pulling an ornate knife, gold-handled and inlaid with rubies, from his waistcoat. 

Harri stared at the blade, possessed by its curve and the malicious, serrated edge. The light of the room caught the metal— an ominous glint heightened by the verdant flames and mild sunshine— and she couldn’t help but pale at the sight. Flashes of Wormtail surfaced— of her arm being carved into, how flayed the skin had been, the pain. ‘Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken.’ The blood.

So much blood.

She never knew how much humans could bleed until that moment— until she’d been gagged and left to have her arm weep in place of her tears.

The recollection left her caught somewhere between ill and unsettled. 

And though she may not be the most competent— Merlin knew she wasn’t anywhere near Hermione’s level of knowledge— she did know one thing: anything involving blood wasn’t safe. It was dangerous, binding. Even more, she figured, when it was two goblin officials demanding it from her for an unknown purpose. Alarm bells sounded in her mind; a racket of jarring noises and blaring screeches. 

“No,” she said, plain in her refusal and never once looking away from the knife. 

Voldemort shifted on her periphery, head turning ever-so-slowly. “No?”

The Dark Lord studied the girl in disbelief, trying to ascertain if he heard her correctly. What did she mean ‘no’? Surely—

“No,” she repeated once more. “I won’t.”

Crimson eyes flickered down to where her fingers had tightened on the armrests, knuckles streaking out white. And then they found her eyes— found the determination, the outrage dancing there, vivid and steadfast. But why? It wasn’t as if he was asking so much of her— in fact, this was to be a gift. A gift she was spitting on, yet again.

His teeth ground against one another, the elder wand a warming weight against his forearm— an instinctual urge to reach for it at being denied so openly. When would she stop being so willful— so hard-headed— towards him? And in front of his followers, nonetheless? Yet another thing, he supposed, that needed to be corrected. 

“It’s—”

“I’m not giving you my blood,” Harri protested a bit more loudly, relieved when the goblin uncertainly set the knife down onto the table. She was aware of eyes trained on her, of their disbelief and curiosity, but she continued, only focusing on the man on the throne. “You can’t make me!”

“Harri,” Voldemort warned softly, a muscle in his brow twitching at her rising voice. 

The anger was leaking back into their bond— vile and acrid and bitter . His fingers mirrored her own, digging into the wood as he attempted to remind himself of patience— of Snape’s caution that, if pushed too hard in one direction, she would rebel in the other. However, compromising had never been his strongest quality, even as a child. And as it stood now, he found himself entirely disinclined to— why should he? He was trying to give her a gift, for Merlin’s sake! ‘Always fighting and scratching, even when it brings nothing but trouble,’ he thought, scowling at her antics. 

Tension was a weighty thing in the room as green eyes met red ones; a battle of wills playing out to see who would win and who would bend to the other. The air thinned with each passing, dutiful second, the oxygen consumed by the crackling of his magic and the electrifying spark of hers. However, her own, he noted with some degree of vindictive glee, was weak — unable to fully rise to the challenge, though not for a lack of trying. Because yes, she was. Trying, that is. He found it in the wince she’d given, in the strain of her neck and the tightness of her shoulders— and he didn’t quite feel moved to help ease it this time around. That little stunt of hers drained her more than she was apparently comfortable than admitting— undoubtedly a hairline fracture in her core that would have to heal with time.

“It’s just a little blood, Harri,” he said, trying to rein in that childish urge to smirk at her discomfort— to gloat this is precisely what happens when one throws a tantrum. “You can surely spare some.”

“No!” 

Harri pushed her chair out from the table, a screech of wood dragging against marble, splayed hands landing forcefully down onto the parchment that Alnott had placed there. She shoved it viciously towards him instead, lip curling at his cold expression. How dare he— did his audacity, his gall, not know any bounds?! Why couldn’t he just take no for a final answer and leave it be!? 

Her hands fisted to stop their shaking. Last time it had been just ‘a little blood’, it was used in a ritual to bring a monster back from the void— a void where he should have rotted for eternity. ‘Just a little blood’ was the entire reason she was in this mess in the first place— why she was miserable. Why their world was falling apart. And she’d be damned if she was forced to comply again. 

Green eyes blazed as they stared him down, pulse a punishing rhythm in her veins, in her ears. By now, she had commanded the entire room’s attention. They were keen to see how this standoff between her and the Dark Lord would play out— the disaster that would await in its aftermath. But, truly, she found herself not quite caring. In fact, she hope he’d be embarrassed by her defiance—  be humiliated that she didn’t fall in line the second he asked. 

“Once again,” he hissed out, “you are acting like a child.”

“Don’t call me that!”

Merlin, save him from the stubbornness of Harri Potter. Voldemort could feel the patience in him slipping as though smoke vanishing between his fingers and out into the thin air. Had she truly not taken their last conversation to heart? Had decided to not heed his warnings that if she just listened , things would be so much easier? Apparently not.

His lip curled at her continued defiance, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile. And a sliver of him debated if following Snape’s advice was the correct thing to do. He’d given her space for the past week, had granted her distance and autonomy as counselled, but she was still acting petulant. Not to mention how this must look. Oh yes, all too aware was he of how it must seem: an open act of insubordination. Here was a girl, a teenaged one nonetheless, denying his one simple request. 

“Sit. Down,” he said, voice pitching lower. 

A crook of his finger and the chair she’d aggressively pushed out slid into place. It slammed into the backs of her knees, forcing them to buckle with a pained gasp. Locked into place, he revelled in the sound of the air being forced from her lungs, knowing all too well how uncomfortable it was to have one’s ribs jarred. But any sympathy he may have had for her— any feelings of pity for her fatigue and exhaustion she’d brought upon herself— was long since gone. 

Harri’s eyes widened when she tried to push the chair out; it refused to relent or budge. She was trapped. Panic crawled up her spine, cold and unforgiving, her arms prickling with fear. In fact, she’d been so busy trying to wiggle out of the chair that she hadn’t even registered his hand moving. It shot out across the table, constricting around her wrist and roughly wrenching it towards himself.

She hadn’t meant to flinch— truly she hadn’t— but there was such a strength in his grip that she couldn’t help it. There was no kindness, no light, no buoyancy in this touch. Just pain. Undoubtedly, she knew another bruise would form where one had just healed— yet another injury to add to her macabre, ongoing collection.

But, for a second, she swore that his hold had lessened— loosened. She glanced up at him from under fanned lashes, catching for a moment— just a moment— the briefest traces of concern on his face. Hope rushed in that he was, perhaps, feeling guilty. That, maybe, he was going to let her go after all; that he recognised the wrongness in forcing her to do something against her will.

He reached for the knife. That hope withered.

She struggled to pull herself free. “Wait—”

Voldemort pressed the blade against her soft palm. A sharp hiss tore from her as he guided it along the length of her lifeline, tears springing to her eyes as she clenched them shut a second too late. She was upset, he knew it— could feel that resentment course through his very soul, their connection. It inspired an acidity in his mouth and a sourness on the back of his tongue. But she would see, she would . She would see that he was doing this for her— and she would forgive him for it. 

Without looking away, he frowned at the wince she’d given when his fingers manoeuvred hers into a fist— a tightening squeeze. Several drops of blood, scarlet, and dark and glistening, fell onto the parchment, blooming greedily on the ivory scroll before vanishing. Satisfied it had taken, he released his hold on her and returned the bloodied knife to the goblin.

The blank scroll started to glow. Warm and bright, it crackled as it was brought to life. 

Harri cracked an eye open at the rustling sound, seeing how those seated at the table jostled forward to get a better look. And then she saw why. 

Before her, written in her own blood, was an elegant scrawl spreading across the once blank parchment. 

The first thing to appear was a crest; the head of a feather-helmed knight surrounded by blue roses. A name appeared next to it, reading House of Peverell: Iolanthe.

She frowned, rosebud mouth twisting in confusion. A glance was spared to Voldemort, his aristocratic features pulled into a smug expression and one brow arched. He tilted his head for her to continue watching— and so she did.

The blood slithered down halfway to the page as two, rearing stags emerged. House of Potter: Euphemia.

But it was the next line, the final one, that had the world slowing.

Slowing, slowing, slowing — everything halted to a painful stop.

Three ravens next to four little words: House of Black: Dorea.

She’d guessed by now what the parchment was doing, what its purpose was— it was mapping out her magical bloodline. It was made obvious when Potter appeared, though she didn’t quite know who Peverell was. As for the specific names? Well, she supposed they were the most recent female ancestors of that line? 

But Black

No, that didn’t make any sense.

Harri blinked dazedly, bewilderment only heightened by the triumphant glint in Voldemort’s red eyes and that smirk that lifted one corner of his mouth higher than the other. Every inch of him was victorious as though he already knew. 

‘He knew.’ 

Admittedly, the idea brought about a biting sort of grudge that this was yet another thing he’d kept from her. Who knew what else she was missing? Was unaware of? 

Helplessly, she peeked down at Narcissa, frown deepening at the woman’s equally shocked expression. It must have been news to her as well. Though, for some reason, the idea of having the kind-hearted woman as part of her family was oddly reassuring. That, if Narcissa was there, perhaps it wouldn’t be all too bad— the reputation of the Black family aside. They weren’t a pleasant bunch, after all; notorious for their madness and their servitude to the Dark Lord. In fact, she could still vividly recall Sirius’s harsh words of how he hated the lot of them. His mother’s extensive sadism. His brother lost in Lord Voldemort’s service. How he had to flee to the Potter’s after his father decided it was more effective to communicate through beatings than words. 

Cruelty and insanity. That was her legacy, apparently. 

It was enough to make her head throb and her heart hurt. But if she was related to Narcissa, then that also meant—

Her attention shifted to Bellatrix seated beside her sister, dark where the other was fair. The woman was fixing her with an assessing gleam, the blood on her cheek dried and the ink from her cracked open mark flaking. She leaned on the table, elbows propping her up, her wine-red lips parting to reveal a row of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. It was a smile that looked near ready to tear into her given the first chance. 

“Welcome to the family, Harrikins,” Bellatrix crooned.

It was startling to realise this was the sanest Harri had ever seen her. No mad cackle to follow, no burst of outrage of anger— instead, there was something far worse housed in the depths of those coal eyes. Hunger.

She shivered, finding refuge instead in the parchment as numbness stole over her. Her life, it would seem, had apparently been a lie— a facade that was slowly, but surely, crumbling down. Green eyes fixed on the name Dorea Black, the blood welling up along her lifeline largely ignored. It dripped down onto the floor in steady, thick, scarlet tears— quiet little plops in the stillness of the room. 

Just who exactly was Harri Potter?

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 46: Lineages

Notes:

Hello everyone! Just a few notes before you all start reading!

1. I ended up having to get stitches in my hand a few days ago (box cutters are not my friends as it turns out) so that's why this chapter ended up being a tad later than usual for my updating schedule! I've been trying to edit + type with 1 hand and it has been a mess 😂 I apologize to whoever has been waiting for an update!

2. As Rowling never gave us the name of son of Charlus and Dorea, I took some creative liberties in the Black + Potter family tree. I ended up making Henry Potter their son and the father of Fleamont Potter (so Henry is Harri's great-grandfather). Euphemia and Fleamont are still her grandparents + the parents of James Potter though.

3. I highly recommend everyone go check out Chapter 33 if you want to see something special in the comments! AudiArcher created a piece of fanart of Harri and it is absolutely gorgeous! 💕

 
As always, thank you guys for reading along and for giving me such helpful feedback on the last chapter! I really appreciate it and every single comment that you guys take the time to write out 💕

Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Dorea Black. 

The name was foreign on her tongue, strange and not easily rolled. Each syllable stuck— molasses thick and unwieldy— the vowels and consonants carrying an austere sort of severity. Harri mouthed it silently, hoping that it might become familiar the more she practised it— that, somehow, someway, a hidden, repressed memory might resurface that could tell her who , exactly, the woman was.

Of course, no such thing happened.

In truth, she was painfully ignorant of most of her immediate family— never mind potential, extended relatives. Aunt Petunia had never really let too much information slip, her secrets well-guarded behind thin, coral-painted lips and an upturned sneer. The woman had been quite intent on keeping the magical side of the family a mystery— so much so that she hadn’t even deemed it necessary to tell her niece the names of her deceased parents, let alone grandparents or cousins. 

Hell, she hadn’t even known her own last name for a good portion of her life. The first decade or so, she’d seldom been Harri and, more often than not, Freak or Girl— and any curiosity was often met by a locked, broom closet and days of dusty darkness. 

Naturally, such punishments made her keen to not voice any questions. Though, that wasn’t to say she didn’t have them. Because of course, she knew she had to have come from somewhere. From someone. It wasn’t as though she had appeared out of thin air on the Dursley’s front step, despite their secrecy trying to convince her otherwise. 

And then her eleventh birthday arrived. 

Everything fell apart that stormy July night— her rebirth in more ways than one— when Hagrid had given her the greatest gift possible: a last name. ‘Potter.’ 

Harri Potter.

Of course, the giant had also given her two more of the missing puzzle pieces: James and Lily. Her parents. Wizards. And, oh, how that had been enough to fill in the gaping hole in her chest— to sate that yearning and to quell the fear that she wasn’t so much an abomination to have just popped into existence one day. 

So for the most part, yes— she’d been satisfied with that. She’d been more than content with two words that had turned her entire world on its head in the course of a single evening. James and Lily.

But now? 

Now, staring down at what was written before her in blood— dried and already flaking off into the deep colour of wine— she felt it again: that gaping hole. That stretching, eager maw opening to reveal glistening teeth, all-too-ready to tear into whatever it was offered— hunger. 

A riotous, all-consuming, all-blinding sort of hunger.

Iolanthe. Euphemia. Dorea. Three little names that ignited sparks in her— an offsetting, off-balancing disquiet. They were a holy revelation; a revelation that there was more than just her parents and their ghosts and faint memories that had come from everyone but herself. There were others that lived on through every fibre, every nerve, every crevice in her body. Quite suddenly, she was no longer just the ‘girl under the stairs’, the ‘orphan’— she was made up of so many more people. 

Family

Green eyes refused to budge from the slanted scrawl, her mind turning to piece it all together. And in the backdrop of that whirring was an underlying confusion; the edge of a new betrayal that caused her brows to pinch and her mouth to thin. Dumbledore had been certain— so certain— that she had no magical, living family left. That it was only her muggle relatives that could make a substantial claim to her— and to the blood wards, naturally. But this parchment? Well, it told an entirely different story— one that contradicted everything she’d ever been told by the headmaster. 

There was the clamour of chairs being pushed out— a dragging, grinding sound as wooden feet scraped along the floor— and mumbled out acknowledgements as those gathered were dismissed. However, she paid little mind to it— to any of them, really. The earlier confrontation forgotten, Harri traced the crests with a shaking, reverential touch. Somehow, the insignias lent the names an official air— an irrefutability and an unshakeable kinship. And now, she supposed, they belonged to her as well.

Drip

A bloom of red puddled next to the Black family insignia. It glistened in the mild sunlight, greedy in how it spread across the paper in searching tendrils. She frowned, glancing over to her still bleeding palm— a slight flex and a wince at the pain. ‘Oh, right. He cut me.’ 

She was about to ask for a bandage when there was a sudden warmth— a cradle of long fingers— about her injured hand. Green eyes blinked, confused. When had he gotten so close? He was hovering above her now, having risen out of the throne— a blot of darkness on her periphery. 

Along the curve of her lifeline, his thumb dragged slowly; a languid sweep that left a smear of gore in its wake. For the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from it. Red on her palm, her skin, the same colour as his eyes— so violently red. And yet, his hold was surprisingly tender; a bewildering juxtaposition to his earlier actions. 

She simply watched, waited, for the pain or for the buoyancy. After all, his touch always brought one of the two— sometimes even both, depending on the mood that suited him in the moment. But yet, neither came. 

No pull of light, no searing hurt— just an odd sort of gentleness and skin pressed against skin. Not uncomfortable, per se, though certainly strange. New

Heat flashed into her; a slight prickle as her nerves danced to the will of his magic. The flayed flesh knitted back together, a cooling sensation there to follow as the blood was cleaned away. Her frown only deepened at the sight of the healed cut, not a blemish, not a scar, not a speck of blood to indicate it had ever been there— nothing. And for a moment, those long fingers remained right where they were. A featherlight cradle, the slightest twitch and tightening when she tried to remove her palm from his— an unspoken plea as though he were asking her to humour him. 

Green eyes lifted, a question at the ready, only to find he wasn’t looking at her at all. Rather, he was staring directly at the two Death Eaters kneeling on the floor. 

“You two are to go to Diagon Alley,” he said, voice level but carrying all the same in the near empty room. “There have been reports of some alarming rumours and I want their sources tracked down.”  

‘Go? Both of them?’ Her puzzlement only grew when she glanced over to Barty and Bellatrix. Both were stained with blackened blood and a residual shake persisted in their shoulders. And yet, they simply nodded as though the pain was of no consequence— as though they hadn’t just been tortured. A terrifying kind of loyalty, she figured— a prodigious sort she couldn't quite fathom.

Barty was the first to rise, already heading to the door, but Bellatrix lingered back, narrowed gaze landing on their joined hands. The woman’s mouth opened as though to say something— protest, perhaps— but only to promptly close it again in the face of the lengthening silence. With a hasty bow, she turned quickly on her heels. 

Harri took advantage of Voldemort’s momentary distraction to tug herself free. Flexing her hand— a relief there was no lingering soreness— she tried to figure out what this meant for her. If Barty was to be gone all day, did that mean she was free to roam? Or was she expected to stay in her room? The latter had her almost groaning. As much as she disliked the very idea of having a guard, and as much as she held contempt for the man, it was still better than wasting the afternoon caged and pacing.

Sparing a glance over to the Dark Lord, she was startled to find he was watching her openly now. There was an unsettling deliberation in his eyes, lighting them up from their depths— and, worst of all, an underlying amusement. Oh, how she hated when he got that look— that look as though he were entertaining a private joke that he had no intention of sharing.

Before she could demand to know what that was about, he had stepped away. Without further elaboration, he tilted his head for her to follow his lead. ‘Well, guess that answers that,’ she thought sullenly, pushing out of her chair.



Silence fell between them as Voldemort led her down an empty corridor, his stride, she guessed, purposefully shortened for her benefit. All the same, it was still difficult to match— a fact that would have left her quite bitter if she wasn’t otherwise distracted. 

Paintings blurred by and carved statues faded into the backdrop as much as the wide windows did, her mind too preoccupied to pay any attention to the grandeur as the thoughts came rushing in— a tempestuous gale, her mind set into a sickening whirl. Did this mean she was a Black now? Why had he done it? Who was the Peverell family? What did he mean by ‘rumours’ in Diagon Alley? And were they so important that he had to send both Barty and Bellatrix to find out? It made her head pound trying to figure out the answers— answers she didn’t have. But he did, didn’t he?

Unwittingly, she paused, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She found herself staring intently at the spot between his shoulder blades as he kept walking on. 

“Who is Dorea?” she blurted out, the runaway track of her thoughts settling on the image of three ravens and an emboldened name.

Voldemort halted at the question, realising for the first time the vaulted hallway was a touch too quiet without her footsteps. He glanced casually over his shoulder, gaze sweeping across the taut lines of her body and the strangest, guarded look glinting in those emerald eyes. ‘How peculiar,’ he thought— and then it hit him: she was setting herself up for disappointment. Retreating and building up her walls, all too ready to be denied an answer and kept in the dark. Of course, he could sympathize to some degree— a commiseration built upon the mutual growing pains when it came to Dumbledore. Out of anyone, he knew what it was to grow up around the man and to be dismissed at every turn; to be denied again and again and only relying on half-baked truths to sate the appetite of curiosity. 

But still, even that sympathy wasn’t enough to stop his mouth from lifting into an uneven curl. Oh, he couldn’t help it. After all, this was the moment he had been waiting for—  the moment she would buckle and turn to him. 

He turned from her, resuming his walk. “Your great-great-grandmother on your father’s side, four generations removed from you. She was the aunt of Cygnus, Alphard and Walburga— names I am guessing you recognise— as well as the great-aunt to Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and yes, even Sirius Black.”

Triumph was a weighty thing in his chest at her sharp inhale, those hurried footfalls chasing after him as sweet as any birdsong. ‘That’s right, little horcrux. See what I can give.’

Harri rushed to fall back in stride with him, her legs burning from the exertion. ‘So. Sirius is my cousin then?’ she thought, wincing at the math when she tried to calculate how far removed he was from her in terms of blood.

A two-tiered fountain tucked into an ivory alcove whisked past them, the happy bubbling of it momentarily distracting her. It was then she realised he was leading them to the study in the East Wing— the side of the manor, she’d come to quickly understand, that no one else dared to encroach on. 

All too soon was the grand staircase before them, its curve dizzying and its grandness imposing. He didn’t miss a beat taking the first mahogany step; she, on the other hand, went to grip the polished bannister, using the momentum to pull herself up.

In the following quiet, the Black family tree sprang to the forefront of her thoughts. She could see it so clearly— a dreary, muted tapestry that covered the expanse of a floral-papered wall, splotches and names burned and frayed in fits of rage. Dorea hadn’t been marked out, from what she could recall, the name ‘Charlus Potter’ a hyphenated addition to the woman’s solemn portrait. But the more she reflected on it, the more ascertained she was that there hadn’t been a branch below their names— nothing to indicate the possibility of children.

“That’s impossible though,” she muttered more so to herself, her shoe accidentally clipping the tread of the next step.

The world tilted, a blur— a lurch in her stomach at the loss of balance— before she was unexpectedly uprighted again. A hand had firmly clamped about her shoulder, a sharp reprimand found in scarlet eyes and in the single, arched brow. She winced under that look, the exasperated shake of his head heating the tips of her ears. But just as a retort formed on her tongue— that, yes, she knew how to walk and no, she wasn’t normally this clumsy— he’d already turned to wave open the study’s doors. 

Choosing to see it as a mercy, she swallowed her words and rushed after him.

“But that can’t be right. Dorea couldn’t have had a kid,” she said, noting as the mantle sprung to life and the drapes pushed themselves open. “They never showed up on the tapestry.”

The Dark Lord rounded the office desk, busying himself with shuffling through the haphazard stack of papers rather than answering her— a purposeful nonchalance to drag out the moment. He offhandedly glanced up from thumbing the sheaf to find her staring at him expectantly, the hazy sunlight and dust motes haloing her silhouette. With a hum, a slight smile, he turned back to the documents.

Oh yes, it was definitely getting to her. He could feel it. The restlessness as she shifted her weight, the prickle of her full attention— the flickers of irritation colouring their bond. The longer he didn’t answer, the more her impatience grew. Entirely too amusing. 

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Harri,” he said, finally indulging her. Shrugging off the black outer-robes, magic whisked them over to the two-pronged coat rack by the fireplace, leaving him only in his three-piece suit. “She did have a son. Henry Potter.”  

Dragging out the chair, he sank down into it, studying her bewildered expression. Her parted mouth. The sheen in her eyes. A deep line between her brows. Exquisite. Admittedly, some part of himself could recognise this was a new vice— one that seemed to particularly relish that specific look on her. After all, his horcrux did wear confusion almost as beautifully as she wore her anger, as enticingly as fear, and, certainly, as tempting as despair. 

Crossing one, long leg over the other, his fingers laced together as he leaned back. Self-satisfaction— a cat-who-got-his-cream smile— unfurled as he watched the minute shifts in her posture as she processed the reveal. Oh, he could practically hear the gears turning in that mind of hers.

“Also, what’s this about a tapestry?” he goaded, that smile only widening at the alarm that had her eyes brightening. “So you mean to tell me you have been to Grimmauld Place after all?”  

Of course, he’d already guessed she had visited the townhouse before— that Sirius Black, the man he was and the lack of respect he had for formalities, had taken her to its halls. It was her confusion in the art gallery upon learning of the house’s supposed vacancy that had given her away at first— but now? Well, she just confirmed it tenfold. And he wasn’t above provoking her— taunting her– with the assurance that nothing could remain hidden from him for long. Especially not when she gave such entertaining, visceral reactions. Those green eyes kept darting to the door, her muscles tensed as though debating to run; culpability as clear as day in her body language. Would he ever tire of this? He figured not. 

“Naturally, she had hidden him from those outside of her immediate household, going as far as refusing to add him to the Black family tree,” he continued, attention lingering just a second too long when her teeth sunk into her full, bottom lip and pulled it into her mouth. Clearing his throat, he forced himself to look back down to the report. “For the most part, it worked.”

Well. If she hadn’t been before this moment, Harri was undoubtedly and thoroughly perplexed by now. What did he mean by hidden? She waited and waited for an answer— nothing. Rather, Voldemort had returned to his letters and lapsed back into silence. It was a disguised blessing though, she figured, seeing as silence surely meant he wasn’t going to press further on the Grimmauld issue— a fact that, after their little incident last time, she wasn’t keen on repeating. 

Eyeing him for a beat, just to really make sure, she sighed and drifted aimlessly over to the shelves. Trinkets lined the built-in bookcases, an assortment of oddities she never quite really noticed before. In particular, there was an hourglass that caught her attention. Held aloft by intertwining snakes, their scales vivid green and finely crafted, she wondered where he’d possibly gotten it from. A gift, perhaps? Curious fingers skimmed across the coolness of the glass, pausing over where some grains of the golden sand clung to the sides— a light flick, a resounding sound, and they tumbled loose. She tracked their path as they sieved through the funnel, his words replaying. 

Hidden.

The more she mulled it over, the more it didn’t make sense. What would possibly possess Dorea to hide her son from his own family? To her, it seemed unfathomable. Cruel, even, considering that herself would have given anything— sacrificed whatever was demanded— to even know a glimpse of her family.  

“Why did she hide him?” she asked, turning from the hourglass when the heavy weight of scrutiny settled upon her shoulders, her back. 

Red eyes bore into her— an uptick in her pulse— blank parchment held in one of his hands, a quill in the other. She found herself staring at the quill in particular, its arching plume black, its nib a deadly point. It twirled between those long fingers of his, the movement fluid, graceful— a beat not missed, despite him not looking down.

“Well, I have my theories,” he mused. “Are you aware I attended school with her? Alongside her nephews and nieces? Of course, she was already entering her seventh year by the time I arrived— but it was enough to make her acquaintance.”

‘He went to school with her? But she’s—’ Green eyes shot up from the quill, half-expecting a jest to follow; a laugh, a scoff, a chastisement of her own naivety that she even dared to take him seriously. 

There was nothing of the sort. 

Instead of the glee one would expect, those red eyes had taken on a wistfulness as though stuck in a long-gone past. He was serious, she realised, even if she couldn’t comprehend it. After all, he looked so— young . How could he have gone to school with her great-great-grandmother when he appeared barely a day over thirty? Of course, she was aware wizards enjoyed far longer lives than their muggle counterparts— but, surely, he wouldn’t have remained this untouched by time. Hell, look at Dumbledore: the man had countless wrinkles and not an ounce of colour left in his beard or hair. 

‘Because he’s immortal, you idiot,’ came her scathing thought— Merlin, how could she keep forgetting that fact? How could she keep pushing aside that one, fundamental truth to his existence? 

And so are you,’ whispered a different voice— a voice, and a problem, she refused to acknowledge. 

“Sweet Merlin,” she choked out, eyes widening in disbelief. “Just how old are you?!”

Voldemort, as per usual wherever his horcrux was concerned, wasn’t sure whether to be offended by the question or amused by her disbelief. Apparently, the concept of ‘everlasting life’ was one that still eluded her. No matter— she’d be forced to come to terms with it eventually. At the moment though, what was more concerning, he supposed, was her complete disregard for appropriate, social boundaries. As it would appear, Narcissa’s lessons weren’t progressing along as quickly as he’d prefer— an issue to later address with the woman. 

Propping the black quill against the uncapped inkwell, he leaned back into the chair and deftly undid the cuffs of his collared shirt, rolling the sleeves up past his forearms. 

“Even in the wizarding world, inquiring after someone’s age is quite rude, Harri. However, to answer your question, I was born in 1926. I trust you can do the math.” He shook his head, a twinge of annoyance when she could barely conceal the horror as she processed the numbers. 

“Bloody— you’re ancient! Like really old—”

“As for my theories on Dorea’s decision,” he quickly interjected, eyes narrowing at her bluntness. “I imagine she hid her son due to her family’s involvement with me.”

Shifting and uncrossing his legs, his attention was dragged over to the mantle by a rather loud pop— a spray of embers, flames twisting behind the metal grate. “Walburga was part of my inner-circle at Hogwarts, and Alphard was, by association, the same. Cygnus was ready to take my mark when I banded together the Death Eaters whereas Walburga, naturally, brought Orion into the fold. I suspect Dorea acted out of motherly concern that her son might be influenced into joining my ranks.”

A wry smirk— a dry scoff— and his attention flickered back over to his horcrux. “That or she was all too aware of her family’s predisposition towards so-called blood traitors. While she may have married into another pureblood family, the Potters were rather known for their leniency towards muggle-borns and muggles alike. Having a child with a man that regularly interacted with those considered lesser, especially by Walburga’s standards, would have been enough to inspire a degree of hatred towards her son.”

And despite the horrifying notion of it all— of being related to such zealots of Lord Voldemort, of having ties to those who hated muggles to the extent that a mother felt the need to hide her son simply because his father was close to a few— Harri couldn’t quite quash the swell of pride. The Potters were different.They were tolerant, loving; a sneaking suspicion fostered by her mother’s origins only confirmed. It was, admittedly, a comfort to know her legacy wasn’t only just that of bigotry. 

But still, the comfort was fleeting— forced to take a backseat— when faced with one final missing piece to the puzzle. A piece that she couldn’t quite figure out— one that was, by all means, disturbing to ponder. 

“You said she had hidden her son, which explains why he wasn’t on the family tapestry,” she muttered, starting to pace about the study to hurry along her thoughts. An odd sense of deja vu overcame her— far-off memories of being only in her pajamas and summoned to his mind without warning— as he watched her restless steps, his expression as predatory as it had been that night. She tried to ignore it when her gaze lifted from tracing the floor’s wood grain pattern. “Yet when Dorea’s name appeared, you didn’t look the least bit surprised. In fact, you seemed as though you had already guessed it. How?”

That smirk of his widened into a leer.

Leaning closer, elbows propped up onto the desk, he flashed her his teeth. “Do you know you look remarkably similar to Bellatrix when she was younger, Harri? It wasn’t difficult to guess there was some relation.” 

Disgust flashed on her face, her mouth parting as if to protest. 

He cut her off before she could deny it. “Of course, there are some key differences, particularly around your eyes and mouth. Bellatrix has a sharpness to her jaw that you lack and your nose is entirely your mother’s. Then there’s the matter of the softness in your chin— it’s less pointed than Bella’s and lacking the cleft signature to the Black family. But if you had darker hair, I might have considered you a closer relation than a distant cousin.”

Harri reeled back, unable to believe her ears— his audacity. Not only did he have the nerve to suggest they even looked remotely alike— a fact that, admittedly, made her a touch queasy— but the manner in which he did so was so casual. Offhanded. As though they were mere installations in an exhibit that invited open critique— privy to dissection, to be appraised at his leisure. It was appalling, frankly, though perhaps for no reason more than the fact that he’d admitted to studying her. 

“Seems like you’ve spent quite some time comparing us,” she accused, arms folding protectively over her chest. “Some might even say that’s a bit creepy, you know.”

Voldemort hummed, unable to help but note the closed-off stance she’d taken on— the bite to her voice. It was an expected reaction, of course— especially considering he was keenly aware of the girl’s attitude when it came to attention— but he found himself still entirely amused by it all the same. And, oh, how he couldn’t resist the urge to toy with her just a bit more.

“I am a man, Harri. And like all men, I am helpless but to admire the beauty found in women,” he said, smile widening in delight at her shock. 

For a moment, all Harri could do was gape openly at him. Had he really—? Did he really just call her beautiful? It was a roundabout way of saying it— naturally, nothing could ever be straightforward when it came to him— but she still couldn’t quite believe such a thing. Him. The man that dared to wear the face of the gods and make a mockery of them all with his own, effortless allure. He had called her beautiful?

“Oh come off it,” she choked. “I thought you didn’t lie—”

“I don’t. Not to you.”

A blush warmed her cheeks when that mouth of his curled suggestively and those red eyes raked slowly over her— a heated look casually spared— before they dropped back down to his papers. 

She spun on her heels with a startled noise, unwilling to let him see how much of an effect his words had. Merlin forbid if his ego grew any larger— it was unhealthy enough as it currently was. And really, what was with this running theme as of late to discuss her appearance? First, it was Draco and now him! She was going to go insane before the month was even up. ‘He’s just teasing,’ she reasoned, attempting to find some solace in the idea. ‘He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.’

Her feet resumed their aimless march about the study, trying to will down the flush and forget just how quickly he managed to throw her off centre. ‘Come on, Harri. You’re not a blushing schoolgirl!’ Well. Technically, she was— both a schoolgirl and blushing, that is. She shook her head, uncaring that she was probably wearing a hole into the Persian rug underfoot. 

Eventually, she calmed down enough and came to a stop once more at the hourglass— a steady inhale, exhale, her head tilting back to stare blankly at the titles on the topmost shelf. The rough scratching of a quill against parchment, the crackling of the fireplace, filled the silence that stretched on— not that it was bad, per se. They were comfortable sounds, lulling things, that alerted her to the fact of calm waters ahead. That, for whatever reason, the Dark Lord was in a good mood for once. Friendly, even, the usual bite of his temper strangely absent. 

Her finger trailed over the spine of one of the books, daring to sneak a glance for confirmation. ‘He does seem to be in a good mood,’ she thought, teeth sinking into her inner-cheek and gnawing in deliberation. In some ways, this change was nearly off-putting, daunting— a tentative grey area that required tact to maneuver, but one that invited opportunity. 

An opportunity she couldn’t quite pass up.

“Today’s the first day back from break,” she muttered hesitantly, watching for the signs— the signs he heard her, that she should hold her tongue.

However, he only hummed in response, his head still bowed over the scroll.

“At Hogwarts,” she clarified, just in case he hadn’t realised what she meant.

Another noncommittal hum from him. 

Her mouth twitched.

“Everyone is returning. Including Draco,” she said, grappling for the right words. “It’ll look odd if I’m not there too, don’t you agree?”

“Do not think I don’t know what you are doing.” Voldemort dipped the quill back into the inkwell, offhandedly scanning the letter before him. “Draco has a purpose at Hogwarts. You, however, do not.”

And, ah— there it was. Him trying to shut her down with a vague answer. The tone, his closed-off posture, the way he wasn’t even bothering to look her in the eye; it all spoke volumes. This wasn’t even a matter up for debate. 

A muscle in her jaw feathered, vexation rising. She glared down at the golden globe on the shelf— a flicker of recognition that it was the same she’d thrown at him the night he’d taken her— hands curling into fists. 

“Oh? And what purpose does Draco have there?” she asked, pettily mimicking the same inflections he had used on her— the same belittling tone, the same dismissiveness. 

It was a small victory when she heard him click in his tongue in the background. 

Voldemort shook his head as he tapped off the excess ink from the quill and signed his name in a flourish. “I was not aware that I had to explain my every decision regarding my followers. Unless you know something I do not?” 

Crimson eyes lifted in that moment to land on the tensed line of her slight shoulders, gaze narrowing in consideration. It was clear that she was trying to prod him— a fact he was torn between being somewhat charmed by and vexed with. There was something to be said for her spine, certainly, her backbone— but there was a time and a place for it. And a part of him did wonder if he had been like this as a teenager as well? Had he been too stubborn for his own good? Unrelenting until he had a satisfactory answer? 

‘Yes. You were,’ a traitorous little voice whispered. He ignored it and reached for another scroll. 

The quiet resumed when she refused to answer him. It wasn’t as though he was looking for a response anyhow— the question was entirely rhetorical, she recognised, and being snippy wouldn’t exactly help her case. She was trying to go back to school, after all— not give him cause to be spiteful and keep her under lock and key. But it wasn’t helping he was being so bloody infuriating by dodging her every question. 

She glared over her shoulder at the crown of his dark head, fighting down the childish urge to stick her tongue out— or, perhaps, toss one of the paperweights at it. That would surely get his attention. ‘Be an adult about this,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘Negotiate with him, make a bargain.’ 

Though negotiate with what ? It wasn’t as though she had a lot to offer currently. Money? Well, he already had enough of it. A new quill set? He could easily buy one himself. Books? He owned a dizzying amount. What could she possibly—

Quite by accident, her attention landed on his bare forearms and, oh, how a dangerous plan began to form. The swirls of a reckless idea— entirely foolish, daring.  

Harri glanced uneasily down to her own palms, fingers flexing when she remembered how he had used that light, that buoyancy , to make her comply in the past. It went both ways, didn’t it? Even now, she could recall his own glazed expression in the art gallery— his laboured breathing in her ear, the sharp pants of it, how warm it felt against her neck. That strange compulsion flowed between them, even if he might try to deny it. ‘If he can do it, why can’t I?’ The thought was a giddy one— an exhilarating concept that, perhaps, this could level the playing field a bit.

Uncertain feet cautiously picked their way over to the grand desk, her nerves strung, alert , as she rounded it. Interestingly enough, he didn’t seem too bothered, nor alarmed, by her sudden approach— in fact, he appeared completely at ease, his attention thoroughly fixed on the looping of his cursive. She could feel her heart pick up in anticipation— an excited flutter in her chest— as she paused by the chair. ‘Focus on the light,’ she reminded herself, green eyes latching onto the sliver of his bare skin. ‘Call the warmth.’

A shaky inhale of a breath was drawn and held. Merlin, this was a terrible idea. What if she failed and he became, undoubtedly, upset with her attempt to manipulate him? 

But, then again, he did it so often with her. If this was a side effect of their bond, shouldn’t she also be allowed to exploit it?

Her tongue darted out to wet suddenly chapped lips, her hip resting against the back of his chair as she loomed over his shoulder. Another nervous glance over to him. ‘You can still back down. It’s not too late,’ reason advocated— a last ditch attempt to make her see some sense. 

No.

Nerves hardened, steel in her spine, she found the courage to hesitantly place her hand on his forearm— only to almost pull away when the cord of muscle there flexed under her feather-light touch. She had to force herself to stay true to the course of her plan, heart hammering when his free hand curled into a fist on the table. A heavy swallow as his knuckles bled out white, her wide eyes fixed on his profile— did he know what she was trying to do? Could he feel the punishing tempo of her pulse from just this one point of contact? Sense her nerves, the reckless abandon, through her fingertips? 

She waited for him to do something. To react. And yet, apart from the fist, he didn’t move. Didn’t jerk away from her, didn’t throw her off— just sat there eerily still, silent. Unmoving. 

Taking it as a sign, green eyes anxiously drifted back down. It was, admittedly, an odd sight to behold— her holding onto him for a change— the contrasts between them jarring. The delicate bones in her hand, just ever-so visible under the thin skin, seemed even more fragile, even finer in comparison to him. So small. How easy would it be for him to crush them, she wondered. To turn on her— and yet, she also debated how it would possibly feel for him to be gentle. Was he even capable of such a thing? ‘Focus.’

Swallowing past a too-dry throat, she tried to visualise that glow, the pull— that syrupy heat. She tried to picture how it felt in her veins; how quickly it spread throughout her limbs, arresting and blindsiding. After all, she figured that’s all he had done to use it. Simply just thought about it, willed it to life. 

Brows furrowed in concentration— panic. It wasn’t working— why wasn’t it working? The bond wasn’t heeding her call. Not a spark, not a shimmer, nothing. Had she guessed wrong? Maybe there was a spell after all? One that he could do wandlessly, wordlessly—

Suddenly, there it was. 

The ever-so slightest flicker; the weak flame of a candle ready to be extinguished in the face of a barely-there breeze. But it was there, nonetheless— that’s all that mattered. And though it wasn’t as strong as when he called it, not as overwhelming, it was enough to make itself known. She felt like singing in her victory; to dance in her joy and revel in such an accomplishment. To gloat that he wasn’t the only one to lord over their connection any longer. 

It felt so damn powerful

Voldemort had to will himself not to move— not to twitch, not to shift in his seat, not to so much as breathe— as she approached, lest he startle her into withdrawing. It was the image of a doe that formed in his mind; the flicking of a white tail ready to flee at the slightest tell of danger. He saw it in how hesitant her steps were, how she kept looking at him, watching for any reaction— she wouldn’t find any, of course. Not if his curiosity had its way. Because that’s what this was: a curiosity in how she approached him, his mind already turning over with the possibilities of why

And then her hand landed on his forearm. 

Crimson eyes were rapt as those frail fingers— the almond shape of her bare nails tinged just slightly pink— curled around him. She was warm, nearly unbearably so, against his skin; life and flesh and blood and power contained in a vessel so small, it was a wonder in itself. Her touch was kept deceptively light, as though unsure, and it had been out of pure instinct that the muscle had tightened— a reaction he cursed himself for. Surely that would have been enough to scare her off. Surely his fist was intimidating enough, the tightness of his fingers and the knuckles that strained to the surface terrifying. 

But yet, she hadn’t moved. 

A surprise, certainly— a welcomed one. 

He forced himself to remain unmoving after that— to ignore the twitch and the spasm in his hand when he felt the lightest brush of their connection springing to life. And then it hit him what she was attempting to do.

‘The little minx,’ he thought in fond disbelief, a smirk rising in place of the urge to laugh at the nerve of it all. She was trying to manipulate him. Control him. It was a concept he wasn’t quite sure whether to be outraged at— her audacity knowing little bounds— impressed by, or disbelieving of with how miserably she was failing. Either way, all of those emotions whirled in him as he obsessively watched when those daring fingers traced a senseless pattern into his arm.

“You know, it really isn’t fair that everyone else gets to go back but I have to stay here,” she said after a few seconds, trying to concentrate on fanning that flame further. However, it was hard to make it grow— for it to become overwhelming. The light, it seemed, was entirely content to stay the dim glow it was, refusing to be coaxed or commanded. She could only pray it was enough to catch him off guard. “Shouldn’t I have the same opportunities as everyone else?”  

At her words, Voldemort couldn’t entirely help himself from letting loose a breathy chuckle. ‘So, we’ve come full circle.’ And for a moment, he did allow the girl her power trip— allowed her to feel that false sense of control for a heartbeat longer— simply content she was just touching him of her own accord. 

It didn’t last long.

Without warning, his other hand shot out to grip her elbow— an unyielding, unrelenting hold that wrenched a gasp from her. He used it to yank her forward, her free hand pressing into his chest to keep herself from tumbling into his lap. 

Crimson eyes met green ones, relishing in the shock reflected back. Apparently, his little horcrux hadn’t expected him to break free from whatever spell she thought he was under.

Something predatory settled as a dense weight behind his ribs— a darkness that sang for more— when that arm on the desk shrugged off her light touch. His hand, large and firm, curled around the back of her neck, pulling the girl down to him— satisfaction. It bloomed so brightly when she went lax in his grasp, the unspoken threat causing her to swallow nervously. 

“It’s best to not mess around with things you do not quite know how to control, Harri,” he mused, lips brushing against her temple. “After all, it would be a shame if you were hurt because of it.”

As close as they were, he could feel the inconsistent drumming of her heart when her locked arm failed to fully separate them. It was a second beat to his own, the flutters in her pulse under his fingertips, her breathing kept shallow— a song, it would seem, made solely for him. And, oh, how glorious it was. 

His teeth sank into the shell of her ear. It wasn’t enough to draw blood but it was enough pressure to make her freeze. She stopped struggling to escape, her surprise palpable— tempting. There was something base and primal in him that she had a strange habit of drawing to the surface; instincts more and more difficult to suppress, though try as he did. 

But, then again, it was a suitable lesson this time— that she brought this upon herself by willingly, knowingly, trying to make him bend to her will. Perhaps, in the future, she would think twice before attempting such a thing.

Teeth were replaced by his tongue, a passing lave— a heated pull to soothe the sting— his fingers twitching minutely about her neck and digging into its softness. There was a stifled, inward hitch from her; a breathy quality that relayed such a reaction didn’t stem entirely from disgust.

He released her then, watching on in delight as she stumbled a few steps.

Harri staggered back, a blush rising to her cheeks as a trembling hand grasped at her ear. How on earth had her plan backfired this poorly?! And she wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that he had played her so easily or the fact that he was leering at her. There was such heat in those red eyes that she didn’t know how to react— a skip in her heart, a throb where his teeth had been, a squeeze from phantom fingers still latched onto her throat.

“You—! You bit me!” she accused, voice pitching in her indignation. “Why are you always biting me?!”

“I warned you, didn’t I? Do not start things you are not prepared to handle,” he said with a shrug, the left corner of his mouth lifting higher than the right. But, oh, how enticing of a vision did she make right now— her appalled expression, the wide eyes, the rosiness dusting her cheeks. It suited her entirely and he decided, in the moment, to add ‘embarrassed arousal’ to the ongoing list of his favourite reactions.

Harri floundered for something appropriate to respond with— and yet, she couldn't think of one single thing to say. So instead, she clung to what spurred this on in the first place— what had been the cause of such a misfire. “It isn’t fair! Do you just, what, expect me to never finish school!? For Merlin’s sake, I haven’t even completed the year!”

There was a wry laugh— teeth gleaming in light of the fire— as he considered her embarrassment in its entirety. Honestly, her reaction— her deflection— to something as innocent as being nipped on the ear made him wonder what, exactly, her past experience was in regards to intimacy. It wasn’t extensive, that much he knew— but there surely had to be something

And quite unbiddenly, he remembered a sudden spike of pleasure in their bond; a vile jealousy of entertaining who she was with; a cleanly cracked mantlepiece. ‘A conversation for another day,’ logic cautioned, trying to bury the possessive envy before it could ruin the moment they were having. Because certainly it would. He doubted she would react favourably if he started demanding to know her past—to give him names, faces, of those who touched her in the first place.

Tongue running across his canines, he leaned back into the chair and tried to refocus back on their conversation. 

“I never said you would not finish school, Harri.” With a snap of his fingers, a tome floated out from the shelves. “Of course, it will be a tad more unorthodox than what you are used to. Though I can assure you, my mentorship will be far more valuable than any of the drivel you could possibly learn at Hogwarts.” 

Harri snatched the volume out of the air, confusion pinching her expression when she turned it over. The Basis of Wandless Spell Casting, the title read— was he being serious? Was he really offering her the chance to learn something that could be used against him? That he wanted to teach her?

Green eyes lifted warily to see how serious, how intent, he was. She could admit it was the truth that he was a prodigy when it came to magic— even Ollivander had made sure she knew it all those years ago when she obtained her first wand: ‘After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great.’ Back then, she hadn’t really understood what the wandmaker had been referring to— was unable to comprehend his meaning. 

But now? 

Oh, did she ever.

Seeing Voldemort so casually summon magic to his command, seeing it readily respond to him without the slightest hint of resistance— how he was practically drenched in it— she understood it: magic loved him. Adored him. Flourished in his very presence. He was in a different league than any other wizard she’d met— he had to be, she figured, for him to defy death as many times as he did; a being carved and crafted by powers she couldn’t even begin to fathom. And while she understood being taught by him, with his questionable morals and ruthless means, should unnerve and scare her, it didn’t.

Rather, as she stood there in the fading light, the birdsong and the sounds of life in the manor distant things, she felt nearly giddy

“Sit and read.” He tilted his head towards the chaise lounge, reaching once again for the quill and inkpot. “Beginning Sunday, you will begin your Occlumency lessons with Severus.”

“I'm sorry?”

 “As much as I do enjoy your company, your bleed through in our bond is rather dizzying at times. And frankly, it would be helpful to not constantly have a headache from your unrestrained emotions,” he teased, unfurling a scroll.

Harri blinked once, then twice, trying to fully comprehend what he was offering to her on a silver platter. It was disconcerting— perturbing. None of it made any sense. Why was Voldemort wanting to help better herself? Wouldn’t it be easiest to keep her powerless and untrained? Wasn’t he worried she might turn on him— used whatever he was going to show her to overthrow his reign? 

“Why?” It took all of her courage to ask, nervously thumbing the tome’s pages.

“Consider them gifts, Harri. A show of good faith, if you will,” Voldemort muttered under his breath. “I meant it when I said I would like your cooperation above all else.”

For the briefest second, she considered if she was a fool for accepting such a thing at face value. She even debated if it was wise accepting his help— these so-called ‘gifts— seeing as all reason argued that he would, eventually, ask for something in exchange. Oh, there wasn't a doubt in her mind. But the question remained what kind of recompense would he demand? And, more importantly, would it be a price she was comfortable paying?

Green eyes glanced back down to the text in her hands, the leather cover softened and worn from age. It was a war of two truths in her mind: logic and caution versus desire and anticipation.

Eventually, the latter won out.

A sigh, a heavy sound, was her formal resignation as she wandered over to the chaise and settled among the cushions. In truth, it wasn’t as though she had much of a choice: who knew what the future would hold for herself, her friends, under the rule of Lord Voldemort. So if he was willing to mentor her, then she might as well take the opportunity to learn, if not for her sake then for those she cared for. Plus, it wasn’t as though she stood any chance of defeating him with a half-baked, half-formed education. 

Without another second’s thought, she opened the book— a crackle in its spine, the smell of dust and antiquity and knowledge wafting from the yellowed pages— and began to read.



Much like Harri Potter, there were a few others who were not destined to return to Hogwarts on this particularly snowy, dreary January morning. Like the famous Girl Who Lived, there were a handful who would not board the Express today and find themselves wandering the ancient stone halls until the start of summer vacation. 

Hermione Granger could be counted among such individuals.  

Rather, instead of being on the train and nursing the unbridled excitement for her second term’s courses, she, along with the Weasley children, had found themselves settling into the Order’s secondary base— a two-storey house tucked away in the rolling hills of the English countryside and overlooking the craggy coastline. 

And though she was perfectly aware as to why it would be unwise to return to Hogwarts, it still did very little to lessen the sting of being kept away. It was a fact that she kept mourning as she spent the day carrying boxes into the house, her mind desperately trying to find a silver-lining. She supposed that was Remus who would be such— Remus and his promise to personally continue their curriculum through a form of practical home-schooling. Though even that, admittedly, didn’t entirely soothe her dissatisfaction and disappointment— nor to scratch the itch of being confined.

After the attack on Grimmauld, it had been unanimously decided it would be best to shelter in place for the time being— which, of course, meant not leaving the wards. They’d lost a fair few in the unexpected raid and it was only by some miracle— a miracle in the form of a house-elf— that Sirius and Remus returned at all, bruised and bloodied and broken. They’d recovered, of course, but not fully. 

In spite of her and McGonagall’s combined efforts to heal him— hours spent researching cures and fortifications against dark magics— Sirius had been left with a rather nasty limp when it was all said and done. On his part, he hadn’t been able to identify the spell his cousin had used on his leg— a crucial detail that didn’t really help narrow their research— and there wasn’t much that could be done anymore. It left a sour taste behind. 

There were very few things, after all, that Hermione found eluded her— that could make her feel like a disappointment. But seeing the man hobble about the cottage? Well, that was one of them. It inspired a nagging feeling that she, somehow, had failed Harri— failed to help her best friend’s only family— and it was only worsened by the fact it was a price unevenly paid. 

See, in her pessimistic opinion, the entire house reeked of failure. 

Their biggest accomplishment, their only one thus far, was that The Quibbler had been reinstated. The newspaper was the best way, they agreed, to fight back while they still lacked the sufficient numbers: a foolish hope that, perhaps if they could expose the corruption in their government, more people would rally to their cause. 

Of course, a little tabloid did nothing seriously in terms of achieving their main goal— to get Harri back— though she resigned herself to the notion there was little to be done other than wait . But, Merlin be damned if she sat idle in the meantime. 

And so when the time came that The Quibbler’s box in Diagon Alley needed to be replenished with the newest issue, she more than readily volunteered to go. Anything to get out of the stagnant cottage— to stretch her legs and find a sense of normalcy in the bustling crowds and senseless chatter. 

Anything to distract her from her own failings. 

So that’s precisely how she found herself wandering through the steady throng of patrons in the shopping district that Monday afternoon. Sheaves of colourful papers clutched in her arms, her mood noticeably brightened as she breathed in the carefree joy that clung so easily to the air. Ron had offered to tag along— but, well. There was a twinge of guilt as she recalled his crumpled expression when she asked him not to. Perhaps she had been a bit too harsh? Too abrupt? Though, she expected he, of all people, would understand: there was only so much company she could take.

She sighed and raked her wild, brown curls away from her face, pausing in front of the newspaper stand at the centre of the strip. Next to the metal racks containing The Daily Prophet — the sanctioned newspaper of Voldemort’s government— was a tattered, cardboard box with a sign declaring the copies were free to take. And seeing the pile nearing the bottom? Well, it was enough to make her smile— to feel that flutter of hope again. People were reading their words, their message— and that was a win enough, even if it was slow progress.

Brown eyes cast down to the headline for this issue— a volume of extensive coverage following the unjust trial of Bertie Higgs— determination unfurling. ‘The pen is mightier than the sword,’ she thought firmly as she placed the new stack atop the old, completely unaware as a pair shadows watched her from the alley.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 47: Lessons

Notes:

Hello everyone! I finally managed to get this chapter finished— sorry about the delay! In the comments, a few of you have been asking about the Dursleys and I just want to let you know that they will be making an appearance very soon. I am so so excited to get the next two or so chapters up because I think you'll guys like what I have planned! 💕

As always, thank you everyone for continuing to read along! You guys are all amazing readers and I feel so lucky to have you this invested in this fic 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Bartemius Crouch Jr. spent more time than not pondering the fickle nature of karma. Why shouldn’t he? After the years he’d spent on this Earth, doing the things he had— the things he saw— it was only natural to worry if he’d somehow managed to offend the universe with his actions. Especially since said universe seemed quite content to kick him down as often as it did. 

True, he supposed he indulged a bit too much in the dark magicks— that probably hadn't won him any favours. Also true, he allied himself against the so-called ‘light’ side of things— and Merlin only knew how often he had lied, deceived, and tricked all in the name of his Lord. 

But he liked to think he had also done plenty of good in his short life. 

Say, for instance, helping Harri Potter win the Triwizard Tournament (nevermind it was entirely his fault she was thrown into the competition to begin with). But regardless. He had made sure the girl survived, mostly unharmed— hell, he’d even propped her up time and time again, feeding her hints and clues whenever he could. Out of the two Hogwarts champions, his faith had been placed into her as the underdog (even if he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter). 

Or, for a different example, he had been a pretty decent teacher in his humble opinion. Though the whole idea was more-or-less a farce, he still made sure his ‘students’ received a semi-decent education— which, quite frankly, was a herculean task considering the old syllabus he’d found in the instructor’s desk. The point was he did them a service that went beyond the scope of his mission— and all out of the kindness of his heart.

So yes, there had been instances of good.

And yet, despite it— despite those deeds that should have settled whatever cosmic debt he managed to rack up— he found himself here. 

In Diagon Alley. 

Saddled with Bellatrix Lestrange.

It wasn’t that he outright despised the woman. Oh, no. Most certainly, he held a healthy amount of respect for her as a witch, as a dueller, and as a general and confidant to the Dark Lord. They both had been taught by him, after all, and that was something to admire on merit alone. However, her personality left many things to be desired. She had a reckless streak a mile wide, difficult to control and difficult to predict which had, on more than one occasion, jeopardized even the most thought-out plans. Not to mention she was somehow simultaneously a sadist and a masochist. Results-driven, she never cared if punishment awaited her for her unorthodox methods, so long as she got what she wanted in the end. And that alone made her company on missions unbearable

Yes, today was all the proof he needed: karma was spitting in his face. 

Attention fixed sightlessly ahead, it was an effort to ignore her at his side and her foul mood. It clung to her as though a second skin, something irritated and writhing that pricked at him. Shoppers scurried out of their way, the crowd parting around her as though they could instinctively sense she was on a warpath— smart of them, really. Hell, he wished he could join them. And while he wasn’t exactly privy to the full details of her relationship with their Lord, Barty could only logically guess where her upset was coming from: it wasn’t often she was published in front of an audience. 

‘Serves her right,’ he thought bitterly, hand flexing with the recollection of phantom flames burning the Mark. Dried ink still coated the skin under his sleeve— an itching, flaking reminder of what would await should they return empty-handed. Truthfully, it was entirely Bellatrix’s fault they were in this position. She purposefully had targeted the one person declared off-limits— and try as she may to deny it, he knew that look in her eyes. She had been close to hexing the girl if he hadn’t stepped in. And, Merlin, he shuddered to even think about what would have happened then.

Definitely more than a little blood drawn, that’s for sure. 

Walking in silence, his gaze bounced about the colourful throng of shoppers, ears pricked and nerves on high-alert. Rumours— that’s what his Lord had said. Perhaps they should start at the Leaky Cauldron? That was, after all, most logical; a seedy place where seedy words could take root. 

He sighed and ducked out of the way of an incoming patron, the man’s arms ladened with boxes that towered over his head. And, for a moment, he’d lost sight of the shadow on his periphery— until she was right there again, a blur that stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. 

“You’ve spent quite some time around Potter, haven’t you?” she asked nonchalantly, voice casual as she inspected her painted nails in faux boredom. “Has her magic always been so special?” 

The corners of his mouth twitched into a frown. He already knew where this line of questioning was going— but, by the heavens, he wasn’t willing to entertain it. 

“I know as much as you do, Bellatrix,” he said sharply— a warning for her to reconsider prying, “and it’s not our place to question it.”

She scoffed at the answer, sending a well-timed glare at an approaching group of chattering children— ice cream dripping onto their hands, little blobs flecking the ground, their fingers, their shoes— mouth curving when they scattered. Those narrowed, dark eyes drifted back to him after a moment. “She had his signature. It shouldn’t even be possible—”

“Yet, it is,” he snapped back.

 Barty spared an apprehensive glance to the shadowed alley, entirely distrustful of its stillness— a beat, then two, spent watching it, just waiting for their Lord to step forth. They shouldn’t even be talking about this. Whatever was between the Girl Who Lived and the Dark Lord was an unknown, mystifying secret— one that could turn deadly if whispers ever reached him that it was being openly speculated in public. Plus, seeing as they weren’t enlightened to such an answer, then that meant it was a matter of importance that was far, far above their station.  

And, plainly speaking, he was rather fond of his head— something that, apparently, Bellatrix had no attachment to. 

He’d been about to say something else— to warn her to drop the subject if she knew what was best— when sudden movement further down the strip snagged his attention. A mass of curly brown hair slipping in and out of view; a stack of striking, colourful papers clutched in thin arms. It was a shock— an unpleasant jolt— as he unwittingly remembered her. Two years. The girl had spent nearly two years in his class, always seated next to Potter in the second row and her hand permanently raised in the air. 

Hermione Granger.

His frown deepened. What was she doing here in Diagon Alley when, by all accounts, she should be at Hogwarts? It was a well-known fact among the staff she bordered on an overachiever at times, school, for unfathomable reasons, being her utmost passion— she couldn’t possibly be skipping, could she? It seemed highly unlikely. 

Bellatrix followed his line of sight, tongue contemplatively running across her front teeth. “You know her?”

Silently tilting his head to the alley running parallel to the main street, he slipped into the shadows. Steps quickening to catch up to the girl, they finally did just in time to see her pause before a cardboard box. ‘Strange.’

He squinted to make out the words on the pastel magazine tucked under her arms— a frustrated noise when he couldn’t at this distance. The sound of heels on cobblestone, an uneven choppy rhythm, finally reached his ears— an echoing silence when they came to a halt behind him.

“Hermione Granger,” he muttered, answering her earlier question.

“Granger? Half-blood?”

“Muggle-born,” he said, ignoring her inward hiss of displeasure. “She was close to Potter at school.”

Dark eyes glinted in the shadows, intently watching when his ex-student balanced the magazines against her forearm, thumbing through them quickly. Not a second later, she deposited them into the cardboard box— interestingly enough, right next to the Daily Prophet’s stand— a nervous glance spared over her shoulder. He flattened himself against the wall, waiting until that brown gaze passed unseeingly over him and she slipped back into the crowd of shoppers.

“What was that about?” he wondered aloud, watching until she disappeared altogether. 

It happened without warning— a blur. A flash of movement at his side— a warped wand cutting through the air— a snapshot decision as his own hand darted forward. 

“What are you doing?!” he hissed, whirling around, fingers digging into the softness of the woman’s arm. 

Bellatrix tried to yank free, voice indignant, “You said she was Potter’s friend! I’m taking her in for questioning.”

His mouth dropped. “You—!”

Before he could get an insult out, Bellatrix had shoved past him— only to be wrenched back a second later. 

They wrestled for a moment in the side alley; a battle of wills, twin pairs of flashing eyes and bared teeth oh-so-bright in the shadows. A struggle of flesh and bone as one aggressively shoved the other’s chest; a harder push in retaliation, any sense of courtesy long gone.  

Barty had finally managed to pry her fingers from the wand, jumping back just in time to narrowly avoid her biting at the air— an audible snap. Holding the curved piece of wood at an arm’s length behind him, he cursed inwardly when clawed nails raked over his shoulder in an attempt to get it back. 

“Our Lord said to track down the source of the rumours!” he protested, helpless but to wonder if the woman had a death wish after all. “Not to kidnap an underage girl in broad daylight! Have you already forgotten our punishment for your earlier slip-up?!”

Painted lips— a burgundy shade of split wine— pulled back into a snarl, hooded eyes burning with deliberation. Merlin, it looked as though she were considering all the ways to kill a man without the use of magic. And, knowing her, that actually wouldn’t be a far-fetched assumption. 

“You dare to take my wand,” she seethed, crying out in frustration when he countered her reach by stepping further back. “That little mudblood knows something! And you’re letting her get away!”

“We have explicit instructions! Or are you saying that you know what’s best— better than our Lord does? If he wanted us to bring someone in, he would have said so,” he grappled for reason— success. That fire was doused ever-so, a paleness washing over her at the implication— something fraught in her expression that was quickly schooled away.

 “Of course not! He knows best,” she acquiesced bitterly. Her hand extended in expectation, her chin lifted. “Fine. The traitor can walk free for now.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he returned the wand to her palm— a satisfied noise on her end before she was sauntering past him, as though their little scuffle hadn’t just happened.

Barty scrubbed his hands over his face, his jaw, unable to help himself— whiplash. It always had to be whiplash wherever Bellatrix Lestrange was involved. Though, he supposed he should be thankful enough they dodged a bullet entirely— one only had to picture the headlines, ‘Girl Snatched from Diagon Alley’, to understand how dangerously close they had been to it. And, Merlin, just even considering their Lord’s upset— his vexation with having to create a convincing press release to mitigate the disaster— Bellatrix was going to get them both killed at this rate. 

It was in the moment he realised she had disappeared out of his sight. Groaning, he rushed into the crowd, trying to spy her among the vivid colours and mass of bodies— not that it was hard. 

For there she was, further down the shopping district’s drag, glee stretching her features too wide as a pastel magazine was dangled between clawed fingers— a taunting wave. 

The source of the rumours had been found.



In Harri’s opinion, the book was dull and difficult to read. The language was ancient, choked full of clunky words unable to stick, the prose just as dry and brittle as the worn pages— and the proposed theories? Well, they weren’t enough to fully hold her attention.

Rather, on more than one occasion, she found herself drawn from the text by the scratching of a quill— by a louder-than-normal pop in the mantle, or by the soft, annoyed exhale from a certain red-eyed man whenever he seemed displeased by what was written in those letters of his. That, in particular, was hard to ignore.

At one point, Nagini had wandered into the study in search of respite from the day’s chill— a content weight coiled about her legs. Idly, she reached down to stroke the serpent’s triangular head, half-heartedly scanning the page. 

What a scene they all must make, she figured. A fearsome, dozing beast in her lap; an equally fearsome man just a few feet away. And all the while she was stretched out on the chaise as though without a care in the world. If someone were to walk in now, what might they say? That they were domestic? Quaint? She considered him on her periphery, mouth twitching at the strange thought— and the equally strange turn her day had taken.

Truly, it was strange. The atmosphere of the study right now was curiously comfortable; a fact she didn’t want to think too hard on for its implications. Her toes wriggled in their stockings— a mind of their own as though confirming her suspicions. In a vague way, it almost reminded her of the Gryffindor common room. Pleasant warmth, homely in nature— entirely safe. And wasn’t that just the most bewildering idea? The most laughable thing? When contextualized in the grand scheme of it all— of what had happened in this room prior, the bloodshed and inflamed tempers and violence— there was no way it should feel safe. Especially not with a Dark Lord sitting within earshot. 

But yet, she found herself sinking into the idea— a desperate side that sought out a semblance to her old life, no matter how odd or misplaced it was. Her mouth pursed as she tried to redirect her focus back to the opened page, attempting to tamp down the nagging feelings of just how wrong— and yet, somehow, right— this entire situation was. 

It took a few seconds for the words to register, her brows pulling together as she reread the paragraph once, twice— a third time for good measure— before abruptly slamming the tome closed. Well, she wanted a diversion and the universe, sadistic as it was, seemed more than happy to provide.

“Hold on— I could have died?!” she choked out, twisting on the chaise to fix Voldemort in a horrified look.

The Dark Lord paused in his writing, attention lifting to see the girl unusually pale. There was panic bright in those too green eyes, her mouth slack in shock. His own twisted into a humourless smile. Apparently, she had just finished the chapter on magical exhaustion— and, oh, how it processed across her face beautifully. The weight of her actions, the consequences that could have followed; the look of chagrin, the faintest shimmer of hope as though she were waiting for him to deny it. 

Of course, he had no intention of feeding into such a delusion. Oh no, certainly not. This was a fitting lesson— a much-needed one for her to understand the extent of her own foolishness. Plus, there was something quite satisfying in seeing her thrown off-kilter.

“Theoretically, yes. I suppose you could have,” he responded bluntly, setting the quill down as she shifted on the couch, displacing Nagini and earning an agitated hiss from his familiar. 

Nausea rolled through her as she reflected back to the throne room: how weak she felt and how her heartbeat refused to even out afterwards, the whispered warning she needed to be careful— that she would exhaust herself otherwise. But never once did she consider that such sensations were a result of her core burning up

Theoretically ?! Why didn’t you warn me?!” she accused, voice pitching just slightly.

He quirked a brow. “I tried, did I not? I cautioned you to calm down. And yes, theoretically. In your case, it wouldn’t have been death in the traditional sense. Rather, it would have been a suspended state of prolonged unconsciousness until your core had the opportunity to repair itself. Or, at least, that is my educated guess.”

Harri gaped at him, floundering for the appropriate words. He sounded so nonchalant— so unbothered and so blasé about her brush with an almost-death— that she was left utterly appalled by his lack of compassion or sympathy.  “No. No, no. There’s a huge difference between ‘you need to calm down’ and ‘you’re going to magically exhaust yourself to death’—”

“I already told you, it wouldn't have been death—”

“Right, unconsciousness! My bad,” she groaned at his correction— as if an indeterminable coma was any better. 

She sunk down against the chaise, crown tilting back to rest on the headboard. Fingers reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the headache this conversation was reaping. Merlin, how someone could be so brilliant and yet so unaware was beyond her. Silence took hold as she stared up into the ceiling, eyes tracing out invisible patterns into the plaster overhead— a quiet flop as her hand fell to her lap. 

He had resumed his work, the whisper of sheaves being shuffled, and she knew she should probably get back to reading. The tome lay at her side; a quiet beckoning that was overshadowed by the questions churning her mind. Now that she had a moment to reflect on his careful wording— the heaviness of the term ‘death’ so carefully skirted around— she couldn’t help but realise she didn’t know anything. Anything about their situation, the horcrux— this notion of undying. What would that entail? Look like? The uncertainty of a future never-to-end. 

“How does this work, anyway?” she asked, her thoughts slipping into words without being consciously commanded. 

“How does what work?”

“The whole never dying bit.”

“Well, it is exactly what it implies,” he mused, signing the report in a flourish as the pearls of wax magically melted in the divot of a spoon. “You will retain your youth and never cease to breathe as long as the horcrux in you remains unharmed.”

Her nose wrinkled at the prospect, trying to picture herself forever looking the same. “And when you say I’ll remain young—?”

“If that is your vague way of asking if you will never get wrinkles, then yes,” he said, mirth bleeding into his voice. This was good, he figured— a significant step forward as, for the first time, she seemed interested in the finer details of her situation. “Your body will be in a perpetual state of youth. Never aging, your genetic code never breaking down.” 

Well, that was unsettling. And though she considered many people would give anything to be in her position— to hold the secrets of immortality in their hands— it made her stomach roll in an unpleasant way. Never aging — those two words circled obsessively in her mind. A taunt. Fast forward to the next few decades, what would happen when those she cared for finally passed on? Would go to a place she could never reach? They would get to experience the trials and joys each new phase of their life would bring— while she, what? Remained stagnant? Frozen? It sounded more like a curse than the blessing he was trying to frame it as.

‘You will forever have him, though,’ a little voice whispered— it only served to spike her discomfort. 

In truth, his declarations of them having an eternity together never really held much weight— never really had been something she seriously considered. But now? Now, such simple words seemed like a warning. Grim. All too real .  

That lurching clawed its way up her throat— a difficult swallow. “But I’ve been aging up until this point, right? So maybe I’m not immortal?”

Voldemort hummed as he pressed his signet down into the emerald wax, watching contemplatively when the pearly sheen turned matte as it dried. If he was being honest, he held the same questions as she did. There were so many unknowns when it came to her— so many swirling thoughts and fears and deliberations that he didn’t have a firm answer to. She was a rarity. A miracle. Unlike any other, a case such as hers never existing before now— and how that both excited and yet filled him with trepidation. After all, most texts he could find on horcruxes addressed inanimate vessels that, by their inherent nature, aging was never a concern. That or they were vessels without the added complication of already having a human soul— like in Nagini’s case. In all sense of the word, Harri was an anomaly

He considered her off-handedly, red eyes sweeping over her languid form on the couch. It was true she was still aging— that much was evident considering she was no longer a child. And she’d yet to develop venom or go through the final metamorphosis that was the signature of their kind— something which he’d already long completed by her age. Another strange aspect to her existence. Though, try as he did to research it in Salazar’s journals, there wasn’t much to be found: female parselmouths, apparently, were sparse and rarely found. That was what he surmised, after all, seeing as the texts he’d read only pertained to men. Of course, she might never transition at all— it could be entirely true that females were spared from the uncomfortable change. And, perhaps, that might be for the best if that were the case? After all, the idea of having to explain the details to her— to point out she would be going through an agonizing, second form of puberty— wasn’t a conversation he was exactly rearing to have.

He blinked back into the present when she shifted, her left leg crossing over the right. 

“Ah, see that is where I had to do some speculating on my end. You are a rather special case, you know,” he muttered, leaning back into his desk’s chair. “I imagine that, once you reach your magical majority, the aging will stop. But, then again, only time will be able to tell on that front.”

A bitter laugh bubbled from her chest at that, her hand agitatedly combing through her hair— a drag of rounded nails across her scalp. “So forever seventeen? Wow. Lucky me.”

Red eyes narrowed marginally at her sarcasm and apparent ingratitude towards the gift that had been given to her. Towards him. After all, he had spared her from death, from the uncomfortable inconvenience of aging— from being saddled with a feeble body that, ultimately, would become too weak to care for itself any longer. He’d given her the opportunity— the rare chance— to circumvent all of that without even having to lift a finger.

But he also wasn’t entirely blind or ignorant. He knew what her greatest source of disquiet was when it came to accepting the idea. Severus, after all, had told him as much— her friends. Family. Mortal ties and attachments that would only have one, inevitable path to take— one that she couldn’t follow herself. And, truthfully, there wasn’t much to be done on the matter— or, at least, nothing that wouldn’t reverse the little progress they’ve made thus far— except to wait it out and let those connections wither on their own. Oh, how he was looking forward to it, too. Anticipating the day when time’s jagged blade could sever those pesky relationships and leave her with a single option for companionship: himself. 

Without a doubt in his mind, he knew there would be a day she would choose him wholeheartedly— seek him out for comfort and intimacy. It wasn’t as if she had much choice in the matter, the availability of other immortal beings less of a puddle and more of a raindrop. 

Yes, that day would come. 

Eventually. 

But, for now, he supposed he should reassure her— give her some console and some relief. To show how benevolent and caring he could be for her.

However, just as he’d opened his mouth to do so, a platitude at the ready, he was interrupted.

“There’s a way to destroy it though, isn’t there? The horcrux?” 

Harri had blurted out the question gracelessly, unable to withstand the images rifling through her mind at a sickening speed. Tombstones, all lined neatly up in a row. Sirius, Remus, Ron, Ginny, Hermione— even Hedwig. Countless of them nameless, blank in their engravings and epitaphs to represent strangers she’d yet to meet. Just how many people would she come to care for only to watch them pass on in the end? How many burials would she be forced to witness— how many vigils to endure? How many times would she be reduced to a ghost standing on the lip of an open grave? The idea was overwhelming— a constriction in her throat, a squeeze to her lungs.

Truthfully, she didn’t fancy the idea of killing herself. But here, drenched in the warmth of a dying fire and the fading rays of the day’s light, she just needed to know there could be a way out— a fire escape, an exit sign in her periphery. 

That there was a choice

The air in the study turned frigid as those weak flames in the mantle extinguished completely— a darkness creeping in. Twisting tendrils of shadows danced between his fingers, slipping up into the grooves and cracks of them— a dance, an edge of a threat. ‘So. She’s still thinking about it,’ a resentful thought, nails biting into the desk’s edge, varnish flaking off. Perhaps it was foolish of him to hope, but he had thought they’d moved on from this— from these dangerous, hopeless ideas and questions. That, maybe, she was finally understanding her position— was accepting of it. But yet, she felt the need to ruin the tentative peace they’d arrived at.

Crimson eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he tried to figure out how to appropriately react. Part of him was convinced of the idea that he should make her fear ever bringing up the taboo topic again— force aside her stubbornness and make her understand she was in this for the long haul. That there wouldn’t be an escape for her. Not from him. Not from his soul. Not from any of it— he refused to allow it.

Harri swallowed thickly at the oppressive heaviness threaded into the very air, his temper sparking on the boundaries of their connection. It was a marvel, truly a wonder, that she had even considered the study to be a comfortable haven just a few minutes prior— that she felt safe. Because now, rather, it felt the opposite: hostile. Her palms turned sweaty as she fisted the fabric of the woolen dress— a prickle on the back of her neck as she watched his body go rigid. Tensed. It was startling how quickly the pleasant mood bled away— how rapidly everything soured with a few, thoughtless words and the quick tide of his temper.

And not for the first time was she uncomfortably reminded who the man behind the desk was: Lord Voldemort. So easily forgotten amid what had been an amicable conversation— a truth conveniently ignored. She stilled under the weight of his scrutiny, neck bared as her head refused to lift up from the chaise— pinned . That’s what she felt like: a butterfly pinned to a board, helplessly spread for the dissection and perusal and amusement of an unkind god. ‘You did this,’ that voice mocked, ‘always so careless.’ 

Well, she couldn’t quite disagree with its assessment. After all, she knew this was an off-limit topic— had seen how he’d reacted to the question in the past. And yet, she had asked anyway. 

“I know you said it wasn’t possible, but I did it in the chamber accidentally with the diary. And Nagini mentioned we could be destroyed,” she rushed out, stumbling over the words. Her tongue darted out to wet suddenly chapped lips— an uneasy swallow. “I just figured I should probably know what to look out for.”

A beat. 

Then two.

Three.

Four.

Silent consideration, red eyes locked with green ones— and then those rolling clouds abruptly gave way. 

Voldemort spared a cutting glance over to the snake blissfully curled up in front of the glowing coals— a tsk of annoyance. Apparently, they would need to have a chat later on regarding what was considered appropriate topics for conversation. 

For now, his attention returned to his frozen horcrux, head tilting as he looked for signs of deception. ‘Do not fault her for her curiosity. At least she’s showing interest,’ logic reminded him— and it was true, to a degree. Plus, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by him that she, either consciously or not, used the term we. It was something— a start.

Fingers steepling, he took a moment to collect himself. Those shadows withdrew as he leaned into the idea— the recognition that, in all hindsight, this was fitting for the nature of their conversation. And he supposed he should be free with the information, seeing as he had been with everything else she’d asked thus far. It wasn’t as though he would ever allow it to happen either— her destruction, that is. Oh no, he had long since resolved to be extraordinarily cautious on that front. 

Before he could respond, there was a sharp knock on the study’s door.

Vexed at the intrusion, he waved the doors open nonetheless. Behind them were his two most loyal, his Generals, returned from their mission. Wordlessly tilting his head for them to enter, part of him had to resist the urge to command them to disappear again. After all, they both had been sent to Diagon Alley to allow himself time to bond with his horcrux— an excuse, certainly, and one he considered more than once why it was even needed to begin with. She was his, technically, both in soul and in legal guardianship— so, by right, he was entitled to her time. 

And yet, here they were— operating under shallow excuses.

“What is it?” he demanded, fingers drumming against his desk and annoyance clear in his voice. 

“We have found something of interest, my Lord,” Barty replied, swiftly rising from his bow and crossing the room. 

The man paused on the opposite side of the desk, head ducked and a newspaper held out in offering— however, for a fleeting moment, Voldemort’s attention was fixed on Bellatrix. The woman hovered near the doorway. It was impossible to miss the sharp looks she kept sending his horcrux. Jealousy was the prominent emotion on her face, pinching her features in an unbecoming way, but there was also something else. Something different. If he had to guess, underlying that jealousy was suspicion— that, in particular, was especially concerning. Bella took to secrets the way a bloodhound took to a scent trail, sniffing them out faster than one could hide them— an admirable quality, certainly, where it was needed. But where it wasn’t? A nuisance.  Whatever Harri had done had flagged her interest— and that was the last thing either of them needed.

His tongue ran over his canines in deliberation, already thinking of ways to throw Bellatrix off her supposed trail. Perhaps another warning was needed? Another threat to ensure she knew her place?

Roughly snatching the proffered paper, red eyes tore themselves from the dark-haired woman and down to the headline. He frowned as he read it— and then a flicker of triumph. So, this is where all of the rumours had originated from? This Quibbler? The pastel blue cover, the eyesore of a font; all of it reeked of juvenility and a lack of organisation. And taking one look at the buzzwords, the phrases so openly condemning him on grounds of corruption, it wasn’t difficult to determine who the authours were: the Order. 

“Barty, escort Harri to Narcissa. I believe it is time for her lessons,” he mused, attention fixated on the tabloid.

Harri shot up from the chaise lounge, all too eager to take advantage of the opportunity to leave. Oh yes, she was all too happy to escape the storm before it could begin to brew again in earnest, the bitterness of his displeasure still lingering on her tongue. 

Twisting to set the tome down onto the velvet cushion, she belatedly spied the magazine held in his hands— a pause. Half-bent, fingers grazing the butter-soft leather of the book, her brows pinched in confusion. ‘What's he doing with The Quibbler ?’ It had to be The Quibbler, after all— there was no mistaking it. Not with the pastel colours and busy fonts and whirring images; a familiarity nursed by the fact Luna— and Ginny by extension of their friendship— always had a copy or two on her person. If she remembered correctly, it was her family’s paper— a privately-run affair made to combat the mainstream media. But still, that didn’t explain what Voldemort was doing with it.

Just as she thought to ask, he interrupted her.

“Oh, and Harri? I expect you to finish that by Sunday,” he ordered offhandedly, head tilting towards the chaise.

She frowned, glancing down to the book. Surely, he couldn’t mean—

‘Yes. All of it,’ his voice whispered in her mind. 

Choking down a noise of protest, she aggressively snatched the tome from the couch. It was thicker than her forearm in its entirety— a solid few hundred pages, to be certain— and she’d barely made a dent in it. It would seem he was intent on ensuring she didn’t even have time to mourn Hogwarts— a tyrant through and through.

‘I heard that.’ 

‘Good,’ she thought back sourly, tucking it under her arm and tossing him one final, narrowed-eye glare. Of course, he was too busy flipping through the magazine to pay it any heed— a fact that only worsened her ire. 

With an annoyed sniff, chin lifted, she resolutely marched from the study. Before the office doors could fully close, Barty had slipped into her shadow— silent and stern and staring, his curiosity boring into the back of her head. 

‘Well, I hope Draco’s having a good day,’ was her sullen wish as she trudged down the staircase. ‘At least one of us should.’



However, as it would turn out, her prayer fell on deaf ears: in no sense of the word could Draco Malfoy’s day be described as ‘good.’

Having returned to Hogwarts, he found it was a grim sort of affair. The confusion had been heavy in the air— saturating, really— at the Welcoming Back feast, whispers sneaking their way into his ears on Dumbledore’s notable absence. Already, rumours were abounding as to what could have happened— some harmless and others? Not so much. And though he would be loathed to admit it aloud, Draco found himself almost missing the old headmaster. Obnoxiously coloured robes aside, at least the man had known how to make an entrance— to make things lively. Nearly amusing. So unlike his godfather, that is. 

Watching Severus step up to the podium, his cloak as drab as his countenance, it was enough to make himself inwardly groan. That clipped monotone drawl had done little to inspire excitement for the remainder of the year— and would it kill the man to smile for once? 

Of course, to some degree he could feel for his godfather. It had been obvious, painfully so, that being headmaster was probably the last thing Severus could have wanted. But nonetheless, it had been a cause for relief when the painful speech had ended. 

Though, as he quickly discovered, when one torture ended, another was ready to take its place. And this one? Well, this one unfortunately took the form of his friends.

The very second Severus had settled at the head table, the conversations began in earnest. For the most part, it had been the usual drivel: what they’d done over the holidays, the gifts they received, who attended what party. But then, somehow, someway, the tide inevitably turned. 

“I don’t know. It’s weird, isn’t it? Potter and the Dark Lord,” Marcus Flint muttered, elbows on the table and leaning forward. “Father says he hardly lets her out of his sight.”

“Well, why would he?” Blaise snorted behind the rim of his goblet. “If she was my enemy, I wouldn’t take my eyes off her either. Hate to be on the end of her wand, that’s for sure.”

It was Theodore Nott who ultimately opened the floodgates. “But it doesn’t make sense, does it? If they were enemies, why hasn’t he just locked her up in the dungeons? There’s something more going on, if you ask me. A connection or the like between them.”

A moment of silence, of contemplation as his words settled— mayhem. It rippled outwards following Theo’s declaration, frantic, frenetic whispers as theories were swapped and traded among neighbors— and, oh, how Draco despised it. He barely caught any of it— those half-baked ideas and prattling— but what he did hear was enough to throw off his barely-there appetite. 

Lip curling, he lazily shuffled the mashed potatoes across his plate, pale eyes lifting when Pansy cleared her throat.

“Perhaps Potter is secretly the Dark Lord’s relation? Daughter, perhaps? Or maybe cousin?” She reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice, allowing her contribution to the conversation to sink in. “After all, he did claim guardianship of her. Who would do that to someone not of blood?”

A muscle in his jaw feathered, the urge to roll his eyes mounting when Pansy’s idea caught on— a flint’s spark to dry kindling. Suddenly, there were comments traded across the table regarding Harri’s appearance— what features looked similar to his Lord’s, what didn’t, if it was possible or not. But, more importantly, what did it mean for them all if so? Of course, he was equally in the dark when it came to understanding why the plans involving Harri had changed so drastically— though, if he was certain of one thing, it was this: they weren’t related. 

Oh, no. Definitely not.

He was sure of it after the ‘party’ Harri had attended. The way the Dark Lord had watched her throughout the evening, had dressed her— those possessive, wandering hands that flashed to the forefront of his memory. His Lord’s behaviour had been far from the familial sort— a fact that most of the crowing imbeciles around him had been seemingly forgetting. 

“I don’t believe that’s quite it either,” Theo said, shaking his head and sitting up straighter on the bench. “Considering how they were dancing together, it wouldn’t be appropriate if they were related.”

“That’s true. They were quite close. Almost as if— wait, you don’t think they could be?” Pansy’s mouth rounded into an ‘o’. “But it’s Potter! Surely he can't’ be interested in that way!” 

Acid rose in the back of Draco’s throat. Leave it to Pansy to voice the one thing no one else dared to. Of course, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t contemplated it himself— how could he not? When he saw bruises on her skin in questionable places, when she had been paraded around in a gown far too mature for someone her age— when he noticed the hunger in those red, red eyes as she’d been brought up on the dais and placed at his side for all to see. How could he not think there was something improper going on between them? And, even worse, perhaps against her will?

His stomach tightened— a flush of anger that had him roughly setting down his fork and shoving his untouched plate away. 

There was a click of a tongue across from him.

Blaise crossed one leg over the other, mouth tilting up in a smirk. “I mean, if so, I can see the appeal. She’s certainly attractive enough. But I do wonder how she managed to seduce him, considering the whole ‘forsworn enemies’ thing they have going on. Or, maybe, it’s the Dark Lord who did the seducing? I mean, she did switch sides pretty quickly— and I’m willing to bet it’s probably because of more than just his face.” 

“Blaise!” Pansy interjected, lips pursing in disapproval.

“Just saying what we’re all thinking,” he said, laughing— a light-hearted sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes— white teeth flashing in a leering smile. “Draco, they’re staying with you, right? Heard anything freaky?” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly when they met Blaise’s, his voice coming out cold, “Watch it, Zabini.”

And, oh, how hard was it to keep his temper in check at the audacity of the mere suggestion. It was a herculean effort, one tested when those dark eyes glinted with amusement and a brow arched. Of course, he understood he was being baited— Blaise had the nasty habit of it, after all. He knew he was being goaded for his ‘friend’s’ sick amusement— that it was a talent of the boy’s that he both despised and admired. And it was his fault as well, he supposed— he’d let it slip how much Harri meant to him. A moment of weakness, a fatal misstep in the circle he ran with; a weakness admitted, exposed. Reacting too greatly would only invite further scrutiny— further teasing— he knew it. But still, that wasn’t enough to keep him from wanting to leap across the table and wipe away that smug smirk entirely. 

There was a tentative hand landing on his shoulder, concerned and questioning. He shrugged it off irately, not bothering to look over at Pansy. 

The once-jovial atmosphere among the small group had darkened considerably, the energy tensed and eyes darting— a moment where the chatter fell away and eager voices lulled.   

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Parkinson. Draco here is just in a foul mood because the Dark Lord was man enough to make a move on his crush before he could,” Blaise said, grin widening.

“‘Man enough’? Draco echoed, granite in his voice and steel in his eyes. “Is that so? And yet, which one of us was ‘man enough’ to take the Dark Mark, Zabini? Because I sure as hell don’t see it on your arm.”

The amusement slid quickly from Blaise’s face. It was hard to miss how the boy had skittishly glanced down to his sleeved arm, had shifted uneasily in his seat— and yet, the victory was short-lived. Shallow

With a sneer, Draco abruptly swung his legs over the table’s bench, unable to stand the conversation any longer. The voices crying for him to come back fell on deaf ears, slicking off him as water does to oil, as he marched out of the Great Hall entirely. 

Taking the steps to the common room two at a time, fists buried in his robe’s pocket, he tried his best to forget their speculations. Those obnoxious observations, the scandalised whispers. He had to, really, if he was going to make it to summer vacation without murdering someone first. However, as he turned a sharp corner, the air growing thicker closer to the dungeons, the shadows stretching long, he found himself faced with the true reason why he was so agitated. It wasn’t their prattling, their gossip: no, it was because he couldn’t deny any of it. Equally stuck in the dark, he didn’t have one single leg to stand on to refute his friends. For all he knew, there could be something more going on between Harri and the Dark Lord. 

And, oh, how that grated like nothing else could.



The week had passed in a blur, bringing with it a quiet sense of relief— and, to some degree, bewilderment. 

Bewilderment for the fact a routine had settled into Harri’s life, whether she wanted it to or not. 

It was always the same. Her mornings began with Narcissa, the woman forever endeavouring to teach her etiquette— something about her now being a Black making it even more vital she learned— and her afternoons were passed under Barty’s keen watch in the library. Evenings were generally spent in the study with Voldemort— a silent, strange handful of hours that, as she was learning, she didn’t fully mind. He would pass the time doing administrative work while she read, both apparently content to have each other’s presence without the continuous conversation that would typically accompany otherwise. Of course, that wasn’t the oddest part of their evenings: it was the fact he kept true to his word.

He was, indeed, teaching her.

Even in the silence, even if he was busy, he would always find the time to answer her questions about a theory or application. And, Merlin, she hated to admit that he was effective. Great, even— a surprise in how the Dark Lord was actually a pretty damn good mentor. In fact, she had learned more from this one book and his lessons than she had in the past two years of her defense classes. Naturally, he wasn’t actually letting her use magic right now— something about theory building a strong foundation— but even that wasn’t enough to discourage her mounting interest. Hell, if anything, she was working harder than she ever had, some traitorous part spurred on by gaining his approval.

He just had this way when it came to doling out praise: subtle, small, but impactful. Words carefully chosen and manipulated, the slightest smile or two— a lilt to his voice that elicited a bubbling in her chest and an eagerness to hear it again. She’d forever deny feeling such things, of course— or being driven by something so ridiculous— and yet, come Sunday, she had finished the book as instructed.

And yet, it was for nothing as Sunday marked a deviation from her routine.

A deviation in the form of Severus Snape. 

It was how she found herself currently seated across from the grim-faced man, his dark eyes regarding her critically. On the surface, he seemed just as enthused as she did about their newly found arrangement wherein— well, she wasn’t sure exactly. No one had bothered to explain what these lessons were to entail, after all. 

Harri slumped further down into her seat, tongue resting heavily in the pocket of her cheek. In the background, the mantle clock insistently ticked away— a sharp staccato that punctuated the stretching silence, the minutes whittling away. She found her leg restlessly bouncing along to the rhythm, fingers barely restrained from drumming against the armrests. 

Her tongue switched to the opposite cheek as she waited for him to say, do , something. And yet he sat there entirely unmoving, seemingly comfortable with the absence of conversation or distraction. She, on the other hand, was anything but. Words, questions in particular, were lively things— butterflies trapped in her throat— that habit forced down. Because yes, while things might have gotten better between them— what with him trying to help her escape and healing her from time to time— he was still her professor. Or, well, ex-professor. But nonetheless, theirs was a relationship forged over the years and characterized by reprimand for the smallest of slights and doled out punishment. Theirs was a relationship of student and teacher; of begrudging respect and an adherence to authority. 

And, Merlin, how habit wouldn’t let her forget it, her tongue uncooperative until he spoke first.

“So, Potter—”

The dam broke the second he had said those two little words.

Her question came out in a rush, “How was the Welcome Back feast?”

But, even more importantly, was the unspoken one underlying it: how was Hermione and Ron?

Judging by the twitch in the corner of his mouth, it seemed that Snape had picked up on what she was truly asking. “It was satisfactory, I suppose. However, some students were noticeably missing.”

Her leg stilled; a shaky sigh. If Hermione and Ron weren’t at Hogwarts, then she figured they must be with the Order. And it was that idea alone that elicited a jumble of emotions. Relief that they were safe and far from the castle— and, more importantly, out of Voldemort's reach— but also worry as new questions replaced the old as to where they might be— or what they intended to do. It was a bold, reckless move if they did happen to join the Order, and one that would paint even bigger targets on their backs than their friendship already had. 

It was, as the saying went, a mixed blessing at its finest.

Teeth chewed on her bottom lip as her mind wandered. It wasn’t until Severus had spoken again, shifting closer towards her, that she remembered what they were supposed to be doing.

“As you are aware, the Dark Lord has deemed it necessary for you to develop Occlumency—” 

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” 

Snape’s mouth twitched, unimpressed by the interruption. “Practice. In these lessons, I will attempt to infiltrate your mind and you will attempt to resist.”

Harri felt her brows raise at the less-than-helpful instructions. But just as she was about to ask how, exactly, she was supposed to ‘resist’— if there was a spell she needed to know or an incantation— there was the instruction to “Prepare yourself” and a wand pointed at her face. 

A flash of white— a colourless sunburst— and the entertainment parlour with all of its gilded finery and ivory drapes bled away into a throbbing kaleidoscope of memories.

Under the stairs, stuffed into a too-small space, dust hazily floating in from the sliding grate. Desperately grasping for a Hogwarts letter amongst the endless swirling sea, wild clutches and shrieks of joy. A garden snake coiled under a bush— “Hello, I’m Harri,” elated surprised when it responded back “Hello.” Heart hammering, feet slipping in too large sneakers— dull thudding on blazing asphalt, jeers hot on her heels.  

She panted as Malfoy Manor jerked back into view, a cool sheen of sweat on her skin. The murmured command to “Concentrate” barely registered in her ringing ears as she was abruptly plunged back into the whirlwind, unable to even gulp in a mouthful of air beforehand.

A woman with coral lips pinched, words dripping with disdain— “I’m not your mother”, hands slapping away outreaching greedy ones. Tears blurring the stovetop as the bacon blackened before it could be flipped— heavy footsteps thundering down the stairs, splatters of grease scalding bare skin. “Yer a wizard, Harri.” A stormy night, a giant of a man— complete euphoria at being freed. “You can come live with me, if you want,”— a full moon in the sky, a grey-eyed man uselessly offering up his too-full heart. A monster, skeletal, thin— a creature from the void emerging from a cauldron, demanding blood to sate its appetite.

“Resist,” was the faint command from the bodiless voice, urging her to fight as she was suspended between the past and the present. Only vaguely could she register how her head was split open or how the tears scalded her cheeks, the sensations somehow sharp yet dull.

“Freak!”— a wince, a sting, a sob clawing up a ragged throat. A broken wrist cradled against the pounding of a racing heart— don’t cry, don’t cry, they hate it when you make a sound. Barred windows, a magical, floating car attempting to pull them off— shrieks of alarm, shrubbery flattened. “Harri, you look too thin! Eat!”— a kind voice and kind hands shoving a full plate across a worn table. A too-thin mattress, curled to one side— a hollow ache in an empty stomach as bolts slid shut. Cheeks inflamed, heated, the throbbing imprint of a cruel hand. “Oi, come off it! You’re cheating, Potter!”— rocks skipping  across still waters, disrupting ripples. 

“Focus, Potter. Expel me from your mind.”   

The scenes flashed by out of her control, bile rising.

Skeletal hands curled about a cauldron— sharp nails, a punishing pressure, the world coloured by pain. Stumbling on dew-slicked grass, trembling fingers about a cage— “I’ll kill that bloody owl if I see it again, you hear me girl!” The sting of wind, air thinning— adrenaline rushing as the broom climbed and feet skimmed the clouds. “Look at me!”— alarmed blue eyes behind half-moon glasses, a slack mouth. A boy from a diary, the ultimate betrayal, glowing letters carved into the air— I am Lord Voldemort. The same boy at her neck, teeth buried in and refusing to let go— flares of pain, pleasure, a buoyancy. “I have seen your heart, Harri Potter. I know it like the back of my hand, and it is mine.” Hellfire eyes, damning words— “It’s all because you, yourself, are a—”

‘No!’ an inhuman screech ripped through the memories, causing the images to distort until the entertainment parlour rematerialised. 

Harri slumped forward and into awaiting hands, the line of tension holding her taut finally snapping. They held a tremble, she belatedly realised, as they curled about her shoulders— or, perhaps, it was her who was actually shaking. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure. Nonetheless, she leaned into them, breaths coming in gasps and eyes squeezing shut to block out the swaying tile underfoot.

“Please tell me that’s enough,” she managed to say through the ache in her teeth. Merlin, everything hurt. Her bones, her skin, her mind— that one, especially. It only seemed to worsen on the downbeats of the clock’s ticking— a flash of irritation that made her suddenly wish it would fall off the mantle and shatter.

Seconds had passed before she was gently pushed upright in the chair. A mistake. A groan, ragged and throaty, escaped her when her stomach lurched in protest, sourness in her mouth. Harri clenched her jaw shut, refusing to succumb to the urge to retch, her head falling limply against the chair.

A strand of hair had fallen into her face, damp and sticking to her cheek. Fingers weakly twitched in her lap with the need to brush it away, her hand impossibly heavy. ‘Shit. I’m going to have to shower again,’ was a sleepy, distant thought, exhaustion stealing its way in as she sank deeper into the cushion.

In truth, Severus wasn’t faring much better. It wasn’t in a physical sense, of course— not with the years of practice he had learning the fine arts of the mind— but emotionally? He was rattled. Shaken . It was an effort to keep it from showing plainly on his face and to remain collected— though, after what he’d seen, who could blame him if he slipped a little? When his Lord had suggested abuse under the care of her muggle relatives, he hadn’t considered it of consequence. After all, surely Dumbledore would have put an end to it if it was happening— but her memories, the pain he felt on her behalf? Well. Those hadn’t been a lie— a fabrication. And in between the shock, the confusion, fury was growing. 

Fury with Petunia, Vernon, Dumbledore.

Fury with himself for not seeing it sooner. 

Fury with the world for leaving such a young mind in this state of chaos, torn asunder.

It was fury and the want, the need, to avenge it. 

But outwardly, he remained calm, composed— he had to. 

“That is certainly enough for tonight, Potter. I suggest you focus on daily meditation before our next session.” He rose from the chair a moment later, recognising the unsteadiness in his legs. 

Dark eyes slid over to the girl breathing heavily in the chair, her cheeks tear-tracked and skin somehow both flushed and pale. For a second, he faltered, torn between wanting to comfort her— to say it would get easier— but was entirely unable to. The words refused to form around the falsehood, his tongue a deadened thing in his mouth. 

So instead, Severus did what he was best at: he fled from the room.



“My Lord, I’ve come to report we have finished our lesson,” Severus said as evenly as he could, bowing slightly. 

The library was dim, only illuminated by the low flames in the mantle. They flickered under an invisible breeze, stretching long their shadows and curbing the reach of their heat. It was here that Severus found the Dark Lord perched in one of the armchairs, a book cradled between long fingers and a serpent curled at his feet. It was a calm scene. Serene, quiet— nothing at all like what had just occurred in the room downstairs. In part, he was almost envious that his Lord’s evening had been a calm one, entirely pleasant— mostly because he knew, even after he returned home tonight, there would be no peace to be found. 

How could there be when all he could think of is a sweat-drenched, trembling girl and of the darkness her memories carried? 

Voldemort eventually spared a glance towards the headmaster, head tilting  in consideration. “I see. And how did she do?”

“Satisfactory. She managed to repel my presence once,” Severus responded carefully, trying to find the right words to describe the experience. “However, I must admit I have some concerns. Her mind, as it is, is rather unbalanced.”

The Dark Lord snapped the book shut with one hand while crimson eyes, glowing in the dying flames, narrowed ever-so. There was a truth to Severus’s character that he had come to learn in the years following the man’s service: there were very few things that seemed to be able to shake the wizard. But nonetheless, here he was, standing half-concealed in the shadows, his complexion waned and his carefully curated mask slipping. And all the while, the cause of such disturbance was his horcrux. 

“Show me,” he demanded as he rose from the chair, tossing the novel down into the empty space where he once sat.

“My Lord, I feel it prudent to warn you that it is disturbing,” Snape said, eyeing the Dark Lord warily as he approached. It was a matter he was torn on— betraying the girl’s trust and yet not wishing to defy such a direct order. 

Voldemort stepped forward until he towered over the potions master, lip curling at the fact he had to repeat himself. “Show me. Now, Severus.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 48: "I Used To Think You Were The Only Monster"

Notes:

Hello again to all of my lovely readers! There some important scenes in this chapter that mark a turning point for Harri and Tom's relationship so I hope you will love it! 💕

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“Over this past month alone, we have received more reports than usual regarding the mainland’s ongoing centaur uprisings,” Nott spoke up from further down the table, his voice carrying as an even, dull sound. “Our informants have especially expressed some concerns over their latest movements, my Lord.” 

Leaning forward in her seat to peer at the man, Harri barely managed to suppress her groan. A thick, orderly stack of documents had been placed before him, waiting to be addressed— a most unwelcomed sight, indeed. Though she’d only been in attendance for three meetings thus far, it hadn’t taken her long to figure him out: Nott Senior liked to drone. Endlessly . It was a quirk that, strangely enough, reminded her of Professor Binns, both men sharing the uncanny ability to lull a room to sleep through merely talking. Though, between the two, she wasn’t quite sure which she preferred: Binns’ dry lectures or Nott’s equally dry reports. However, judging by how many notes the Death Eater currently had, she was almost inclined to say the lectures. At least her history classes had been strictly confined to an hour. 

Slumping back in the chair, she glanced to the ceiling overhead, internally debating if it might be feasible to summon a storm cloud— maybe one with thunder and lightning to make things extra lively— just to prematurely end the meeting. It was tempting, truly, if only it weren’t guaranteed that a certain, red-eyed man would be furious if she did. 

The sounds of shuffling accompanied Nott as he began to rattle off a long-winded series of numbers. ‘Heavens, save me.’

On her periphery, she caught the tail-end of movement— a dark blur. Green eyes flickered over to watch the Dark Lord shift in his throne, a folder magically appearing in his hands. He’d forgone the usual suit and tie today, choosing instead to wear the severely cut black robes— less Marvolo, more Voldemort. And, unlike herself, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the dryness of the report. In fact, he appeared rather invested in it. 

“I see. Where has the highest concentration been primarily located?” Voldemort asked, retrieving some papers from the folder. He was thumbing through them casually, his posture relaxed though his eyes remained sharp, discerning— a thousand thoughts whirling in their depths. Not that she was really privy to any of them.

Nott cleared his throat. “In Austria, mostly. Though pockets have been steadily spreading westward.”

“Austria,” Voldemort echoed. “So it would seem they’re finally looking for it.”

‘Looking for what?’ Harri wondered, her interest piqued when those red eyes scanned a particular page and his brows lowered slightly. Striving to be inconspicuous, she leaned over, curious to see what could have possibly elicited such a reaction. However, she apparently wasn’t subtle enough for he had glanced up then, the amusement found in the lifted corner of his mouth heating her ears. She righted herself almost instantly, eyes firmly latching onto the table. 

The conversation carried on but it quickly faded to the background as her thoughts drifted. Preoccupied, contemplative, they turned to the conundrum she’d been nursing for days now. In truth, this is not what she had pictured Death Eater meetings to be like. There was a distinct lack of, well, torture , for one— though that, in part, could very well be due to them abstaining from such until she wasn’t present. Then there was the room being, surprisingly, pleasant. Well-lit. One might even say it was comfortably spacious, the windows tall and the drapes thrown wide to allow in the sunny enough day— overall a far cry from the dungeons she’d been anticipating. After all, when she’d been summoned to first attend the weekly gathering, her presence apparently deemed necessary by Voldemort, that’s exactly what she had prepared herself for: darkness and blood and nefarious happenings. Not whatever this was. 

Not something so civil. 

So bureaucratic.

She clicked her tongue, digging her nail into one of the hardened knots set into the wood grain. Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure why she was here to begin with, dressed formally and seated in a place of honour at the table. It wasn’t as though she’d taken the Dark Mark nor bent the knee— plus, she knew fuck all regarding the politics of centaurs and their apparent uprisings in Europe. So, to that end, it wasn’t as if she could contribute anything of note. 

Then again, she supposed she didn’t need to speak— or that it was expected. No, when it came down to it, she figured she was here for one primary reason: because he wanted her to be. In some perverse way, she considered this was his way of creating a tidy narrative for his followers to buy into. A spectacle of power in having the ‘Girl Who Lived’ at his side, sitting in on his meeting among his acolytes— a testament to whatever perceived victory it was. And, well, it did irk her to some degree that she was being made to go along with it. But what choice did she really have in the matter? It wasn’t as if she could outright say no. 

She dug deeper into the knot, ignoring when her nail’s tip splintered. All things considered though, letting him have this— her sitting here, the picture of compliance— was small in the grand scheme of things. And if such a concession put him in a relatively good mood, then didn’t that also benefit her? Plus, it admittedly felt somewhat nice to be kept in the loop of the world— even if its happenings were rather mundane. There was a comforting quality in the fact that it, somehow, continued to turn, despite how it often felt everything in her personal life had come to a standstill. 

“So what of within our borders? Have any centaurs been sighted?” 

Harri was pulled back into the conversation by Voldemort’s question and the deceptive softness in his voice. It seemed like an obvious answer. Hell, Hogwarts’ own Forbidden Forest was teeming with them— so why was he asking? 

“There have been a few in the North, my Lord,” Nott answered in turn. “Mostly near the Scottish border.”

For the following, fleeting moment, she could’ve sworn the room had darkened. It was so quick, anyone else might have thought it to be an illusion— perhaps a cloud passing over the sun or a longer-than-normal blink. But not her. Oh no, an illusion it was not— couldn’t be. Not with the way time had slowed and sound muted. Not with the way she could feel the slightest tinge of pressure behind her eyes and the prickle on the back of her neck.

But then, as quickly as it appeared, it left. Expelled, exorcised, his magic only leaving behind the trace of something bitter to remind her of its presence.

Alarmed, her head snapped towards Voldemort, searching, seeking. Though nothing was outwardly changed about him— save for the way he was now leaning back on the throne, fingers steepled as though deep in consideration— she knew better. Something about Nott’s words had set him off.  

“Fenrir,” the Dark Lord said, “after this is over, I want you to take your pack out on patrol. Go North and immediately report back any findings. You have the usual permissions to act as you see fit.”

Harri heard the grunt of agreement from somewhere down the table but she hadn’t bothered to look. Rather, she continued to stare openly at Voldemort, mind spinning to piece together the new information. Patrol? Permissions? Findings?

Crimson eyes, sensing the weight of her stare, flickered over. They were narrowed just-so, a new tightness to their corners and a look held in them that made her stomach turn. It was a look that forbade any questions in the moment; a look that said to hold her tongue. A look that rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Then, almost dismissively, he waved his hand for Yaxley to begin his report. 

The words of the Death Eater went ignored as green steadily met red— an unspoken battle of wills. She glared at Voldemort for a few seconds longer, trying to project her discontent, but he had already turned back to his papers. ‘Asshole,’ she thought sourly before finally redirecting her attention to the room itself. 

Passing glances were spared to the assorted faces, their names eluding her. A few she could recognise as Voldemort’s inner-circle—  Nott, Yaxley, the Malfoys, Bellatrix and Barty— and a couple were identifiable by their brief encounters— like Rabastan, the one she’d stop from being tortured, or Fenrir, who’d been entirely less than pleasant— but most were complete mysteries. Strangers. It certainly didn’t help that they all looked nearly the same— stark black robes, expressions kept carefully blank— nor that they tended to avoid eye contact entirely. Throughout the meetings, most of them kept their blinders on. Hell, not even Barty at her side had paid her any attention. So she made it a game, the rules simple: stare at them until they squirmed and had to look her way. 

So far, she was not winning. 

Somewhere deep within the manor, a clock chimed, its echoing melody signaling the end of the meeting’s third hour. Harri shifted again, grimacing at the stiffness in her legs. But just as she went to cross them, hoping a change in posture would help, she felt it. The brush of something cold against her bare ankles— a ripple of muscle, the soft whisper of scales.

Leaning back to glance under the table, she spied the dappled form of Nagini beginning to curl about the chair, those yellow eyes bright in the shadows. She said nothing as the snake started to wind her way up, using the wooden legs as footholds. It was only when she felt the chill against her neck and the flick of a tongue against her ear that she winced. Nagini had managed to halfway drape herself across her shoulders. 

“The meeting is still going?” the snake asked.

“Unfortunately,” she replied under her breath, ignoring when Barty had slightly stiffened. “They’re now on about trades or something.”

And, oh, how her patience was wearing thin with it all. Even with the arrival of Nagini for a distraction, Harri could feel her tolerance slipping— the edge of restlessness, the bite of exasperation. There was an itch in her chest from being seated for so long, her legs just screaming to be moved.

“The French Minister of Finance has assured us that—”

Oh, for the love of —” Harri muttered, unable to take it any longer. 

She pushed her chair out from the table, struggling to stand under Nagini’s weight. Wooden feet screeched against the tile, the sound garnering several pairs of eyes as Yaxley trailed off. But even then, she refused to sit again as she sought out Voldemort with a silent plea.

He studied her curiously, his expression kept outwardly passive, blank, despite how she felt his amusement. It was there as clear as the midday’s sun in their bond— a glimmering, sharp contrast to his earlier coldness. Eventually, he tilted his head towards the windows before nodding for the meeting to continue. 

She jumped at the chance. 

Hurriedly smoothing down the pleated skirt of her dark grey robes, Harri turned on her heels to rush over to the windows, Nagini in tow. Slowly, one by one, the weighted stares fell off her shoulders as Yaxley started talking once more. 

Please tell me the meetings aren’t always this long," Harri complained as she splayed her hand against the glass pane. It was still chilled to the touch, despite the afternoon being well underway. 

Mostly. Sometimes though, they are even longer.”

“Great,” she huffed. 

Green eyes stared out across the lawn, unable to help herself from smiling a bit. Today was a fine day marked by a well-deserved break from the snow: a crystal clear sky of the deepest blue juxtaposed against a world of white. It glittered out there, blinding— a rolling sea of diamonds that cast out a shimmering mirage on the horizon. Everywhere it could, the snow gathered, capping off the tops of the hedges that made up the spiraled maze and adorning the barren branches of the trees. But it wouldn’t be for long. Oh no, the signs of spring were already creeping in. They were found in the icicles— heavy, gathered spires that dotted the edge of the balcony above them— and in their sporadic dripping; in the outdoor fountain and in its spiderweb fissures on its glassy surface. 

Yes, spring was coming. Slowly but surely, it was.

Retracting her hand, fingers flexed to warm them. With a last glance thrown to the sunny world beyond the veranda, Harri turned away to amble about the perimeter of the meeting room. 

For the most part, she tuned out the chatter as she spared half-hearted looks to the towering mantle and the bowl of obsidian floo powder innocently resting atop it. A traitorous daydream was already unwisely forming— an image of her sprinting across the marble floor, uninterrupted, the Death Eaters frozen in their places. Her hand sinking into the grains and feeling their grit, the mantle blazing to life and whisking her away with only a word or two. Where might she go? What destination would slip out in the heat of the moment? What—

A tongue flicking across the right side of her neck had her jolting back to the present. 

Her hand flew up to protectively clamp over the spot, already knowing what had earned the snake’s interest— could feel it under the pads of her fingertips. A scar, a silver mark, slightly raised and still sensitive even after all these months; a lingering reminder of canines sunk in too deep.

“Stop it,” she hissed, ignoring as those nearest to her twitched. Apparently, despite them all already being aware that she shared their Lord’s language, it still elicited a reaction whenever it slipped out— which, unfortunately, had been happening more often than not. Then again, that’s what happened when one mostly relied on a snake and a Dark Lord for company.

“Is it still sensitive?” Nagini asked slyly.

“Quite,” Harri grumbled, “so if you don’t mind.”

It was in that moment she became acutely aware of the fact they were being watched— that a pair of glinting red eyes was fixed upon them, something unreadable in their depths. But no, not them, per se. The mark . Her throat worked to swallow. Why was he looking at her like that? So— intensely?

Thankfully, Lucius spoke up, drawing away Voldemort’s attention. “Severus’s report has come back, my Lord. As it stands, Muggleborns compromise approximately thirty-five percent of the student body at Hogwarts. I believe you will be pleased to know we are already working to correct this oversight.” 

‘Correct the oversight?’ The phrase alone set off alarm bells, bringing with it memories of a prior incident at Hogwarts: Hermione, Ron, missing, an entire group pulled from the train; students shuffling into the common room, harrowed and with bloodshot eyes.

“What do you mean by ‘correct the oversight’?” she suddenly demanded. 

Lucius set pale eyes on the girl, blinking in affront at the interruption. Glancing over to his Lord, he waited with a half-formed hope she’d be reprimanded for interjecting herself into a conversation that most certainly didn’t concern her— a bitter frown when no such thing came. Instead, all he found was a thinly-veiled interest on his Lord’s face as she marched closer to the table. “I don’t believe—”

“What do you mean, Lucius?” Harri asked again, this time more forcefully. 

“Only that Muggleborn students will be removed and placed in a separate learning institution,” he sniffed, his stare as cool as his tone. However, the quick flare of heat in his mark had him hastily tacking on a respectable-enough, “Miss Potter.”

“Separate learning institution? ” Harri echoed, dumbfounded.

It made no sense, in her opinion, that a considerable portion of the student body was meant to attend a different school— and on the justification of their lineage, at that. Surely they had the same right as any Pureblood, or Halfblood for that matter, to attend Hogwarts?

She paused behind her assigned seat, fingers curling about the carved backrest at Lucius’s obvious disdain. “Why can’t they attend Hogwarts like everyone else?”

“Miss Potter, I don’t think–,” Lucius trailed off, hastily glancing over to his Lord for an indication of what to do. 

“It’s quite alright, Lucius.” Voldemort arched a brow at the man’s hesitation, a slow, half-smile unfurling. “Please, feel free to defend your position. Harri can handle it.”

A moment of silence— a beat of deliberation and suspicion to see if his Lord truly meant such a thing— before Lucius nodded. Turning in his chair, he haughtily raised his chin. “It is clear by now that Muggleborns adjust more slowly to the curriculum than their Pure or Halfblooded peers, hindering the class as a whole. Therefore, it is in the best interest of everyone to have them separated out.”

Harri felt her fingers tighten around the chair, knuckles bleeding out white. “Even if that’s true, it’s not their fault! They aren’t introduced to magic until they’re eleven— and by then, they’re just thrown into the wizarding community without a transitional period. You can’t blame them for adjusting slowly. Imagine if you were thrown into the Muggle world without any preparation! I’m willing to bet you’d flounder too.”

A vein jumped in Lucius’s temple. “Yet, despite starting their formal education at the same time as everyone else, they are still slow to learn. Not to mention it has been found that their cores are more prone to fading as they reach adulthood. Why should time and valuable resources be wasted on those who may not even be viable in the end? It makes more sense that greater efforts are concentrated on those who are more likely to be of future service.” 

“You say that even though one of the best students in my year is a Muggleborn. Are you saying that she shouldn’t be taught? That it’s a wasted effort?” Harri argued, reaching up to remove Nagini from her shoulders and guide the snake down into her empty seat. “Actually, while we’re on this topic, why do we wait until they’re eleven to introduce them to the wizarding world? Most Purebloods, even Halfbloods, have their wands and are exposed to magic well before their first year. Hell, some even have tutors before they come to Hogwarts. Take your son, for example.”

“In your view, those who were raised in the Muggle world are substandard,” she continued, voice pitching just slightly lower than normal. And, Merlin, how she could feel it— the spark of anger, of something living and writhing her chest. Even as her fingers tightened on the chair, the electricity was there, dancing and dipping between their crevices and creases— thrilling. “So would you say the same of me?”

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Potter?” Lucius gritted out, roughly shrugging off his wife’s hand that had clamped about his forearm.

“That I’m inferior, of course. After all, I too was raised in the Muggle world,” she volleyed back. It was a quiet challenge, one as brittle as the spiderwebbed ice on the fountain outside. 

“I–,” Lucius stumbled over his words for a moment before plastering on a strained, practiced smile. “Of course not, Miss Potter. I would never presume otherwise, nor deny that you are a special case. After all, not everyone is afforded the chance to be personally taught by Albus Dumbledore at such a young age.”

The warmth of her anger suddenly ebbed, leaving behind the uncomfortable coldness of confusion. Harri felt her brows pull together— taught by Dumbledore? Where had Lucius possibly gotten that idea from? Sure, the headmaster had called her into his office probably more so than any other student— but such visits were mostly restricted to inquiring how she was faring at the beginning and end of each school year. 

“Taught?” she muttered, her nails relinquishing their hold on the chair. “I’m sorry?”

“You were being personally instructed by Dumbledore, were you not?” Lucius asked. “That he visited you several times prior to the arrival of your Hogwarts letter? One can hardly say you were raised only in the Muggle world, in light of that.” 

‘Dumbledore visited me? When?’ She frowned at the idea, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Memories rifled by as she tried to recall any instance that might possibly fit Lucius’s description— though surely, if the Headmaster had come to Privet Drive, she would have remembered it, wouldn’t she? Green eyes drifted over to Voldemort, hoping that he might be able to offer up some sort of explanation. However, all she found was an equally puzzled stare to match her own.

“When the Ministry discovered that you had been left in the Muggle world, it caused an outrage,” Voldemort spoke up, his hands resting on the throne’s armrest. Blunt nails irritatedly tapped against the wood— a quick rhythm, a quick staccato. “After all, leaving the Chosen One in a world not of their own was seen, by many’s accounts, as an act of political sabotage. To appease the public, and to keep his seat on the Wizengamot, Dumbledore agreed to monthly visits prior to your Hogwarts admission to ensure you would be well-adjusted.”

Harri couldn’t look away from those drumming fingers, their pace matching in time with the blood rushing through her ears. “What?”

“Harri, tell me, when did you first meet Dumbledore?”

Sweat prickled the back of her neck under the newfound scrutiny, her tongue fumbling to work. “I— uhm. My first year, I suppose? At the, uh, Welcoming speech? But I didn’t actually talk to him until he visited me in the infirmary that year.”

Voldemort felt a muscle in his jaw feather at the confession. He barely acknowledged the whispers flying among those seated at the table, the noise fading away as he latched onto his horcrux’s adrift expression. Such a look confirmed she was telling the truth. And that could only mean one thing: Dumbledore had actively worked to keep her ignorant of a world that, to some degree, was indebted to her. But, oh, he had a pretty clear idea as to why. After all, who was easier to control than someone who was young and unknowing? Someone who had no idea as to what power, influence, they may hold? 

It was that revelation that made other things click into place with clarity—  things that he had always found a bit odd . Why there had been no withdrawal activity on her trust until she turned eleven; why there had been no reported sightings of her in public; why there had been no records of her registering a wand before she started to attend Hogwarts.

It all made sense.

‘Well played, Dumbledore,’ he thought scathingly, already feeling how her panic was beginning to colour their bond. He opened his mouth to end the meeting when someone— Mulciber, he realised too late— shouted out from down the table.

“I knew it! I knew it, and you all said it was far-fetched! His sanity was truly slipping if he thought he could lie to everyone like that,” Mulciber exclaimed over the noise. “To that, I say good riddance. His death was the best thing that you could have done for us, my Lord—”

Red eyes cut a glare over to the Death Eater— a warning to hold his loose tongue— but the damage had already been done. Even as he rose from the throne, he could see it was. Because there, a look of plain, unfiltered horror in those emerald eyes— a horror he felt so viscerally from where their souls were twined together. 

Her heart, next to his own, skipping over a beat.

The deluge of her mind flooding into him, one single word sticking out amid the chaos of its torrent. No

His hand lifted subconsciously, a will of its own and extended for her to take, an unspoken plea for her to listen first rather than react. A futile offer, one rejected, dismissed. She had already turned to flee from the room, the heavy double doors thrown wide in her rush to leave. 

That resounding click as they swung shut had never been so deafening.



Voldemort apparated into the study a minute later, having dismissed the meeting to seek her out. Easy to read, to predict, he already knew where she was heading— it was the only place she really could in the manor. 

And there she was, her bedroom door already gaping. “Harri!”

Harri refused to speak, the words unwilling to form. They were deadened things stuck in her throat, her tongue unable to revive them and give them life once more. ‘He killed him.’ The idea was circling, persistent— one that, with it, conjured images of a snaked-faced man and hellfire eyes; of a wraith emerging from a spewing cauldron, all sharpened teeth and slitted pupils. 

A creature— not a man— dripping in shadows and vile magic. A creature she had thought she’d long since put to rest but somehow, someway, had managed to return. It was that very same creature, that devil, who was on her heels now, chasing her into a gilded cage.

The futile attempt to slam the door shut behind her was stopped by a soft thump— a shoe, perhaps, stuck into its jam— but she didn’t even attempt to circle back to close it properly. What was the use, really? He’d only find another way in.

Instead, she resorted to pacing, her pointed heels sinking deep into the runner carpet beneath her feet— suffocating. Though the room was, by no regards, small, it may as well have been a broom closet at the present. A bubble. The air was thinned, her skin too tight, the man at her back taking up too much space— too much oxygen. His aura was a pollutant, his presence foul— his magic that reached out in a caress leaving a film that made her want to scald herself clean. Resisting the urge to scrub her hands down her arms, they found purchase in her hair, fingers roughly carding against the scalp. Merlin, where was that exit sign she needed earlier? Where was that fire escape? A way out? 

‘You’re a fool for thinking there is one,’ a voice whispered softly.

‘He killed him,’ came a different reply, this one louder, harsher.  

The more she dwelled on it, the more real it came, her pulse devolving into a messy tempo. ‘But if Dumbledore’s dead, then that means—’ 

There was no one to save them.

Her

Admittedly, it had been a farfetched hope— something she’d clung to in secret, deep down, that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be it. That perhaps Dumbledore was out there, looking for her— a foolish dream dreamt by a foolish girl. In some ways, the Headmaster had been a fire escape himself. Her true last resort. 

And now said escape had been bricked up. 

Now there was only a dead end.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes a fraction as he watched her attempts to process it— a flurry of emotions, a vacillation between denial and acceptance that left even him dizzy. He tracked as those hands moved from gripping her hair to holding her stomach, arms threaded about her middle— a frown when she made a gasping sound that left him frozen in place. Unmoving.  

He had planned on telling her eventually. Naturally, he did— it would have been impossible, after all, to keep it a secret for eternity. But that had always been for the future. Far, far into it, when their relationship wasn’t as rocky, more established. Definitely not now. Not when they’ve only reached a tentative sort of peace, of acceptance.

One of her hands had left her middle to scramble for the ribbon about her throat— the insignia there glinting, his crest proud and raised— before wrenching it off. Fists formed at his sides when the entire thing was violently thrown against the wall— a dull clunk, a crumpled heap of velvet against the baseboard. Fair enough, he supposed, but it didn’t lessen the sting he felt when she clutched at the hollow of her throat as though she’d been burnt— and there

There it was. Her runaway thoughts melding with his.

Flashes of the graveyard, of the form he used to have. Twisted, contorted, a beast made into her own personal evil— an insatiable itch that thrived in the empty spaces between his ribs. And, oh, how he wanted to shout— to demand— she stop thinking of him like that. 

“Harri,” he forced out, trying to make her see him— not some monster, some demon of the past. To see the face he wore now— the one he’d sacrifice so much for her .

“You killed him,” she interrupted, tone flat, accusing.

He had the briefest thought to deny it— to say he hadn’t. To maybe obliviate the conversation entirely from her mind and make things easier for both of them. To erase that look— that damned look— in those green, green eyes. 

And yet, he found himself doing the opposite.

He found himself confessing. “I did.’

Her hand tightened about her own throat. “Why?! I don’t get it. Why would you— ”

“Why?” Voldemort mused, taking a step closer to her. “He was trying to murder you, Harri. Harm you. Should I have just let him go?”

Harri stared up at him, mind too numb to even recognise that she should back up and get away from him. Too numb except for one revelation to steal in: this is what it always came back to, wasn’t it? Her inciting death by simply breathing, by simply existing. Cursed. That’s what she had to be— cursed. And it was him— Voldemort— that made her so. 

Of course, Dumbledore had his faults. Yes, he’d tried to kill her; yes, that green, that sickening afterimage of green, starred so very often in her nightmares— but still. He had died because of her. And that knowledge, the very idea, she’d been the cause of another’s demise was enough to make her want to retch. 

Guilt

Merlin, she felt that guilt as though it had taken hold of her insides and twisted

“He was scared,” she whispered, grappling for reason. It sounded so hollow even to her ears— but hollow words were better than no words, she figured. Better than the idea that Dumbledore wouldn’t have done something so drastic if he’d seen there was another way. “He was scared and desperate because he saw what you made me.” 

Crimson eyes widened marginally as disbelief rendered him speechless. He couldn’t quite believe it, this defense of Dumbledore, the way she placed the blame on himself rather than the old man, Snape’s advice resurfacing: loyalty runs deep in her and, if you can win it, it seems to be rather unshakeable. He hadn’t considered too much of it at first, but yet, here it was: steadfast and true, even when faced with the knowledge that the very man she was exonerating had nearly been her murderer. And how he just couldn’t quite wrap his head around it— but nonetheless, undercutting such disbelief, was envy. Envy blooming and writhing, spreading its thorns and poison— a craving, a longing, a lusting to be the sole object of such devotion. What might it be to be worshipped by her in such a way? To have that unerring faithfulness? 

His jaw tightened when she finally moved back a step, the action bringing with it a coldness that seeped into the room. At this rate, he supposed he would never know such feelings from her, would he?

“So fear justifies murder, Harri?” he asked softly— a deception in the way the volume of his voice did not match the scorn in his words. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Well, it has for you,” she snapped back, hating the way he kept closing the distance between them. “Or have you forgotten that you were the one that tried to kill a baby because of some stupid prophecy?! That you murdered innocent people because of it!?”

Voldemort could feel how his teeth nearly cracked from the pressure in which they were ground, his fingers clenching, unclenching at his sides. What would it take at this point? What would it take to make her see ? See the fact that he wasn’t the only one at fault here— not the only one who had ever caused her harm. And, oh, how that vile side to him, the darkest parts he always tried to temper whenever she was around, just sang to be cruel. A crescendo, a deafening symphony that drowned out the caution for patience.

“Oh please, Harri, spare me the moral crusade,” he said, lip curling into a sneer. “After all he has done, to you and to me, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I killed him. And do not try to tell me, for even a second, that you truly believed the lie that he was missing. If you did? Well. All I can say is that you are either more of a child than I originally thought you to be, or you are just willfully ignorant.” 

Harri blinked, trying to find the will, the strength, to stay angry— but it was impossible. It was as though the light had been extinguished, the switch that gave her access to such rage being abruptly flipped. Because, as much as she despised it— as much as it pained her to face it— he was right: she’d seen the signs. All this time, she had carried forward the sneaking suspicion but chose to suppress it in favour of faith.

Hope

Ever since the Dark Mark had appeared above the Astronomy Tower; ever since the suspicious silence on the headmaster’s end. Ever since she saw that wand— that naggingly familiar wand— in Voldemort’s grasp. Oh yes, she’d seen all the signs and yet purposefully ignored them— but for what, exactly? To hold out that someone was still out there, powerful enough to oppose Voldemort? To do the one thing she had no strength for? Though, mostly, she supposed she ignored it because, with Dumbledore gone, it meant the responsibility solely fell to her— and she couldn’t

She couldn’t.

Her hand clamped over her mouth, striving to stop the gasping hiccup before it could be heard. Too late

The image of the Dark Lord already began to blur and distort and warp as uninvited tears sprang forth. That guilt came back in a crushing wave, unable to let her breathe for even a moment. And the idea she mourned Dumbledore’s death for what it represented as much as for who he was only made that wave crest higher. Yes, they had some rough patches— some disagreements— but there had been good times. Times that made her feel conflicted, so conflicted, about the fact he was gone.

He brought her sweets in the infirmary; always sat in on her quidditch matches. 

He’d been a constant, friendly presence during her first few years at Hogwarts, always making her feel like she belonged with invitations to tea or midday strolls. 

He’d given her her first Christmas present— an Invisibility Cloak, a memento of her father— and even stayed with her as she wept in front of the Mirror of Erised. 

And even if such hospitality, such warmth, had faded in the most recent years, she knew she could have never wished for an ill fate to befall him. Theirs was a complicated relationship, bittersweet in the ways that symbolised the best, and worst, years of her life. But now, he was gone— and there was a hollow ache in her chest that she didn’t know what to do with.

Another hiccuping sound slipped out between the spaces of her fingers, the first tear spilling over. A track of fire rolled down her cheek, scorching, painful.

“Though I am curious about one thing, Harri. What has Albus Dumbledore ever done to inspire such loyalty in you? What hold does he possess?” Voldemort pressed in that soft voice of his. “Because, from where I stand, he has done nothing to earn it.”

With a silver tongue, his words prompted her thoughts to shift again— sand slipping through a sieve. The good became the bad; recollections of times spent with Dumbledore as she grew older— a dizzying blur of loneliness and feelings of inadequacy. 

Less conversations together; less invitations to tea. Less but somehow more as he demanded things of her with oh-so-little payoff, despite the higher stakes— information doled out as a reward, but easily rescinded at the first slight. 

Requests denied again and again; pleas on deaf ears that were met with pitiful excuses.

That flash of green

Instances of happiness and grief battled against one another, tying her up in a complicated knot— one side argued to grieve, the other demanding she rejoice. And how illogical it all felt that she should be split in such a way— a confusing mixture that only served to heighten her anxiety and make the tears flow faster. 

It was those very same tears that spurred Voldemort on. 

He ate up more of the distance between them, refusing to look away from those wide, frightened, green eyes. “There would have been countless wizarding families that would have jumped at the chance to foster you. You. The famous Girl Who Lived. Who wouldn’t? But instead, he purposefully concealed your heritage and left you, a child not even two years old, on a doorstep with nothing but a letter for justification. He didn’t even give a damn enough to carry you inside first.” 

Something bloomed in her chest— a thorny vine that twisted about her heart, sinking in too deeply and tearing into the muscle with every beat. The heat on her cheeks only faintly registered, the tackiness growing. 

‘He didn’t even give a damn.’

She uselessly shook her head, attempting to expel that hateful voice. Suddenly, the coldness that had leached into the room was a welcomed sensation; a numbing chill that provided some respite against his cruel, honest words. They lashed at her skin, barbed things found in the inflections and vowels and syllables— painful in how they stripped the flesh from her bones, leaving it exposed for all to see.

‘He’s right. Who leaves a baby alone in the middle of the night?’

‘Shut up,’ she begged, wanting to say it aloud but unable to. Not with the way her throat felt clogged as once-precious memories became tainted.

In a feeble attempt to escape, she tried to shove past him. Instinct moved her to seek refuge elsewhere and to cope with these feelings as she’d always done: by herself, locked away, far, far from prying eyes. 

Voldemort moved in a flash, a blur, his hand darting out to clamp down on his horcrux’s forearm. 

“He was raising you for slaughter this entire time. You do realise that, right?” Fingers curled into the flesh beneath his grip. So soft, so giving— so frail. “He never once trained you, but he expected you to rise up against me ? To fight?”

A sharp yank backward had her stumbling, his other hand finding purchase on the curve of her shaking shoulder. Spinning the girl around, scarlet eyes greedily drank it all in: the shattered expression, the quiver of her lower lip, the silent way she was begging him to remain quiet. But he wouldn’t . The will to remain idle and to let her continue to live in this disillusioned fantasy she’d constructed was gone

Evaporated.

Why

Why, exactly, did he feel such a pressing need to make her see the facts? In the end, it was of little consequence if she continued to cling to the pretense that Dumbledore had actually cared for her— looked at her as being more than a game piece to move. But the answer came unexpectedly, hidden in a forgotten memory of Wool’s. The excitement, the elation, at being told he was a wizard— the look of distrust when it was revealed he was too different. The same suspicious stares that had followed him throughout the orphanage translating to Hogwarts: a naive boy just wanting, craving, the chance to prove himself to a man that he once considered his personal saviour. To earn that easy adoration the professor had so readily shown others— only to be met with rejection again and again and again. 

And so a shadow of the past was before him— a shadow in the form of a trembling girl that he wanted to fix.

“If you had, by some miracle, defeated me, make no mistake: Dumbledore would have killed you in the end,” he said, thumb idly massaging over the wrist he held caged. Her pulse was a flighty cadence jolting through him, oh-so-terrible yet oh-so-great. “Only a fool would deny that it’s easier to control a dead martyr than a living hero. With you, his sins would have disappeared as well. No one could ever find out how little he had done to actually prepare you. You would have taken his secret to the grave, Harri.” 

“Stop it,” she pleaded, voice meek and bile in the back of her throat. 

Everything seemed too distant to her. Too blurred. Too muddled. It felt like a lie— that her entire existence was akin to a marionette. Strings orchestrated and pulled in one direction or the other by men with too much power— and now, one by one, they were being cut. Scissors hovered above her, sawing through precarious threads— questions left in the wake as each one fell. Had any of it been real?

Had those smiles shared with Dumbledore, those conversations, that laughter— had they held any truth?

Or had they all been fake? Things done in order to get her to trust him, to force her guard down and cultivate loyalty— things done to capitalise on a truth they both knew: the truth of a young girl desperate for affection.

Had Dumbledore ever viewed her as anything more than a political tool? A vital piece on his chessboard? But, if so, then why hadn’t he done more ? If he cared, why hadn’t he visited more— talked more, gave her more? Taught her like everyone thought he had— been the mentor she wished for oh-so-often. 

Why did he have to hide behind lemon drops and tea with too many sugar cubes?

The world tilted as Harri was abruptly pulled forward, the lines of the body meeting hers firm. Arms caged about her waist, the sharpness of a chin resting atop her crown. For a moment, she hated herself for instinctively relaxing into the hold— for not resisting. For shamelessly finding herself clinging to the front of his robes and allowing her tears to soak into the starched material— for not finding the strength to push him away.

The smell of petrichor burrowed into her— of the first rainfall finally hitting the parched earth— of sweet smoke, curls and wisps in the winter night. Something crisp, something heady; a feeling of safety, a condemning, intrusive word springing to mind— home. It was an idea backed by the hand that started to trace firm circles into the knobs of her spine, the other’s fingers spread low on her hip.

Hands that worsened the guilt— hands that provided solace even when she was grieving the deed they had done.

“Dumbledore may have never cared about you, Harri, but I do. You are mine, borne from my magic to protect and to hold.”

His words were a deep vibration in his chest, ones she felt more so than heard. Teeth gritting, she buried her face deeper into the planes of the muscle and the flesh and bone beneath her, trying to ignore the unwelcomed flutters his vow brought on. Sweet sentiments; a veneer that sought to disguise the truth and its less-than-innocent nature. After all, it came down to the fact she was his

He cared— but for ways similar to Dumbledore, she supposed. A container for his soul— useful to him and, because of that usefulness, he cared

Rather than shielding her from the torrent, it only added to the deluge— choking . She was choking, drowning in too many emotions and too many thoughts that tried to fit where there wasn’t any space.

Too much yet too little.

Too right yet too wrong.

“Get out,” she whispered into his chest. Shaking hands forced themselves to release his robes, the last of her strength summoned to push him away. “Get the hell out.” 

Voldemort stepped back, more so playing along than actually being shoved. Her rejection wasn’t entirely surprising, not with the tears and the blatant conflict he’d felt rolling off her. Nonetheless, it still stung as she fled to the bathroom. 

Clenching his jaw, he spared a glance down to his open palm, flexing against the lingering, phantom heat from the girl he just had in his grasp. A reminder— persistent— of how close he had been.

Close but not enough.

Far from enough.



At some point, Harri had fallen asleep on the cold bathroom tile, the throes of her dreams uneasy. Haunted

No matter how hard she tried to summon something pleasant, the images kept reverting back to the same thing: a tower at night, the moon heavy in the sky, the stars set ablaze by green. A sickening lightshow put on for the heavens— a silent scream, the whistling wind carrying it away. She dreamt of Dumbledore, his face decayed and greying flesh peeling from the hollows of his cheeks, the twinkle long gone in a milky gaze— of his lipless mouth stretching around the words ‘for the greater good.’

A sense of sickness eventually jolted her awake. And this time, she dared not to close her  eyes again— dared not to sink back into a sleep that obviously did not want her. Groaning, the sound ragged in her sore throat, she instead attempted to unfurl herself from her hunched-over position, wincing as she did so. Everything was sore. Her back. Her shoulders. Her eyes. Merlin, her eyes were the worst of it, stinging as they were. Apparently, crying for hours disagreed with her nearly as much as her dreams did. 

Groggily glancing about the bathroom, she realised it was surprisingly darker than it had been earlier. The windows overhead no longer let in the golden light of day, the manor eerily quiet. Had it really been that long?

Rising to her feet, the joints in her legs popped in protest. Without even consciously commanding them to, her steps carried her from the bathroom, past her closet, through the bedroom and, ultimately, out into the study itself. If later asked why she came here, truthfully she wouldn't know what to say. Perhaps it was that she sought it out for a change in scenery— as if the physical distance would be enough to leave behind the nightmares?

Or, perhaps, it was simply routine? After all, whenever bad dreams used to plague her, she would often pass the hours away in the Gryffindor common room, finding the ever-lit fire preferable to a dark bedroom. And as it stood, the study was the closest thing she currently had to that.

The problem, however, was that the common room wasn’t always empty— neither was the study tonight. 

Voldemort had been seated in one of the armchairs when the door wedged between the bookcases was sheepishly opened. The room— bathed in a warm glow from the low flames, the crystal decanter set on the side table casting off a refraction of shadows— suddenly seemed to diminish in size as she stood there, hovering. Unmoving. It was though all the available space was eaten up by him, by her, by the decision presented to them: who was to leave and who was to stay? 

He lifted his glass to take a contemplative sip— the burn of alcohol on his tongue, in his stomach— as he regarded her in silence. For the most part, he figured she looked alright. A bit haggard, sure, but justifiable enough considering the night she had. The nightmares. Oh yes, they’d been forceful enough to rouse even himself, her presence dominating their bond in her distress. It’d taken a great deal of restraint not to seek her out earlier— to impose himself where he knew he was not wanted. 

So he’d come out here instead. 

Secretly hoping, anticipating, that she’d eventually wander into the study in search of refuge.

And so she had. 

In the background, the fire crackled in loud pops against the grate, punctuating the silence. Time stretched on as his horcrux tangled herself up in a web of deliberation, her bloodshot eyes sparing a look to the bedroom behind her before darting over to the empty chair. It was clear she didn’t want to go back. Yet, it also seemed she wasn’t sure if she wanted his company or not. But he could be patient. He could wait it out for however long it took for her to choose him. This night and tomorrow and the next, if that’s what it took. They did have the end of time together, after all.

Mercifully, she decided to put them out of their misery with a tentative step forward. Then another. And another.

He hid his smirk behind the rim of his glass as she moved to the opposite chair, falling down into it with a huff. A small victory, triumph unfurling in him as he watched, from the corner of his eye, her become comfortable. Knees drawn up, her arms locked around them as her nightdress— she had changed at some point, he realised— slipped just enough to reveal the beginnings of her thighs. And while, under most circumstances, he may have berated her for putting her feet on the furniture— to argue it was terrible manners to do so— he held his tongue. No need to stoke dying coals.

“Are you always up this late?” 

He hummed at the question and swirled the glass in his hand, watching as the amber liquid crested dangerously close to the top. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Tonight, however, I was kept awake by someone’s bleedthrough.”

Harri winced at his confession, somehow caught between feeling guilty and vindictive at keeping sleep from him as well. “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.”

They ended up lapsing back into silence, both apparently occupied with their own thoughts and simply content to bask in the fire, the shadows. Each other’s company. 

She busied herself with plucking nonexistent lint from the folds of her nightdress, her attention fixed on the low flames. This was transforming into an alarming habit, she fully recognised, one that should have never been allowed to form in the first place: it was comfortable here. Around him . That, against all rhyme and reason, he was a solace whenever his temper was calm and his voice was soft— truly irrational, despite how often she tried to make sense of it. Was it horcrux related? Or was this effect of his felt by others as well? Admittedly a sliver, a small part, hoped it wasn’t the latter— that this was only something she and she alone ever experienced. A right fine contradiction, considering just how much pain he caused her— like earlier tonight. But even the acknowledgement of such was never enough to douse that desire to eventually seek him back out.  

A moth drawn to its own demise. 

‘Remember why you’re here in the first place,’ she reasoned, attempting to summon up the earlier bite of her anger. Yet, there was nothing. Nothing to summon, to feel, other than exhaustion. Pure, all-consuming exhaustion. 

With a sigh, shoulders slumping, she burrowed deeper into the chair. As much as reason would have loved to fight, to argue— to make clear that line of distinction between them of good versus evil, moral versus immoral— it was all so tiring

So tiring. 

And she was sick of feeling this exhaustion all the time. 

“You know,” she muttered, voice wistful as she tilted her head back to rest on the chair— a cascade of auburn hair, “I used to think you were the only monster out there. Life was certainly easier when I did.” 

Tension crept into him, his grip tightening on the tumbler. He was aware of what she thought of him. Of course he was. He’d seen it, after all, the image of himself as that—  that thing from the cauldron. But there was a difference between thinking something and verbally admitting it aloud. Thoughts were malleable, retractable— so easily taken back on a moment’s notice without anyone being the wiser. But words? Spoken words were the stark opposite: fixed, irrevocable. Once given birth to, they couldn't be changed, no matter how one may wish it in the end.

“Oh?” He forced himself to ask, caught between a morbid curiosity of where she was going with this conversation and a need for her to not speak again.

“Yeah. But now? Now, I’m not so sure,” she admitted, teeth sinking into her cheek as she reflected on her life— on all those she’d met, both kind and otherwise. “I think too many people are and they just hide it well.” 

He stared into the fire as well, only being able to hum in response. There was nothing wrong with her assessment— she was right, frankly. He’d also encountered so-called monsters who hid their intentions behind honeyed words and blinding smiles. Hell, he was one of them— though that’s where his saving grace came from, he figured. That self-awareness of the vile side to his nature, those habits and quirks and traits that would suit any’s definition of ‘monster.’ In the past, he supposed he revelled in it, too— was entirely comfortable with the idea. But that’s precisely why it had been so easy to label him as the sole evil in this world: such honesty primed him to be the perfect scapegoat. 

He threw back the remainder of his whiskey before setting the glass down onto the table. “Tell me about your life, Harri.”

She frowned at the request. “What do you mean?”

“Your life,” he supplied. “Before this— before Hogwarts and before I retrieved you. What was your life like, especially in the Muggle world? Your relatives, for instance. How were they?”

It was a gamble trying to get information out of her now— a gamble in which she might end up further retreating from him. But, Merlin, he had to know. Especially after that monster comment, the suspicion mounting that it wasn’t just himself and Dumbledore she had been referring to. After all, he’d seen the memories. It had taken the entirety of his will to not leave and hunt them down right then and there— to watch the light fade from their eyes for ever daring to touch her. But it was Snape, in the end, who had cautioned him against action. At least, not until the girl could reveal how she felt about the situation, what with how ‘fractured’ her mind apparently was. And after seeing how she’d reacted to the news of Dumbledore, he could admit there was some merit in the idea. Who knew if she also held some misguided sympathies towards her relatives?

Time marched on; a silent soldier in its duty to carry forward. It had been so long since she’d last spoken that he feared, for a second, she had fallen asleep. But no, there was movement on his periphery— a shift as an auburn head buried itself between drawn knees. 

“They weren’t kind, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harri finally conceded. “It could have been worse though, and they did become less involved as I got older. Plus, Barty gave Vernon a hell of a scare last time.”

He smiled a bit. It didn’t last long.

“Plus, I always had help from people to make it more bearable. Like Mrs Weasley. She would always send Ron a package at the end of the year to help me get by.”

Flashes of a loose floorboard; a stasis charm put over a gingham-fabric wrapped package. They sprang to the forefront of his thoughts, the realization being that his horcrux was accidentally projecting her memories to him. ‘She must be more exhausted than she’s letting on,’ he thought, mildly concerned as he spared a glimpse over to her curled up form. 

But even that concern wasn’t enough to stop himself from practically jumping at the opportunity, as perfect as it was. 

And, oh, how that morbid curiosity was back in full force at the notion there were far, far more memories than those he had witnessed. It roused the beast in his chest— a pacing in its cage, demanding, eager, for her to lay it all bare.  

“What do you mean by they weren’t kind?” he prompted, crossing his legs, the left over the right, resisting the urge to refill his glass. 

“They hated me, you know,” she mumbled, her fingers digging deeper into the soft muscle of her calves as she recalled the unkind hands and the sneers. The pain. “Well, more specifically they hated magic. And, Merlin, I begged. I begged but Dumbledore always made me go back— said I had to because of the blood wards.”

And there it was: another misdeed, another cruelty enacted by Dumbledore for what he thought was right. His lip curled— a flood of acidity in his mouth as he felt the things she was referring to. ‘He knew,’ he thought darkly, a muscle feathering in his jaw. ‘She begged and he knew.’ 

“It got a bit better though, once they realised they couldn’t beat the magic out of me and I started going to Hogwarts. Didn’t want to attract questionable attention, I suppose. Especially Aunt Petunia. She despised the wrong kind of attention.” Harri lifted her head, watching as a spark flew against the metal grate. “They wanted to refuse, you know. To send me to Hogwarts. Even took us to an island to escape the letters. But then Hagrid showed up and Vernon nearly had a heart attack.”

The wood armest nearly splintered under his fingers— a groan, a creak, a threat. Yet he didn’t pay it any mind, too consumed with piecing it all together. All of the breadcrumbs she was dropping, of all the little hints and feelings and emotions, counting each time they deemed it fit to lay their hands on her, as precious as she was. And the best part? She hated them.

Oh yes, he could sense her resentment— that bitterness rooted so deep in her heart, her soul. The beginnings of a storm were there, held in her eyes and her magic, swirling in perfect tandem with the one in his own chest. That was all he needed. The sign he’d been looking for, searching. The Dursleys just had their fate sealed in one passing evening. 

Clearing his throat, he shifted in his chair, uncrossing his legs before glancing over to the girl at his side. The glow of the fire caught her profile, her hair, lighting her up from within— an inexplicable urge to reach out and see if he would get burnt. 

“Muggles can be cruel,” he surmised, forcing his hands to remain still. “Did you know that I was raised in an orphanage? A Catholic one at that.”

Harri propped her chin up on her knee, frowning at the information. Somehow, she managed, more often than not, to forget he once had been a child as well— hadn’t always been the infamous Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Lord of their century. But whenever she did manage to remember? Well, it was uncomfortable— a disquieting, unsettling thing that stole in, reminding her of his humanity. Perturbing. And he had grown up in the Muggle world? In an environment that had probably hated magic as much as her relatives did? A treacherous thought couldn’t help but wonder what else, then, was possibly the same between them? 

“They tried to exorcise me once my magic started to manifest. Apparently, the priests believed it was the work of the Devil. Possession,” he admitted, mildly taken back by how freely he was in discussing such a dark part of his youth. Though, then again, if he couldn’t be honest with his own horcrux, then with who could he be?

“Of course, I got my revenge in the end,” he added wryly, tacking on a smirk that was as brittle as his voice.

A beat of silence. 

A pulse of time— a soul unevenly split between two bodies and yet, somehow, still undergoing similar fates.

An introspective moment wherein both acknowledged they were sides of the same coin: that the Girl Who Lived and the Dark Lord shared more parallels than differences.

“Muggles can be cruel,” Harri finally mumbled, stomach uneasy at the thought— and not for the priest’s suffering, but for the ghost of a boy who had to endure such a thing.



She’d fallen asleep on the chair, exhaustion ultimately winning out. Voldemort took a minute to unabashedly study her. How peaceful and relaxed her face was now, smoothed out from its sorrow and anger. Crimson eyes, glowing by the light of the dying fire, flitted over all of its details, attempting to commit it to memory. 

The fan of dark lashes against high cheekbones.

The slightly parted rosebud mouth, the softest exhales drifting out.

The lightning scar peeking out above her brow.

‘My own Sleeping Beauty,’ he mused as he rose from his chair and reached for her limp body. It was barely an effort to lift her, one arm tucking itself under the crook of her knees, the other wrapping about the expanse of her back. ‘She’s truly a light, little thing, isn’t she?’

The girl hadn’t even stirred— not once— until now. A sharp breath was sucked between his teeth when she shifted to bury her head into his chest, a content sort of sound tumbling out and revealing feelings her conscious-self would never admit to. 

Possessiveness. It thrived in him, leading him to turn towards his bedroom instead of hers. The idea of relinquishing her now was unpleasant, unnerving, driving him forward in a determined march across the study.   

The wide doors to his chambers parted as he approached, the dimness of the walls’ sconces lending a softness to the space that didn’t exist during the daytime. Here, in the glow of the candlelight, the monochromatic room looked nearly inviting— comforting. 

Nagini had been curled in front of the ember-filled fireplace, her head lifting from her body’s coil. “Oh? What do we have here?”

Paying the snake no mind, all too soon had he reached the four-postered bed, the thick duvet and silk sheets unfolding themselves under the will of his magic. Tenderly, gently, he arranged his horcrux on his bed, eyes glinting in their worship. ‘This is where she belongs,’ something in him whispered.

And, for once, even logic had to admit it was right: she looked at home here, among the black silk. Delicate, pliant— a startling contrast of colour in a backdrop devoid of it. A focal piece that helplessly drew the eye, his greatest masterpiece. 

Out of its own accord, his hand reached out in a reverant touch, admiring fingers skirting across the petal-soft skin of her cheek, her jaw. That touch wandered upwards, brushing a stray strand from her forehead to pass over the lighting bolt— his claim. That little mark that had started it all. 

Nagini,” he said, all too distracted when she had shifted in her sleep to lean into his touch. “I have some urgent business to take care of tonight. Watch over her.” 

He barely registered the whisper of scales as the snake wound up the bed’s frame to watch from above, all of his attention— every available drop, every shred— honed in on his horcrux, the world around them fading. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to ignore the impulse, the desire, to slip in alongside her. To stay with her right now; to cross that dangerous line that shouldn’t ever be crossed— to kiss her awake as her own twisted version of Prince Charming.

To keep her here, locked and chained as a permanent fixture in his room. 

His bed. 

His sheets.

He withdrew his hand with a click of his tongue. 

‘It’s time Severus,’ was the command channeled through the Mark, his steps swift as he fled from the terrible distraction a certain girl presented. 

But all he had to think of was what he was about to do— retribution.  The task at hand, what awaited him. Divine justice. Blood. Revenge. The heavens would be set to his will tonight, the Fates forced into compliance— and he’d be damned if such a thing was withheld from him any longer.

‘Number 4 Privet Drive.’ One thought, one location— a tug at his navel.

Malfoy Manor faded away into darkness. 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 49: The Dursleys

Notes:

Hello everyone! I ended up coming back a bit late today— it was my birthday and guys! The number of comments when I logged on and the number of subscriptions! You guys are all so seriously amazing 💕 Thank you for surprising me with that little present, it truly made my day!

As promised, here is a very special chapter for you guys! I hope you all enjoy it 💕 There is mild gore in this one— not super graphic but still should be noted.

 

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



If one asked the self-proclaimed ‘respectable’ residents of Privet Drive what it was that drew them to the suburbs, the majority would probably respond the same way: nothing out of the ordinary ever happened there. And, for the most part, they were right. 

Compared to the inner city, the police were a rare sight within Little Whinging and crime of any serious sort was entirely unheard of. Neighbours seldomly violated noise ordinances, quarrels were reserved for the indoors, and teenagers— the few there were— often fled to downtown Surrey in pursuit of greater daytime amusements. This was especially the case for one particular street: Privet Drive.

Like most other residential areas in Little Whinging, Privet Drive likewise prided itself on upholding its one, golden rule: do not disturb. It was evident in all aspects of life, from the people to the houses themselves— a life where conformity reigned and individuality was wholly shunned. But that was the draw for those who measured success by their identical, sandwiched-together, two-storied and four-windowed houses; the perfect place for upright people to settle down and raise upright children. 

So, with that in mind, how could any of them have guessed that on a late winter’s night— the slightly warmer-than-usual temperatures indicating an early spring— things would suddenly change for the worse in their suburban paradise? 

Nor that the person responsible for such could currently be found leaning against a lamppost. 

To any onlooker, the man caught in the streetlight's incandescent halo could have easily passed for a gentleman. Handsome in a tailored three-piece suit that bespoke of money, his dark hair perfectly coiffed and Oxford shoes polished, there wasn’t anything outwardly disreputable about him— apart from the fact that he was smoking . Long puffs kept curling out of his thinned mouth with each drag, crystallising in the cool night’s air before fading away. It was a nasty habit by most accounts— but, then again, a gentleman could surely have a vice or two that was to be disregarded? After all, it was those things that made one more human. Approachable

Approachable, that is, until one took a closer look. 

Until they belatedly noticed all of the details that quite suddenly made this man unnerving

For one, the clothes. As elegant as they were, they were too expensive for the middle-class crowd who lived on the street, the suit jacket alone easily a month or two’s salary— nor was it appropriate for the season. Wasn’t he cold, standing there like that?

For another, his appearance was not exactly the standard for Surrey. Everything about him was refined, angular—a touch too perfect, too unblemished. Rather, he looked to be the epitome of fine pedigree, more suited to those families in Knightsbridge or Chelsea— the place where the money was old and the blood even older. 

But, above all else, it was his eyes

The light from the lamppost kept casting strange shadows about him and each time the cherry-red end of his cigarette flared to life, one could almost see how that flame was mirrored back in his gaze. Glowing, burning, and seemingly fixed on Number 4. 

If one only looked closer, they’d notice how the night bent around him, fluid and undulating.

If one only looked closer, they would have realised an evil had come to Privet Drive. 



‘So. This is where she grew up,’ Voldemort thought as he raised the cigarette to his lips— an idle inhale, the smoke captured and held in protesting lungs. Quite rarely did he ever indulge in muggle habits, finding so little of them desirable enough to do so— but there were a few, he could admit, that were appealing. Tempting. And smoking, a vice formed in the years of his adolescence? Well, that was one he could never quite refrain from. There was just something about the balm of nicotine and the tranquillity found in the repetitive motions— raising it, inhaling, pulling away, exhaling, tapping off the ash— that served to even his temper a touch. 

Kept him from being distracted from the task at hand, and less— preoccupied with the haunting image of an auburn-haired girl currently curled up in his bed 

Expelling the smoke from his lungs one last time— a stream of vapour wisping out into the night— he flicked the smouldering butt onto the damp asphalt, ground it under his heel, and retrained his attention back onto the house across the street. 

As it stood, Number 4 was dark— though that wasn’t unusual, considering the hour. The lace curtains on the latticed windows had been tightly drawn, and the only light that was currently on was the mounted lamp by the front door. In the entire time he had been here, there hadn’t been any signs of life: not one shadow flitting from one end of the hall to the other, not one stirring, nothing . Just peaceful quiet that, he supposed, added to the house’s idyllic charm. 

It made his teeth ache from the falseness of it all. 

For a moment, his attention slid over to the neighbouring house on the left— nearly identical to Number 4 apart from the bronzed ‘No. 5’ on the mailbox— and briefly wondered did they know? Did they know what had been happening a few feet away from their dining room table? Did they know of the despicable acts that had taken place within their neighbour’s home, so cleverly concealed by the farce of respectability that the Dursleys tried to maintain?

Part of him hoped they didn’t.

Part of him did. 

If it was the latter, at least it would provide him enough reason to give into the urge to set the entire street aflame. It would be cathartic, certainly, to watch everything be reduced to ash— but unfortunately counterproductive to his plan. 

Before he could consider actually doing it, however, there was a soft pop to his right — a momentary compression where pressure built up in his ears before it was released. 

“Severus,” he muttered, noting offhandedly as the man bowed in his periphery.

Without saying anything further, Voldemort leaned off the lamppost and tilted his head for Severus to follow. Long strides crossed the frost-covered front lawn— a crunch with each footfall— his gait kept slow, casual, until he reached the front concrete steps. And it was only then that he paused, taking in the dark woodgrain of the door and the empty space under the front windowsill where, presumably, flowers would otherwise be planted. ‘What did she feel each time she had to come back here?’ The thought was unbidden as he stared at the polished knocker, the image coming to mind of a girl standing in his place— a girl embittered and alone, her school trunks littering the sidewalk. 

Perhaps she had felt the same as he once did, all those years ago when he, too, was a schoolboy that had been rejected and sent back to unwelcoming arms, year after year. 

“My Lord, if I may,” Severus asked from behind him. “What exactly is your plan?”

“My plan?” Voldemort echoed, sparing the man a quick glance and a humourless smile. “My plan, Severus, is to make the filth curse the very day they dared to lay a hand on a magical child.” 

Before Severus could respond, the tip of his wand emitted a soft glow, and the deafening click of a lock turning filled the night. 

Voldemort took the first step inside, eyes narrowed against the darkness of the entry. With another wave of his wand, the overhead dome light flickered to life, revealing a pastel nightmare of floral wallpaper and worn carpet. Cutting a look over to the staircase, he waited for a second to see if anyone may have heard them— may have been stirred by the lights coming on or the door being opened— but yet, there was nothing. Nothing save for a hush filled with the whir of a heater kicking on and the ticking of a wall-mounted clock. 

It was all nearly anti-climatic— that is, until he heard the almost imperceptible movements on the second floor. Someone shuffled about in one of the rooms, their whispers kept low.  ‘There you are.’

With his wand lax in his grip and spells at the forefront of his thoughts— which to use first? Which to inflict the most suffering?— Voldemort wordlessly motioned for Severus to follow as he began to ascend the staircase. Impatience and anticipation waged a war in his chest, gnawing and itching— a battle to keep himself from rushing and not savouring this moment. After all, how long had he been waiting for this? Ever since the day, he supposed, that he had seen those blasted memories of a girl battered and bruised— had felt her pain and witnessed the resignation in those too-green eyes.

But now there was nothing to hold him back, especially seeing as his little horcrux had inadvertently given him her blessing.

Nothing to stand in his way.

The pair only made it halfway up when a whale of a man suddenly came barrelling out of one of the rooms, his face reddened and a shotgun clenched tightly between his fattened fingers. A moment of shocked pause ensued as the muggle— her uncle, he presumed— seemed to lose his wits, beady eyes blinking in overtime as though to comprehend there were two men standing on his staircase. 

“Y-you!” the muggle exclaimed when his attention landed on Severus. Having recovered somewhat, he raised the barrel of the gun towards them— unfortunately though, he never got far enough to say anything more.

Lethargically brandishing his wand, Voldemort muttered ‘Petrificus Totalus’. The effect was instantaneous. Silver light seized the man, his muscles locking up with a near audible click. His eyes blew wide when the firearm slipped from his stiffened hands, the realisation that his balance was lost coming to him too late— a precarious tilt, his panic a gargled sound— before gravity claimed his bulk. 

At the last second, Voldemort Apparated to the second floor’s landing to avoid being swept along. Severus, however, lacked the foresight to do so, choosing instead to dive over the bannister. And no sooner had he done so was there a particularly revolting wet crack, the sound of bone breaking, and the splintering of glass. A cursory glance over his shoulder revealed that the muggle had collided with the wall on the ground floor, the pictures hung with care now askew.  

“Put him in the living room,” he commanded calmly. “And then deal with the woman.”

Turning back to the hallway, he ignored the light that was spilling out from a cracked door further down— the wife, no doubt, now hiding in her closet or under the covers— drawn instead to the second room on his left. 

The only door littered with locks.

Red eyes narrowed as he approached it, his lip curling in distaste. Deadbolts, sliding chains, and a padlock strung about the handle had been outfitted to the painted door— entirely overkill, in his opinion. Of course, it was easy enough to piece together whose room this was— who was locked inside like an animal

Without warning, the door was blown off its hinges— a violent groan as the wood splintered around its metal brackets, the metallic clatter of locks dropping to the ground, a flurry of dust and paint-chips. There was a muffled scream— a woman’s voice— at the sound, but it went ignored as the Dark Lord slipped inside.

Finding the light-switch panel, he clicked it, the overhead light coming to life in a second’s delay. 

Acid.

It bloomed oh-so brightly in his mouth, the pressure in his gums warning him of his slipping control—but how could he be calm right now?

This. This was hardly fit to be called a bedroom, the term ‘storage closet’ far more appropriate. 

The floor-plan was barely large enough to hold the frameless mattress crudely shoved against a wall— one lone ratty pillow, yellowed with age, and a frayed blanket the only things atop it— and a precarious looking desk whose right leg was propped up by a stack of phone books. Suddenly, it all made sense to him: her adrift and lost expression when she said the room in the manor was too big for her, that the clothes and jewellery were all too much. It made sense why she had been keen to reject them then, considering this was the squalor she had been accustomed to. 

And then his eyes landed on the single, narrow window. Bars. There were bars on it— like one might expect to see outfitting a tiger’s enclosure at a zoo. Not only did they lock her in, they had caged her. 

His lips pulled into a sneer and his fingers twitched about the knobbed wand as the violent urge to shatter that damned window seized him. A step forward, fully intent on doing so— a creak under his heel.

It sounded unnaturally loud in the spartan room. 

Red eyes darted down to his foot, testing his weight on the floor again— another creak in response. Was this the same floorboard he’d seen in her mind a few hours ago? That loose plank where she squirrelled away all of her most prized possessions? Curiosity was quick to overwhelm his anger as he knelt down, eagerly— hesitantly— lifting it away to reveal the private inner-workings of his horcrux. What did she consider precious, he wondered. Worthy of saving? Holding onto?

A few unopened packages of crisps. A broken snitch. One frayed, snowy feather and a plastic toy soldier with its army-green paint flaking off. And— a tight smile when he reached further down to retrieve a crumpled envelope. Ivory, wrinkled and torn at the edges, a crimson wax seal still on the back: Ms. H. Potter, The cupboard under the stairs.

‘She kept her Hogwarts letter,’ he thought, a sense of bitter fondness tiding through him as he turned it over in his hands. And there it was: a memory of a young boy trapped in a stone building, devoid of colour and always holding a draft; a similar letter tucked deep, deep into a thin pillowcase. Sometimes, he would pull it out while everyone else slept, squinting in the darkness and holding it up to the watery shafts of moonlight to read it. Read it over and over again, just to assure himself it was all real. That, no, it hadn’t been in his head; that it wasn’t just some cleverly concocted coping mechanism to deal with the less-than-desirable hand Life had dealt him. And, for some reason, he could so clearly picture a redheaded girl, green eyes sparkling with hope, doing the exact same.

Assuring herself it was real.

Assuring herself there was a way out

One and the same; two orphans strung along by the possibilities a little letter presented.

Voldemort tenderly put the envelope into his trouser’s pocket before rising and leaving the bedroom. There was one last thing he needed to see.

The cupboard.

It had been waiting for him, tucked down the cramped front hallway and hidden under the stairs. And though he’d played the second-party observer to her memories, had seen it there countless times— a key feature in her nightmares— it was an entirely different thing to be standing before the reality. 

Elegant fingers ran along the metal grate, the vent carved and slotted into the wooden door. Trepidation. Part of him debated if he even wanted to see what lay beyond it and bear witness to the dark truth, the full atrocity, of the girl’s childhood— rather, he could remain ignorant. Blissfully so. After all, the upstairs bedroom with its barred windows and endless locks had been enough to seal the Dursleys’ fate. 

He opened it anyway. 

Inside was a single exposed light bulb, a string hanging from it that, with a quick yank, flooded the small space with a sickly, yellowed glow. A single cot took up the entirety of the cupboard, leaving not even enough room for one to stand. Exposed pipes ran along the back wall, a breaker box to the left, and cardboard boxes had been tucked into the built-ins, no doubt containing miscellaneous, forgotten items. And there, carved into the door frame with all of the jagged unevenness of a child’s hand: Harri’s Room

A wandering hand traced over those two words, something glacial— frigid— claiming his heart, frosting his veins. The cupboard wasn’t even fit for a dog, nevermind a child. A magical one at that; a prodigal creation, rare and precious as she was. 

But yet, this is where his horcrux grew up— in cramped darkness with dust and spiders for her companions. 

Forgotten.

Flashes of small hands reaching towards the vent and its slitted shafts of light, curled to one side and legs cramping from not moving, only being let out when absolutely necessary. He experienced it all as an echo, the residual fear and despairing loneliness that clung to the closet fuelling his imagination. And, oh, how it only served to enrage him. Overhead, the single bulb shattered under his magic— a rain of glass shards and sparks as the crackling wires extinguished. 

The Dursleys would pay tonight. 

He would make certain of it. 

Sweeping into the den, he noted that Severus had managed to corral the two muggles, both of whom were forcefully seated on the floral couch and looking near fainting. The woman, however, seemed to have slightly more spine than her husband, judging by the way she was glaring at the Potions Master and sniffing at the wand aimed their way.

“Just wait, Severus,” she seethed. “Just wait until I tell Dum—”

“Severus. Well done,” he said, ignoring how all three heads had immediately snapped to him and the woman fell silent.

Taking a step further into the room, he considered the pastel gaudiness— the rose-patterned wallpaper, the lace of the curtains, the dusk-pink carpet— before glancing over to the muggles and humming in approval at the bloodied face of the man. That upturned nose had been broken in his tumble. Now, it rested heavily on his face, alarmingly crooked and with signs of bruising around the bridge— ugly splotches of purple mottling under hateful, beady eyes. The perfect appetizer, he thought spitefully, for what was to come. 

Carrying on with the silence, Voldemort casually wandered over to the mantle, frowning at one particular photo of a fattened little boy staring back. Her cousin, presumably. ‘Like father, like son.’ And yet, despite the copious amounts of gilded frames showcasing the same three muggles from all different angles, it was impossible to miss the distinct lack of a girl in any of them. That only further confirmed what he suspected: Harri was not family. Rather, she was meant to be invisible; hidden from sight as though a thing to be ashamed of. 

Voldemort snatched one of the frames closest to him— a solo headshot of the boy— and turned half-way to face the couple on the couch. “Your son?” he asked, deliberately giving the photo a little wave. There was no response, but the palpable tang of their fear was telling enough. “Where is he?” 

The silence grew.

Gently setting down the photo— the quiet clink of the metal frame against the stone mantle— the Dark Lord whirled around. A full smile, his teeth a wicked glint in the lowlight of the room, he summoned a chair. And admittedly, no small part of him relished in the way the muggles had clearly flinched at the unexpected display of magic, their alarm warring with the evident disgust in their eyes. 

One hand dragged the chair over to the couch, placing it with a finality across from them, before he settled into it. That smile only grew— falsely congenial— as he leaned forward, one leg crossed gracefully over the other. Looking between the couple, red eyes decidedly landed on the man— the lack of mental fortitude almost appalling as a single word appeared, unbidden, in his thoughts. 

“Smeltings, hm?” Something vicious in him felt satisfied when their complexions had waned at the same time. “You must be so proud.”

“We’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” the man blurted out. “We’ll even tell you where the freak is, if that’s what you want!”

The woman seemed to hesitate only for a second, anxiously looking between her husband and him, before nodding in agreement. A surface glimpse into her mind told him all he needed to know about what kind of person she was: what was the sacrifice of a child that, by all rights, should have been dead sixteen years ago? That, if Harri was the reason why they were here, wouldn’t it be better to give them what they wanted to save her husband? Her son? In truth, he couldn’t entirely fault her for her self-preservation— it was expected. Disappointing of course, considering her sister’s bravery, but expected. Only human nature, he supposed, made all that much easier with years worth of conditioning that one life in this household was worth less than the others.

But the man?

Voldemort’s fingers twitched on his wand as he spun it over in his grasp, attention sliding over to Vernon. Freak. He had dared to refer to Harri in such a degrading manner, and that, oh, he simply couldn’t overlook. It was a struggle to not give into the urge that demanded he sink his fangs into the man’s flabby neck and just end his miserable life right there— an ache in his gums, the tell-tale prickle of his canines threatening to elongate. And it was only the fact that Severus was in the room— stoically stiff by his shoulder— that made him rein in that desire. After all, losing control in such a way would certainly be unseemly for someone of his position. That and a little voice kept arguing poisoning the muggle would be too easy. Too simple. Too— unsatisfying.  

Still though, he did allow himself the small pleasure of letting the canines peek through in his smile— relished in the way Vernon had blanched further and shrunk into the couch.

Petunia, on the other hand, apparently wasn’t going to be cowed as easily. Despite the quiver in her voice, her pale blue eyes burned bright when they landed on Snape. “Dumbledore will hear about this, mark my words! We’re under his protection!”

Oh?

Oh

That was just rich, wasn’t it? 

Voldemort was unable to help himself from chuckling at her audacity— the gall of her, using the old Headmaster as leverage. Did she honestly think that highly of herself? That Dumbledore, of all people, would care if she went missing, or was murdered in her questionably decorated living room? The shock on her face when her head snapped towards him, apparently offended by his outburst, told him all that he needed to know: she did

“So I see no one has told you yet? Dumbledore is dead, you foolish woman.” Smile widening, he leaned forward, the wand stilling between nimble fingers. “In fact, I killed him.”

There was a momentary pause as it sunk in for her— horror. Absolute, unbridled horror filtered through that haughty face of hers; a delightful reaction that he couldn’t help but bask in. He always found that to be the most honest moment in any person’s life— that no one was ever more truthful than when they were experiencing true terror. It was as though a light was shone into their very soul, making it so easy to see what made someone tick, what their mettle was. And what he found in this woman inspired a sort of sadistic mirth in all the ways she was plainly lacking. Shallow, vapid, one-dimensional— nothing at all like her niece, his spitfire of a horcrux. Because at least even when that girl was terrified and scared witless, she still had spirit . A backbone— never quite fully submitting or crumpling in the way the woman before him was. 

“Tell me, Petunia Dursley,” he said, smile slipping. His voice had taken on a cold edge to it, his next words spoken so softly that they were nearly drowned out by the ticking of the wall clock. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’ll give you a hint.” Voldemort rose from the chair to tower over the two muggles. “I’m the reason why you ended up with Harri in the first place.”

Comprehension dawned on Petunia’s face and he obsessively noted it. Noted the way her shoulders had taken on a slight tremble, how the blood drained from her face— how her hand suddenly shot out to grip at her husband’s in fright, as though he would be enough to save her.  

“Ah. So you do know of me. Excellent.” Red eyes narrowed as he ran a finger lovingly along the length of the Elder wand. “Then you must also be aware of the deeds that I have done.”

And this time around, he didn’t refrain from letting his canines fully elongate, the beast pacing in his chest appeased when Petunia had let free a shrill shriek. Satiated with the revelation dawning in her watery eyes that he was no ordinary wizard— that he was a danger she had never encountered before. Far less human and more Devil.

The muggles’ fear permeated the air, souring the living room and overriding the powdery scent of the candles strewn about. It was alluring; a call that spoke directly to all that was debased and immoral in him.

He would have his pound of flesh sooner than later.

“Furthermore, you see, that ‘freak’ is actually rather precious to me. And while certain people may have turned a blind eye to your past neglect of her, let me assure you,” he said, vitriol lacing every syllable. The air turned static in the wake of his magic as he raised his wand towards their faces. “I am no Dumbledore.”



Harri was roused by a cool hand on her cheek and the softest whisper of her name. 

Objectively, it had been the best she’d slept in a long time, somehow finding the bed and the scent lingering in its silken sheets oddly comforting— and while she should have been thoroughly disgusted and dismayed at the fact, she also couldn’t fully deny that part of her was relaxed and satisfied. Felt strangely whole. A part of her that wanted to sink further down into the pillows and chase after her dreams— to not wake up and face reality right now.

“Harri,” her name was called again. 

Fingers brushed against the highpoint of her cheek, drifting up over the outer-curve of her eye socket, her brow, before resting against her scar— the thrum of heat and magic that made a soft noise keen in her chest.

Green eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily up at the face of a certain, red-eyed man hovering above her. Fighting through the haze, she struggled to fully comprehend what was happening, only bits and pieces slipping through. Distantly, she registered that he was touching her, that he’d been watching her sleep; a dark phantom haunting her bedside, silent and persisting. 

“What?” she muttered groggily. 

And then, unexpectedly, she was being pulled from the bed. A hand had locked about her wrist, tugging her from the heated comfort of the duvet— a hiss and a shiver at the unexpected cold, the shock jolting her further awake. Apparently, the fire had gone out sometime during the night, and no one had been bothered to relight it yet. However, before she could even complain about the temperature, an arm slipped around the small of her waist, pulling her into him. 

She blinked dazedly when she was slotted against his body, the pulls of sleep still leaving her lax, loose. Limbless. Unable to really protest.

“Come. I have a surprise for you,” Voldemort explained, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth  as he cradled his horcrux to his chest. 

That was the only warning she had before there was a jerk at her navel and the sensation of her body being squeezed through a narrow tunnel— the feeling of air being pushed from her lungs. She gasped when the discomfort eased a moment later, only to choke on the dampness enveloping them. 

The air had turned stale, musty— a cold sting that burned as much as the chilled flagstone against her bare feet. Harri glanced around wildly, trying to figure out where the hell he’d taken them. Underground— they were somewhere underground, she realised, gaping at the cavernous hallway lined with arches of moistened stone and iron bars. But not just anywhere underground: a dungeon

Another shiver coursed through her, but this time, she wasn’t entirely certain it was from the cold. Why had Voldemort brought her here? And what sort of ‘surprise’ could possibly be waiting in the dungeons, of all places? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. That much she was certain of. 

Having taken notice of her tremors, Voldemort spared a glance down to the girl, his hold on her tightening just-so. Sometimes, it was easy to forget the cold bothered others, seeing as he was so used to it at this point — but then again, his little horcrux was rather small, wasn’t she? Perhaps abnormally so— a mental note to have a healer come to the manor at some point to check on her. For now, however, he settled on a simple heating charm before relinquishing her.

Green eyes watched him warily as she stumbled free, her fingers flexing in their newfound heat. He seemed relatively amused right now, though the ‘why’ was still eluding her. “What—”

“This way,” he interrupted, already taking off down the corridor.

Seeing little other option but to, she rushed after Voldemort despite the uneasiness settling in the pit of her stomach. One of the metal gates swung open as he approached it— crimson eyes cutting over his shoulder as though to ensure she was still following; a slight smirk— and slipped inside. Harri hesitated for a second, confused, before following his lead. ‘What the?’

The darkness of the cell was suddenly illuminated with brilliant green flames, the sconces’ glow causing her to wince at the change in brightness. And while she might have been grateful for the light at any other time, Harri quickly found herself wishing for the shadows to come back— for the flames to extinguish themselves and continue concealing the horrors that were apparently awaiting them. 

It was the smell that hit her first: bile and urine and spilled blood all intermingling, putrid and acrid that made her want to retch, And then she saw it. Them. Huddled against the opposite stone wall were the battered bodies of two people she had hoped to never see again.

“Aunt Petunia?” she gasped. “Uncle Vernon?”

They both looked terrible, as though they’d undergone torture, every inch of their skin caked thoroughly with grime and flakes of dried scarlet. And it hit her then that they looked that way because they had been. Tortured, that is. Merlin, this couldn’t be happening.

Behind her, the heavy iron door closed shut with a deafening slam; she jumped at the sound. Petunia had been the first to recognise they had company, wearily raising her head, and even through the pain so clear in her eyes— through the fear that made them shine— Harri could see it: hatred. It glimmered in the depths of her gaze as it swung between the Dark Lord and herself, and she suddenly found herself to be ten all over again, wanting nothing more than to shrink away from that look— that loathing

“What did you do?” she asked breathlessly, unable to look away from their broken bodies.  Bile was steadily clawing its way up her throat, no matter how much she tried to swallow it back down.

“All of the pain you have suffered, Harri, I simply returned to them tenfold,” he explained as though it was such a simple concept. And, oh, how she could feel his eyes boring a hole into her profile, expectant, waiting.

It was true. 

Petunia’s skin was blistered, reminiscent of all the times she’d burnt herself in her haste to get food on the table before her aunt noticed otherwise. But it was to a greater degree, large chunks of the woman’s flesh seared and bubbled and weeping— she certainly had never been burnt that gruesomely herself. Looking up, she also realised belatedly that her aunt’s blonde hair had been shorn off— much like she always tried to do to her own in the name of keeping it ‘tidy’— and that her lip was ghastly, split and bleeding— just like that time Petunia had caught her across the face with her ringed hand. 

Vernon, on the contrary, was far worse off. His entire arm had been shattered, laying uselessly at a nauseating angle— an echo of a broken wrist when she had refused to get back into the cupboard and he had to wrestle her in. Welts and gashes covered whatever of his skin was showing— flashes of the bite of leather against her flesh and the sting of a buckle— and his nose had been fractured, bruising the majority of his face. It was— mesmerizingly revolting. A trainwreck that she couldn’t bring herself to not watch, torn between morbidly wanting to see more and erasing it from her memory altogether.  

“Why?” she muttered, pinned by Petunia’s glare and Vernon’s moans. 

“Because, Harri,” Voldemort sneered at their cowering forms, forcing Petunia to look down at the ground. “They dared to touch you.”

Harri whirled around, panicked at his confession. He did this because of her? Tortured them in her name? And though some vile part of her, deep down, was somewhat gladdened by the fact that her aunt and uncle were finally getting punished— and was confusingly flattered by Voldemort’s willingness to exact it for her— her moral compass was thoroughly repulsed. Not with just him and his actions, but with herself. In truth, it frightened her knowing that there was such twistedness in her that she even felt a shred of satisfaction at the situation. Was she secretly that messed up to revel in another’s pain?

While yes, she truthfully often thought of the Dursleys being on the receiving end of karma one day— that they would get what was coming to them— it was all a fantasy, their reckoning. In those daydreams, she often only ever told them off, gave them a stinging hex or two. But it was never to this degree . After all, they were still human capable of feeling something . Remorse, regret— capable of apologising, just as she was capable of forgiving. Or, at least, that’s what her conscience liked to imagine— even when the bitterness in her said otherwise. 

“You,” she protested weakly, staring at him and ignoring the violent, wet cough Vernon had given. “You can’t just torture people whenever you feel like it!”

Silence overcame the cell, filled only by the distant dripping of water and the quiet wheeze of the muggles’ breathing.

Voldemort considered Harri, head tilted. Sure, she was objecting to it outwardly, but that didn't mean he couldn’t feel it. There was a strand in her, a thread, twisted enough to take gratification in seeing her tormentors brought to justice— some part of her that just revelled in it,  despite how she tried to bury it. He just needed to expose it, he figured; to help that darkness break through the barriers of what was evidently her misplaced morality. 

To make her understand this was a gift. A liberation, a freedom— reparations delivered unto her after years of not having the ability to do so. He would know, after all, how it felt to finally, finally, exact one’s revenge. 

He just needed to show her it was okay to not to sit back and forgive every wrongdoing. 

“Oh Harri,” he said calmly, fighting off the desire to take a step away from the wall and closer towards her. “I saw your memories, do you forget? The cupboard. Your room. They—” Red eyes flickered over to the muggles, his lip curling. “They tortured you, Harri, Tormented you, purposefully maltreated you time and time again, and do you know why?”

She could only shake her head slightly.

“Because they hated your gift . They did that to you because you are special in a way they could never be.”

Harri stared at him, floundering for reason— a way to make him see the wrongness in his actions. Though that may all be true, who was he, after all, to play a god so easily? To do this to another— to determine their fate, their punishment. No man, Dark Lord or not, should ever be granted that sort of power.

Teeth sank into her lower lip as she anxiously gnawed it, her mind spinning out in several directions. On one hand, they were her family, their complicated history aside. So shouldn't she try to save them? Buy them their lives? Could she offer something up in return, maybe—

‘You know he’s right,’ a little voice whispered in her mind, traitorous and coaxing. ‘Why are you trying to save them when they would never do the same for you?’

‘Shut up,’ she thought back venomously, trying— and failing— to keep herself from looking back to her aunt and uncle.

‘They don’t deserve your forgiveness and kindness.’

And, as much as she hated to admit it, that voice did have a point: she couldn’t find one single, convincing reason or instance or memory that would lead anyone else to wanting to save them the way she did. But, Merlin, she did.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Voldemort spoke up, brow arched as he crossed over from his spot on the wall. “I think you’re blinded to the point you do not want to admit the truth, even when it’s laid bare before you. So allow me to enlighten you.” 

Harri watched in bewilderment as Voldemort’s wrist suddenly snapped forward— a flash of light from the knobbed wand, and then Vernon was writhing on the ground, clutching desperately at the thick column of his neck. Pitiful wheezes filled the cell, along with Petunia’s screams. Bloodied fingers scrabbled for purchase, desperate to find a reprieve from the weight crushing his windpipe— wells of scarlet, bright gorey lines, appeared on his throat as his nails clawed the skin raw.

She gaped at the Dark Lord, paralysed by the very fact that he was magically choking her uncle with no apparent intention of easing up. 

“Stop it!” she shouted, recovering her wits and lunging towards Voldemort, attempting to pry the wand from his grasp— only to be unceremoniously pushed back with one hand. “You’ll kill him! Stop!”

“You think they’re capable of remorse, Harri? Take a guess, please, as to what he’s still thinking,” Voldemort seethed, red eyes narrowed in contempt. “That he should have killed you when you were a baby. Should have left you in the woods for the dogs, or drowned you in a tub. He’s regretting that he didn’t do whatever it took to end your life then, because that’s why he’s here now.”

Her shouts were cut off with an audible click, her mouth slamming closed. No— Voldemort was lying, wasn’t he? Had to be? And yet, somehow, despite not wanting to, she believed him. 

Green eyes slid over to her wheezing uncle, the strange feelings of numbness coming over her. Voldemort— he wasn’t lying to her. And not because he was a Legilimens capable of slipping into another’s mind with ease, but because, deep down, she knew it was true — because she had witnessed it. All the times Vernon had explicitly threatened her life; to leave her in the middle of the forest if she didn't behave; the hateful cursing and claims that he regretted ever allowing Petunia to bring her inside. But she always assumed they were just words — things said out of uncontrollable anger but nothing he actually meant. After all, how could family even consider such a thing?

‘That’s a lie and you know it. You know that he meant it all this time,’ that little voice jeered. ‘Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise.’

“And her.” Voldemort’s glowing eyes snapped to Petunia, his voice terribly soft, “She isn’t any different. In fact, when I threatened their son, do you know what their response was? That they would tell me where the ‘freak’ was instead. Not even a moment of hesitation before they were offering you up on a silver platter.”

“I—” Harri trailed off, a heaviness in her chest as though she were the one being suffocated in Vernon’s stead.

Harri looked helplessly towards her aunt, silently pleading for her to deny it— to say it wasn’t true. But there was none. No denial, no rebuttal. Nothing, save for the venom in those pale blue eyes as she glared at them while hovering over her husband’s panting form. In fact, it was that venom that precisely confirmed the damning truth. Some desperate part of her had been holding out hope that her aunt at least, out of the two, would be the one to say otherwise— to, perhaps, admit to some secret love she always held for her niece, her sister’s daughter. So what was this?

The world seemed to grow unsteady, swaying beneath her feet. 

‘They were going to give you up, despite knowing the danger, all to save Dudley,’ that cruel whisper taunted, darkness encroaching on the edges of her mind, her vision. ‘They didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to care.’

It was as though her mind was beginning to act on its own volition, spiralling out of her control. Images flashed in rapid succession of every bruise and welt, every broken bone and unkind hand— of every single cruel word that ever befell her at their expense. The burn from those words seemed to manifest now behind her eyes, in her throat, leaving it parched and her tongue heavy. And, oh, how she wanted to argue against that logic— to command that little voice to stop talking and stop poisoning her very thoughts. But, in all honesty, she was unable to.

Because the depressing, morbid truth was that they never did care for her. 

There was nothing in her past, not one single memory she could find that would point to otherwise— point to them secretly holding tender affection or love. Not one birthday or Christmas present. Not a hug or kiss. Not even a good-bye when they dropped her off at the train station every September. 

Everything was rotten despite how desperately she wanted to find the good. 

Voldemort watched with a keen hunger as her brows drew together, the conflict warring so clearly on her face— but the winner was already more than evident. So close to giving in, so close to seeing reason and finally leaning into all of the darkness she suppressed in herself— only one extra, little push was required.

Abruptly, Voldemort was looming behind her, pulling her into a caging embrace. One arm looped about her waist, slotting her petite frame against his, while the other snaked over her chest, reaching out to grab her fragile hand. The Elder wand had been swapped out for the original at his command, and it was precisely that which was placed into a trembling palm. Bone-white, stark, it was with a surprising amount of satisfaction that he realised how good it looked being held by her. So perfect.

Leaning down, his lips brushed against the shell of her ear. “There is no shame, Harri, in wanting to seek out your own justice,” he murmured encouragingly as his hand flexed about hers. “Remember, there is no good or evil. There is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”

Green eyes drifted down to the unexpected weight of a wand being placed into her palm, her breath caught at the sight. A pleasant thrum echoed along her life-line, the power held in the yew wand an echo of the one she’d lost— a twin that felt wonderful, right, to hold once more, its heft comforting, its warmth a reprieve. 

Voldemort’s long fingers cradled her own, gently constricting and forcing her hand to close around the handle— a shocking feeling of pleasure, of wholeness that she couldn’t quite explain. The surroundings of the cell seemed to turn distant as her attention latched onto the wand and the power he was giving her.

‘Use it. Take what he’s offering.

“You know the spell, Harri,” he said, pulling her even closer to him— right until he could feel the press of her spine, all of its ridges and knobs, and her heartbeat against his own chest. “Make them hurt and feel your pain.” 

It became too hard to swallow, her throat too dry and unwilling. And despite the heating charm shimmering across her limbs, Harri found her skin prickling all the same. Only vaguely did she register as her body was tugged closer— the broad, solid expanse of his chest and the shallow movement of his breath— her mind warring with itself. ‘You know what he’s asking you to do. Don’t,’ reason cautioned, begging her to see sense— to not even entertain the idea. 

But that blackness, the dark shadows, were stronger, swirling aggressively and undulating as though a serpent with its prey . ‘They’ve hurt you time and time again. How much longer will you allow them to get away with it? Tread all over you?’

More memories flashed in her mind— the snake she’d befriended in the garden, its head smashed in once Vernon had caught her speaking to it. His threats to shoot Hedwig for chirping too loudly. The hunger pains of being denied dinner for three days after she’d accidentally broken a plate. Vernon with his too-loud voice and too-heavy hands that always left the worst bruises.

He doesn’t deserve your kindness, and you know it.’  

Curse green eyes lifted from their hands to her uncle’s bleeding form, her heart constricting— tightening, thudding— painfully behind her ribs. How many times had he hurt her? Had made her bleed as well? Countless, that much was certain. 

Those shadows only grew, rising up against the light— all overwhelming and consuming and hungry. An ache erupted in her gums, acid bright bursts on her tongue, her shoulders trembling. 

‘Don’t fight your anger, Harri. Seek it out. Make him finally understand your might— show him you aren’t the scared little girl under the stairs any longer.’

Tempting— so beautifully tempting, those blackened vapours clouding over her mind and filling every possible crevice and recess in her. When she drew in a shaky breath, it seemed to replace all the oxygen in her lungs; polluting, yet life-giving.

Her hand raised on its own accord, the yew wand pointed resolutely towards Vernon even when he started to crawl away from her in panic. 

‘Don't do it,’ a faint voice tried vainly to part through the darkness. ‘Don’t!’

‘Give in, Harri. Say the words,’ a stronger, louder, more insistent call, green eyes darkening, glazing over.

Her mouth moved around the spell, all of her anger and heat and desire channelled into one word. “Crucio.”

Raw screams— only vaguely could she hear them, their sound too murky, muddled in the face of the power she felt. Everything was just— magnificent. A wave, a high, electrifying sparks in her veins buzzing and crackling and making her feel more alive than she ever had. Transforming her into something almost near transcendent, making her leave behind the cell, the dungeons, her reality to take flight, weightless and airy— as though she’d sprouted wings and was soaring in the heavens now, testing the clouds for the first time on her tongue, on her cheeks. And as much as some voice in her begged for her to stop— to realise what she was doing— Harri left it entirely unheeded. How could she possibly listen when presented with something so much— greater? Even when she knew the effects dark casting had, that it induced a pleasure far too easy to lose oneself in after one started— Barty, after all, had assigned them quite the essay on the topic— she couldn’t care

This, this feeling— it surpassed all of the joys she’d known in her life thus far. The thrill of flying on her broom, the elation of her Hogwarts letter, the rush of getting drunk on firewhiskey. Each single one of her most powerful memories was dull in comparison to the ecstasy coursing through her veins. And though she saw Vernon twisting on the ground, howling, wailing, it all disconnected from her.

Merlin, she never wanted this to end. 

To come crashing back down—

“That’s enough,” Voldemort commanded in her ear, abruptly removing the wand from her hand and cutting the connection. 

If he was being truthful, he hadn’t expected her to go through with his offer— or successfully cast it, for an altogether different matter. Yet, as per usual, Harri Potter was intent on circumventing every single one of his expectations. And as he stood there, looking at the muggle man, Voldemort found himself pleasantly, shockingly surprised that things hadn’t gone as he originally predicted. After all, very few were ever able to cast an Unforgivable on their first attempt— nevermind produce such promising results (and promising they certainly were, seeing that one minute longer and the man would have been as good as dead)— but seeing it first hand afforded him an opportunity. 

A chance. 

A revelation: Harri was not as light-inclined as everyone believed her to be. And how glorious was that? 

Red eyes shifted over to the girl in his arms. Yes, there was no other way to describe her than glorious in this moment. Panting in his grasp, eyes blown wide, glassy, dazed as she attempted to regain her wits and come back into the moment. Of course, he could relate— pity her, almost. Casting such magic was always a staggering, formidable occasion, especially when done for the first time— but, oh, she wore it so beautifully. While he regretted having to end the spell and break the reverie— put an end to the intoxicating taste of her magic and the possessive way it’d embraced him, trying to sweep him along with her ecstasy— it had to be done. After all, he could feel the erratic tempo of her heart against his chest— a punishing, wild beat that told him how dangerously close she’d been to exhausting herself. Especially so after being denied a wand for so long. They would have to take steps towards building up her stamina again; to reteach her everything she knew.

Green eyes found his suddenly, latching on and making it impossible for him to consider ever looking anywhere else again— a sharp intake of breath on his end. Had their colour always been this bright? This spectacular? She was completely radiant, all of her hues seemingly enhanced— too vivid to ever be natural. A flush in her cheeks, her hair spilling out in red rivers, trembling and shaking with something she couldn’t quite name— an urge in him that had his fingers twitching on her waist, begging to just cage her. 

Keep her.

Because how splendid was she in her own fall— an angel with her wings clipped, tumbling out of the heavens and caught in a plummet. How beguiling was she, his very own Lilith that sought to do terrible, terrible things to his self control. Chipping away a touch more, simply begging to cross the line that should remain firmly drawn between them. 

Harri had decided, as she twisted in his arms to look up, that Voldemort had never seemed more beautiful, more perfect, than he did in this very instance. The adrenaline in her system and that lingering, fuzzy feeling made the dungeon less clear, more muddled– except for him.

No, the Dark Lord possessed a startling clarity even in the face of that thrumming. In fact, she could almost count every single lash framing those almond-shaped eyes, their depths swirling with shades of red she’d never even known to be possible until now. And, Merlin, did she want to touch him. Reach up and let her fingers wander over the heart-wrenching artistry that went into his creation; every detail, every inch of him from that finely-shaped brow to the aristocratic slope of his nose. And his mouth.

Oh, his mouth.

She honed in on it, unable to stop her eyes from tracing over its cupid’s bow, its shape. Everything in her felt disoriented except for one thing. 

One single persisting desire that, with inhibitions loosened by the darkness pumping in her veins, became impossible to ignore. 

So she didn’t.

Her body moved on its own free will. 

One minute she’d been content to just watch him, find some reprieve in his arms and listen to the muted wheezing in the background. And then the next, she was suddenly darting forwards, up on her toes and pressing her mouth insistently, demandingly, against his. 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 50: A Starless Sky and An Imploding Sun

Notes:

Hello everyone! My apologies for the super late update— the past week has been quite the stressful one for me. My cat was hit by a car last Wednesday and, while he survived, he had to undergo emergency surgery. It was hard for me to sit down and find the time to actually edit but he's finally on the mend!

Hopefully, this chapter will be worth the wait— I know it took longer than usual to get up but thank you for being patient! It's a bit of a spicy one with some angsty flair thrown in so I'm hoping you guys will find it to be a fun time! 💕 Also, just be mindful of the tags— I've been trying to update them to prepare for the next few in coming chapters.

 

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



If there was one fundamental truth to Lord Voldemort, it would be this: he defied expectations. Limits. In this lifetime alone, he had already achieved feats that should have been the very basis of fiction— things only ever whispered about in legend and myth, but never actually accomplished. Things that would render most mute.

A muggle-born, poor and penniless, rising until he towered above all else— until he bore a crown and reaped a throne.

A defiance of death— a body crafted from magic and might simply to spite the Fates for even daring to suggest his time was over.

A soul split in seven, immortality obtained— and then the unthinkable; reknit back together.

Yes, it could be said that, whenever the glass ceiling was presented to him, he chose to vault himself past it. Shattering it— obliterating it— until even the sharpest of shards and the loudest of naysayers were rendered toothless beneath his feet. By all means, he was extraordinary. More than this world, the heavens and its hells could ever contain— he escaped understanding. 

Understanding did not escape him

So why was it then, when a velvet mouth boldly pressed against his— no warning, no preamble— that he didn’t quite know what to make of it? Was left bewildered?

It was just another unprecedented event in a series of them that was beginning to mark the day, he realised. And, oh, how he could see it now; a rare moment of foresight— the fallout that was certain to arise from this. A storm brewing on the horizon; darkening clouds that held the promise of the chaos to break once they— she— came to their senses. A harrowing, yet beautiful vision strangely welcomed. 

How could it not be? 

Not be anything but welcomed when faced with the charged static that crackled, dancing across their skins and electrifying their every nerve and fibre until they became the very embodiments of that storm— that chaos.

Unbridled

Of course, he knew he should push her away— refuse her advances. But yet, he couldn’t . Couldn’t bring himself to reject this gift even when logic dictated he ought to. See, there was a recognisable pattern to their interactions: he instigated everything. His hands on her skin; his words inciting her retorts. His magic touching hers; his will exerted over their bond. 

Always his action prompting her reaction.

And even in those traitorous dreams that often ran away from him— in those ponderings and musings that stretched late into the dark night when sleep refused to come— he always envisioned that he’d be the one to take the next step. The one to cross the line and pull them past the point of no return; to edge them over that cliff and plunge them into the churning sea below. Never once had he entertained otherwise— entertained that she might instead. No, that was a blasphemous hope; an unrealistic wish that he knew was too much and too great to even consider. 

But she had. 

So yes, it shocked him— made it so all he could do was stare, paralysed and unable to step back even if he wished. Made it so his entire world— his entire focus— narrowed down until it consisted solely of her and that soft mouth, the whimpering of the Muggles and the iron tang of their blood forgotten.

There was a moment of silence as she pulled away. Her mouth leaving his— not parting completely but lingering, her bottom lip ghosting over his own— it seemed almost as if she was waiting . And when her eyes lifted, bright and glassy with their curse-induced haze, there was confusion in them as much as there was desire.

It flowed in their bond, the question clear: why? Not ‘why had she kissed him’, but ‘why wasn’t he responding’? 

He wondered that himself.

On one hand, how long had he dreamt of this moment? Of having her in his grasp and finally holding her this way? How often had his imagination tortured him with images and phantom touches?

On the other hand, he couldn’t deny this was a terrible idea. By all accounts, it was. She was far from ready, still too young and too naive of the world to know what she wanted— had only been swept away by the allure of dark casting and the temptations it posed. Not to mention, he was supposed to be the responsible one between them: the one with the iron will to safeguard their boundaries until the time was right. 

But then seeing that dazed expression of hers— those too-green eyes practically begging for something she didn’t know— well. Suddenly being the adult— the very concept of abstinence— seemed laughable. Truly, it did.

And the longer that silence stretched, the more his precarious control thinned. Ever waning, it splintered, fissured— crumbled

The initial surprise ebbed, giving rise instead to something ungodly in nature. Something sinful. Impious. 

He wanted her.  

More than anything he could ever recall desiring, he wanted her. It was undeniable— an immoral yearning that had been nurtured ever since that fateful night in the graveyard. Ever since the truth of the girl had been revealed, held fast to the tomb over his father’s bones and smears of gore and blooming bruises her war paint— he desired her to an unnatural degree.

To an unhealthy degree.

The arm hooked about her waist flexed, drawing her up onto her toes and closer to him— unrelenting, unyielding. And there was a passing thought that, if this was to be his reckoning— if she was to be the forbidden fruit offered up by the serpent— then so be it. 

He would accept it wholeheartedly like the sinner he was.

Her mouth parted, an apology on the tip of her tongue— unformed words that he eagerly swallowed down.

Voldemort struck quickly, refusing to give her even a second to rethink— to reconsider or allow misplaced guilt to creep in. It wasn’t the slow kiss of a lover, nor the gentle kind that he knew blushing schoolgirls dreamed of— the sort that belonged to their dashing white knights and gallant princes— but one of hunger. Insatiable, hurried, claiming whatever it could from her.

Between them, buoyancy erupted— a floating warmth. It was a basking sort of glow, euphoric and overwhelming enough that it made the dingy prison turn inconsequential.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough to vanquish the uncaged beast, the blight it was that hovered in the background of that light. Pacing, teeth bared— ravenous. An instinctual want to over-extend its jaws and swallow her whole until not a single trace remained— unholy . It was that beast that possessed him now, his lips moving demandingly against hers— pressing, feeling, relishing in the softness and the warmth that seeped from her flesh. And a single thought pushed itself to the centre: more

More of the sweet breath that was kept, held in her lungs; more of the impossible heat she exuded; more of those quiet little gasps that he kept pulling from her. 

More of her in her entirety. 

There was a tug at their navels— a pull in the pits of their stomach— as the dungeons bled away. 



His bedroom. It was only with a faint awareness that Voldemort realised where he had brought them. 

Though not an entirely conscious decision, he also couldn’t complain about it. Not when he suddenly seemed to recall how she looked earlier, laid out across the black silk of his sheets— a pinpoint of colour in his otherwise monochromatic world, so stark, so bright that she almost blinded, the radiant creature she was. Merlin, what he wouldn’t give to see her there again— in his bed. Spirited away from the damp earth and the acrid smells— back where she belonged

He was half-tempted to bring her there now. To throw her down onto the pillows and keep her there, the prized possession she was. 

But the thought passed as quickly as it formed, dissuaded by the fact that to do so would mean pulling away from her. And that, right now, sounded terribly unappealing.

Lips possessive, he set the pace between them; a quiet noise of appreciation when she allowed it. His horcrux was admittedly clumsy— more inexperienced than he initially thought she would be— but it was oddly endearing all the same. Endearing in how she rose to match his hunger, neck craning, reaching, to press herself enthusiastically against him. And oh, how in character was it that she was still headstrong even when clearly out of her depths. 

Hands wandering, they came to graze the backs of her bare thighs— oh. Right, she hadn’t changed out of the satin slip of her nightgown yet— a surprising, but nonetheless pleasant, find. 

Sweet Merlin she was soft. Silky skin, pliable and smooth, he nearly moaned into their kiss at the feeling, unable to help himself. 

Fingers curling in, he lifted her with ease. She hadn’t protested.

Hadn’t even hesitated to follow his lead by wrapping her long legs around his hips. Her arms slinging over his shoulders, their bodies melded together— the bluntness of nails seeking purchase through his shirt; an impish smile he felt pressed against his mouth. Entirely shameless

 Holding tight so as not to drop her, Voldemort spun them until she was pinned against the wall— a dull thump and a keening noise lost somewhere between their shared breath. No doubt her back had been jostled, but she evidently didn’t seem to mind— not with the way her legs had flexed, tightening and turning vise-like around him.

For the first time, they dared to break apart. 

Chests heaving in tandem, the bedroom’s quiet was punctuated by their shallow inhales, exhales, both of them pulling in greedy gulps and seeking air where none was to be found. 

And as red eyes locked with green ones— the former containing an awestruck wonder— it hit Harri as to what they’ve been doing.

She knew this was reckless. Absurdly so. But still, it was difficult to listen to the voice of reason when faced with the staggering amount of pleasure she felt. If that summoned light had been overwhelming before, it was positively devastating now.

Everything felt far too alive to her. Humming with a newly-found energy, currents of electricity shot through her veins with no apparent intention of easing up. It was though each cell was vibrating, her heart spasming in the confines of her chest— and her hands . Heavens, they were trembling as they restlessly smoothed over the firm muscles of his back— an experimental curl; a relief when she found they could still move. And yet, despite the myriad of unusual sensations that, by all rights, should have terrified her, Harri found herself wanting more

More of those sparks— more of it to keep the high going and to feed those rolling waves leftover from casting the Unforgivable.

She just needed more. 

And what a startling revelation that was to her: she wanted to fall. If slipping into the void felt this spectacular— this gloriously breathtaking— then who could begrudge her if she never wanted to surface again? Never know a life without it? Who could blame her when it let her finally forget? Forget Dumbledore’s betrayal; the crime she just committed in the dungeons— forget her situation and how utterly trapped she was. 

Who could fault her for wanting to give into the liberation he was offering her right now, right here?

For wanting to lose herself in those eyes?

Lord, those eyes. Those scarlet, burning eyes drinking her in, the darkness and the yearning in them so blatant. Obvious. They caused her stomach to flutter; a flush of warmth creeping across her neck, her skin, her cheeks. They made it so everything felt so— so much . This was nothing like when she’d drunkenly kissed Draco in the Hufflepuff Common room. In fact, it was almost laughable to compare the two. 

After all, Draco certainly hadn’t looked at her like this— not with the same blistering heat. And she wondered had Voldemort’s eyes always been this pretty? Swirling with so many shades of red, shades she was sure that existed solely because of him, they pulled her in, molten like the sun.

No, not the sun.

A supernova.  

Yes, that was a more adept description of them— a black hole that dominated, his gravitational force pulling her into orbit whether she wanted it or not. Just mere seconds away from imploding— from plunging their universe into true darkness and from creating new worlds in the wake of its destruction— how she craved to experience it alongside him.

‘More,’ a voice whispered in their bond. The plea could have come from either one of them at this point, everything far too entangled to fully separate out. But he surged forward all the same— a bruising force, keen and ungovernable. 

This time, there was the demanding swipe of a tongue against her bottom lip; a quiet gasp taken advantage of. And, oh, how he tasted of honey and the sweetest of lies; of darkness and the greatest sin. Such a heady combination, it was nearly concerning in how it stole her breath and the coherency from her mind.

‘This isn’t right. You know it,’ a little voice argued. But it was diminished in comparison to the sunspots dancing before her eyes— so startlingly bright.

The air about them turned charged, full of static and magic that, for once, she welcomed as an old friend. Her shaking fingers sank deeper into his shoulders when she felt one of his hands settle at her waist, the other reaching behind to snake up along her spine. 

And then, suddenly, there was a fist in her hair— a harsh downwards tug that wrenched her head back.

Harri didn’t even know she was capable of making the sort of sound she did when he’d done so— but it had come out of her nonetheless. Eyes fluttering open, she might’ve been otherwise embarrassed if it weren’t for his expression; an arresting flush of heat when a smirk curved his mouth.

“What?” she mumbled, only to gasp when he nudged his nose into the hollow of her throat.

A shiver ghosted through her at the tender press of his lips against her pulse. It was perplexingly sweet. Almost gentle, really. Innocent— until it wasn’t.

Without warning, teeth, sharp and wicked, buried into the thin skin above her jugular vein— the threat to draw blood. Harri cried out when the pressure didn’t lessen — not out of fear but rather because those sunspots flared brighter. It was entirely instinctual in how her hips rolled against him, stilted and bearing down— a stifled whimper when he finally eased up and the heated pull of his tongue laved over the sting. 

To Voldemort, those cries might as well have been a hymn made solely for his ears— and, oh, how beautifully did his horcrux sing it, the supplicant worshipper she was. He watched her from his periphery. Watched the way her mouth parted when he sank his teeth into her, the slight sting of her nails registering. How her legs had imperceptibly flexed and how she gracelessly bucked against him, writhing in her discovery that pain and pleasure were two sides of the same coin. Perfect. Just perfect in every sense of the word. 

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Despite the glow— that searing syrup that flooded through him— he was still aware of it. That rising swell; that terrible voice that pointed out he couldn’t be satisfied with just a few stolen kisses. 

Then again, when had he ever been fully content? 

Appeased? 

Fulfilled? 

It was the sum of his existence— the lingering plight from a childhood, a youth, passed in squalor and marked by never quite having enough. Never enough food to quell an empty stomach; never enough warmth from threadbare  clothes. Never enough praise; never enough attention. It was a persistent itch in him, its source rooted too deeply to ever be scratched. Because, no matter how much he gained, won— acquired— it didn’t matter: famine and greed were always his most faithful companions. 

And now, it would seem, such feelings extended to his horcrux.

There was a growl that had unwittingly escaped from his chest; an ache in his gums and a heaviness between his ribs. The hand interlaced through her auburn hair constricted; a high-pitched cry when his teeth sank back into her flesh, harsher than before— a visceral reaction in an attempt to calm himself. To drive out those darkening, dampening thoughts and to come back to the girl beneath him. 

Ultimately, it was in her that he found a shred of solace. Solace in that fitful, flighty cadence of her pulse and the lovely warmth that emanated from her.

So warm.

The hand about her waist slipped further down. Brushing against the petal-soft skin of her bare leg, it wandered higher— higher, higher and right past the lace hem of that damn nightgown. Faint warning bells were going off in his mind now; a half-formed awareness that things were taking a dangerous turn. That he ought to stop before anything irreversible could happen.

He ignored it.

Ignored it all in favour of pressing an open-mouth kiss to the divot of her collarbone, sucking and letting his teeth graze over the delicate skin.

Her back arched from the wall; a breathy exhale of a moan to serve as encouragement. 

Bolden by her response, his fingers skirted up and under the waistband of her underwear. Thumb digging pressured circles into the notch above her prominent hip bone, feeling the blazing heat barely contained beneath her skin— another jerk, another stilted roll against him. Control slipping, fangs elongating— so close.  

So close.

So—

All of the sudden, Harri was pulled into his mind. 

Tumbling out of her body and away from the sensations gripping it, her world blurred as it was replaced with his own. 

The first thing she really noticed was how dark it was in his mindscape. Unnaturally so. Swirls of shadow obscured any traces of light, making it impossible to see much further than what was in front of her own feet. They parted around her as though like water— curling vapours that rippled around her legs and her torso and slipping through her outstretched fingers. 

Voldemort hadn’t seemed to notice she was there alongside him, having been pulled in by their connection. But Merlin, there was no buoyancy here. No warmth, no pleasantness— just an endless, hostile void. And it was cold . So cold, unlike anything she’d ever felt before. Trudging back from Hogsmeade through an unexpected winter’s storm; the stinging draft at Grimmauld Place that seeped in through even the bulkiest of sweaters; the explosions of snowballs against her frost reddened skin— none of her memories of ‘cold’ could even begin to compare to this.

Then it started: that chanting. A ceaseless, sibilant mantra: more, more, more . It played on a loop, pulsing in time with her skittish heartbeat— a pressure bearing down on her head, her shoulders, making her eyes water. It was so loud, so deafening, that it seemed to reverberate throughout her body. 

The black mist had suddenly taken on a solid quality. No longer fluidly sluicing off her, it was sticking now. Slowly at first, gathering at her ankles, it spread at an alarming rate up to her knees, her thighs. And though she tried to wipe it off, it seemed insistent in its desire to hold fast— to consume. 

Panic

Seized by it, Harri stumbled blindly, trying to run in a never-ending darkness. More, more, more . That vapour slipped in as she breathed, settling in her lungs; a cloying weight. Fouling. She desperately clawed at her throat, trying to get it out— to stop the uncanny sensation of drowning from within.

‘Stop it,’ she begged. Her pleas, however, were lost amid that chanting and that all-encompassing void.

By now, the film had made its way to her waist, weighing her down until she couldn’t move. Couldn’t budge . And the more she hyperventilated, the more those vapours slipped in through her mouth, her nose, until she could feel it. Feel it coating her insides, claiming every inch of her as if she was something that had to be assimilated. In her chest, that darkness twisted— writhed between the empty spaces of her ribs until she wanted to retch. 

More, more, moremoremore

‘Let me out!’

There was no exit in sight. No reprieve to be found; no indication that this nightmare would end. Higher the mist curled, reaching past her collarbones now and enveloping her in shadow until she couldn’t even see her chest rise and fall with each breath. She was being erased

It was the work of the devil, she knew it. A devil intent on consuming, depraved in its desire—

Moremoremore

Harri twisted helplessly in place, seeking out light in a sky without stars—  but she couldn’t see any. No, they’d all been swallowed by him. 

And with each ticking second, that cold worsened; a chatter in her teeth, her lips undoubtedly turning blue. Still, higher those dark vapours rose.

At her shoulders now, her hands and arms erased and unable to shake them off, she cried out in her frustrations. Creeping up, the darkness was at her jaw now— a final breath pulled in—

Harri came back with a strangled gasp. 

Around her, the bedroom was slow to materialise— an overwhelming amount of relief. 

Long gone now though was her desire as tremors replaced once-pleasured shivers; shaking, quaking throughout her body, a single tear, tacky and heated, down her cheek. 

She felt sick

Heavens, the nausea was unbearable right now. And it certainly didn’t help how she’d become hyper-aware all of the sudden, her skin too tight. Too sensitive and too wound up to stand the hand knotted in her hair, or the one boldly spanning her hip— those kisses peppering her throat, or the sudden pressure she felt underneath her. Wait

Pressure? 

What— she blinked, her vision swimming when she suddenly realised what it was. Sweet Merlin, he was hard

Suddenly, it was all Harri could concentrate on: the evidence of his desire resting against the curve of her ass, heavy and impossible to ignore. She was about to hyperventilate, she knew it— could feel it coming on as a dizziness sweeping through her head.

Make him stop,’ that voice came again as his want— that noxious, toxic want— bled over into their bond. And despite the warmth in the bedroom, the fireplace roaring— blazing with its pops and its snaps— a chill overcame her. 

Everything dimmed. 

Turned bleak.

Bile rose in the back of her throat, cloying and bitter, when he placed an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder. Harri tried to swallow it down— tried to keep herself together as he carried on, seemingly oblivious to her panic. 

That hand at her hip drifted lower, rounding the inner-curve of her thigh— and suddenly the position she once thought was exhilarating was anything but

The wall at her back too unforgiving.

The hips holding her up threatening,

The body looming over her dangerous. 

And still, through it all, there was one question that nagged— that pulled her  in opposite directions, making it difficult to fully focus on either her thoughts or her body— why did he feel like that? His mind; why did his mind feel like that? It wasn’t like anything she’d experienced with him in the past. Back then, those few instances when she was in there with him had been agreeable enough— certainly not at all like that oppressive chasm she endured. Certainly not that hostile

‘Because he was hiding it from you.’

The answer hit her in full force.

Yes, that was the only explanation she could find— and, with it, the horrifying reminder, the revelation, that he was a dark creature. Quite literally the Dark Lord— a fact she apparently kept forgetting at the worst of times. He had purposefully concealed it from her— the prodigious and devastating wretchedness of his soul— to lull her into a sense of security. To make her trust him; be comfortable around him. And she fell for it

It felt as though ice had been injected into her very veins— her very heart— freezing her over.

“Stop,” Harri whispered. The word came out sounding meek, her throat hoarse as though she’d been screaming for hours on end.

Voldemort seemed to not hear her protest. Instead, his lips moved demandingly against the curve of her jaw, focusing on the tender spot just below her ear. And as he pressed himself closer, his hardness dug into her backside even further— searing in its weight, its heaviness, and demanding full attention.

The harsh reality came trickling in. Their position; what they had been doing. The atrocity she committed in the cells— against her own family. Guilt. 

Heavens, the guilt was staggering.

She needed to run. It was the only thing she could think of right now: the need to flee from the red-eyed man before her, holding her up and caging her in. To put distance between herself and that sinful mouth and those fingers branding themselves into her skin— that scorching heat and that captivating smell of sweet smoke. 

She needed to escape.

Shaking hands slid down to his chest, flexing against the sturdy broadness she felt there— a pathetic attempt at a shove. It was weak, pitiful really, all of her energy seemingly gone. 

“Stop,” she repeated, despising how her voice quivered. “Stop it!”

This time though, he heard her.

Voldemort stilled at the command— at her sudden refusal.

Slowly pulling away from her neck, his gaze flitted across her face. She looked damn near ready to cry . And not in a good way, either. But why? What possibly could have made her go from relishing in his touch to demanding that he stop?

Reluctantly untangling his hand from her hair and withdrawing the other from underneath her satin nightgown, he splayed them on the wall instead. They cautiously hovered close to her— a pinky’s width from her waist— but otherwise didn’t make contact. 

Horror. It was so apparent on her face, unfiltered and blatant in those too-green eyes as they hastily flickered down to his mouth— a belated realisation that his fangs were extended. Tongue prodding at his elongated canines, he cursed as he retracted them, hoping that it might soothe her a bit. It hadn’t. Rather, the girl still appeared terrified— distressed. And, oh, how sobering was that.

“Harri,” he spoke softly, trying to understand why she suddenly looked the way she did. 

By all accounts, their kiss had been tame in comparison to his usual habits— a small part of him withholding and not wanting to push her too far— but she was acting as though she’d been thoroughly debauched. As if they had committed a sin.

As if he had defiled her. 

Red eyes narrowed when a tear suddenly appeared in the corner of her eye. Gathering, glinting, it spilled over— a twitch in his jaw at the sight. Out of its own admission, his hand reached for her cheek, cradling it as his thumb brushed gently over her waned skin and smeared the droplet.

“Harri? What’s wrong? Are you—”

“Put me down,” she cut him off. It was practically screaming at her now— the urge to escape from his too-large hands and those searching scarlet eyes. “Now.”

Unsteady feet hit the ground a second later. She nearly stumbled on her weakened legs. He’d gone to reach for her— no doubt to make sure she wasn’t going to fall— but a sharp glare stopped him in his tracks. 

For once, he listened.

Stepping back and granting her space, Harri finally allowed herself the second of panic she’d been desperately attempting to keep under control. ‘I kissed him.’ And truthfully, she didn’t know whether to be appalled with herself for the oversight— or be concerned that there was, apparently, something wrong with her.

Something broken.

Silence fell between them— a tensed, weighty thing— as one studied the other; the aftermath and the upheaval that came with a passing storm. 

He looked— well. She didn’t quite know what to make of it. His usually kempt hair was dishevelled— a stray curl finding purchase above his brow— and his crisp, collared shirt was wrinkled beyond saving from where she’d clutched at it. And those eyes. They looked positively starved, burning with a desire left unsated— a glance down before she could even help herself. 

Her cheeks pinkened at the obvious bulge in the front of his pants.

Green eyes quickly bounced back up to his face, alarm and shame and embarrassment overcoming her all at once. Mercifully, Voldemort hadn’t commented on her indecent staring— just merely looked at her in turn. 

As red eyes raked over her in a slow, purposeful drag— his fingers flexing at his sides— Harri felt herself flush further under his attention. ‘I need a fucking drink.’ And even as she shoved past him, her quickened feet carrying her to the bar cart, she was aware that he never looked away from her. 

Not even once. 

Not even as her quivering hand poured a healthy dose of brandy into a crystal glass— splashing noisily in the quiet, threatening to overspill— and not even as she knocked it back in one go, grimacing. But oh, how she could practically hear what he wanted to say: that she shouldn’t make it a habit of drinking, that it was nasty and unbecoming— that it wouldn’t fix her problems. 

Wisely though, he continued to keep his mouth shut.

Fingers drumming against the decanter— crystalline little clinks as her nails struck the surface— Harri stared into the fireplace. Admittedly, it was easier to fixate on those dancing flames than it was to look at him. Him, with his shameless appearance that spoke of what they’d just done. Him with that open lust in his gaze and the way she could feel he wanted more. But that’s what it always boiled down to, wasn’t it? Him taking and wanting— always taking, always wanting.  

The alcohol hit her faster than she expected. Churning in her stomach, doing little to pacify it, too many emotions finally filtered through. “I kissed you,” she muttered, speaking more to herself than to him. “Why did I kiss you?”

“Harri,” he tried again, taken back by the sheer amount of conflict— her disgust— that came tiding through their bond.

I kissed you,” she repeated. Because, yes: she had made the first move. Not him. Her. For whatever unfathomable reason, she had acted first. “What the hell is wrong with me?!”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at her inexplicable need to find something faulty in herself for her feelings— the staggering regret . Admittedly, it was the regret that left him the most bitter. Vexed. How dare she? His fingers contracted into a fist at his side; a violent urge to just wrap them around that pretty little neck and squeeze until she had no breath left to speak in such a manner. To stop her from disparaging and deprecating what they had shared and to make her simply accept it

His long strides crossed the room, irked by the fact she wasn’t meeting his eye— wasn’t even acknowledging him. It took some effort, admittedly, for himself not to sneer and demand that she look at him. 

Why was she even acting as if it had been the worst thing in the world to have kissed him anyhow? After all, he knew from experience that plenty of women found him not to be lacking in that area— that, by a large census, enjoyed it. Hell, they practically fell at his feet, eager to worship. And yet, here was this slip of a girl, with hair made of fire and eyes the echo of a curse, acting as if it’d been vile . Revolting. An ordeal rather than a pleasure. Well, be that as it may, not even she could deny the sparks, the electricity— the pull of their connection and the bliss he knew they both felt at the beginning. 

He’d be damned if he even let her try.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Voldemort insisted, calmly and trying to ignore the rising temper he felt in himself. 

“Oh, but there is.” Harri reached for the decanter and poured herself another brimming glass. “I mean, I just tortured my bloody family and then felt it was wise to make out with you , of all people. Doesn’t really spell out ‘sane’ now, does it?”

His hand shot out to wrestle away the bottle of brandy. Lip curling, he firmly placed it on the other side of the bar cart— the definitive clink of glass meeting glass— and fixed her with a hard stare. She returned it in kind, purposefully knocking back her full glass; a silent challenge. 

Voldemort could feel the muscle in his jaw jump— a shaky inhale as he sought to retain control of the situation. To exercise some direly needed patience and see her side (even if it was a struggle to understand). After all, he was the adult— the older one between them— the one with more maturity and more knowledge. And he supposed, if he really thought about it, her negativity was most likely coming from a place of fear. Especially if she lacked any substantial prior experience— which she obviously did— it would be understandable she wasn’t comfortable with intimacy yet. Hell, even he had been blindsided by it— the intensity of their bond, that is, and how it chose to manifest with such ardour. ‘She’s only deflecting. Don’t rise to the bait,’ he told himself. 

Still though, the advice was difficult to heed when faced with his horcrux’s difficult and rapidly souring disposition. 

“If you opened your eyes and abandoned your misplaced sympathies, you actually might see that your ‘family’ deserved it,” he pointed out, eyes flashing when he reached for her and she shrank back. “And tell me, what is exactly wrong with choosing me, Harri? I wouldn’t say I’m the most undesirable option. I would take care of you, you know, more so than any other possibly could. There is nothing to be scared of.”

Harri regarded him, her brows pulled together as she mulled over his words. Of course, there was some truth in what he said: she was scared. More than scared, really: she was terrified. Terrified of him and that cutting darkness hidden behind a pretty face— of how easily she had slipped and been lured in by the fantasy of a boy from a diary. But mostly, she was terrified of herself as much as she was of him. While she couldn’t claim to be an expert on the Dark Arts, she knew that it shouldn’t be possible for someone to cast an Unforgivable that easily— nevermind on their first attempt. That one would truly have to be demented— warped— to be able to achieve such a thing. 

So what did that say about herself?

It’d been instinctual, the way she shied away from his outstretched hand, too wary and too apprehensive of how easy it might be to lose control again. 

“You truly don’t see anything wrong with this? With what we just did?” she asked. Her gaze lifted from her empty glass to flit across his tensed expression. And, oh, how aware was she of his growing impatience, the beginnings of it flickering in the back of her mind. “At all?”

“No. I do not. But feel free to enlighten me. What is so immoral about giving in to something that’s only natural?”

“Because! You’re Lord Voldemort!” Harri shouted suddenly. “You kill and murder and maim. You’re everything that’s evil and dark in this world. And I’m supposed to be good, damn it! I’m supposed to be light.” She gestured wildly with her empty glass, unable to stop herself as her words came tumbling out. It was as though a faucet had abruptly been turned on, its handle rusted and corroded with no way of stopping its steady stream. And perhaps it wasn’t the wisest idea to chug brandy like it was water— but she figured she could use the liquid courage now more than ever. “I’m supposed to fight you, rise up against you! There isn’t a single, natural bloody thing about what we did!”

 Hysteria— Harri could feel it mounting in herself, sharp-edged and cutting into the very fabric of her morality. She might as well have been a boat with its sails tattered, stuck in a doldrum without the means to move on. How was she meant to? 

Flashes of Dumbledore formed in her mind, pale eyes holding nothing but disappointment behind his half-moon glasses— a look she saw countless times; salt poured onto an open wound. She’d just done the one thing he always preached against— had given into the darkness in herself, despite how many times he warned her to never heed it. And, lord, she had done so under the coaxing and instruction of his murderer

She wanted to throw up.

“I’m supposed to be the one everyone is banking on to right the mess you created. Not making out with my enemy and being persuaded to cast Unforgivables on Muggles! Do you really not see that?! That you’re a mo—,” she cut herself off, her jaw closing with an audible click as the last word died on her loosened tongue: monster

His brows rose at the fact she had raised her voice. So desperate, so convoluted, even her logic was lost to him as she fumbled to make sense of it. And not for the first time did he consider the number Dumbledore had done on the girl. Forcing her to grow into a mould that suited his own agenda— so much so that she was still trying to do his bidding, even while he rotted in an unmarked grave. 

It had been mostly out of curiosity when Voldemort slipped into her thoughts, not surprised that she was picturing the Headmaster’s disappointment. That damnable twinkle; the frown; the clicking of his tongue. It was a sight he, too, was familiar with— but, ah. There it was again.

That word.

Formed so clearly in her mind, chased by images of their encounter in the graveyard. Skeletal, bestial— disgraceful. Bordering more on a creature than a man, it was a product of a ritual gone astray; a consequence of his own greed to regain a physical body. And yet, despite his attempts to correct it— to erase it from her mind through the face he currently wore— that portrayal still lingered— festered — in the depths of her memory. A demon always hovering on the periphery and awaiting its summons to ruin all that he worked so hard to achieve. But what more could he possibly do? What else did she need from him to forget

Then again, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he?

Voldemort reflexively clenched his jaw, his knuckles bleeding white as his grip tightened on the edges of the glass bar cart— a need to physically ground himself and work through the bitter truth. Because, yes, while Dumbledore held blame in pushing a black and white view of her world— in shaping her into something so rigid, so inflexible— he, too, had some culpability. Pushed her towards it by serving as the very example of evil Dumbledore warned her of. So many years spent on a misguided mission to hunt her down. So many years passed as the star player in her nightmares.

So many years wasted.

There was an abrupt cracking sound. Spiderweb fractures fanned out from under his fingers, the bar cart bearing the brunt of his anger.

“Say it, Harri. I know you want to. Monster. That’s what you were intending, was it not?” But yet, despite how correct she was in calling him that— the validity of her feelings and the understanding that it was, perhaps, one of the greatest poisons to their relationship— he refused to apologise for it. He couldn’t. “It’s alright. View me as one if you wish, but know this: at least I am comfortable with it. I know who I am, what I am, what I’m capable of , and that, my little horcrux, is my greatest strength and your most fatal flaw.”

Looking away from the fractured glass and to her, he was unable to hold his tongue, “You could be so great, you know. A true prodigy. Look at how easily you cast the Cruciatus, after all. Do you think the average witch is capable of that? No. But instead of embracing it, you hide yourself. Your talents, your true disposition. And for what, exactly? To uphold the hopes and expectations of strangers you’ve never even met before? To keep clinging to this foolish notion that I am your enemy?” 

Harri reared back as the sorting hat’s words resurfaced: ‘You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head.’ They twisted in her; a knife wrenching in an already infected wound. ‘He’s right, ’ came a disloyal whisper that she wished— oh, how she bloody wished— she could ignore.

 After all, how many nights had she lied awake, torturing herself with ‘what could have been’s? What might have happened if she let herself be sorted into Slytherin? How differently might her life have looked if she didn’t deny herself? But that was her biggest flaw. She knew it, her friends knew it— hell even Dumbledore knew it: she had this ingrained desperation to be accepted. To be needed. So when it was revealed she had a purpose, a chance to mean something to others, she clung to it. It’d become her entire identity: Harri Potter and the Girl Who Lived synonymous, one unable to exist without the other. But, with it, a multitude of unintended consequences. Hiding her disposition— that inclination and draw she knew she felt to the darkness— concealing her weaknesses. Refusing to allow herself the experiences other teenagers were afforded— sacrificing herself over and over and over again. And for what? Look where she still ended up.

Shaking hands raised the tumbler to her mouth, tilting it back to get the final dregs and trying to let the meagre burn distract her. Distract her from his stinging honesty and bolster herself with the knowledge that it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, it really didn’t. She knew she would continue to hold onto that ‘foolish notion’ for as long as she could— because what was the alternative? It was the only life she’d ever known— and, more importantly, was how those who meant the most to her saw her. What would happen if she suddenly changed? If she gave up that mask? The pretence? 

‘They’ll leave you,’ that voice nagged. 

And it was right.

Green eyes squeezed shut— a shaky inhale and an equally shaky exhale.

“I know, Harri, you may not want to acknowledge it, but you took pleasure in casting that Unforgivable. In getting your revenge. There’s no point in convincing yourself otherwise,” he spoke in a deceivingly tender tone, taking a step closer towards her. “And I know you enjoyed what we shared. You felt the bond, our connection, just as much as I did.”

Voldemort reached forward to gently, lightly, grasp her chin. Her eyes opened as he did so; a spark of hope seeing the open conflict in them. 

“Do not deny it. Do not refuse us, Harri. We could be so spectacular together. Shape the world to our liking or create new ones, if we so wish. We could bring all those who have wronged us to heel and rule together. Just you and I,” he said. There was a persuading quality to his words as he spoke, each one felt— delivered— with a sincerity that kept her rooted to the spot. “Let me teach you how to control that darkness and find the balance you’re lacking. Let me grant you liberation. All you have to do is say yes.”

For a minute, there was another bout of silence as his thumb ran along her bottom lip, tracing its shape and feeling its softness. Their eyes locked. He searched hers eagerly— a triumph when he saw that she was actually considering it. And how he was willing the universe to make her agree— to accept it, him, without resistance. After all, she’d seen what they could be. What they could have— and he dared to even think that might be enough for her. Might be enough for her to let go of the past and move forward into a future that consisted of him and him alone. 

Harri studied him, allowing the touch as the seconds stretched on. He was looking at her with such such ambition and desire that it nearly tore her in two. The life he was presenting was so different— so different from the very same that her friends and family were fighting so valiantly for her to return to. And that was the harshness of it: no matter the choice she made, in the end someone would get hurt. 

Logically of course, she knew what the moral decision was. What the right one should be. After all, he was on the side of corruption, drenched in the blackest of magics. She’d seen his mindscape— had felt the extent of his defiled soul (a soul of which lived on in herself) and witnessed the path he wished to take her down. 

But if she knew all of this, why was it so hard to bring herself to say no? Especially when he was looking a bit less like a Dark Lord right now and just a man with clear longing in his burning eyes— a man she was painfully familiar with. A man seeking acceptance, belonging— wearing the same face and having the same soul of the boy she developed an unwitting kinship with all those years ago. And now, more than ever, she loathed him for regaining that angelic face: it would have been easier to deny a serpentine monster, after all. ‘But even Lucifer was beautiful once too,’ it was a thought that, for some reason, made her heart ache. 

Harri stepped out of reach. That twinge in her chest only sharpened when his hand dropped away and there was the barest flicker of hurt in his gaze. And while he quickly concealed it behind an indifferent mask, it hadn’t been fast enough— she had seen it. 

Tom,” she pleaded. His name spilled out before she could stop herself. 

Voldemort blinked. This was the first time she had ever used his name, he realised. In all the time they’d been together— in all of the months and weeks and days— his horcrux had carefully avoided using any title to address him. Not ‘Voldemort’, not ‘Dark Lord’, not ‘Your Majesty’ and, most certainly, not ‘Tom.’ He considered he should be furious— perhaps even demand she never use it again. After all, he had gone through great lengths to free himself of it, the terribly common name it was; the entire reason for ‘Voldemort’ and even ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ to begin with. And yet, for the strangest of reasons, the way she said it made it sound almost special . As if there were no other ‘Tom’s that existed in this world— a desire for her to say it again, that sacred one-worded prayer she had turned it into. 

“We crossed a line,” Harri fumbled to explain, trying to recover from her slip up. “A line that shouldn’t have even existed in the first place. This, whatever this was, can’t happen again.”

Still no reaction from him— save for that mildly pained look in his eyes.

Harri took another step back before turning on her heels. Was this his game? His angle? Manipulating her and trying to guilt her into giving in through a pretty face and a facade of hurt? She hoped it was: the idea he was faking it was somehow preferable to the one where he actually felt it.

The one where he was confused by her rejection— a rejection that, by all rights, he should have seen coming. ‘Remember who he is, Harri. What he’s done. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.’

Merlin, she had to get out of this room before she suffocated. 

Feet quickening in their retreat, she brusquely hurried for the door. Air— she needed air that wasn’t coloured by him and to think without feeling his breath down her neck. And to talk to someone— anyone. Anyone that wasn’t Barty or Narcissa or Voldemort for once— Snape. He came to mind without even prompting. Snape with his cool eyes and his lips pulled back into a sneer, even while he gave the best advice. 

Snape with his comfortable and familiar abruptness.

‘Go find Snape.’

“Alright, Harri. Have it your way then. Nothing will happen again until you wish it,” Voldemort called after her, desperate to stall her for just a moment. “But before you go, what should be done with the Muggles? They are, after all, your relatives. It seems only fair that you get to decide their fate.”

Harri froze. Right, Petunia and Vernon. Somehow, she’d forgotten about them entirely— but she remembered it now. Remembered how they looked, all battered and broken; the screams from Vernon when he was seized by a red-hot flash; the pleading cries from Petunia for her to stop; the stench of their fear. All of the evidence of what she had done.

Evidence she just wanted gone.

“Do whatever you want with them. I don’t care as long as you don’t drag me into it again,” she finally muttered. 

But just as her trembling fingers hovered over the door handle, her thoughts abruptly turned to her cousin. To Dudley. What about him? He hadn’t been in the cell with his parents— probably because he had been at Smeltings when Voldemort paid them a visit— but what was going to happen to him? True, he’d been a terror— had tormented, taunted, and mocked her all throughout their childhood— but did he deserve to die for such a thing? No. 

No, he didn’t. Sixteen years old was far too young to die; she, of all people, knew that. And in truth, it wasn’t necessarily his sin— he’d been a child simply going along with his parents’ decisions, acting on example rather than inherent spite. 

And as it stood, it was highly probable he was going to be like her soon enough anyhow: an orphan. That would be plenty of punishment enough— yet another life ruined by the mercurial whims of a Dark Lord. Only difference, of course, was that Dudley was likely going to end up in the loving home of Marge. He would never be without familial affection and love or kindness— bittersweet in a sense that, perhaps, he still might have a chance at a normal life.

At least one of them should.

“Just keep Dudley out of it,” she said, wrenching open the door. “He’s just a kid, after all.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 51: Lily Potter

Notes:

Hello everyone! My apologies for such a long wait— I had just finished my own exams on Tuesday and had to spend the week trying to prep for another term! To everyone who is back in school already *or is starting here soon* I wish you all good luck. Just know that I'm here, suffering alongside you lol.

This chapter is a bit of a long one so I hope that'll make up a bit for the wait! I actually enjoyed writing this one quite a bit because I'm rather soft for any Snape and Harri interactions! I hope you guys will enjoy it as well (and if anyone gets the Greek myth references I've sprinkled throughout this chapter, I will love you forever! 😂)

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



In the humble opinion of Severus Snape, it was a lovely day for tea.

Situated in the Malfoy’s solarium— the warming sunshine hazily filtering in through the windows and the fragrant potted hyacinths turning the air sweet— he found there was, truly, not a better way to pass an idle afternoon. 

Of course, he knew he probably shouldn’t— that, rather, it would be wiser to spend his free time in a more productive manner. He did have a school to run, after all—  the ceaseless headache it was, constantly balancing ledgers and doling out punishments and dealing with the complaints of his staff— and his personal brewing stores were in dire need of replenishing. Instead, he could use this opportunity to visit Diagon Alley— perhaps even gander down Knockturn for some of the less-than-desirable ingredients— or focus on restocking the exorbitant amount of Calming Draughts he’d been going through.

And yet, he found himself here all the same, unable to fully resist the temptation good tea and good company posed.

Then again, he figured where was the harm in allowing himself this? It was seldom the chances he had to relax, after all. To socialise

See, in all of the years he’d spent in dedicated service to the Dark Lord, Severus generally made it a point to limit his interactions with the other Death Eaters outside of their meetings. And that meant, consequently, his options for companionship were limited. On a whole, he thought them to be an unsavoury lot; people who reveled in heated discussions of torture and endorsed a supremacy based around lineage. Not to mention being a Half-blood himself— a status that most viewed as barely permissible— he was often at the centre of their ridicule, shuffled down the perceived hierarchy of importance and sniggered at . It didn’t matter how accomplished he was, or how highly the Dark Lord regarded him, he remained unworthy of their ‘prestigious’ circles. They constantly reminded him of it too, reprimanding him for being too brusque, too curt, too ill-mannered— and, worst of all, a traitor. Viewed as Dumbledore’s lapdog, they sneered that he’d been brought to heel by another master. Entirely disloyal.

Though, in all honesty, their disdain and distance suited him just fine. Being cast as a reject, and lacking the sizable repertoire of acquaintances that Pure-bloods used— traded— as their own special currency, was not new to him. Not by any means. But it was also how he had been able to achieve so much so quickly. While his comrades— a term he used in the lightest sense—  were busy parading about, tittering over gossip and flaunting their wealth during their soirees, he was working. Brewing, casting, planning from the safety of his dungeons and only ever making an appearance when it was deemed necessary, his solitary life had served him well overall. Kept him afloat and let him survive for as long as he had— enabled him to rise as the youngest professor, and now Headmaster, Hogwarts had ever seen.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t lonely every now and again. But that’s precisely where Narcissa Malfoy came in. Despite his general disdain for his Lord’s inner-circle, she was the one person he didn’t fully mind. 

While they’d been amicable enough at school, their friendship had flourished in the years following their graduation— enough so that he had become her only son’s godfather. Narcissa, he found, was rather unlike the other Death Eaters. Composed, alarmingly perceptive, and unwilling as he to engage in unnecessary acts of violence, she seemed to have a head on her shoulders— one that wasn’t completely empty and filled with a mind of her own. It was what they primarily bonded over— these quiet secular opinions that they only ever felt free enough to express in each other’s company. And though she didn’t bear the mark herself, he respected her and how far she had climbed. How much she’d come to be valued by the Dark Lord, sitting in on his meetings and providing her insight whenever asked. 

Yes, though he would refuse to admit it aloud, he liked her. She was the closest thing he could lay claim to as a friend and being in her presence was refreshing. With her refined manners and dulcet voice, Narcissa was the balm he sorely needed— a grounding rock in the ever-carrying current of life. 

So naturally, when an owl had arrived that morning with an invitation, Severus simply couldn't refuse. 

“Tell me, how is my son doing?” Narcissa asked, stirring a sugar cube into her tea— the quiet clink of a spoon against the fine china’s rim. While she attempted to appear uninterested, there was a keenness in her voice that betrayed her. “I imagine he must be quite busy, seeing as the time to write to his mother has escaped him.”

“Draco’s doing well enough, I suppose,” Severus responded. “Though there seems to have been a falling out between him and Zabini. He’s also apparently given up on Quidditch for the year. According to him, there’s no point in playing against anyone other than Potter.”

Narcissa returned the tea spoon to the saucer. Her painted lips thinned and she sighed, almost as though she wasn’t surprised by his answer. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I, for one, never cared too much for that boy or his mother. As for Quidditch, it was to be expected. Did you know he only tried out because of Harri? Something about not wanting to be bested by her again, of all things.”

“Is that right?”

“Indeed.”

For a moment, there was a pause— contemplative in nature as though Narcissa was trying to gather her thoughts. He could see them there, clouding over her pale eyes; several emotions filtering through, a rare instance in which she allowed them. Fondness, resignation, sadness, and then disapproval. He watched it all in silence, waiting until she spoke again.

“The poor child.” She’d given a sympathetic shake of her head. “It’s difficult to imagine how she must be feeling right now. What with her friends being back at school.” 

Severus only gave a noncommittal hum. 

Dark eyes fixing on the oolong tea in his cup— the fragrant curls of steam rolling off its surface— his mind wandered to the same thoughts he always had whenever the girl was brought up. Several months had already passed since the Dark Lord infiltrated Hogwarts, but her situation had yet to change. Of course, he understood that she was their Lord’s ward, and therefore it made sense for her to be living in the manor— it was the why, however, that escaped him. After all, the prophecy still existed, unfulfilled. And yet, their Lord seemed far less concerned with it now than he had in the past, brushing it aside as though it hadn’t been his driving force for years. 

Overall, the sudden change in his behaviour was bewildering. Perturbing— almost as much as seeing Harri Potter seated among the Death Eaters, dressed in finery suited to an aristocrat and with the Dark Lord’s familiar, of all things, curled possessively about her shoulders. Truly, there were no words that could suffice in describing how tense he became during those meetings, some irrational part of him just waiting for the snake to extend its jaws and swallow her whole. 

Yes, the stress brought on by her situation had become his constant companion of late, the same question hounding him through the night: how long was this going to last? Sure, it seemed that Potter was safe for now— but what would happen when she turned eighteen and the legal guardianship was annulled? After all, it was common knowledge that their Lord was freely using her name, her fame, to publicly support himself and his mandates. That he’d been helping himself to the wealth in her vaults to fund his campaigns and the costly reformations of his Citadel. But those resources were bound to be cut off eventually. And that? That left the girl’s future murky, uncertain.

The only thing he really managed to take solace in was the fact he’d been instructed to teach her Occlumency. Because that, at least, meant there was an investment being put into her. How would it make any sense to go through the effort of training her if she was destined for slaughter?

Then again, that’s exactly what Dumbledore had done, wasn’t it?

Severus uneasily swirled the cup in his hands, frowning as the ripples crested the sides. 

And though he loathed it, her absence did, admittedly, cause some disquiet in himself. Despite visiting her on a weekly basis, not seeing the girl romp through the stone halls and chase after her friends with annoyingly loud peals of laughter was— strange. In fact, he might even be inclined to agree with Draco: it was painfully tranquil without Potter around. To the point that it felt as if the castle was put into a stagnant state— a stasis. He might even go as far to say, at times, he missed her rebellious antics and complete disregard for authority— her uncanny ability to stir up trouble and keep him on his toes.

Of course, he would never admit to any of this. 

In fact, swallowing his tongue seemed far more preferable. 

“The girl. Is she coping well?” he finally asked, attempting to exude a blasé disinterest.

“Within her means, I would like to think. The Dark Lord has charged me with teaching her etiquette. While it hasn’t been an easy endeavour, she is a quick learner who has an inherent grace.” Narcissa returned her cup and saucer to the side table, her hands folding in her lap. “He has also scheduled an appointment with a healer for her this Wednesday. All routine, I was assured,” she added hastily when his shoulders tensed. “Nothing more.”

“But Severus, I must confess I’m rather troubled with our Lord’s recent behaviour,” she said, nonchalantly assessing the colourful petit fours arranged on the tiered platter, “that he may be harbouring some inappropriate intentions.”

“Narcissa, careful. You know it is not our place to pass judgement onto him,” Severus cut in sharply. Dark eyes narrowing a fraction, they briefly flickered towards the door— wary— before looking back at her. “His temper and affections are mercurial at the best of times. And we both know how easy it is to fall out of his grace.” 

“I’m well aware, but I’m speaking to you now as a friend, not a follower,” she responded, just as sharp and just as cutting. Narcissa lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned forward in her chair. “You care for the child, I know you do. Do not try to deny it. In all of the years you and I have known each other, how many times have you interceded on the behalf of another? Yet, when it concerns Harri, you do so readily.” 

“The way he looks at her, Severus, is unnatural,” she continued, lips pursed. “There’s more to their relationship than meets the eye. Though I cannot claim to understand what it is, it unnerves me all the same. And I worry that this obsession with her is beginning to take its toll. She’s just a child, after all. Perhaps you might convince our Lord to let her return to Hogwarts?” 

Severus reclined in his own chair, fingers steepling as his attention strayed to the world beyond the solarium’s glass walls. The sunshine was mild today, but stronger than it’d been in a while— an affirmation to the ending of winter and the beginning of spring. But even then, there were greying clouds gathering in the distance— rolling in, steadfast and sure and bringing with them a certain kind of gloom. Strangely befitting for the turn their conversation had taken.

In truth, he was unable to disagree with Narcissa: there was an unnatural aspect to the relationship between Potter and the Dark Lord. Almost a sort of enthrallment. And, to a certain extent, it seemed their Lord was more aware of it than the girl was. It was difficult to deny when it was his fingers that always seemed to linger— brief touches coming as wandering hands brushing against hers, twisting in her hair, resting upon her shoulders. Inconspicuous little moments that, once noticed, were impossible to ignore. And that was all in public. No small part of him was horrified to even hazard a guess as to what went on between them behind closed doors. After all, he’d been summoned to heal her once already due to a nearly damaged windpipe and it begged the question of how often did similar things occur? How much further did it go?

But, surely— even as depraved as the man was— their Lord had to have some shred of decency? Enough gentlemanly pride to know not to force himself upon her?

It was his hope— one that he clung to desperately rather than considering the alternative. 

“I only advise when he asks, Narcissa. Attempting to do so without prompting often leads to disaster,” Severus eventually muttered, his voice flat as he watched a sparrow flit past the window. “In any case, he would be more disinclined than ever to let her return to Hogwarts. Not with the Order becoming active once again.” 

“But surely he could be persuaded? Now that you’re Headmaster?” Narcissa pressed, leaning forward to place an imploring hand on his knee. “It’s not right, Severus, for a teenage girl to be locked away. Though I try to visit with her often, it’s a far cry from being enough.” She frowned when he didn’t respond right away. “Can you not see that? She should be with her friends, not cooped up in the manor and isolated. She needs structure in her life. A routine, a sense of normalcy, and, more importantly, distance from him.”   

He opened his mouth to explain— to argue it was out of his control and his power— when the solarium’s heavy oak door swung open.

 In unison, their heads snapped towards the interruption; a palpable surprise shared between them when the very girl in question was lingering in the doorway.

For a lack of a better description, Harri Potter was chaos personified: the human embodiment of disorder . The dress she was wearing had been one that obviously spent the night on the floor— wrinkled beyond saving— and its buttons relayed that she'd done them up in haste. Each one was currently mismatched, paired to the wrong slot. She wore no stockings, no socks, and her left leg dangled in the air as she tried to slip on the low-heels— a curse when she nearly lost her balance, her hand shooting out to grasp the door frame to steady herself. Her normally tidy auburn hair had likewise suffered from her hurry— loose, unbrushed and as wild as the look in her glassy eyes. But her questionable appearance wasn’t what was alarming to Severus. No. 

No, it was her neck.

More specifically, it was the discoloration of it— wine-deep blooms unfurling and twisting against the pale canvas of her skin. They wound their way up from underneath her collar, the visible few undoubtedly having more companions hidden away. And there— teeth marks . Savagely impressed into her neck, angry looking; deep indentations that betrayed the nature of what had happened. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw the revulsion flicker across Narcissa’s otherwise prim face. And the glance she eventually directed his way spoke volumes: ‘See?’ It seemed to say, ‘This is exactly what I meant.’  

“Professor— oh, Mrs. Malfoy! I, um, Barty said that you would be here?” Harri fumbled. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, Harri,” Narcissa was the one to speak for them both, the forced quality of her smile bleeding into her voice. “Severus and I were having a chat, that’s all. What do you need?”

Harri’s attention bounced from Narcissa to Severus, her teeth worrying her bottom lip when she noticed his chilly demeanour. She wasn’t entirely even sure as to why she was seeking him out. It wasn’t as if their relationship had been the most loving, after all. In fact, it was borne entirely out of snarky retorts and cynical insults; of chiding exasperations and unfair punishments. And several times he made it clear she was a headache to him— that he loathed, above all else, being her ‘babysitter’. Plus, he was one of the Dark Lord’s acolytes. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he might very well go behind her back and tell Voldemort everything: her darkest thoughts, her weaknesses, her fears, the soft spots for him to twist to his advantage.

And yet, despite all of that, some small voice encouraged her to find comfort in the man she’d known for years. To, perhaps, take some of the calmness he exuded and use it for her own— to relax into the familiarity of him and forget for a moment. 

“I see. Then could I perhaps borrow Professor Snape? Just for a few minutes?” Harri asked. Absentmindedly, her thumb had taken to running over the opposite palm in a soothing tic.

Narcissa’s pale eyes lingered on the girl’s hands, her feigned smile slipping. With a sigh, she rose from her seat and headed towards the door, pausing just long enough to place a gentle hand on Harri’s shoulder. “Borrow him for as long as you would like.” There was the vaguest attempt at a reassuring squeeze, followed by a cutting look tossed over her shoulder. “We were just finishing up anyways.”

Severus was more than fully aware of the look Narcissa had sent his way— a warning for him to be kind. Compassionate, careful with his words. Then again, even without her demanding such, he would’ve been anyway. Potter looked, after all— well. She looked as if she had enough rough treatment to last a lifetime. 

Only just glancing over the marks dotting her throat— unwilling to let himself look too long for the fear of where his mind would go— he pensively studied her. The taut shoulders; the anxiety in her eyes; the bottom lip bitten raw. Something wasn’t right with her. Not right at all. It was difficult to explain, but it felt as if something had shifted in her— changed, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. 

“What can I do for you, Potter?” He spoke first, his index finger tapping rhythmically against the chair’s armrest. She didn't quite seem to know, though, judging by the way her mouth kept opening and closing, struggling to answer.

“I—” Harri trailed off, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. And then those green eyes, inexplicably, drifted to the window. “Can we go for a walk? Outside?” 

His gaze followed hers. She was looking straight at the hedge maze in the distance, a longing sparking in her vivid eyes. And he realised, quite suddenly, he hadn’t seen such from her in a long, long time. Longing, that is— hope. Narcissa’s words came back to him, haunting with their argument that the Dark Lord’s presence was taking its toll. Perhaps she was right. 

Slowly, he rose from his chair and gave a silent, acquiescing nod. 



They ended up strolling side by side in the spiralled hedge maze— the one in which, Harri was quick to recognise, her bathroom window overlooked. At first, Barty had attempted to trail after them— but Severus sent him off with a glare and a clipped drawl that he could handle a wandless sixteen-year old. It almost made her want to hug the dour man.

By this point in the season, the snow had mostly melted as sparse blades of grass peeked through the scattered pockets of white. Overhead, there was the trill of birdsong — the promise of warmer weather that was sure to come— making their walk strangely idyllic. Blissful, even. Enough so that she felt a daring sort of joy.

How long had it been, after all, since she last ventured outside? Not just on the veranda overlooking the manor’s acreage— but actually outside? 

It was grounding, feeling the thawing earth give beneath each step and being surrounded by the calls of nature, breathing in the crisp air that froze her lungs in the best of ways. A weight seemingly lifted; a moment of respite without having someone watch her every move. And though it was, by no means, a temperate summer breeze, her arms were thrown wide in welcome of it all the same. 

Nature was seemingly coaxing the darkness and gloom out of her, stowing it away in the towering brambles of the hedges instead— a secret claimed, a secret kept. And the more Harri walked on, the more the meagre sunshine became her Lethe, carrying off the memories she didn’t quite want to keep. Smouldering red eyes; the heat of searching fingers; the fervent confessions— all of it seemed strangely distant, left behind in the mansion and unable to follow as they wandered, ever-deeper, into the labyrinth. 

Severus watched as the girl traipsed ahead, his pace slowing enough to give her a sense of space, of freedom. An illusion, a lovely one, but still one nonetheless. Because that was the truth of it: an illusion. It had hit him, as she walked on and he lingered, right then and right there: Harri Potter was never going to be fully free again, was she? No, long gone were her days of moving without someone in her shadow— of being able to go to Hogsmeade on the weekends or roaming Diagon Alley unattended. It was a reality that was making itself clearer and clearer as the days bled into weeks and the weeks into months: this was it for her. And he had helped make it so. Even if it was to save her in the end, he was guilty of it— clipping her wings— wasn’t he?

A chime of delighted laughter yanked him out of his melancholy— a twitch in the corners of his mouth, the threat of a smile, despite it all. The girl had crouched down to point out the tender bud of a rose— a lone survivor from the frost, wholly intent on blooming before its time. Hands gently cupping it, she called out for him, auburn head tilted. He froze. 

For a moment, he couldn’t move. 

Couldn’t think. 

The world fell away as he was seized by memory without warning. Down to the way those green eyes— those startlingly green eyes— glittered in their excitement and her smile beamed— the gentleness in how she held the rose, cradling it as though it were a fragile thing— it was all uncanny. Lily. This— this was a graven image of a dead woman. Debilitating.  By all accounts, he wondered if this might be considered a form of madness: seeing a woman long since gone. Or, maybe, how he continued to willingly involve himself with her child— a girl that he, truly, had no claim towards, but felt one all the same. 

Madness in the constant torment it was whenever he experienced moments— like now— where she seemed less like ‘Harri’ and more like ‘Lily’. 

For Harri, this was the first time she’d seen a flower in months. Not the already-dead sort that perfumed the manor and were arranged in neat, little displays on every table— but a living, in the ground flower . And, for the strangest of reasons, it elicited a euphoric sort of anticipation. No matter how much she enjoyed the snow— the cosiness winter brought, the heat of the fire and the comfort of thick socks— spring was, secretly, her favourite time of year. After all, spring signalled the resuming of Quidditch and longer days spent outside; of scratchy sweaters being packed away and the soft linens of their warm-weather uniforms. Spring meant pleasant April showers— the kind that she loved getting caught in, warm in nature and the sort that turned the air fresh and sweet. And the greenery.

That was her favourite part. 

Nature finally waking up after long, sleepy months— plants unfurling from under blankets of white, new life abounding. There was something inspiring, she found, in the way flowers always managed to come back, no matter how deeply they’d been buried under the ice and cold. And despite her aunt viewing it more as a punishment— a chore and busywork delegated to her niece— she honestly always loved tending to the gardens. It’d been the one thing she never fully minded, feeling the damp dirt gather under her nails and seeing what would eventually sprout. Often, they were petunias, what with how much her aunt loved her namesake, but still—

Petunia

There was the sudden flash of a gaunt-looking woman in her mind— of beady eyes watching her with open hatred; grating screams; the smell of burnt flesh and bile. The overwhelming pleasure that followed; a rapture as her lungs filled with the scent of sweetened smoke. The way Vernon’s cries for mercy sounded almost mellifluous in her ringing ears— how much they had pleased her. Her throat constricted. 

She dropped the rose, terrified by the memories that came rushing back. Why she had sought Snape out in the first place. Why they were in the gardens— why she fled from the study. Oh, how she even dared to think, just for a second, that she deserved to forget. What was wrong with her?!

“I did something terrible, Professor,” Harri admitted, voice cracking. “Really, really terrible.”

Severus reeled at the sudden change in her demeanour— at the tears that’d sprung up, clinging to the corners of her lashes. Though he wasn’t proud to admit it,  he was akin to a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car when that misted gaze turned on him. There was just something so raw, so desperate in her eyes— so defeated— that it caught him off-guard. After all, in the years they’d known one another, he could count on one hand all of the times he’d seen her cry

“My uncle, I tortured him,” she explained without prompting, “I just— I felt all of this hatred and it was so easy to give in.” 

He blinked at the confession. Admittedly, he’d often wondered what became of the Dursleys after that night, but decided, in the end, it was best to simply not know. He’d done what was asked of him— and that was enough. Why go chasing after the gruesome details? However, to hear that she was involved? That she had punished them herself?  Well, it was, frankly, a bit unnerving. 

 “I used the Cruciatus on him,” she continued, her hands flexing, unflexing repeatedly, “I don’t regret making him hurt, though I do regret using it. Not because Vernon suffered, but because I slipped. That’s the fucked up part. I regret that I used it because I think it woke up something in me.” 

Harri shook her head, aware she was rambling now but unable to stop, “Still, it felt so good in the moment that I— and then with him. With Voldemort, of all people. And then I just gave my aunt and uncle to him to handle because I couldn’t —” There was a lump now in her throat, nearly impossible to speak around. “I did the one thing that Dumbledore always said I shouldn’t. I gave in. There’s something wrong with me, I know it. I can feel it. Something vile.”

Green eyes lifted from her trembling hands to the mottled sky above, rapidly trying to blink back the well of tears. “What if I’m becoming evil, Professor?” 

If there was one fundamental truth to Severus Snape— his, arguably, most fatal flaw— it would be that he didn’t handle the emotions of others very well. Especially when said emotions led to tears— especially tears. In fact, during the few times he interacted with Draco as a child, it had been his policy to call for Narcissa at the first sign of any impending breakdown. He just wasn’t cut out for it: consoling and comforting. And that was with an infant— a child whose problems were so unsophisticated, uncomplicated, that they were remedied with a pacifier or a stuffed toy. 

So what the hell was he supposed to do when faced with a complex moral dilemma?

He barely had the answers to solve his own issues, let alone enough to sort hers out. Not to mention his coping methods weren’t exactly the healthiest. After all, he firmly believed ‘suppression’ was the best option— often throwing himself into his work until he could forget— but how would that help her? Plus—

Wait. Did she say she used the Cruciatus curse? That wasn’t possible, though. Was it? No one with a predisposition towards light magic should have been able to cast an Unforgivable with the ease she described. Not unless— 

His mouth parted at the revelation: she wasn’t light in nature. It was the only plausible explanation. But still, he’d been so certain she was— that she had taken after her father’s magic and that’s why she aligned herself with Dumbledore’s ideologies. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more the little things that never quite added up clicked into place with startling clarity. 

The way she flourished in the old Defence classes and then in the rebranded Introduction to the Dark Arts curriculum. 

The way dark creatures and objects seemed to naturally flock to her. 

The way she always seemed to perform best while experiencing intense bouts of negative, rather than positive, emotion. 

Her ability to speak parseltongue. 

Dumbledore’s apparent warnings for her not to give in.

Yes, Harri Potter, the Chosen One was dark

And then it hit him, rather belatedly: the change he sensed earlier— the energy he’d felt when she first entered the room, charging the air— that had been her magic shifting, hadn’t it? Merlin, how did he possibly not recognise it sooner? True, he wasn’t the most sensitive when it came to magical signatures— but still, even he should have been able to see the signs, close as she was to reaching her maturity. That is, unless there was something blocking its detection, or— Merlin. Could she have been suppressing it? No, surely even she wasn’t that reckless to try to control something she couldn’t. That was exactly how Obscurials were made, after all— how people ended up slipping when they least expected it. How they got hurt. Of course, knowing Potter’s stubbornness, she probably had been. Hell, it wouldn’t even surprise him if she had known the consequences and yet still blatantly chose to do so. 

Severus opened his mouth, a sharp reprimand at the ready— but then the first few tears slipped free, and, quite  suddenly, he forgot his anger. It fizzled away from him, dampened by the sight of her wet cheeks— panic . His mind went infuriatingly blank once again. What was he supposed to say to her? What could he possibly offer her in terms of comfort? Console her with? How could— and then, without being summoned, there was a memory. Faint, but nonetheless still raw; a flash of red hair, the exact same question asked under the privacy of a weeping willow. He didn't want to go back there— revisit that time— but it was the only thing he could really think of. 

“Your mother,” Severus forced out, faltering. He had to clear his throat in order to continue. “Your mother,” he repeated, “asked me the same thing when she also discovered her magic’s inclination.”

 Those green eyes swung back to him, wide and glassy. Much to his relief, however, there was a pause in their tears. Encouraged, he took a wary half-step closer. “And what I am about to tell you now is precisely what I said to her years ago: your magic does not make you inherently good or evil. It is only your actions that can define you.” 

Harri blinked owlishly at Snape, trying to process what he just told her— a throb in her chest, her temples. Did she hear him right? Her mother, the woman people always said had been unfailingly gentle, was a dark witch? It was— strange, to say the very least. So incongruent with the image she had of Lily Potter. 

Suddenly, a hand appeared in her periphery, extended in silent invitation. Taking in the tense expression on Snape’s sallow face— his thin lips set into a frown; a heavy line between his brows— she forced herself to accept it. Hand slipping into his, she allowed herself to be lifted from the thawing, damp ground.

“A dark core, a dark inclination, Harri, should not automatically be equated to being evil,” Snape surmised. “It simply means that you are ruled by your passion and negative emotions more than others. That’s it. Nothing more and nothing less.” 

“But you don’t understand,” she protested, dropping her hand from his. “I tortured him! Vernon, without hesitation— and I enjoyed it. That is evil, Professor!” 

Severus regarded her, his frown deepening at the dismay that shone wetly in her eyes. It was becoming clear to him that she wasn’t looking to be comforted or excused— but, rather, to be condemned instead. In a sense, he could relate. Commiserate, even, with this want to not be forgiven. And he could understand somewhat that this probably terrified her; the fact she was finally forced to acknowledge the subconscious bitterness she harboured towards her relatives and the resulting relief from getting to express it. Then, of course, there was the other aspect of this all— the one that still went unnamed, hanging between them, demanding attention: the bruises adorning her neck. It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with the heady effect dark casting had on adults, nevermind teenagers. But that was a matter for a different time and a different place. One that, he secretly hoped, he would never have to discuss.

“As you know, I have spent many years in service to both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. And in those years, I’ve seen actions carried out by either side that could be classified as evil,” he said softly, his feet carrying him further into the maze. “Whether you choose to believe my words or not, they are the truth. A single deed borne out of a lack of discipline and passionate anger is not enough to make you such.” 

Harri gaped as Severus rounded the manicured hedge— a momentary pause before, eventually, she trailed after him, suppressing the urge to argue he was wrong. Everyone was. To point out that he was blissfully ignorant of the truth. Ever since she was a baby, ever since the second air had filled her lungs again after her death, she’d been marked as an evil— one that violated all of the universe’s sacred laws. And for once, she just wanted someone to finally agree with her and understand what unholy sort of creature she was. 

But yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say any of it. 

Rather, her mind refused to move past Snape’s earlier confession about Lily. It was perturbing. Her mother— a woman once remarked on as being ‘uncommonly kind’  by Remus—  had been drawn to the dark arts. And how she was suddenly desperate for more. What did others think of her when they found out? Or did they even know? How did she overcome it? Did she ever give in? Of course, she knew that this was Snape’s roundabout way of distracting her, of curbing her existential dread by dangling a carrot just out of reach, but it was working. Alarmingly well.

Stubbornly wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, she took another hesitant step before breaking into a jog to catch up with him. “You said my mother had a dark disposition,” she prompted, mildly surprised with how long Snape’s strides were.

“So I did.”

He sharply rounded the corner and Harri followed, irritated when he offered nothing more on the subject. Admittedly, the topic of her parents had always been a bit— odd for her. Mostly because, by a large part, they were unknown. While she knew what they looked like from a tattered few photographs and a dusty album she received at the age of eleven, their personalities eluded her— remained only vaguely constructed through stories and secondhand accounts. And even as people expected her to miss them, to mourn their deaths as they did, she often couldn’t really bring herself to. It was a secret she was unwilling to tell even Hermione, too self-conscious of coming across as cold and apathetic— but it was the truth. Sure, she ached for the idea of parents— the life of what could have been— but not specifically for Lily and James Potter as individuals. Hell, she didn’t know what their hobbies had been, or what foods they preferred, or their favourite colours. And really, it was difficult to play the filial daughter to complete strangers.

Of course, between her parents, she supposed she could say she knew James a bit better. In no small part that was due to Sirius and Remus and the tales of their exploits as the Marauders (though, admittedly, half of their stories went over her head, so ladened with inside jokes as they were). But Lily was rarely ever mentioned in them. Whenever she was, it was mostly about her chastising them for their immaturity, or her finding a loophole to get them out of their messes. Quite frankly, it painted her in a boring light. James was brash, daring; a Gryffindor through and through (as Sirius often said) who took the form of a stag more often than not and spent his time in the sky rather than in the library. In contrast, Lily seemed, well, plain. Kind and beautiful, yes— though nothing extraordinary. But perhaps, there was indeed something more to her— something as exciting as the daringness of James— something complex that went beyond the superficial image people had of her. And now, Harri figured, it was the perfect opportunity to ask.

She studied Severus’s stern profile— his somberness and unsmiling mouth— before working up the courage to ask, “What was she like, exactly? My mother?”

It was impossible to miss how he had stiffened. 

For a moment, she feared that he would ignore her. But then, much to her surprise, he paused mid-step and gave a resigned sort of sigh.

“Your mother was an exceptional witch,” he muttered, dark eyes lifting to the sky now mottled with clouds— a stretching sea of gathering grey. “During our time at school, she was both my closest friend and my greatest competition. I suppose you might say she loved winning, but had a rare sort of grace even when she lost. In fact, she made it a point to always congratulate me if I managed to score higher than her.” There was a tightness in the corners of his mouth, but the words kept flowing, “and she had this most peculiar habit of seeing the best in people, even when she probably shouldn’t have. Far too forgiving and far too compassionate at the worst of times.” 

Severus could feel the weight of Harri's full attention— and he knew that, if he dared to look over, it would be to see a ghost at his side. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Lily was there with them now, hidden somewhere in the towering brambles. If it was her phantom hands he felt pressing down about his shoulders, or the whisper of her breath on his nape. That, maybe, she was summoned by his reminiscence— was finally, finally, heeding his daily prayers for her to return to him. 

And there, just a few feet ahead, an unexpected handful of leaves. Burnt orange, carried on by the wind and curling playfully up towards the heavens on an invisible draft— a sign, perhaps, an answer to his question about her presence. It was a foolish interpretation— wishful thinking, really— but he clung to it, choosing to believe all the same. Merlin, how long had it been since he’d talked about her? Actually talked, that is, rather than reliving the past in his head? 

It was— unexpectedly cathartic

“You look so much like her, though you’re probably tired of hearing that,” he said, a bittersweet sorrow coiling tightly about his heart. 

It was true: the girl outwardly resembled so little of James that he often wondered if she’d been formed solely from Lily. If she had been fashioned from clay and given life through her mother’s magic, rather than natural conception. It was to the point that it was downright alarming at times— their similarities. The same beauty mark under their chin; the same way their eyes crinkled when they laughed; the same brow shape and the mannerisms expressed through them. Really, it was only their colourations that set them apart, the daughter’s hair a touch darker than the mother’s. And those eyes— curse green and so bright to the point of being unnatural. Yes, those eyes were undeniably Harri’s. Lily’s had never been that unnerving— never that haunting to look into. 

But still, those were all things so easily overlooked with a first glance— detrimental to his sanity. How many times had he seen the girl on his periphery and had to do a double take? Almost nearly called out the wrong name? How many times had it felt as though he were a bystander, rewatching the past all over again? Her being sorted into Gryffindor; her lounging under the weeping willow by the Black Lake; her trudging to Hogsmeade through the drifting snow, bundled up tightly in her house colours. Absolutely crushing

Harri blinked, listening to his strained voice with an unusual amount of focus. Normally, it frustrated her when she heard those words— that she looked like her mother, her existence overshadowed by their wistfulness for a dead woman. Yet, it felt different when it came from Snape. Strangely enough, it didn’t bother her then.

Following his sombre gaze further down the labyrinth, she watched the dancing leaves in a companionable silence. The last remnants of autumn that, by all accounts, should have long since decayed, it was mesmerising how they seemed to chase each other. Lifting higher, higher, until they vanished altogether, swept away over the tops of the hedges and out of sight. 

“Did you know her wand was a willow? She would have been an excellent healer, given the chance,” Snape’s voice had lowered to a whisper. “It was a dream of hers, in fact, to be a Mediwitch. That and to be a mother.”

And yet, neither of those were ever fully realised. 

Severus continued walking. Twenty-one years old, a life that should have been full of opportunity, but ended before anything substantial could’ve come out of it. Well, save for one thing— the thing that was currently trailing a few feet behind him, her legs working furiously to keep up. Just one aspect of her lifelong mission; motherhood experienced for such a transient burst of time, one wondered if it could count. But even then, Lily had proven herself to be stronger than the Leto of the myths— had readily made the ultimate sacrifice when she shouldn’t have. 

It was his point proven tenfold: she had been too compassionate and too fierce in her love. 

“At one point, the Dark Lord tried to recruit her. It was long before you were born, of course. He took an interest in both of your parents, strong as they were, but Lily,” he mused, interlacing his fingers behind his back, “was something else entirely. She held such immense power, yet refused to truly use it. Never in anger, or in grief. She always stayed her wand, no matter the circumstances. However, it wasn’t out of patience. It was out of fear. Fear of her own potential, her magical.” 

Harri nearly stumbled on her next step. Voldemort had tried to recruit her parents? Her mother? Well, that was disconcerting, to say the least. Especially since her entire understanding of them had been built around their status as freedom fighters for the Order. However, she didn’t have much time to dwell on the hypothetical as Snape’s pace quickened. 

“Despite the attempts I made to get her to see reason and accept her magic, I believe she never truly did. There is a saying, after all, that willow wands choose owners who have immense insecurities, whether they’re aware of them or not.” He veered sharply to the left, ignoring Harri’s protests to slow down. “It devastated her when she discovered what her magic’s predisposition meant and, in the end, crippled her. She was so preoccupied with what others would think that she never even tried for her dreams. And on that night when the Dark Lord came for you, it was that fear that didn't even allow her to lift her wand.” 

“What—?”

Severus finally slowed as the entrance to the maze reappeared before them. Overhead, pockets of golden light lazily lanced through some of the gathering clouds. “I mention all of this to you, Harri, as both a lesson and a warning. You cannot hide from your true nature. Any attempts to do so will lead to regret and ruin.”

Harri glanced uneasily towards the open, embellished gate that marked the beginning of the garden. In the background, Malfoy Manor loomed— a silent threat. Arriving back at the entrance made her suddenly recall the worries she’d somehow forgotten up until now— but, oh, how they came rushing back. 

Swallowing thickly, her attention flickered back to Severus. Part of her wasn’t quite ready to give up his company yet.  “Professor, please.” Unthinkingly, she reached for his forearm.  “I don’t know what to do. How do—where do I go from here?”

Severus glanced down to the pale hand latched onto him. There was a tremble held in her slight fingers, subtle and barely noticeable— but it nonetheless spoke volumes, reminding him, rather bitterly, of how young she actually was. In spite of all of the deeds and epics surrounding her— the myth and the legend of what she had accomplished—the fact was plain: she was a child. Scared and looking to others for answers, for help, still too young to know how to navigate the world properly. And inwardly, he cursed. Cursed the Dark Lord, cursed Dumbledore, himself, the whole lot of their world— each and every one of them sharing in the guilt of placing such pressure on her to begin with. Yes, he had failed her. They all did. With their never-ending expectations, with their continuous worship, they had failed her. 

A bitter bile crawled up his throat when those lost green eyes searched his. Well, perhaps there was still a chance. Perhaps he still could do something right. For himself, for Lily, for her— could, maybe, hopefully, begin to somehow atone for all the wrongs done to the girl.

“I suggest you heed my advice then, Harri. Lean into it. Learn from your mother and do not relive her mistakes,” he said, removing her hand— a brief moment where his thin fingers cradled hers; a fleeting squeeze— before dropping it. “Take what he is offering, use it to your advantage. You are smart, more so than you tend to let yourself believe. So forget whatever foolish ideas Dumbeldore has put into your head and accept yourself. Light, dark, none of it matters if you wind up dead— or worse.”

He sighed at her stunned expression. Of course, he wished he had more to offer than empty platitudes, but he didn’t. Rather, all he could say was, “I implored you once to survive and I do so yet again. Do not fight against something you cannot change.”  

There was a lapse— a moment of hushed silence between them— and Severus feared the worst as she quickly turned away, uttering a choked noise. The sharp edge of urgency pressed into him, desperate to suddenly make her see reason— to have her understand the precarious line that she was toeing. To not let history repeat itself.  

However, before he could open his mouth, she spoke.

“Alright,” Harri muttered, whirling back on her heel to face him. “I’ll do it. I’ll get his help.”

And not for the first time did Severus find himself taken back by the girl. Openly studying her face, he found where there once had been conflict now held the opposite. Resolute, determined, there was the certain kind of steadfastness that he’d come to expect— a curious sense of relief swelling in his chest with the realisation of how long it’d been since he’d seen it last.

Fire flickered in the stare that held his own, her chin lifted and her shoulders squared— the image of pure defiance. Overhead, the setting sun had fully broken through the grey, bathing them in its warmth and splendour. And at her back, the radiance crested; an aureole enveloping her in its golden light, turning her eyes molten. Less green and more resplendent, they glowed, made anew in Helio’s own likeness— burning brighter and brighter until it nearly hurt to look into them.

Unbowed, unbroken, this was the Harri Potter he had always known.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 52: The Sword Of Damocles

Notes:

Hi everyone, it's been a while! I'm so sorry it's taken this long to get this chapter up— school has been hectic with the online transition. To all of you who are in school at the moment: I hope you're doing well and just know we are all in this together! 💕And to those who aren't: please stay safe and healthy out there!

Also, I want you all to know that this fic will not be abandoned! It may take me a bit to get chapters up until things settle down but I will always update as soon as I'm able!

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri found herself pacing outside of the study’s double doors, mulling over Snape’s advice, reflecting on it. Frankly, it was sound. And as much as she was disinclined to admit it, he was right— her time was running out and she needed to find a way to bid for some more before everything unravelled. Even now, it refused to subside. Something was shifting deep past the layers of muscle and sinew, a sting sharpening incrementally as the hours passed. The Sword of Damocles swung overhead, held aloft only by its fraying rope— a poetic testament to preordained destruction. Her hand flexed experimentally, sparks jumping between the crevices and feet halting in their restless march.

He was in there, she knew it, could feel it— another startling development just recently discovered. Apparently, tapping into an overbrimming reservoir of suppressed power also brought with it a heightened awareness. It left her tattered, hypersensitive to it all. And his— well, it was distinct. Electrifying, a buzz in her system, and a vibration in her marrow. Sharply intoxicating in how it coated her tongue, cloying in its savage call. And though she would have loved nothing more than to avoid his company, she also possessed enough self-awareness to recognise that he was her best bet— her only bet. After all, who better to know how to reign in the darkness than the person that had been, quite literally, borne from it? Plus, hearing her mother’s ill fate, how fear had dictated her entire life and ruined her ambition— it was a wake-up call, a morbid future she was keen to altogether avoid.

With an embittered groan, unwilling fingers curled about the silver handle, pushing it inwards before she could deign to do otherwise. A momentarily blinding brightness greeted her— the study was set aflame in a golden light, the usual dimness flooded by the setting sun.

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” a baritone voice commented, shrouded by the brilliant veil, “I was beginning to wonder where you had run off to.”

She stumbled past the doors, rather grateful when one of the drapes had sprung itself free to offer the slightest reprieve. Green eyes blinked furiously to clear away the afterimages of incandescent shapes, twisted etchings that persisted from even behind closed lids. And there, idle fingers trailing along worn spines, an ever-growing stack of tomes floating after him, was Voldemort. He had twisted to glance over his shoulder, an amused smile tossed her way— wonderstruck appreciation rendered her mute. Filtered streams of light seeped through the parted curtains, a glowing halo illuminating his dark crown, an aureole of radiance. Unlike how it had attempted to overwhelm her, the sun almost seemed to lovingly bend to him. Kissed his skin, worshipped at his feet, clung to the lines of his body in reverent glorification. The Morningstar, the Lightbringer, less of a Devil and more of a seraph tragically casted out from the heavens. It reminded her of the stained glass renditions in the windows of a cathedral, a holy image of the divine captured. Truly, the beauty of him was unfair, arresting, only serving to be calamitous to her wearing sanity.

Awareness came trickling back when he had smirked, the left corner lifting higher than the right, a brow arched in a silent question— ‘Are you going to say something or just stand there?’ Harri’s mind fumbled for coherency, tongue a deadened weight and mouth far too dry. Just when the beginnings of a thought began to formulate, it slipped away just as quickly under the weight of those darkening scarlet eyes. They clung to her throat, a slow rake that purposefully flitted from one mark to another. A discomforting sensation that left her helpless to move, paralysed by the fervid attention. And she could have sworn that the room was dimming, shadows rising chaotically to overtake the sacred glow. But then it tapered off, disappearing so abruptly that she could have chalked it up to strung nerves had she been unaware of who the man truly was— had not witnessed, first hand, the suffocating void of his mindscape. The burning in that damning gaze had been tempered slightly by a cheshire grin, a row of teeth revealed in unpremeditated delight.

“I must say, that’s quite an interesting choice of attire,” the amusement bled over into his voice, another book added to the hovering stack.

Confusion unfurled, a tug of a frown as she tried to understand what he was possibly alluding to. The cotton dress was one that he had picked out, and while it, admittedly, spent the night in a crumpled heap on the floor, there wasn’t anything outlandish about the outfit. It seemed that her puzzlement served to only spike his unfounded glee, Voldemort finally deciding to humour her by raising a finger pointedly to his chest. Tap. Tap. The casual action engendered further bewilderment, brows drawing together as her eyes slid downwards. Understanding promptly gave way to embarrassment upon noticing, for the first time, that the buttons were all mismatched— a few weren’t even properly closed to boldly reveal glimpses of pale skin and lace.

“Oh, bloody hell,” a muttered curse, heat flaring on her cheeks as she whirled around, thoroughly appalled by the fact that she had been walking around with a half-done up dress and no one saw fit to even mention it.

And this is exactly why she hated pureblood fashion— after all, muggle jumpers didn’t have this problem. Her fingers fought with the small pearl buttons, a losing battle that caused her frustration to mount at their lack of dexterity. Groaning, thin hands reached up to scrub agitatedly over her face, running roughly through her hair only to snag on a knot in the process. Far too many words were tumbling over in her mind, fighting to gain her full consideration, a dizzying blur as they tried to force themselves upon an uncooperative tongue. It made her temples throb.

“Look, about earlier,” she exhaled unevenly through her nose, shifting her weight to the heels of her feet, “I shouldn’t have lost control like that. Shouldn’t have kissed you. So, just, uhm— sorry.”

There was a rustling of movement in the background, the sound barely registering as she fumbled to get the clasps undone. It wasn’t until the firm lines of a body had pressed up against her, the intrusive solidness of a towering frame, did she realise that he had moved closer. Owlish eyes blinked in a stupor, breath catching as hands, far larger than her own, snaked over the swell of her chest. A staggering mixture of alarm and anticipation struck Harri at the way those nimble fingers had begun to deftly undo the mess she had created. They moved with fluidity, as though it was completely natural for them to do so, unnervingly composed as cream-coloured skin was further exposed with every undone pearl. And though she knew she should be horrified that he was undressing her, the current of rising suspense overruled such a thing.

She watched, a woman possessed, as wandering hands paused at the end of the row of buttons an inch or so below the sternum— the neckline of the dress fell away, putting on display the more than questionable lace bralette. With morbid fascination, Harri couldn’t help but note the differences between them, their juxtaposition blatant with his hands so close. The Dark Lord was paler, a rosiness existing in her complexion that he entirely lacked— the evidence of her humanity, of heated blood in her veins, of flesh entirely her own making and not a product of a resurrection ritual. Yet, oddly enough, it suited him. A startling realisation to come to that the lifeless colour was the perfect match— as alabaster and smooth as the marble he was seemingly carved from. And just when she had begun to think he would take it a step further, would continue their earlier tryst, he hadn’t. Instead, shapely fingers began to correctly redo the buttons, unhurried in their pace.

Harri was unable to stifle the deflating sense of disappointment. And wasn’t that just the most confounding thing? After all, she had been mortified when they kissed, had been the one to draw the line, to run away. Absentmindedly, her bottom lip was worried, emotions a swirl of confusion that left her off-kilter. But such contemplation was interrupted when a blunt nail had purposefully dragged against the center point of her ribcage, breath hitching at the mild sting. Up until this point, he had been careful to avoid actually touching her bare skin, almost as though waiting for permittance to do so. Now, however,  fingers skirted brazenly across the heated flesh, a smug form of self-satisfaction seeping over into their bond. And the girl found her attention fully consumed in watching them trail languidly over the soft dip of her cleavage, the delicate spot at the beginning curve of her bust. The touch, though featherlight, was distracting, one that rendered her mind muddled and knees lax— oxygen caught in her lungs, rising up as a pocket that was painful to swallow around. And without warning, a bright burst of copper danced over her tongue, only just registering that her lip had been bitten raw at some point. By far, the strangest thing about this all was that she could easily end it— could hold herself true to the earlier protests about boundaries, step away to reject his touches once again. So why didn’t she?

There was a delayed blink and the emerald cups of the bra were concealed from sight, the polished buttons righted to their correct positions. Yet, despite finishing their task, those hands had chosen to linger upon her collarbones— their thumbs idly tracing along the ridges, the hollows, the indentations of them. Gaze fixed resolutely on the door, Harri could feel the threads of her control slipping, snapping. ‘You need to focus,’  logic tried to reprimand, finding it all too easy to get lost in the relaxing lull of him, the quiet moment where she could feel nothing but the rise of a solid chest against her back in a consistent rhythm—  a stark contrast to her own. For in the confines of its cage, her heart was mayhem— ventricles clenching erratically to pump out molten blood, an unkind cadence that made the world tilt. When lips brushed against the shell of her ear, she jolted instinctively.

“Never apologise, Harri. Especially not for that,” he whispered, crimson eyes flashing at the flighty measure of her pulse.

His horcrux had allowed him to touch her, hadn’t withdrawn, or demanded that he leave her be— and how elating that was. Because, despite the empty protests, it served as an indication she was coming to understand that they could have something truly glorious, godly, divine. Dare he say it was almost progress? And it hadn’t escaped his notice either that there was a change occurring in her center, an awakening that he had been acutely fixated on ever since she held his wand. The disquiet was ever-rising— and it was only a matter of time at this point, a fact they were both keenly aware of. Relinquishing the touch, Voldemort continued to loom over her, eyes glittering with an avid interest to see what the girl would do next. Part of him anticipated that she would flee the second the opportunity was presented, would come to her wits and spout some further drivel about the immorality of this all— but no such response ever came. It was entirely silent. The spiteful words were lacking, no pushing, no self-deprecation, or venomous loathing.

“You said you wanted to help me, right? To teach me?” she mumbled, actively forcing the tension out of her spine and shoulders..

“I did,” he agreed lightly, riveted as she took a step forward.

A slow inhale, an even slower exhale before she turned around, glad to have purchased some distance between their bodies. It wasn’t exactly far, she could only imagine what it would look like if someone barged in, but it was just enough to not feel him molded against her. Green eyes drifted up from tracing the wood grain of the floor to meet his own, chilled arms crossing over her torso in a protective manner— not exactly because she feared him but more so that she needed something to ground herself with. Fingers burrowed mercilessly into the tender spot beneath the final curve of her ribs, a distracting pain to help force out the words. ‘Survive this. Survive him. Survive yourself,’ Snape’s impassioned plea echoed, latching onto it when her resolve began to falter.

“Fine,” the agreement was heavier than expected— a weight that hadn’t quite rolled off her tongue as confidently as she had hoped. Instead, it came out as unsure, wavering, fearful. 

Nails dug in deeper as she spoke through gritted teeth, “Show me how to control it then. How to use it. But no more books, no more readings.”

“Show me,” the demand was insistent, slipping into parseltongue without fully meaning to.

Voldemort considered the redhead in mild surprise, almost not quite believing that he had heard her correctly. And he contemplated if she knew what was being fully asked of him, what being taken under his wing, his tutelage, truly would entail. After all, he never did things half-way, wasn’t satisfied with mediocre performances, and held the highest of standards for proficiency. But those blazing eyes of hers, the way they shone in determination, with an inner fire, an unsung challenge— she knew. For a brief moment, his attention shifted down to the bled white knuckles, the unsympathetic pain delivered onto her own flesh in a form of penance. How alive that spirit of hers was. ‘Absolute perfection,’ an offhanded appraisal, creeping tendrils of greed burrowing into his consciousness at the notion of her giving herself to him. His horcrux would finally come into her birthright, would undergo the metamorphosis required to become his equal, to stand at his side— and it would all happen under his guidance. This is what the heavens had divined for them, how they had foreseen their futures when they made that silly prophecy. She was going to become a queen suited for the darkness, his own Persephone to rule alongside him in the eternal night.      

“No more books,” he agreed softly, hellfire eyes glinting in untempered ambition.



“Are you sure this is safe?” a muttered question lost amidst the swell of deafening chatter.

Hermione only registered the words when an insistent tap on her shoulder followed, her contemplative gaze drifting from surveying the packed room to the boy perched on a lopsided chair. His face seemed even paler than usual, the smattering of sun-kissed freckles dotting his sloped nose standing out in vivid contrast. And those normally bright eyes were reduced to a hazy blue, clouded over with unease. It had been a few weeks now since Dumbledore was declared found— a water-logged corpse dredged up from a tangled mass of kelp, almost decayed past the point of recognition. The Prophet disclosed it as suicide, a tragic combination of a copious amount of whiskey and a midnight stroll about the Black Lake on unsteady feet. It was a lie, of course. A load of utter rubbish. The months spent submerged in the reservoir had made it impossible to discern the true cause of death, but it was easy enough to guess the Dark Lord’s involvement. And while there hadn’t been any photos, thankfully, to supplement the headline, her imagination nonetheless managed to conjure up images that haunted her dreams— skin tinged blue, deteriorated and spongy, half-moon glasses obscuring hollowed sockets. This was all a devastating nightmare, one that she had been privately considering for some time now but refusing to voice aloud— their leader was gone.

Understandably, the subsequent days brought with them a renewed frenzy, a desperate scramble amongst their ranks. People were vying for a plan, recovering Harri skyrocketing to the utmost priority now that the question of Dumbledore’s whereabouts had been solved. And yet, every single hypothetical scenario traded in the cottage’s cramped kitchen always ended in a rather spectacular blaze of a dumpster fire. Truth be told, they were doomed. Despite the measly few recruits reeled in by The Quibbler , most of them fellow Hogwarts students, the Order was lacking the sheer numbers required to even consider storming Malfoy Manor— and that was to say if Harri was even still there. Which is precisely how they found themselves here, openly defying the public decree that no memorial services were to be held. A considerate and merciful thing,’ according to Skeeter, ‘to avoid drawing excessive attention to the struggles of an ailing mind that had finally given in.’  It was cold, dismissive. Entirely unbefitting to the status of a man like Dumbledore. But the underlying caution was clear enough— attempting to host a public wake would be in direct conflict with the compassionate wishes of ‘His Majesty’. So when the rumours had begun to circulate that there was to be a private vigil anyways, only a handful of people were actually expected to show. Not this— certainly not this.

Wizards were shoved into the too-small back room of the tavern, a mass of bodies that smelt of grief, bitterness, and sorrow. Once distinct voices now blurred into a jumble, a thunderous clamour that reverberated within her skull. A headache was forming and the muggy air, a sweltering heat brought on by the continuous exhales, didn’t exactly help. While Hermione was thankful that Aberforth had agreed to host the wake at the Hog’s Head, she also found herself forlornly wishing it could have taken place outside instead. But there were dangers in being out in the open, especially after the mishap at Grimmauld Place. The Dark Lord was searching high and low for them— the mandatory wand scans at all entry points and the newly-implemented sentinels in Diagon spoke volumes. Though it was easy enough to deceive the scans, thanks to foreign-made wands registered under common aliases, avoiding the patrols was altogether a different story. In Percy’s latest letter, he confessed that the division was now being headed by Yaxley and was, consequently, littered with zealous Death Eaters that knew their faces. Polyjuice could have taken care of that— if not for the fact that the goblins had been coaxed into extending Gringotts’ disenchantment system into the shopping district. Though she would never say it, Hermione was begrudgingly impressed, and vastly frightened, with their sovereign— after all, just what kind of power did the man hold that could lure the goblins to his side?  For centuries, the creatures remained resolute to endure as a neutral party. Yet, he had somehow convinced them it was worthwhile to comply. Chilled fingers plucked the lint off her tattered maroon sweater— they were backed into a corner, no one could deny it. And yes, it felt a touch underhanded to disguise a vigil as a recruitment mission but there was some soundness to the idea. After all, if anyone was inclined to join the Order, it would be Dumbledore’s closest friends.

“No. It isn’t. But it’s the best chance we have,” she finally admitted, tracking as an older man stepped up to the makeshift podium— a wine barrel with a single lit candle resting on top, the ivory wax slowly beading downwards. 

“Some of you may know me, some of you may not,” the wizard cleared his throat, voice reminiscent of gravel, “I’m Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus’s brother. To everyone that has shown up today, despite the rubbish that’s being spouted in the papers, you have my gratitude.”

He waited until the scattered mutters of acknowledgment quieted down, fingers drumming pensively against the wood, “Anyone who was close with my brother knew what he was like. Strong-minded. Difficult. Such an overwhelming sense of moral obligation that it sometimes made you want to punch him.”

Aberforth chuckled under his breath, as though amused by a private joke, before his shrewd gaze swept about the room, “We can all agree that Albus was a man who sacrificed quite a bit for our world. While we weren’t on the friendliest of terms, even I can see that. He rose up against Grindelwald when no one else would. And then, mere decades later, did the same with You-Know-Who. He took the position as Chief Warlock, despite having always hated politics. He became the headmaster of Hogwarts, dedicated years of service to the safety and education of your children.”

“My brother was anything but the feeble-minded person the Prophet has been trying to make him out to be,” his congenial tone had turned hard, flint-like, supported by a few sparse jeers of agreement, “He would’ve never killed himself, especially not now. It was far from an accident— it was murder .”

The aging man raised his voice to compete with the scandalised uproar, spine straightening to draw himself up to his full height, “There’s only one person that could’ve been capable of such, we all know it. Most of us here in this room lived through the rise of the Dark Lord, knew the terror of those times. And we all foolishly thought it was done for when he disappeared 16 years ago— but he is back. He’s hiding behind the title of sovereign and sitting in a throne that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. Albus saw the signs, uncovered the truth, and was killed for it.”

There was a beat of silence, a blessed second of quiet— then cries sharpened to a crescendo, layers of disbelief, of outrage, of accusation. A mob overbrimming with dismay as the reality hovered in the foreground, all too readily ignored. There were calls for proof, for the evidence to back such an appalling claim— a few demanded to know how he had the gall to insinuate murder or to suggest the revival of an unspeakable evil. Some had risen from their seats, faces alarming shades of purple, while others remained immobile, graven looks darkening their expressions. Aberforth only fed the flames by contributing his own shouts to the increasing mayhem— a blur from the side of the podium, Remus emerging from the restless crowd.

“I can assure you,” the werewolf said, hands splayed in front of him in a desperate attempt to pacify the enraged masses, “That Aberforth speaks truthfully on this matter. The Dark Lord is very much alive and living under the guise of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’. Many brave witches and wizards are gathered here today who can, and will, readily testify to it.”

He tilted his head imploringly towards Sirius, more than relieved when the man had left the worn bench to limp over. Speaking plainly, Remus detested speaking in public. More often than not, he found that strangers were predisposed towards being guarded around him. But Sirius? He could charm just about anyone— could cajole even the most off-putting of individuals with that inherent grace of his and warm demeanor. A hand landed on his boney shoulder, a firm reassuring squeeze.

“The Dark Lord is back. Just last year, he infiltrated Hogwarts, tampered with the Triwizard Tournament, and abducted Harri Potter to use in a resurrection ritual. After the public channels were hijacked to play his broadcast, Dumbledore spirited Harri away to the muggle world for her own safety,”  the crowd had become somewhat demure under the coaxing authourity in Sirius’s voice, grey eyes sharp and chastising, “Now, we can either spend all day accusing one another of lying or we can accept it and move on.

He waited until those who had jumped up from their seats settled back down, taking note of the disgruntled murmurs susurrating in the background, “Those of us who fought in the first war against You-Know-Who are already familiar with Marvolo Gaunt’s true character. We know what he is capable of, what he can do, and the remorse he lacks. Countless of innocent people, good people , were murdered under his explicit orders— and it’s happening again. This all began with Scrimgeour’s disappearance and won’t end with Dumbledore’s death. Open your eyes.”

“Several Wizengamot members who opposed the bill for his sovereignty have already disappeared, only to be found as mutilated corpses weeks later. And can any of you honestly claim that the Azkaban mandate was justified? High ranking prisoners, those who committed war crimes , were pardoned under the premise that a decade and a half with the dementors was sentence enough,” several members of the audience had turned to whisper uneasily to their neighbor and Sirius clung to it, “He’s back. Only difference is that this time around he’s stronger and far more dangerous.”

He considered the ripple of unease that was spreading through the room, attention drifting anxiously over to Remus. His friend was wearing an expression of doubt— a feeling that Sirius was trying his best not to succumb to. By all accounts, it was extraordinarily reckless of them to impart such sensitive information unto complete strangers. After all, it was entirely possible that someone could run off to report an illicit meeting at the tavern if they took offense— a meeting that, theoretically, had been banned. Plus, the Dark Lord did have the public’s favour on his side— people loved his carefully constructed persona despite some of the questionable bills. But they needed more pledges and fast

As it currently stood, their ranks were mostly composed of members that the Dark Lord undoubtedly already knew off— those who had survived him initially, the tattered remnants of the First Order. And it wasn’t exactly difficult to hazard as to who made up the other half— family of the originals and friends fiercely loyal to Harri herself. Unrecognisable followers were required, ones that could evade immediate detection. They needed fighters . Skilled adults who had long since completed their schooling and, hopefully, had some real-world dueling experience. Because while it was touching to see teenagers pledging themselves to the cause, it wasn’t the largest confidence booster— especially when compared to the bulk of their enemy’s forces. Lord Voldemort had the darkest of wizards backing him, loyal soldiers whose teeth were sharpened on the whetstone of battle and bore the scars to prove it.

Sirius cleared his throat, chin squaring resolutely, “Dumbledore saw this day coming and spent years of his life preparing for it. He personally trained Harri Potter to face You-Know-Who in the eventuality that he would be unable to. And as much as it pains me to say it, that day is now. Albus may be gone but there’s still hope to be found.”

Calloused hands slipped into his trouser’s left pocket, fishing out a golden coin to hold it high up over the crowd. The hazy light filtering in through the dirt-caked window caught the metal, an irresistible glinting that was hard to ignore. A couple of the fixed stares shone in understanding, some glazing over with wonderstruck awe— they were already acquainted with the fabled phoenix medallion and of what it represented. Ambition surged through him, a pipedream optimism that perhaps today wasn’t a lost cause.

“The Order of the Phoenix has been reborn,” Sirius intentionally placed the coin down onto the upright barrel, the dull click of metal meeting wood amplified by the sudden quiet, “And Harri Potter is still alive. She is the key to defeating the Dark Lord, to righting our world, and has been taught by Dumbledore to do exactly that.”

“He’s aware of this fact as well and has taken her hostage to prevent it from happening. Though we know where she’s being kept, we can’t do this alone,” grey eyes trailed after the few that had risen from their seats, fighting through the throng towards the exit— it was a loss that was to be expected, of course, once the true purpose of the meeting was revealed. Yet a sizable enough portion had stayed behind, countless eyes gleaming in deliberation.

“If you want to honour Dumbledore’s memory, then join us. Join the cause he died believing in until his very last breath. Help us to win this war,” Sirius spoke with a fervent plea, hope sparking in his chest at the scattered slow nods of agreement. 



“You look surprised,” Ron had sidled up to her side, the two teenagers lingering near the back wall in casual observance.

Hermione gave a tuneless hum in response, absentmindedly twirling a coil of a curl to abate some of the pent-up nerves. Ron’s assessment was right— she was surprised. More than shocked that Sirius’s hastily concocted plan had actually come to fruition, that he managed to entice people into staying. A queue had been formed, wizards shuffling forward to sign their names upon the Order’s ledger, their allegiances a settled vow between drying ink and yellowed parchment. More able bodies added to their forces, more capable wands— ‘and one step closer to getting Harri back.’ Soft brown eyes studied the free-spirited smile of Sirius and the good-natured nod of gratitude from Remus every time another hand picked up the quill. History was being made in this dingy pub, a revolution in the making— and there was the strangest rush of elation at the fact she was bearing witness to it all. But such excitement, however, was mitigated with an equal sense of trepidation. What would future historians record down in their scrolls of this moment? Would this become their turning point— a great win for a larger impending victory? Or would it signify a gruesome end still yet to come? 

There was a flash of copper threading through the crowd, a waifish frame pushing others out of its way— a futile attempt since there was, physically, no place for them to go. ‘Harri-,’ formed before she could stop it, muscles tensing to rush forward. But then reality came crashing down when she saw a glimpse of the face. The jawline was all wrong, squared rather than heart-shaped, the skin heavily freckled and the shoulders set too wide. ‘Ginny.’ A half-smile crossed Hermione’s face, a striving effort to mask the pang of settling disappointment. Lately, it had become a nasty habit to mistake the two girls whenever her attention wandered, a knee-jerk reaction to call out the wrong name— the cruelest trick played by a desperate mind. From her periphery, Ron was waving lazily, shouting out the youngest Weasley’s name when it became apparent that his sister was searching for them. It was surprising to even see her brave the crowds alone. After all, these days found Ginny tucked away in her mother’s shadow more often than not, a precaution Molly had taken to after the Grimmauld incident.

One minute things had been normal, relaxed, ordinary— only to be replaced with the queerest sensation of something being amiss. It was as though the world had been slowed, an excruciating passing second, a blur of colours stretched too long and too thin. A jagged blade ripping through the fabric of time, the sharp hiss of oxygen being sucked inwards that left a ringing silence in its wake. The calm before the storm— chaos descended.

Men in austere black robes came into existence amidst the middle of the room, unwanted presences that disrupted the orderly line of pledges. It took a second for their forms to solidify, screams and panic ensuing as spellfire was traded without fanfare or warning. And layered upon the chords of terror were the sickening thuds of flesh meeting age-worn floorboards, the rapid succession of cracks, the jarring splintering of wood— a symphony of utter mayhem. The air was charged with magic, the slanted walls painted in an array of brilliant hues. ‘He found us.’ Hermione ducked in narrow avoidance of a wayward curse barrelling her way, a few hairs singed in the process. With little time to recover, numbed fingers reached for the wand that had been unceremoniously shoved into the back pocket of her jeans. A snap of her wrist sent a stupefy into the heart of the crowd— a silent prayer accompanying it that the spell had found a correct target among the sea of writhing limbs. 

Someone’s shoulder clipped her own, panicked instruction bubbling up in her throat for Ron to get their Order coin ready— owlish eyes, a tanned face that was foreign to her. It took a second to become aware of the fact that the Gryffindor was missing from her side, tongue nervously running over chapped lips as she peered helplessly out into the mob. ‘Ron— Where are you?!’ Feet stumbled blindly in their search, knowing it was wise to leave but refusing to do so without him.

The leg of a chair sailed through the air, blasted off in the process of someone’s rushed parry— Hermione hastily rolled to the ground to dodge it. She landed roughly, knees smarting from cushioning the fall and palms burning as splinters dug into their softness. It was too small of a room to properly duel in, too confined of a space to counter without potentially backfiring on their allies— the perfect place to lay a trap. And with only one exit, they were all herded in, cattle awaiting the inevitable slaughter. As though wanting to further prove the point, a hurried passing heel came down forcefully across the back of her splayed hand. There was a revolting snap, her raw scream rising to contribute to the discord of battle. The spare wand tumbled from a blood slickened grip and even through the gore she could see the fingers were warped to a nauseatingly crooked degree— a telltale sign that the fine bones were shattered. An involuntary spasm coursed through them when she cradled the broken hand to her chest, an urge to retch at the resulting pain. All instincts were advising to get off the floor, to seek out the safety of the wall from the frenzied masses, to escape the trampling feet. Unbidden, a hiccup of a sob escaped, blurred vision bouncing about the blinding flashes for the sight of a familiar ginger boy.

“Hermione!” Ron called out, voice thinned by panic, whirling around frantically.

They had been separated from one another when the Death Eaters first arrived, the tide of displaced bodies carrying him away in their hysteric bids for escape. Screaming out her name again, he shoved past the crowd, broad shoulders doing little to help fight the current— a fish trying to swim upstream, a valiant but doomed endeavor. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a striking glimpse of red hair. His sister was standing shakily in the center of it all, an endless series of reducto curses illuminating her skin a vibrant teal. Latching onto the collar of a stranger blocking his path, he wrenched them aside while ducking to evade a jet of red light streaming overhead— a silent thank you sent to Harri for her merciless quidditch drills.

“Ginny!” the yell was hoarse, vocal cords strained from overuse, “Go find Mom!”

Ron paused only long enough to watch as his sister spun in confusion, her mouth dropping to a surprised ‘oh’ upon seeing her brother linger a few paces away. Satisfied with her slow acquiescing nod, he waited until she fled from sight before dipping back into the crowd. All around him was a ceaseless display of spellfire, ear-piercing screams, and acrid fumes— never quietening, permeating every sense. It was different reading about these kinds of things in textbooks, a surreal disconnect that derived from playing a bystander— and he decidedly preferred Binn’s droning lectures over the actual experience. Throwing up a hastily constructed shield charm, a yellow jinx fizzling out against it, the only clear thought in his disorderly mind was ‘how’. How could this have happened? How could the Death Eaters have known where they were and caught them off-guard yet again? 

But there, huddled down against the wall was the one person he had been desperately searching for— suddenly, those answers seemed like they could wait. With little care as to who he elbowed in the process, Ron forced his way over, sinking to a knee in front of her. Anxious eyes drifted of their own accord down to the mangled mess of a hand, instantly regretting that they had. A heavy swallow, stomach lurching, he forced his attention up to a waned face instead.

“Mione! It’s okay, I’m here,” he clumsily tried to comfort her, unsure of what to do.

“Ron, the medallion,” she muttered, tone pinched with agony as her forehead fell against his shoulder.

He blinked once at her in a stupor, nose scrunching in confusion as he tried to piece together what she could possibly want with their Order coins. And then it hit him, somehow having forgotten all about their intended purpose during the earlier frenetic search. Shaking fingers dug for the medallion stuffed deep into his pockets, the portkey stashed away only to be used in the most harrowing of emergencies— and, he considered, that this would certainly fall into that category. The background noise was punctuated by sharp pops as wizards on either side began to flee— some by activated coins, some by black mist.

“Ignis te invoco,” Ron struggled with the incantation, blue eyes flickering uneasily up to the hellish scene about them.

And that’s when he saw it. There, a few feet away, his own sister struggling against a vice-like hold, legs kicking and thrashing. Her arm was wrenched behind her back, a man in a silver mask her captor— the tip of his wand was pressed against the vulnerable spot of her jugular, skin denting under its applied pressure. Ginny’s screams were both muted and gut-wrenchingly clear at the same time, brown eyes wide in fear and holding a glassy sheen. Shock had been introduced to his system in the way of a gripping coldness, the vaguest sense that his thundering heart was about to give out, to explode. ‘Her wand. Where’s her wand?!’ A panicked gaze flitted over their forms, a disturbing revelation that it was nowhere to be found. Ron willed his feet to work, to get up, to go rescue her— instead, he found himself rooted to the spot, the phoenix coin flaring with heat in his sweating palm. The soft features of her face were crumpled inwards with terror, the baying cries for their mother standing out even amidst the mayhem.

“Gin—!” he didn’t even have the time to scream out her name before the portkey activated, the maelstrom of the tavern filtering out into tranquil silence.



It had been a few weeks since they started their lessons and Harri, though reluctant to admit it, was making progress. An alarming amount to top it off. The initial suspicions that Voldemort would make an excellent teacher were confirmed tenfold, the irrefutable evidence resting in her newly-found abilities. As a result of endless practice, rudimentary wandless spells were now easy enough to come to her— things like summoning nonmagical items from across the room or turning on the lights a second nature at this point. And though the more complex ones required concentration, such as conjuring up bluebell flames, she found that her magic always responded eventually. It was a truth she loathed to acknowledge but being under his tutelage had proven to be far more useful than all 6 years spent at Hogwarts. There, she had been confined to theories, books, essays— assignments that weren’t exactly of greatest importance in the real world. But here? Here, it was hands-on and practical—a ‘sink or swim’ sort of approach that suited her just fine.

And, much to her immense shock, he was being abnormally considerate. It wasn’t just his knowledge and skill that made him a great mentor— it was the fact that he understood her. Voldemort was strangely attuned to her limitations, somehow always long foreseeing the creeping exhaustion before it made itself known. Every lesson was centered around targeting endurance and weak points, a tailor-made plan while never pushing too far. True, the man made clear his expectations in a strict authoritarian manner, nitpicking over the smallest of things, and never withholding commentary— but he never forced her beyond her body’s capabilities. And she was grateful for the adjustment period in which dark magic use was minor— though she dreaded that was coming to an end sooner than later.  ‘He really should have been a professor,’ an idle thought as deft fingers swept the auburn strands back from her face, tying it up with a strip of black cord. 

Green eyes lifted to trace over his relaxed silhouette, glinting with mild appraisal from the cover of lengthening shadows. He was making the usual rounds about the training circle, the elder wand sweeping in wide arcs as protective wards shimmered, strides languid and measured. It had been a shock to discover such a room tucked away under Malfoy Manor, a cavern carved into the earth. Though, as Voldemort explained, having found her thunderstruck reaction amusing, most estates had their own dueling arenas. Originally, Harri had thought of it as a waste of resources, an unnecessarily superfluous expense— yet another display of an obscene amount of wealth being spent only because it could. However, after the destruction resulting from their first few lessons, she was now rather grateful for its existence. Somehow, she sincerely doubted Narcissa would completely forgive her if she went about accidentally setting the silk drapes aflame or engendered another crack in the ivory plaster. The woman had been sour enough about the art gallery incident, nevermind the slipup in the dining parlour. And though she was getting more adept with control, her magic did still have a tendency to flare up or react mercurially without forewarning— at least stone walls didn’t catch fire. Nonetheless, it was an odd feeling to be down here, to know this was where a young Draco was tutored— a fond smile at the memory of the blond, prim and proper, bowing with impeccable posture during their second-year duel. It had made her clumsy attempt to return the gesture look pitiful. Shifting the weight from one foot to the other, the toe of polished dragonhide boots dug deep into the fine sand. What was he even doing right now? All sorts of possibilities were entertained— perhaps he was in potions? Or, maybe, practicing down at the quidditch mound?

“Speaking plainly, very few wizards truly understand what magic is,” Voldemort broke the stifling silence, sheathing the elder wand and jolting her back to the present, “The common consensus holds that it’s an inanimate force within our bodies. But it’s these kinds of ill-conceived outlooks that hinders potential. Magic is alive. Sentient. All of the greatest wizards ever recorded in our history understood that.”

Narrowed crimson eyes flitted across the beginning tells of confusion dawning on her face, hands interlacing casually behind his back. His horcrux was talented, he had no qualms about readily admitting it— she was strong, her talent vast. Having personally trained his own top generals, Voldemort had developed a keen eye over the decades for spotting any underlying aptitude. And the girl was a sponge— greedily soaking up information while always simultaneously looking to the next task. Yet, despite that raw ability, the ease in which she was mastering the spells, there were still notes of discord, a grating disharmony at her center. Something wasn’t connecting, wires were crossed to the wrong outputs. And her progress would be meaningless if fear continued to override everything else. It was a pity, a frustrating oversight— one that he was more than determined to correct.  

“Most believe magic is inherently loyal, that it would never betray us as its master. Once again, that is a fool’s notion. Magic has a will of its own,” he could see the gears beginning to turn in her mind, an endearing attempt to try to beat him to the point— and how it thrilled him to see her clinging to his words.

“And when it senses hesitance,” Voldemort had begun to circle about her, smirking at the way her neck craned to keep him in her line of sight, “When it senses conflict in us, our fear, do you know what it does?”

His steps had come to a clicking halt behind her, glowing gaze fixated on the refined curve of a throat, the gentle slope of a knobbed spine, the tension being held in a shapely jaw. Hands came down about those slight shoulders, not quite a bruising force but with just enough pressure to make their presence known. A firm and steadfast hold, the twitch she had given not going unnoticed. It was then, he realised, she was refusing to exhale. ‘What a guarded little thing,’ fingers offhandedly smoothed over the silk of her blouse, feeling her warmth seeping through the thin material. The iron sconces on the walls shuddered, deepening shadows cast about the furthest reaches of the room. A portion of the universe carved out for the two of them, hidden away deep in the earth from prying eyes and the inconveniences of the mortal world above.

“It turns on us, Harri,” he intoned softly, a morbid truth laid plain and bare.

Voldemort observed how she had stiffened, the bobbing movement of a heavy swallow, the unease colouring their bond. With an insistent force, he spun the girl around to fervently drink in the taut lines of her expression. Lowered brows were drawn, the blown-wide stare taking on a worried sheen, her chin stubbornly jutting out in an attempt to appear more confident than she truly was. After careful deliberation with Nagini, he had come to the conclusion as to why, exactly, she was so terrified of her own magic in the first place— she couldn’t see it. There was no face to put to the supposed ‘monster’, leaving her to battle with an unknown entity. It was a fear he understood. Refusing to allow his eyes to wander from hers, a hand, palm up and cupped to a cradle, was extended out in silent expectation.  When the girl hadn’t moved, he cleared his throat to relay that he was being kept waiting, a minute tilt of his head to further prompt her. Satisfaction unfurled as she followed the command, inwardly marvelling at how perfectly it fit— a discovery that never failed to take him by surprise, no matter how often it had happened before. Hers was just so fragile, so delicate, the bones thin and begging to be crushed. The Dark Lord set about the task of rearranging the position of her hand to his liking— palm down and held at an even height from her sternum, each finger spread an equal distance from the next.

“As humans, it is an instinct of ours to shrink back from the mysterious forces of the universe and of ourselves,” he muttered, foot slipping between her legs and gently kicking the heels apart until they were aligned with her hips, “It isn’t until we can actually see our fears that our terror of them is lessened.”

When content that her hand was going to remain in place without assistance, his own brazenly slipped across her body— one resting over the heart, the other snaking around to settle in the dip of her lower back. He pressed down firmly, determined to straighten out the horrendous posture— a dreadful and ingrained habit of hers, he had discerned, to slouch whenever nervous. Voldemort permitted the indulgence of lingering, a momentary lapse in judgment as scarlet eyes bore past the silk blouse to where the flighty pulse was bursting into a fitful tempo.  The corners of his mouth threatened to twitch into a smug smile— he would be lying if he claimed that knowing he had an effect on her wasn’t a heady power. Images of her bust, adorned with a contrasting emerald silk, floated to the forefront of his mind. How petal-soft her skin had been, the surprising warmth— ‘Now’s not the time or place,’ something in him sharply warned, tongue running over his canines in passing deliberation. It was right, of course. There was still so much to accomplish before the day was up and it wouldn’t help if either of them were distracted. Reluctantly, he took a half-step back.

“It would be best if you calmed down first,” he instructed knowingly, taking some pleasure in her shakily drawn breaths.

A few beats of silence ensued, a respite to collect herself, and he only continued when she had given a small nod in return, “Close your eyes. Focus on your magic, the pull of it. Feel its thrum, the way it courses in you, and reach out for it. When you have it, state ‘Ostendo’.” 

This time, the Dark Lord had taken several steps back, striving to remove as much of his aura from crowding her as possible. Green eyes slipped closed and he watched with unbridled eagerness. At first, there was nothing— no signs of progress, no indication she was even heeding the instructions. And part of him distantly wondered if the magic was too complex for her to manifest, if he was setting the girl to an impossible task— usually, most required both a wand and practice for satisfactory results. Yet, despite having the holly locked away in the study, he was hesitant to give her one. There was an immense hunger that demanded to know how powerful, exactly, his horcrux was. What was the extent of her capabilities? To what degree could she match him? Surely, if he could complete the spell wandless, she should be able to as well. However, as the minutes ticked on, doubt began to make itself known. A swelling itch of impatience, the spreading tendrils of acetic disappointment, teeth setting on edge— perhaps he had been too demanding after all.

But then came the slightest shifts in her expression. There was a rapid darting behind closed lids, a line etched between furrowed brows, fingers trembling in their strain. He clung to each and every tell with a ravenous thirst, digesting it all— she was having difficulties. And how thrilled he was. It meant that the witch found something, had managed to stumble upon the force of magic, was feeling the connection.

“That’s it, Harri. Feel it in your heart, churning in time with the blood in your veins,” he coaxed, anticipation sparking hellfire eyes to life, “Feel how it pools in the bottom of your stomach. In your mind, that humming sound that never leaves you alone. Experience it, let it merge with you.”

In her mind, it was absolute anarchy, a surging frustration as she tried to comply with his instructions. But whenever Harri had thought she caught it, grasped the wisps, could reign it all in, the sensation would vanish. Slipping away, taunting and jeering for her to catch up in a vexing provocation. Admittedly, she was unaware of the spell’s nature or what it might produce— all she knew was that everything hinged on proving herself competent of doing it. And though that thought was, seemingly, without a logical basis, she seized it all the same. It was an instinctual desire in wanting him to be awed, impressed, to perhaps finally view her as the equal their prophecy foretold her to be. Toes curling in the leather boots, imaginary legs were willed to pump faster, to carry on after the fleeting phantom— the soft summons, the licking burn of something not quite tangible yet entirely all too real. The advising words for concentration only faintly registered, a force abruptly slamming into her from behind, blindsiding her mind’s eye. An obscuring fog, a chill in her heart, the chambers choking on the murky deluge of it all. There were swirls of ice in clogged arteries, a rush that left knees weak and appendages disturbingly numb— she figured this is what he had alluded to about feeling it. Not just sensing but truly experiencing it as a visceral entity. Oddly enough, in place of fear, giddiness thrived.

“Ostendo,”  despite having come out as a whisper, the word was strong, firm, resolutely clear— a tone that left no room for argument.

A sense of calm promptly followed, a weighted quiet, and Harri debated if she had perhaps done it wrong. Had she accidentally given the incantation a flawed inflection by stressing the wrong syllable? Or perhaps she hadn’t truly experienced what he described and acted too hastily in her keenness? But then the most peculiar sensation arose, a tug from the center of her breastbone, the dizzying rush of blood draining too quickly from frozen veins. It was as though everything was being sapped out of her, wrung through a too-thin tube, trembling fingers the conduit— yet it wasn’t exactly painful either. Frankly, it was simply all around disconcerting, unlike anything she could recall ever experiencing before. And so caught up was she in trying to fashion an appropriate analogy that the redhead hadn’t even heard Voldemort shift as he drew in closer. When his next words were whispered directly into her ear, the disarming feeling of breath fanning across her chilled cheeks, she tensed in surprise

“Open your eyes,” he commanded.

And so she did— a slow flutter, mouth falling open at the sight that greeted her. Harri could only look on dumbfoundedly at the humanoid creature standing before them, its hand raised in mimicry of her own. The thing was about her height, and possessed the same slight build, but there were no discernable features otherwise— the girl tilted her head in puzzlement, rearing back in shock when it had done the same with synchronous fluidity. ‘What the hell?’ Cautious green eyes drifted over to Voldemort, the awe in his burning gaze confirming all she needed to know. This creature was her— or, at least, an extension of some kind. Attention turning back, she considered it with an apprehensive and morbid curiosity. The silhouetted lines of its body were the most detail it was endowed with, everything else shrouded by ink. And where skin should have been was pure blackness— a void. Pulsating, undulating, liquid darkness that was constantly churning. But, she was quick to realise her mistake upon a closer inspection, it wasn’t fully made of shadows. There were flecks of mica, silver shimmers that punctuated the lively backdrop, swirling almost playfully around one another. It brought to mind the idea of snow. The way the glistening flakes would drift lazily down to the earth on quiet nights, a continuous dance as the wind carried them onwards to their final resting place. Almost a romantic sort of image that summoned forth nostalgic memories. ‘It’s-’

“Beautiful,” Voldemort breathed in reverence, finishing aloud her half-formed thought— and all she could do was nod in agreement, wholly mesmerised.

Harri unsurely lifted her other hand to touch it, watching in thinly-veiled fascination when it had mirrored the movement. While she had expected a coldness to meet her, much to her surprise, it was the exact opposite— heat. A cozy and inviting type, the same as if she were cradling a mug of hot cocoa to her chest or had just sunk into a freshly-drawn bath after spending all day in the winter’s air. Comforting was the only coherent thing she could equate it to, a rush of emotion washing over her— and why did it inspire a sudden urge to cry? Happy tears, she came to understand, not the bitter or sorrowful ones that she was well-acquainted with.h.

“What is it?” she mumbled, trying to keep her wits about her, a leaden swallow to quell the mistiness threatening to overspill.

“Your magic,” he supplied, utterly captivated by the creature, “A shadow image, a physical representation of your core.” 

Voldemort had expected it to be unique, prepared himself for that eventuality— after all, it wouldn’t have suited the girl to project something dull or common. He even steeled himself to see an image identical to his— anticipated that as the most likely outcome. But in all scenarios, he never envisioned it to look like this. It was an unfairly beautiful thing. Stunning in a way his could never be— the poetic personification of a winter’s snowfall. And even though there was a darkness to it, as expected, it was still a far cry from his own. Hers wasn’t inhospitable, glacial, the kind that froze out all life or reaped devastation in its wake— against all odds, his horcrux had somehow managed to deviate from the origin of her creation and master, existing to be similar yet undisputedly unique. ‘A balance’, the thought materialised, scarlet eyes obsessively fixated on the circulating flecks of silver. They were an endearing sort of testament to her defiance, he figured, a rebellion against being confined by the binaries of dark or light. A girl who toed the line, retaining parts that were of her own without any care for conventionalities. And rising alongside the unbridled intrigue, flourishing hand in hand, was a possessiveness, an envy that made his fingers twitch with the need to reach for the shadow. Would those dancing stars, those pinpoints of white that bespeckled the abyss, eventually disintegrate? Be suffocated, choked out the longer time went on? Forced to darken under his influence? Or would they continue to endure, her eternal secret resistance against him? He wasn’t quite sure which possibility he wanted more. 

“It’s….mine?” she echoed in wonder, fingers folding together with the image’s.

“Indeed. It is quite breathtaking,” his stare bounced between her and the projection, a cajoling quality interwoven into his tone, “But do you finally understand? There is nothing to be afraid of nor is there anything evil about it. On a different note, you’ve accomplished a piece of rather intricate magic without a wand. Well done, Harri.”

And he was right— no one in their right mind could call the thing before them ‘evil’, could label it as being depraved in nature. Not when it exuded such surprising warmth or comfort. Snape’s prior assurances were echoed in Voldemort’s sentiment— the magic, itself, wasn’t the source of immorality or inherent rot. A speculative theory formed that this was exactly why he had her do this in the first place, to physically see the much-needed proof that such anxieties were unfounded. Harri’s attention raked over his defined profile, stomach clenching at the enraptured way he was still watching the shadow being. Something thrived, blooming at how pleased he seemed to be— it was a new-found weakness, she had mortifyingly discovered, that somehow his praise meant tenfold more than anyone else’s. Maybe it had to do with his own greatness, his unimaginable mastery of magic that caused his esteem to carry such weight. Or perhaps it was because there was no motive really behind it— he didn’t have to curry her favour to publicly endorse the press nor force her compliance into going back to the Dursley’s. It felt real, genuine, as though they weren’t some half-baked plaudits meant to lower her defenses. And lately, there was this ever-growing longing to hear more, a deep-rooted urge to never disappoint— a damnable thing, one that she tried her best to ignore, to stifle. But the fact he was calling the image, an extension of herself, ‘breathtaking’? Heat fanned across her cheeks, tearing her eyes away from him in a bid to move on.

“So,” Harri cleared her throat awkwardly, trying to disregard the turn her thoughts had taken, “What does yours look like?”

Voldemort blinked in mild alarm at the boldness of her question, taken back by its unanticipated forwardness. Logic tried to remind himself that the girl was unaware of the intimacy in showing one’s magic to another— after all, he had conveniently left out the connotation. In the barest meaning, it was the most honest, and brutal, reflection of one’s self. The very spirit, the soul, exposed for all to see, truths projected of one’s sinful secrets, affiliations, and corruptions. Considering the nature of the particulars revealed, most held it on the same level of sacredness as paired wands or unbreakable vows— the kind of thing that shouldn’t be freely given. And, in the past few centuries, it had morphed into a popular sort of wedding tradition amongst arranged marriages— a way for spouses to gain familiarity with the stranger they were now bonded to. Months were spent privately practicing the ‘Ostendo’, the resolve it took to manifest a fully-formed image normally requiring days of meditation beforehand. A smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards at the thought— his little horcrux had just done so without a wand or all of the pomp and circumstance of rehearsal. ‘She truly is something else.’

“Harri-,” he opened his mouth to respond, to fully enlighten her on the social implications when a flicker appeared in the back of his mind.

Crimson eyes narrowed upon recognising the muddled call of Lucius, the smirk giving way to a frown at the urgency in his silent request for an audience. A wave of irritation rolled through him at the nerve of the man for interrupting them, for encroaching on their privacy despite the explicit orders not to. Long fingers curled and then uncurled, an indecisive action as though they weren’t quite sure whether to seek out punishment or stay his temper in an act of benevolence— he was in a good mood and hated to ruin it due to his disciple’s inability to follow simple instructions. ‘Too late for that.’ An exasperated low exhale, jaw clicking, teeth grinding against one another. He knew the latter would be preferable for all parties involved and, most likely, there was a justifiable enough reason for the insubordination. Plus, he had full faith that if he didn’t address the issue now,  further damage control would have to be done later on— it was best to spare himself the future headache.

“I’m afraid,” he said, reaching for her hand and yanking it back from the shadow image— at the broken contact, it vaporised into thin air, “That will have to wait for another time.”

The Dark Lord had already foreseen the consequences of prematurely ending the spell, an arm darting out to wrap about her waist before she could fully collapse. A cord of muscle in his forearm flexed, tensing when nails sunk in to weather herself through the onslaught of magic returning to her core. By any account, it wasn’t a pleasant experience— he watched as emerald eyes screwed themselves shut, a soft groan of discomfort slipping past parted lips, shoulders sagging with an invisible weight. Roaming over her pinched expression, a mental note was made to see that she was given a pepper-up potion and some rest the very second they were able. It took several moments before the girl seemed settled enough, a sheepish slow nod and a mumbled out ‘thank you’— the continued paleness of her face, however, left him skeptical. When Harri made no move to stand on her own, hands still clutching at him for support, the notion of punishing the blond was revisited— a dark passing thought that whatever it was better be nothing short of an emergency. Voldemort drew her closer to him in an unspoken apology for what was about to be done, a harsh click of his tongue. Her disinclination towards apparating was something he was aware of, the inward cursing always broadcasted rather loudly in the aftermath of their landing. And, seeing how ill she looked, he considered she was going to hate it more than usual.

Wrapping the other arm across the thin expanse of her back, he caged the girl in against him, an unwitting burst of contentment at how she let herself be maneuvered. ‘This better be good indeed, Lucius.’ The dueling hall faded from existence.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 53: One Gesture of Trust for Another

Notes:

Hello everyone! It's been a while but I am so glad to be able to get this new chapter up for you guys 💕 Thank you to everyone who has been showing continual support + love for this fic even when the updates are slower than usual! I so appreciate it and feel so lucky to have such understanding people like you all for readers 💕

I hope you guys enjoy 💕

 

** Also, happy Thanksgiving to any of my Canadian readers— I hope you guys have a wonderful day!**

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



"Are you alright?”

Harri only half-heard the question, the concern in his voice drowned out by the shrill ringing in her eardrums. Everything hurt— yet it wasn’t the sharp type of pain that made itself immediately known. Rather, it was dull, creeping. The vicious sort that made itself known in every possible way, pervading in her body like a worm insistent on burrowing in the dampened earth after a rainfall. And it manifested in the most unusual of ways, bringing attention to parts of her that she wasn’t even aware could feel— a vibrating strain deep in her eye sockets, an ache felt down to her nailbeds, a scraping agony against burning lungs every time they inflated. Then, to make matters even worse, Voldemort had apparated them of all things, an ordeal that left her nauseous even when she and her body were on good terms. Frankly, getting mowed down by the Knight Bus seemed far less excruciating, and more preferable, than her current state.

She allowed herself a minute of respite, forehead resting against his chest. The coolness of his muscle helped to alleviate some of the throbbing currently assaulting her skull, a comfort found in his internal rhythm. A breath in, one out as the tattered remnants of her energy were collected, most of it having been siphoned off to an unknown entity. It wasn’t exactly an enigmatic riddle as to who was awaiting their arrivals, sequestered away behind the parlour’s grand doors— and she would be damned if the Dark Lord had to carry her in. The scrutinous judgments of the Death Eaters were already a headache to deal with and being caught in their Lord’s arms would, undoubtedly, only intensify their prying. ‘Bellatrix would have a fit. Then again— maybe it’s worth it,’ a derisive thought whose accompanying scoff couldn’t quite be stifled. Out of all of his followers, the woman was the most aggressive in her open glares, disdainful words, and predatory smiles. Most of the meetings were spent trying to ignore the bloodthirsty sheen in her too dark eyes or the murderous way those talon sharp nails drummed against the table. Admittedly, the notion of flaunting the one thing she coveted the most was appealing— though, that was a matter for another day when she felt more like ‘Harri’ and less like ‘roadkill’. 

“Mhm," the hum was all she could manage, too wary of actually speaking for the fear of retching— judging by her churning stomach and constricting throat, it was a possibility. 

Harri shrugged off the arm wrapped about her waist, taking a step out of his hold and surprised that he had let her— instant regret ensued when the world tilted without the continued support propping her up. But when hands reached for her again, she uneasily stumbled further out of reach in avoidance. The silent question held in crimson eyes hadn’t gone unnoticed as a respectable distance between their bodies was purchased. However, before either of them could see fit to comment on it, the doors swung open to reveal a harrowed Lucius.

“My Lord, I pray you can pardon the intrusion but I felt it prudent to alert you as soon as possible,” his words were breathless, as though he had been sprinting just moments prior, and there was an air of disorder to his usually put together person.

She considered him in passing, curiosity momentarily flaring to life and compelling her to forget the pain. The wizard had sunk down to one knee, head dipped in reverence as his blond strands hung limply past his shoulders. A quivering excitement clung to his frame, a nervous and flighty anticipation. ‘Odd.’ It was at this point that green eyes shifted to peer past his prostrating form and further into the room. The unnerving silence that had greeted them was entirely uncharacteristic of such assemblies, the moments before their Lord’s arrival usually passed in a gossiping clamour— and now she could see why. The long walnut table was completely empty. Those elaborately carved chairs that usually held the Death Eaters, the same ones that played witness to their cruel schemes and savage exchanges, were all vacated. In fact, the only ones in the parlour were Lucius and the Lestrange brothers. And while she should have been grateful that there wasn’t an audience to observe her shaking knees, it only engendered an uneasy confusion. After all, it was exceedingly rare for them not to flock to their leader whenever he appeared in their midsts, shamelessly salivating to gain his attention and tripping over themselves in foolish displays of loyalty. Her attention slid over to Voldemort’s profile, noting the minute tics of his displeasure— the twitch in the corners of his mouth, the muscle that jumped above his brow.

“Lucius,” Voldemort spoke softly, a deception to the finest degree of the true vexation he was experiencing, “I do hope you have a rather sound excuse for calling me here.”

The kneeling man cleared his throat, a portion of that earlier excitement visibly deflating, “I do, My Lord. However-.”

“Please, do enlighten me then. Because from where I am standing, it must not be so urgent seeing as my own generals have deigned it permissible not to attend,” the posh accent bled into a clipped drawl, oxford loafers clicking in the deafening quiet as he took several strides forward.

A tongue darted out to run skittishly over chapped lips, Malfoy’s voice warbling in the face of his Lord’s worsening mood, “M-My Lord, I a-assure you it is. My wife and Severus are both currently in the South Wing-.”

“Meanwhile, Bellatrix and Crouch are in the dungeons overseeing preparations,” Rodolphus had interrupted, his even tone a stark contrast to his companion’s.

Harri blinked in alarm, the cold wash of fear gripping her at their words. If she recalled correctly from Narcissa’s extensive tour, the South Wing of the manor was consigned as a pseudo-hospital wing ever since the vaulted halls had become host to the Dark Lord’s operations. In the past, it had been of minor use, never seeing too much action. Yet, now it would appear to be fulfilling its intended purpose— and how it filled her with dread, her heart skipping an erratic beat. ‘Why are they there? What happened?’ Gruesome scenarios looped, her imagination seeing fit to torment her with shocking images of their crumpled bodies— their blood vibrant spots against pressed linen sheets, their heads lolling lifelessly in surrender to gravity’s pull. ‘Calm down. If they were hurt, Lucius would have said so,’ a voice tried to reason, a valiant attempt to quell the anxieties that were threatening to overcome her. The vibration behind her eyes had sharpened, the headache worsening when unsteady feet took a step forward, the demands for elaboration already upon her tongue. It was a mistake— the obsidian floor was off-kilter, its call enticing her to make an acquaintance. Thankfully, Voldemort had seemingly guessed what was about to transpire, his hand darting out in a stabilising grip about her upper arm.

“I-If I may, My Lord,” Lucius nervously raised his head, staring pointedly at the witch, “It would be best if Miss Potter wasn’t present for this discussion.”

Scarlet eyes drank in her taut expression— the effects of her discomfort were leaking over into the bond, manifesting as an unpleasant buzzing in his own mind. If her tilting posture was enough to go by, she was in no way stable enough to sit through an hour-long briefing. And, admittedly, Lucius was presenting quite the emergency, one that was mystifying but nonetheless demanding his full attention— attention that, at the moment, was being solely occupied by his horcrux. Cautiously withdrawing from her, he hovered uncertainly should the need for his assistance arise again.

“Very well. Rabastan,” he commanded, torn in the decision of either wasting the time to take her back himself or to relinquish the responsibility to another, “Escort Harri to her rooms and see to it that Narcissa checks up on her.”



“What’s happening?” Harri demanded, narrowed eyes boring a hole into the back of the unsmiling man’s skull.

While originally she had wanted to protest at being sent away, keen to figure out what had recently occurred, she now found herself almost grateful for the fact. The veranda doors had all been opened in the corridors, the fresh spring air doing wonders to subdue the pounding in her head— enough so to the point that she felt like she could walk on her own two feet without the looming threat of collapsing. And it was in their stroll back to her chambers that Harri had noticed a queer little fact— Malfoy Manor was crawling with more Death Eaters than usual, a heightened amount of activity that left her tense. In the months she had been roaming the grounds, a spectre encroaching upon the spaces once solely reserved for family, she had come to the conclusion that there was one constant to the mansion— it was always quiet. Yet, something had taken place, an upset that cleaved the peace in two.

And there— her head snapped to the right just in time to see two more men in black robes, their masks shined to a bronze gleam, rushing past. They hadn’t even paused, only giving a hasty nod before slinking onwards in a hurried manner. Another sign that something was amiss— the Death Eaters always sunk into a bow whenever they spotted her. Though whether it was out of respect, or merely in compliance with their Lord’s unspoken wishes she never knew.  

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, little lion,” Rabastan mumbled without even sparing her a glance, his coal eyes fixed resolutely ahead.

Despite Harri still feeling the lingering aftereffects of the ostendo, she had enough energy to bristle at the dismissive tone and pet name that he, of all people, had no right to bequeath her. Her steps had halted, his soon following when it was clear that she wasn’t budging, irritation sparking at his unwillingness to divulge the truth. Why everyone remained so tight-lipped around her was vexing, bewildering— after all, it wasn’t like she was going anywhere anytime soon. And who was she even going to run off and tell about the inner-workings of Voldemort’s little cult? This was to be her indeterminable future, forever bound to the mansion and left with a limited circle for company— all of whom were already indoctrinated by the Dark Lord.

“Oh no,” she bit out resentfully, shoulders squaring determinedly, “No. I’m not in the mood to play this game.”

Thin arms crossed mulishly over her chest, curse green eyes narrowing a fraction when he spun around to face her, “I saved your life. By the rules of magic, you now owe me a life debt for interfering on your behalf when Voldemort was set on killing you. And I’m collecting it— right here, right now. What. Is. Happening.”

There was a flicker of mild surprise in those coal depths, the slightest raising of his brows at her strategic angle. While Rabastan, truthfully, hadn’t spent much time around the girl, he had gleaned enough from those who had to know she was brash, daring, a Gryffindor at her core— there was a reason, after all, that she had been pegged as the light’s champion. Yet the way she was looking at him now, the cool assessment, the guarded shrewdness in her gaze, and the unwavering execution of the principles regarding life debts. Well, he was sure her fellow housemates wouldn’t ever dream of purposefully backing someone into a corner and putting their magic on the line should they fail to comply. ‘Interesting.’ He raked his attention over her, a small half-smile at the new appraisal that, perhaps, there was more to her than met the eye.

“Well, it looks like someone has been studying,” he mused, retracing his steps to pause an arm’s length away from her, fingers casually interlacing behind his back.

“Narcissa is a good teacher,” she sniped in response, evenly meeting his stare and refusing to shy away from the glint of twisted amusement she had found in it.

“A little snake disguised as a lion— there’s something you don’t see every day. You may just find your place among us yet, Miss Potter,” the smile broadened at the briefest flicker of disgust marring her face, mentally filing away the nerve he had struck for later use, “But let it be known, I accept the terms of repayment.”

There was a golden shimmer settling across their skins, a flash of light, and a prickling tingle that left goosebumps in its wake, “We found the Order. Yaxley had been tipped off about a secret meeting and a few were snatched in the process. They are currently down in the dungeons, a girl among them that was quite temperamental and screaming out for you in particular. Though, I don’t believe any of them will last long— especially not with Bellatrix having her fun.”



She was treading holes into the Persian rug, it was an absolute fact, but sparing the finery from her nerves was the last concern entertained at the present. Though common sense was screaming for her to sit down before she fainted, Harri refused to heed it— after all, why should she have the luxury of sitting in front of a roaring fire, resting her leaden legs upon a plush ottoman, when one of her friends was rotting away down in the dungeons? Or even worse— being tortured. One would have to be a daft idiot not to piece together what Rabastan was alluding to when he had mentioned Bellatrix’s “fun”, the instability of the deranged woman’s mind a cause for concern. Combined with the fact that she was unaware of who, exactly, was now a hostage— the uncertainty was a corroding force against her composure. A thumb was swiping pressured strokes across its twin’s palm, a tic done to abate some of the unease, sharp teeth sinking into the plush inside of her cheek and worrying it. ‘Who is it? Hermione, maybe? Ginny? Luna? Lavender?’ There were too many on the list that would fit the criteria of a “girl”, and it was likely any one of them could have been at that meeting— at this point, she had been gone for so long that she couldn’t even hazard a guess as to who had formally joined the Order’s ranks.

There was a strike from the grandfather clock, a chime signaling the end of the— well, honestly she didn’t even know what time it was. Rabastan had left her in the study with the departing message that Narcissa would be by soon, a subtle warning not to do anything stupid in the meantime— and it was hard to miss the sound of the lock being turned. A frown appeared, the determined feet stilling in their march as she silently counted each toll with dread. ‘11 am then,’ an idle thought, blunt nails raking across her scalp in frustration. It was a conundrum at its core. Normally, she would have been able to unlock the door with ease. But considering her current state, trying to utilise magic just might make it worse. And even if she did leave the study, what could she honestly do? The manor was overflowing with Death Eaters so breaking her friend out unnoticed wasn’t going to be the most realistic option. ‘It’s not like he would let them go if I asked.’ 

But say if they were freed from their cell, what would be the next step? The wards around the mansion prevented her from physically leaving and, most likely, from apparating as well— and outrunning his followers across acres of property wasn’t feasible. Plus, it was likely that their wand had been confiscated at some point, leaving them not to be of much help. The floo parlour was also out of the question as the enchantments had been doubled down ever since her lessons had begun. All prospects were dismal, the miracle she sorely needed still elusive despite the endless silent pleas. It was hopeless, futile, a doomed endeavour that rendered her completely useless, utterly pathetic—.

“Shit!” she screamed, the weighted pit of dread morphing into a burst of adrift anger, hands curling about the crystal tumbler on the mantle and throwing it blindly against the wall— the shatter of it coming apart into a million pieces indescribably satisfying.

“Still destroying things that aren’t yours, Potter?” a monotone voice, the stress placed on the consonants unmistakable.

Harri whirled around, mildly regretting it when a fresh wave of pain made itself known, to find Severus lingering in the doorway. Despite the snide remark, she could see the truth of the man— he was exhausted. The lines etched into the corners of his mouth seemed more prominent than before, the pale complexion bordering on sallow, a weariness clinging to him like a second skin. It had given her a moment of startled pause, the sense of despair temporarily lost in its wake. In all of the years she had known the dour professor, he never was one to outwardly show signs of the troubles plaguing his mind— and it unnerved her to see it now.  

“Prof- Snape,” she amended quickly at the pointed look sent her way, stepping sheepishly forward to block the shattered glass from his line of sight, “What, uhm, what are you doing here? I thought Narcissa was supposed to come.”

“Yes, well,” a weary sigh escaped him, his tone taking on a bitter quality, “Thanks to that fool Yaxley, our hands are full at the present. Narcissa has always been the better healer and I am certain our wounded are grateful that I left them to her tender mercies instead of mine.”

He had given a slight tilt of his head towards the armchairs and Harri moved to sink into the unoccupied one. There was a second of quiet where coal eyes did nothing but slide shut, the soft exhale of laboured breathing filling the space while thin fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose. She waited, deciding to grant the man the small mercy of reprieve despite the thousand questions trying to claw their way up her throat— a thick swallow to repress them as her leg bounced aimlessly against the ground.

“I was informed,” Snape finally murmured, hands falling from his face and folding in his lap instead, “That you needed healing and something about magical exhaustion?  Whatever reckless thing did you do now?”

“Blame Voldemort,’ she watched as he retrieved two vials from the inner-pockets of his black robes and uncorked the one containing an amber liquid, “He’s the one at fault here.”

Severus regarded the girl as she knocked it back, finding it within himself to be slightly amused by her ensuing grimace at the taste of the replenishing drought. An empty bottle was exchanged for a pepper-up, brow lifting at the rebellious usage of his Lord’s name— a defiant habit she never seemed to fully break, “And how so?”

“He made me do an, uhm, oh bloody— ‘Ostendo’. Right, that’s what it was,” she frowned at the choked noise he had given in response, eyeing with suspicion the incredulous stare directed towards her, “Wandless, mind you. And then he had the bloody brilliant idea to end it without warning.”

“And you were able? To produce something, I mean,” he questioned, more than taken back by her offhanded manner— apparently, the girl was unaware of the spell’s meaning and, frankly, the last thing he felt like doing was enlightening her. No, that thankless task could be delegated to Narcissa if he had any say in it.  

Her confusion only grew at the disbelief in the potion master’s tone, the thinly-veiled fascination glowing in those dark eyes of his. Downing the scarlet liquid and relishing in the immediate warmth that spread throughout her limbs, easing away the pain from her sockets, the persistent ache in her marrow, Harri found herself unable to hold her tongue any longer. The renewed strength seemed to edge her forward, emboldening her now that she felt somewhat more fortified.

“Yeah, of course. But Snape,” she leaned forward in the chair, gaze nervously flitting to the study’s door before returning back to him, “What’s going on? I know he has the Order but I want to know who, exactly, is in the dungeons.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, mind whirling with calculations as he took in the redheaded witch before him. He should have known that it wouldn’t stay a secret for long— after all, Harri Potter certainly had a knack for uncovering things that, by all accounts, should have remained hidden from her. It was an uncanny ability that could be frustrating to deal with, the source of his many past frustrations. And Severus had no doubt that if he inquired as to where she had learned the tidbit from, the girl would either try to think of a poorly construed lie or change the subject. Nevermind if he chose not to oblige her and cede to the request. Undoubtedly, such was her personality that she would march down to the dungeons in search of an answer, ultimately earning both of them the ire of one Dark Lord. Plus, as she had demonstrated more times than he could count, it wouldn’t be out of her character to do something as reckless, as brash as attempting a doomed rescue mission. It was a difficult situation, the consequences of either outcome something he only had seconds to weigh. ‘Nothing can ever be easy when it involves her.’ An exhale through his nose, the sullen man had decided to give in to the lesser of the two evils, the one that would incite less damage in the long run. 

“He has the youngest Weasley child,” he said carefully, slowly, the crumpling countenance of her face twisting about his conscience.

Severus rose from the seat, sparing a concerned look down to her muted form. Her attention was seemingly fixated upon the errant shards of glass, its glinting pieces scattered along the baseboard— unfiltered horror dawned in those emerald eyes when his words finally processed. A string of platitudes ran through his mind, reassuring words that everything will be fine flashing to the forefront— but they all sounded hollow. Too empty. Meaningless and forced as even he, himself, couldn’t say for certain what the outcome of this was to be. And though some might find comfort in such condolences, he had too much respect for the girl’s intelligence to believe her that ignorant. Instead, a hand, its fingers elongated and palms thin, settled on her shoulder, a fleeting squeeze— the unspoken request clear for her to weigh the repercussions before acting. He left her there in silence with the crackling of the fire and the chaos of her thoughts for companionship.



Harri had found herself moving from the study to Voldemort’s bedroom, the reason for such one that not even she could fully explain. Logic tried to justify that it only made sense to wait for him there, that it was plausible it would be the first place he would return to. But that wasn’t exactly the sole reason either. Some part of her sought out comfort, solace, a place to calm the rising tide of her dismay. And so when the image of his bed, of the black silk and the warm scent of something she couldn’t quite place, came to her mind, her feet readily acted upon that desire. ‘Ginny. They have Ginny.’ It was a damning thought, an endless loop circling. Try as she may to begin to build a case, to predict how the conversation would go if she demanded that he release the poor girl, it was all futile— the only thing she could focus on was that of a freckled face and chocolate brown eyes, dirtied and dulled by fear. Ginny, her Ginny, was rotting down in the dungeons, nestled amongst the filth and damp stone. She had made a promise, a solemn vow back in her 2nd year that nothing would ever befall the poor girl again, that she wouldn’t be left to rot in a watery grave. Yet, it was being broken at this very moment. Her stomach lurched uneasily at the thought, knowing all too well what the youngest Weasley’s truest nightmare was, the form her boggart had taken— and he was about to make an appearance, the Devil lingering on her front step.

The door creaked open, the curtains drawn and not a soul in sight— she found it preferable that way. Despite the pain having subsided from her limbs, there was still the insistent press in her mind,  an acute heaviness that continued to leech off from her. Footsteps treading soundlessly over the hardwood, Harri failed to suppress the shiver from the chill of the room. Green eyes drifted over to the deadened mantle, the collected layer of ash a testament to how long it had been since the fire was relit. She could light it. In fact, it would have been easy enough to do so, a simple push of her magic outwards and a will for warmth— yet she didn’t. The downy mattress had given under her weight, a soft whoosh in the oppressive quiet as it moved to cradle her. Harri sat there listlessly, legs dangling over the side and hands running absentmindedly across the silken duvet. ‘He really doesn’t like colour, does he?’ It was a distracting thought, one made in the absence of any others as she studied the monochromatic tones— a canvas only painted in hues of black, of white, of grey. Not a drop of brightness to be found. In her experience, a space as private as a bedroom revealed a great deal about its owner. Take Ron, for example. Ron with his warm oranges and reds, the disorganization of quidditch magazines, and strewn about pillows on the floor— it was homely, comforting, a place free of judgments and negativity. Or Hermione’s earthly palette of greens and browns, with her alphabetically arranged bookcases and lavender-scented candles always burning— sensible, calm, inviting. But Voldemort’s? It was clinical. Spartan, perfectly structured, an attestation to the strict order he thrived in. A man without a need for colours or embellishments or personalization— all aspects humans usually required to feel secure. The demonstration that he had moved on past such things, that the issues of humanity, of compassion, no longer plagued him. Truly, the only thing that made her feel like this was his space, and not just another empty guest room in the manor, was the bed. His bed with his sheets and his scent that persistently lingered.

A lump formed in her throat, a pocket of air difficult to swallow around as her head fell into open palms. She wasn’t so much of a fool to believe that this day wouldn’t have ever come— he had made a vow, after all, to find the Order one way or another. And having spent 16 long years engaged in his dance, she knew he always upheld such promises eventually. Plus, ‘mercy’ wasn’t a concept he was inclined towards, the word seemingly erased from the vast repertoire of his vocabulary. Yet, some small part had always hoped this would be an issue to deal with far, far in the future. That, when the day would finally arrive, she would have fostered an amicable enough relationship with him to exert influence into persuading him to stay his hand. Or, perhaps, have the power and wisdom to free them— that she would have years, with any luck, to put into place a contingency plan. But now? Now was too soon. That idealised situation was nowhere in sight, the ‘Harri’ required to pull it off still concealed behind the murk of the future. And though she begged her mind to work, to jumpstart it into formulating a strategy, it refused to cooperate. Instead, all attention was consumed by every wrongdoing, every harsh word or insult spoken out against him. All the times she had run her mouth in reckless anger, the hateful vows to never side with him, the claims she would remain foremost loyal to her family and friends— and if her abysmal memory could vividly recall it, his most certainly could as well. Tears stung her vision, blurring, distorting. Every inch of her feared that Ginny would be the one reaping the consequences for such defiance, that it would be her friend suffering in her stead— it was as though a branding iron had been shoved down into her lungs at the revelation, a hiccup of a sob bubbling up. Was the girl even still alive? Or had she been tortured until the final drop of information had been wrung out of her like the moisture from a washcloth— crumpled from the abuse of unkind hands and left to die?

“Please,” she choked out, “please, please, please.”

It had become a mantra to an unknown god, strangled sounds slipping out in the spaces between gasps and tears. The word was repeated until it blurred, its meaning lost, the inflections incoherent until it had been rendered into a jumbled mess. An act of desperation, one made in the throes of hopelessness when all else failed. And Harri wasn’t even quite sure what, exactly, she was wishing for, the precise details of such muddled pleas entirely eluding her— she just knew she felt it in her bones. A need made with such unbridled devotion that she figured whatever god may be listening in could easily sort it out for themselves its meaning.      



Harri had awoken to the sound of running water and an indescribable softness against her bare cheek, to the consuming scent of sweet smoke and warmed spices. Emerald eyes fluttered open, blurrily blinking back the threads of sleep as she tried to reorient herself to reality. The curtains about the four-poster bed had been drawn, a welcoming dimness that only served to add to the momentary confusion. And as she hauled herself up into a sitting position, hand rubbing tenderly at the rawness of her throat, the girl finally placed where she was. ‘His room.’ It would appear that she had fallen asleep, despite the original plan to await Voldemort’s return— and that someone had seen fit to let her continue her dreamless state. While once upon a time it may have been alarming to find herself tucked in under the covers, nestled in the bed of the Dark Lord and laying her head upon his pillows, the circumstances had changed. In fact, such occurrences had become so commonplace that it was stranger to find herself anywhere else. And, admittedly, she always slept more soundly here than she did in her own chambers, somehow finding the presence of him and Nagini more and more comforting. Stretching to chase away the cracks in her spine, it was a relief to find that her earlier panic had leveled out a touch. True, she was still undoubtedly worried, the fearful dread an insistent coil wound tight in her stomach— but at least her mind was clearer, the hyperventilating sobs bottomed out. And in their place was a newly-found determination, a fierceness to protect what was hers, to shake him until he saw the absurdity in holding a 15-year-old hostage. 

A deep breath to calm herself, a meditative trance, and a solemn promise to be rational when facing him, Harri untangled her legs from the sheets. ‘Don’t provoke him,’ logic reminded as wary feet guided her to the steady stream of a running tap, ‘Don’t give him any reason not to listen.’ With another long inhale, an even longer exhale, she pushed the door inwards.

“I know about-,” the words died on her tongue, half-realised and never even getting the chance to be voiced.

Such vows of a calm and collected demeanor were tossed out the window upon seeing the gore that had been presented to her, the white marble painted vividly by startling shades of scarlet. The countertops were marred by splatters, greedy blooms that twisted and spread across the pristine surface. Droplets punctuated the floor in a random manner, no rhyme or reason to their placement, yet, somehow, all leading back to the original source— him. Standing at the sink, normally crisp shirt stained and cuffs rolled up past his elbows, was Voldemort. He was the origin of the horror, of such upset to the normally ordered world of the bathroom— the corded muscles of his forearms were coated in blood, a film that clung to the crevices, the dips between his fingers, under his nailbeds. It stained his pale complexion, finding purchase in the way of a fine mist across the collared button-up. And even as he was attempting to wash it off under the running water, the stream tingeing a rusted shade of pink, it would appear that it would never come off— that he would never be rid of the physical proof of his violent sin.

A hand clamped over her mouth in shock, a valiant attempt to stop herself from gagging as the smell finally hit. The air was metallic, cloyingly sweet with a tang that, for the strangest of reasons, made her teeth ache along their gums. It was disgusting, revolting, a sight that caused acidic bile to rise. And it was made even worse by the fact that there was only one reasonable source as to whose blood that might be. Green eyes obsessively fixated on the tinted water, unable to stop herself from morbidly trying to guess which specific person’s essence was being washed down the drain— was it Ginny’s? Or, perhaps, it had come from multiple people she had once known? A hodgepodge and diluted mixture of magical blood being callously disposed of.

“W-who- I. You,” Harri fumbled for the right words, her heart nearly stopping when he had turned to glance over his shoulder— there was a smear of it across his pronounced cheekbone, the hue almost dull in comparison to the glowing hellfire of his eyes.

“Harri,”  he greeted cautiously, gaze narrowing a fraction at the grief-stricken expression she was sporting.

He turned back to his task of washing himself clean, mind whirling, and cursing the universe for choosing the most inopportune moment for her to wake up. When he had first arrived to see her curled up in his bed, it had been almost a miracle— after all, it had been his every intention to spare her from the gruesome details, to make himself presentable and conceal the truth of what was being done down in the dungeons. But as it would appear, yet again, Harri Potter was intent on defying his plan at every turn. And so here she was now, looking at him aghast and horrified, stunned into silence as he tried to piece together a convincing enough lie or excuse.

“You-,” she whispered, taking a faltering step back before finally finding her voice, “You promised!”

Voldemort grit his teeth, furiously scrubbing at his skin yet finding no contentment when the blood lifted away. Judging by the sharp accusation in her tone, it was clear that she was already aware of the fact that a few of the Order’s members were imprisoned underneath the manor— though precisely how escaped him, a note being made to discover whose tongue was loose. ‘And perhaps remove it for them.’ He reached for the towel hanging on the rack, passing it over his damp skin and paying no mind to the mess he had created, thoughts consumed by strategy on how to proceed next. Glancing up in the mirror, he ran the rag across his cheek, scarlet eyes shifting from himself to the reflection of the girl in the doorway. It was a thin line to toe, he knew it— after all,  her face plainly spoke of her opinions. But then again, what did she expect? Even if he had asked nicely, they wouldn’t have freely given up information— not that they knew a considerable amount seeing as most of them were newer recruits. And he didn’t have the time to wait around until they were desperate, starved, or dehydrated enough to barter out names and locations for relief. Fingers curled into the plushness of the soiled washcloth, tossing it aside on the stained counter, a tongue running over his canines in idle deliberation.

“And what, exactly, did I promise?” his response was just as soft, intent on watching her in shrewd appraisal from the mirror.

Harri blinked, brows knitting together in incredulous surprise that he had apparently forgotten, “Wha- that you wouldn’t personally touch them!”

He couldn’t quite help the scoff at her protests nor stop the swell of embittered jealousy at the fact she was still so readily coming to their aid. Part of him had dared to hope that the endless months of separation would have been enough to sever any lingering connections. That he, himself, had managed to occupy the spaces in her thoughts, in her heart that they once did— a foolish hope but one he entertained nonetheless. Pushing himself off from the counter, long strides carried him past her, devoting singular attention to undoing the shirt’s buttons rather than looking at the redhead in his periphery. Of course, he hadn’t forgotten the pledge that those she held close would be spared from his own personal administrations— had even made sure that those he interrogated were strangers to her, unknowns, variables that wouldn’t further complicate matters. And sure, he had threatened her in the past with their deaths but that was mainly for an added gravity to his warnings. It would cause irreparable damage to their relationship, a prodigious fallout, dire repercussions on a paramount scale that he didn’t feel like having to spend decades dealing with in turn. Yet her insistence on protecting them still gnawed, twisted, envy giving birth to a vile beast that had been mostly dormant in these past few weeks.

“You promised me that you wouldn’t harm a hair on their heads!” she called after him, trailing hot on his heels, an acetic mixture of disbelief and fury driving her forwards.

‘Don’t react. Just calmly explain yourself and it’ll be fine,’ a little voice whispered, fingers reaching the end of the buttons’ row as he tried to ignore her form lingering in the closet’s threshold. A phantom refusing to abate in its insistence on haunting him, of demanding acknowledgment. There was sound logic in the idea of confessing, he couldn’t deny it— so why was his tongue refusing to work? Shuffling through the racks of collared shirts, a muscle in his jaw ticked when the answer had come to him without warning. Because verbally stating that Ginny Weasley had been spared would be the same as admitting to his compromise. That he had allowed his hand, his actions to be determined by the whims of a teenager and the thought of her eternally hating him— that any progress they had made would be completely nulled. He had denied his baser instincts, had allowed them to be curbed and dictated by a promise made in passing. And what kind of Dark Lord was he that he allowed himself to be brought to heel by such a slip of a girl? A girl that, by all rights, was his. His horcrux, his magic, an extension of his soul— it wasn’t the other way around. So why did she hold so much power? He was Lord Voldemort. He wasn’t meant to settle, to deny himself or listen to the whims of others. It was damning, maddening, a recent development that left him furious with himself and off-centered.

 Harri watched as he shrugged the bloodied shirt off, barely paying attention to his naked form as a wave of desperation rose. His lack of a response was killing her, instinctively interpreting it as a sign of his omitted guilt—  he had done something to Ginny, she was more certain of it now than ever. And how it terrified her, made her anger spark to life— a constant companion more readily welcomed than sorrow or despair. Fury was something she could work with, act upon, utilise as armour and fuel.

“Whatever happened to ‘I don’t tell lies’?!” her voice had pitched a few octaves in volume, a pit settling in her stomach.

“I thought I could at least count on you to be honest with me, no matter how vile the truth is,” the flex of muscle in his shoulders, the rigidness in the lines of his body went unnoticed as she pressed onwards, unnerved by his continuing silence, “You, of all people, I thought I could rely on for that!”

She blinked in affronted surprise when he had pushed past her instead of answering, a new shirt clutched in his hands and crimson eyes set firmly ahead. It was obvious he was trying to flee, to disregard her outburst— but yielding wasn’t exactly known to be her strongest suit. Unashamedly pursuing the Dark Lord back into the bedroom, a small hand darted out to grip his elbow, an adamant hold to prevent him from leaving.

“Fucking say something already!” the demand was sharp, accentuated by a weak pull in a bid to make him face her.

“I’ve kept my promise, Harri!” it had taken them both as a surprise when his response came out as a yell, a clipped outburst as he unceremoniously yanked his arm out of her grasp.

Voldemort regarded her owlish stare, the rosebud mouth parting in shock, an unwittingly formed sneer on his face as he tossed the crumpled stained shirt to the ground, “I kept that damnable oath of yours despite Ginevra Weasley being the most valuable asset I have at the moment. I haven’t touched a single hair on her godforsaken head despite how bloody well I want to. In fact, I even made sure that no one else down there could be someone you might lay claim to ‘loving’ .”

She studied him as he shrugged on the clean button-up, unable to contain her shock at the fact he had yelled of all things. In the months she had been around the man, no matter how much she inspired his anger, pushed or prodded at his patience, he had never raised his voice. Not once. Yet, he just had— it was disconcerting, rendering her mute with uncertainty. And, for the strangest of reasons, it made her feel almost guilty with the revelation that she had pushed the Dark Lord to such an extreme. A heavy swallow,  the weight shifted from one foot to the other as her hand fell limply back to her side. ‘That wasn’t her blood.’ It was a solace, a worry lessened only to be immediately replaced with a crushing guilt— sure, Ginny hadn’t been the one to suffer but someone else had. Some stranger, some unknown person had been bled out and here she was feeling relieved of all things. There was nagging self-deprecation calling her selfish, callous, cruel, unrelenting little whispers that she tried to drown out by opening her mouth— only to close it again when no words came to mind. Frankly, Harri was unsure how to react— what to say or to do that would avoid tripping the anger that was only being kept simmering just below the surface.  And it threw her for a loop hearing him admit that he had kept his promise in the end, had even gone to the extent of ensuring those imprisoned weren’t people she knew. ‘But it doesn’t justify torture,’ a reminder, feeling torn in several directions as moral obligations constricted about her heart. ‘One thing at a time,’ a different whisper to rival the other, the voice she decided to cling to for fortification. Teeth sunk into her lower lip, biting it while she tried to puzzle out how to navigate the unforeseen landmines of his irritation.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, the words barely classifying as a whisper— yet he had apparently heard them all the same, stilling in his task of redressing, “I should haven’t accused you.”

Hesitantly, her hands reached forward to replace his, pausing for a moment to gauge his reaction. When it wasn’t explosive or volatile, she began to match the ivory buttons to their correct slots, working quickly but with purpose. Harri was aware of the unmistakable weight of his calculating gaze, the silent question dancing in those scarlet eyes— but this was her chance, she figured, to set things right. Perhaps, though it could be foolish to hope, the future wasn’t that far off. Maybe, just maybe, she could attain it now, could have the chance to foster the relationship she had envisioned— could become the force to exert a subtle influence on him for the good of others. And there was one last bargaining chip she needed to play, a final hand to bank on in order to help secure such an ideal.

“You want my cooperation, right? For me to willingly stay here forever?” she asked innocently, knowing that the proverbial carrot was being dangled in front of him by the way he had gone rigid— almost as if perking up in interest as to where this conversation was heading.

“Then keep my friends out of this— they’re just teenagers, kids being swept along. Trust me, I know how it feels to be roped in by adults. Show me that they’ll be safe, that I can trust that you won’t use them against me. Show me by starting with releasing Ginny Weasley,” the words came out firmly, hands lingering on the broad expanse of his chest and fingers flexing at the solidness under them.

“Trust has to go both ways, Harri,” he mused, watching her auburn crown with a keenness, an eager hunger— he had already guessed that she was setting up a boon system, an interesting strategy he had to admit, and one that made him curious to see what she would offer up in kind. 

She tried to hide her nerves, to not so plainly show the giddy trepidation she was experiencing at how beautifully he was playing along. It was a sacrifice she was making, a power that was about to be handed over to him— but it was crucial, absolutely vital if she wanted to achieve her end goal. Not quite trusting the expression on her face, she settled for burying it in his chest for a moment, a chance to collect her composure under the guise of something sweeter. Closed lips pressed softly, gently over his heart, a fleeting second, before pulling away.

“I know. And that’s why I’m letting you name your price. Tell me what I can do to earn yours,” green eyes lifted to stare into his evenly— it was a weighty thing to voice, a verbal agreement of signing her name on the dotted line.

It was the least she could do considering everything that the Weasleys had done for her in the past years— she owed them everything. Their kindness and generosity helped her get through the unbearable summers at the Dursley’s, while the friendship of their children had weathered her through tumultuous times over and over again. Molly was the maternal figure she had never known, had welcomed her with arms thrown wide from the very first year. She could still remember receiving her first-ever Christmas present, a scratchy maroon sweater that held love in every stitch— a woman sitting up all night to knit a jumper for a child she barely even knew just so she would have something to unwrap come morning. And the thought of making someone like that go through the pain of losing a child, an agony so easily prevented— she refused to let it happen. If it meant sealing her own fate in the process, giving up a portion of herself in favour of saving another, so be it.

 Voldemort considered the offer, gaze searching her own for any sign of hesitation, of regret. Yet there appeared to be none, her will resolute and steadfast. And he debated if he should give her an impossible task, one to truly test the boundaries of her proffered loyalty and the extent to which she was willing to go. Admittedly, it was an exhilarating concept that she was even offering up her devotion, one of the many aspects that he coveted about her—the unshakeable sort of commitment, of fidelity and faithfulness that would bind them together. A smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards, mind turning over at the possibilities. Of its own admission, a hand reached out to lightly grip her chin, tilting that heart-shaped face upwards to better drink it in.

“Alright. One gesture of trust for another,” there was a lilt to his voice, a betrayal of his anticipation, “Bring me information of the Order straight from Ginevra’s lips. Do it well and I will let her go— unharmed and intact.”

He almost expected her to protest, to deny it, to plead to do anything else other than betray the Weasley child— had foreseen that as the most likely outcome, in fact, and prepared a backup request just in case. Though when the gears began to turn in those wide green eyes, the telltale signs of acknowledgment and the beginnings of a scheme, it would have been a lie to say he wasn’t pleasantly thrilled. And when she had given the final acquiescing nod of her head, that thrill grew into an unbridled elation.  



It hadn’t been an easy decision by any means. Truthfully, it was one she had originally balked at, was ready to claim that the price was too steep. But the more she considered it, the more fortuitous it was that was all Voldemort had asked in return— because he presented her with the opportunity to at least protect Ginny, her friends, and the Order in her own way. She could spare the youngest Weasley the terror of experiencing her waking nightmare all while gaining information of the outside world— and right under the Dark Lord’s nose. Of course, there were risks involved in trying to filter out what kind of tidbits she could feed him, how much leeway she truly had, but he had been vague enough to spin it to her advantage. He only said ‘information’ and that was certainly something she could work with. Plus, with any luck, she could make it so Ginny was released before the month was even up— all she had to do was convince him that the teenager barely knew anything of importance.  

The girl was taking the stairs to the dungeons slowly, feet disinclined to hurry along until she was more sure of herself and the plan. Clutched between thin fingers was a canteen of water, innocent enough on a first glance, the sloshing against its metal walls relaying nothing devious about its inherent nature— yet it was a lie. He had insisted on interlacing it with veritaserum, had made her do so, in fact, right before him to affirm her commitment to their little barter. The Dark Lord explained that the serum was to be an added precaution, a safety net— though for whom, however, had escaped her notice until now. It was for her should she be unable to gain her friend’s compliance without added assistance. Though the Ginny she knew would never outright lie to her face, or so she hoped, the fact of the matter was that it had been some time since they had last seen one another. And, as it often does, time changes people. More specifically, it had changed herself— had warped and twisted, frayed and sculpted her to its liking. It wasn’t even a fear entertained up until this very moment but, as she paused on the last step, green eyes adjusting unnaturally quick to the dimness of the dungeons, it was making itself well-acquainted with the intimacies of her mind. ‘What if I’m too different? What if Ginny doesn’t even recognise me anymore? What if she’ll hate me for it? What if she can tell that I am-’

Nails curled inwards to impress half-moons onto her free palm, a mild sting to serve as a grounding mechanism. ‘Stop it,’ another voice chided in an attempt to quell the swirls of her anxieties, trying to find justification that, outwardly, she still looked the same. And if she was physically unaltered, that’s all the mattered— she could fake anything else if need be. Though, honestly, how dissimilar was the current Harri from the one that had spent her days at Hogwarts?  After all, it wasn’t like she had become an entirely new person, hadn’t been completely erased, and imbued with a different soul. ‘You know that’s not true. You’ve changed, don’t deny it.’ With no small amount of trepidation, dragonhide clad feet stepped off the final rise of the stairwell, surrendering herself over to the damp air and the narrow stone-encased walls. 

For the ease of convenience, Ginny had been moved to the top tier of the dungeons and Harri was immensely grateful for it. Judging from the faintest echo of screams drifting up the metal steps at the end of the hall, the lingering traces of iron heavy in the air, it was an utter nightmare down below. Another circle of Hell far worse than the last, one she was intent on avoiding if at all possible. Gaze fixed resolutely ahead, refusing to peer into the cells flanking either side for the fear of accidentally seeing someone else she might know, a frown twitched on her mouth upon seeing who was strolling the length of the corridor. Even with his back turned, it was impossible to mistake the towering frame and inhumanly broad shoulders— ‘Greyback.’ 

Falling in line behind him were two others, werewolves no doubt, and though they towered over herself, their statures looked pitiful in comparison to the man in the middle. He was wearing the same tattered leather coat, heavy mud-caked boots deafening in their footfalls, and an overconfident swagger to his stride. A slew of inward curses formed when she saw his trio was blocking the passageway, damning the fact that it was him, of all people, she had run into down here. And then, as if reading her thoughts, a grating bark of a laugh ricocheted off the flagstone.

“I thought I smelled something. Hard to mistake roses among the scent of shit,” he slowly turned around, a passing leer as watery eyes regarded her from the shadows, “‘Ello, pup. Been a while.”

Harri stiffened as the weight of his attention settled over her, instinctually bristling against it. Truthfully, she despised the man, and being in his presence always set her on edge, made her insides squirm in the most uncomfortable sort of way. He was a predator in all rights of the word, a beast that thrived on blood and chaos. And yes, Voldemort was assuredly one too, a creature honed for hunting and for death— but at least he was smart about it. Restrained, calculating, almost civilised at times. The type to offer you tea and refreshments while deciding whether or not to sink his fangs into your throat— Greyback, however, forewent all of the niceties and debates. He was an animal ruled by desire, by instinct with nothing in place to curb them. Nor was he to be reasoned with when things went awry— the kind of monster that Harri wasn’t used to dealing with. She watched in apprehension as clawed fingers shoved themselves into the pockets of his patched trousers, refusing to accept the goading. Instead, her attention shifted to look stubbornly past his shoulder, a nonverbal cue that she wasn’t willing to engage in conversation.

A passing second of quiet in which he refused to step aside, the grin growing wider as he inhaled deeply and nostrils flaring, “Ah, but there’s something else too. Different. There’s a change about you, pup.”

She ground her teeth at his assessment, grip tightening about the canteen and knees locking when he had moved forward. The uncanny way he was voicing her earlier fears made her wonder, briefly, if the werewolf was perhaps a natural legilimens, that he had some secret ability to read minds— or if her insecurities were just that plainly written across her face. Either way, it got to her. ‘Don’t pay him any mind. He’s just trying to provoke you,’ rationality warned, an acute ache on the roof of her mouth when he was apparently intent on disregarding personal boundaries. Her eyes abruptly snapped back to his, narrowing a fraction in warning and satisfied when he had seemingly gotten the hint to not come any closer. And, for the first time, she actually missed having Barty in her shadow— but, apparently, the man had been delegated to assisting in the interrogations.

“Move,” she commanded, shoulders squaring.

“Where’s your master anyways? Finally slipped his leash, eh? Or are you looking for a new one? If so, my offer still stands,” he chuckled lowly, spine straightening to draw himself up to his full height when his companions had jeered along in agreement.

“Funny. Out of the two of us, I think it’s quite clear who has a ‘master’ and who doesn’t,” she snapped, unable to hold her tongue any longer and refusing to be cowed— blazing eyes slipped down pointedly to his left arm before bouncing back up in a challenge.

“What are you even doing down here, Greyback? I don’t have time for your games,” her tone was hard as she took a pressing step forward.

“Me? Just checking out the goods,” was his casual response, lip curling in a betrayal of the fact that her words had struck a nerve, “Not much down here worth it though. But there’s a pretty little ginger further down that I reckon will make a fine addition.”

“No,” she seethed, revolted that he was even suggesting such a thing, “You aren’t touching her. She’s not yours to claim so get that thought out of your head right now.”

A growl tore from his chest, the sound almost gravel-like, sharpened teeth flashing from behind pulled lips as he matched her step. The toes of his boots bumped against her own, “I have a deal with the Dark Lord. First dibs on any prisoners I want, no questions asked.”

“Not. Any. More,” Harri bit out, punctuating each word forcefully, eyes flashing brightly in her rising fury, “Consider that deal officially rescinded. She’s off-limits. If you have an issue with it, go take it up with Voldemort. But until then, get the hell out of my way.”

Fenrir was about to protest further, to show her he refused to listen, that the girl had no power to dictate what he could or couldn’t do when a hesitant tap on his shoulder drew his attention. He snarled at his companion, teeth bared and ready to enact upon violent discipline when it finally came to his attention that something was amiss. In the heat of their argument, it had gone unnoticed, too engrossed in trying to cow her— but the girl was leaking magic. It was acidic, sharp, the kind that forced itself down your throat whether you wanted it or not. The sort that had no qualms in suffocating you, in stealing away all oxygen until you were forced to comply for even a breath of sweet relief. Grey eyes darted to the wall’s sconces, the flames dimmed and the shadows lengthening, looming in a threat to extinguish all light in the earth below. And even he, the Alpha of his pack, the feared Fenrir that could change at the turn of a dime, wasn’t spared from the oppressive atmosphere flooding the corridor. In fact, it felt so similar that he might have mistaken it for the Dark Lord's unexpected appearance if he hadn’t relied on his other senses to ascertain that she was alone. The girl had taken advantage of his momentary surprise to shove past him, clipping his shoulder with a force that was barely even felt— save for the spark of electricity that coursed through the side of his body, a numbing prick that made his muscle spasm involuntarily.

“Oh, and Greyback? Do not let me catch you back down here,”  she called out over her shoulder, pausing just outside of the cell’s door and waiting until he had turned to look at her.

“If I do, I promise you that it won’t end well,” the threat hung heavily between them, emerald eyes glowing with a warning— the corridor was plunged into darkness.

 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 54: ‘Anna Karenina'

Notes:

Hello everyone! I am so sorry—I did not intend to take this long in between updates. Midterms killed me 😂 But here it is! And at a reasonable-ish time during the day? Unheard of.

There is just one thing I wanted to address real quickly:

I am doing something with Gregorovitch/wand makers/Dark Lord politics that will be canon divergent but it'll mainly be discussed in the next chapter! For now, just know he's alive in this universe and hasn't been killed by Voldemort in the quest for the elder wand.

As always, thank you for continuing to read along and for engaging with this fic even though it took me a while to get this update up! 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“W-Who’s there?” a voice had floated out from somewhere beyond the veil of darkness, timid and catching uneasily on the question.

It took Harri a moment to actually place the tone, the flighty lilt of the vowels and the inherent rhythm nestled within each consonant— how long had it been? A few months at least, the memory of such a voice fading a touch further with every passing week. Yet, somehow, hearing it just made everything seem real,  irrefutable. And truthfully, some part to her had been holding out hope, however small it may be, that it had been a mistake. That they had grabbed the wrong person amidst the scramble, a girl who only looked similar— that the youngest Weasley was still tucked away in the homely comforts of the Burrow, safeguarded by her mother’s embrace and removed from the cruelties of the world. But no. No, it truly was Ginny trapped in these cells, a graven reminder of how many lives had been upset by the Dark Lord’s presence— yanked up by the roots and left to rot from exposure. 

A pale hand fell from the concaved wall, dragging slowly against the rough stone. There was a solace to be found in the burning scrape against the softness of her palm. Pain. It was the best possible reminder to avoid getting caught in the tide of emotions— the ones that battered mercilessly against the rocky shoreline of her focus. ‘Remember your task. Find out about the coin,’ a distant voice chided, an uneasy swallow as she struggled to formulate an answer.

“Sorry about the lights,” her response was a half-realised whisper, the words still carrying in the vacuum of quiet.

“….Harri? Harri, is that you!?”

The surprise in the demand was nearly palpable, its underlying hopeful note twisting unpleasantly in her stomach. Green eyes cut through the darkness to take in the hazy outline of a huddled shape against the farthest wall— the murky details of a frayed braid coming undone, the gleam of teeth worrying a chapped bottom lip. Though an undeniably strange development, her capacity for night vision had increased exponentially as of late, pushing almost into the boundaries of supernatural. And the cause for such had entirely escaped her comprehension— not that Harri was complaining. It certainly was useful. Like now, for example. A passing consideration crossed her mind to keep the dungeon dark, to not relight the sconces, and to prevent Ginny from actually seeing her. That earlier gripping fear was back tenfold, an irrational case of nerves— What if she was unrecognizable to the younger girl? What if Ginny refused to believe that it was actually her? What if she took one look at her clothes and decided that she was purposefully flaunting the luxury of a newly-found life to someone whose entire world consisted of second-hand robes, frayed sweaters, and patched jeans? ‘Maybe I should change— No, stop it. You’re working yourself up over nothing,’ her conscious reasoned, trying to remind herself that this was Ginny. And that now wasn’t the time to flee on an account of anxieties stemming from an issue as petty as outfit choices.

She willed fire to spread out into her fingertips. Flames appeared after a moment, steadily growing into an orb that danced along the cradle of the life and heart lines on her palm. The dampened stone walls were imbued with a brilliant orange glow, a warming contrast against the creeping decay of the prison. And as she blew gently, fanning the embers and sending fragments outwards to the extinguished torches, Harri debated on how to even proceed next. The canteen clipped to her belt felt heavy, a damning weight, the chain and ball about her ankles— honestly, she was tempted to just pour it out right then and there, let its deceit slosh against the ground and run muddy from its falsehood. But, then again, Voldemort would know if she didn’t heed his instructions— he somehow always knew. Absentmindedly shaking her hand to snuff out the spell, content when the cell was bathed in a decent amount of light, the witch settled on the strategy that had always served her most faithfully— winging it. Green eyes lifted then to take in the face of a not-quite-yet-almost stranger. Quiet ensued. A stifling hush as one studied the other, warring emotions felt for entirely different reasons.  

If Harri was being honest, the youngest Weasley looked, well, terrible. The girl had always been slender but there was an added gauntness to her frame now, a hollowness in her cheeks that spoke of immense stress. The freckled complexion was marred with dirt and sweat, off-set by a smattering of ghastly bruises that looked like a warped rendition of a Monet— and her hair, that bright coppery hair, was tangled, coming limply undone from the side braid. Even her clothes hadn’t been spared the effects of apparent hardship, the mauve jumper threadbare and dulled in colour. And the sickening thing was knowing that, while some of the appearance could be accounted for by the ensuing scuffle during her capture, most of it was a result of hiding. From living an existence dedicated to getting her back, one of constant fear and unrest. How it caused guilt to surge, a heavy lump forming in the base of her throat at the revelation.

In every sense of the word, Harri looked— wrong. When they learned the girl was being held captive at Malfoy Manor, left to the tender mercies of the Dark Lord and his followers, Ginny expected the worst— to perhaps hear her friend’s screams ricocheting off the earthen walls or to look upon a battered form riddled with scars, each one containing a story of months passed in torture. And yet the vision standing before her defied those expectations. Brown eyes passed critically over the looming form, widening marginally with surprise as the little details finally processed. Even though the redhead was dressed plainly, the cut and material of the ensemble spoke volumes as to how much it was all worth— a mind-boggling number nearly incomprehensible. The knee-high boots were polished until they shone like an onyx, the shuddering flames reflected in their pointed toes. And though the trousers were simple enough, a matte leather, their expense was obvious in the tailored cut— a testament to the skill of their creator as they clung to the contours of her legs. But it was the high-necked blouse tucked into the waistband that Ginny found herself consumed by, wholly unable to look away. It bore an uncanny resemblance to the one on display in Madam Malkin’s months ago— and the accompanying price tag had made her head spin. According to the placard, it was spun out of Mulberry silk. The fabric so luxe and smooth that her fingers itched to touch it back then, its buttons formed from white gold and inlaid with pearls— but how Harri was possibly wearing it was the most startling thing. It was a well-known fact she possessed wealth, being the sole heiress to the Potter legacy and all— but to this extent? It seemed almost unfathomable.

Ginny blinked out of the starstruck stupor, looking past the puffed sleeves and elegant silhouette in shrewd evaluation for signs of abuse. For something, anything, that spoke to the horrors she had been preparing herself to see. There were none— in fact, what was found suggested quite the opposite. Even the loose fit of the silky material couldn’t hide the curves that she was almost certain hadn’t been there a year ago— the gentle swell of a chest and the rounding of hips attesting to her continuing health. Ginny’s attention drifted up to the heart-shaped face, blinking at the expression of abject horror it was sporting— though it did little to take away from the glow of her complexion, the vividness of those too-green eyes. ‘Was she wearing makeup?’ a muddled thought, perplexed by the discovery. When, in the entirety of her life, had Harri Potter ever willingly worn makeup? Yet there it was, plain as day in the way of mascara coating fanned lashes and a wine-red tint colouring full lips. Even her hair had been styled, the auburn strands artfully twisted back into a voluminous ponytail atop her crown. It was discomforting, a sense of deja vu in seeing the photo from the Prophet all over again. Somehow this version was both Harri but also not at the same time— a phantom afterimage, a ghostly echo. And there was an air to this interpretation of her friend that clung to the soft lines of her body, a subtle sort of feeling hard to exactly pinpoint down in meaning— it set her on edge. 

At some point in her introspection, the girl had taken an uneasy step forward and Ginny’s curiosity was captured by the glint of silver. Pinned proudly to the hollow of Harri’s throat, stark against the black silk, was a circular medallion. A snake consuming its own tail, the single visible eye demarcated with a gleaming ruby— the formal crest of the Dark Lord.

Thoughts were beginning to whirl, panic heightening as things clicked into place. A sneaking suspicion souring in her mouth— ‘What if this isn’t her?’ After all, she was dressed like one might expect of a pureblood and Harri had always been quick to pass judgment upon the ‘ridiculousness’ of Draco’s clothing. The girl Ginny knew was tomboyish, preferring worn sneakers and oversized jumpers for the ‘ease and comfort’— never in her life would she consider dropping at least a year's salary on a blouse. And though her friend was undeniably talented in the areas of magic, often accomplishing death-defying feats, wandless casting wasn’t her speciality— but she had just conjured flames out of thin air, no wand in sight or verbal incantation necessary. None of it was adding up. Amber eyes narrowed a fraction, shrinking back against the wall and ignoring the seeping chill through the worn sweater.

“W-wait,” Ginny lifted her chin stubbornly, trying to ignore the spark of unease at the thought of a stranger wearing her friend’s face, “How do I really know you’re Harri?”

A flicker of hurt in those striking eyes and she froze mid-step— it was almost enough to make Ginny take it all back, to rush out in apology that she hadn’t meant it. ‘I’m just being cautious. They could be a really good actor,’ she tried to justify, stamping down the guilt at how wounded the girl looked, the way she was shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

“Oh. Right. Makes sense, I suppose, that you would want proof,” Harri tried to play it off with a forced laugh— the sound fell flat even to her ears.

A hand reached around to massage the back of her neck awkwardly, mind busied with the endeavour of finding a way to prove her identity— a satisfactory method to verify she actually was Harri and to earn her friend’s trust. But how does one even go about confirming their own identity? If she had a wand, she might have produced a patronus— and if Voldemort didn’t possess the same talent, she could have spoken in parseltongue. And though it had hurt, she couldn’t entirely fault Ginny’s apprehension either, the wariness flashing in those guarded eyes. ‘It’s only right,’ the inner voice defended, ‘given the context of everything.’ She blew out a shaky low exhale, toeing the dirt under her boots distractedly. 

“Alright, uhm, well let’s see. I know you’re Ginevra Molly Weasley and you’re the only daughter of Arthur and Molly,” she said slowly, “You were on the Gryffindor team as a Chaser when I was Captain. You also called your pygmy puff ‘Arnold’ because you thought it was a ‘very dignified name’ , despite everyone saying otherwise. Oh, and you hoard issues of Vogue under your bed.

“Your dream is to play on the Holyhead Harpies, you dated Dean Thomas off and on,” Harri added slyly, unable to stop the impish grin from growing, “But you had the biggest crush on Angelina Johnson for a while. And me, of course.”

There was a second where Ginny processed the facts, fixated stare becoming rather owlish in turn. They were all right, of course, and it was a surreal understanding to come to that the girl grinning down at her was truly the person she had been searching for. That it wasn’t some stranger masquerading as her, parading around in a cruel trick meant to inspire hope— only to shatter it at the last second with a heart-wrenching grand reveal.  Harri had moved closer, crouching down to be eye level, and Ginny found herself obsessed with studying the delicate features of her face— the smiling rosebud mouth, the slightly upturned nose, the shapely arch of her brows. After not seeing it for so long, it was almost wondrous to behold, her mind working to impress those details onto its long-term memory.

“Blimey. You really are Harri, aren’t you?”

And then her mind saw fit to cling to the last fact, a mortified blush fanning freckled cheeks as she spluttered out in shock, “W-wait— you knew!?”

“Ron talks,” Harri explained apologetically, arms wrapping around Ginny’s thin shoulders and pulling her into a firm embrace.

“It’s good to see you again, Ginny” she muttered, chin resting atop the other girl’s crown.

And then it was as though the floodgates had been yanked open— Ginny’s arms flung about Harri’s waist to pull her closer. She rocked unsteadily on the balls of her feet at the unexpected strength, knees sinking to the ground for added stability as the younger of the two buried her face into a silk-covered shoulder. For a second, all was quiet in the cell. Peaceful, calm, tranquil. Then it was punctuated by the sounds of ragged sobbing. The emotions and stress that had been ever-so mounting were finally let go— and Harri didn’t mind letting the girl weep, barely registering the dampness of tears soaking her blouse. The entire ordeal must have been unfathomably taxing and it was remarkable she had held it together for this long. After all, not many 15-year-olds could say they’ve experienced being separated from their family, only to be shoved into a cell with no idea of their impending fate. Rather than attempt to offer up platitudes that everything was going to be fine, a lie that she was uncomfortable in telling, Harri only tightened the hold. Idle fingers set to the task of smoothing through the girl’s copper hair, doing their best to work free the tangles without too much disruption.

“I got you,” she whispered softly, “I got you, Gin.”

“Harri,” the name came out as a hiccup, Ginny finally pulling away and scrubbing at tear-reddened eyes with the dirtied backs of her hands, “It’s been awful. I kept just thinking the worst was happening to you— and then imagining he was coming—.

“Hey,” Harri frowned at the implications, “I promised you, back in the chamber right? That I wouldn’t let anything happen to you again? Not now, not ever.”

Her hands reached for the face marred by grime— the track left behind by the tears had done little to wash it away and, rather, cut a noticeable path down the curve of her cheeks. Harri met amber eyes evenly, heart sinking at the sheen of fear still held within them. Thumbs brushed over the highest points of her cheekbones, dragging and smearing the dirt in their arcing path. It was uncanny, she figured, how much Ginny probably resembled the version of herself from all those years ago in the graveyard— the same kind of bruises and the same kind of terror incited by the same kind of man. Save for one major difference— the younger girl would have a shield that she didn’t. Harri was determined to take up the helm of a protector, to safeguard and defend at any cost. It was the least she could do, a minor repayment in the overall debt owed to the Weasley family.

“You have my word, Ginny, that he won’t come down here,” she stated fiercely, green eyes blazing in a solemn promise, “I won’t let him.”

A slow nod of understanding came from Ginny, her face immediately pinching with dismay upon the realisation that she had cried on the blouse, apologising and fretting about its current state— Harri barely took notice. Rather, her attention had strayed upwards, latching onto a disconcerting sight that caused her shoulders to tense. There were rust-coloured flecks trailing up the side of her face, peeking out from under askew pieces of hair. A frown tugged the corners of her mouth downwards. Numbed fingers brushed the strands aside and her jaw clenched at the ensuing discovery. ‘Blood.’ It was dried, already flaking off the skin— a testament that some time had passed since it was fresh. And the culprit of such was a wound, just barely clotted over, and impressed into the tender spot of the temple along the hairline. The curling edges were pink with the tells of creeping infection, a gruesome sight that suggested it was far deeper than it initially appeared— and judging by the patterned imprints, it was seemingly caused by an unkind hand sporting a signet or heavy ring. Something burrowed deep within the confines of her chest, slipping in between the empty spaces of her ribs and leeching away the warmth brought on by the joy of their reunion. No one had seen fit to mention Ginny was injured— her teeth ground against one another, fingers twitching imperceptibly at the fact that someone had considered it permissible to enact violence upon an already wandless girl.

“Who did this?” the question was cutting, her lips barely moving.

The unexpected coldness in her voice left Ginny rigid and, truthfully, more than mildly startled by the sudden change in demeanor. In light of everything, she had forgotten entirely about the pain, too caught up in the riptide of emotions to pay it any mind. But when fingers had lightly brushed over it, the ensuing ache caused her to wince. Nervous eyes darted over her friend’s expression, searching with bated breath for the first signs of anger to appear— everyone knew of the infamous Potter temper, the hotheadedness that arose whenever her control slipped. And while she couldn’t fault the girl for such passion, finding it rather endearing when it evolved out of defense in another’s stead, it still worried her all the same. Especially now, considering the context of their situation— rushing out in an act of vengeance against a Death Eater was bound to end up terribly. When her response finally came, it was slow, hesitant.

“O-oh, um,” Ginny said, “He was the one who uhm brought me here. Tall, dark-haired, narrow jaw. With a, uh, stubble, I think?”  

‘Dolohov, then,’ Harri’s mind supplied, tongue running over her canines in deliberation. There was no one else who would fit that description among the higher ranks, she was certain of it— and he did hold a nasty reputation of being quite sadistic, his company the distasteful sort that made one’s skin crawl. That writhing sensation had ceded to wrath, restless in nature and straining against the limitations of her skin. A singing urge for karmic retribution. An eye for an eye— a price that demanded to be paid in full. Featherlight touches traced the outer edges of the impression, ice circulating in her veins as her imagination sought to provide all of the details that Ginny had seemingly left out. The girl being pushed into the cell, a hand raised when she tried to run past him, the sickening sound of skin splitting, her falling to the ground from the blunt force.

The temperature began to drop and Ginny’s gaze darted warily about the prison. A gust of arctic air had cut through them, a cruel sting that ate past the loose-knit of her jumper— it did little to help ward off the chill, the prickling flesh left in its biting wake evidence of such. She was engrossed by the dipping flames of the torches, how they shuddered and shivered as though a mirror to herself. It felt unnatural, wrong— the dungeons were drafty, of course, but never to this extent. Whitened puffs of breath occupied the spaces between their bodies, crystallising as their internal heat waged war against the outward frost. And just as she was about to open her mouth to comment on the abrupt change, to hear another’s speculation as to what it might mean, an odd fact was brought to the forefront. Harri wasn’t shivering. In fact, she seemed entirely unaffected by the absence of heat. ‘It’s coming from her.’

A startling revelation, wide eyes snapping in alarm to the auburn-haired witch. The coldness seizing her heart and burning her lungs with every inhale, the same one that caused her teeth to chatter relentlessly— it was all originating from Harri. Desperately, Ginny searched for any of the usual signs, for those minute tells that something was amiss. None were found. The jutted chin, the quivering lower lip, the slightest flare of her nostrils— all of the things she had come to associate with her friend’s anger were missing. Rather, the older girl seemed borderline stoic, too still, too quiet— like the soul had left its body on a jaunt, drifting far beyond the iron bars of the prison’s gate to a place Ginny was unable to reach. A stirring in her core, a perturbing sense, an irrational notion— she was scared. Harri, her Harri, was warm even in her fury. She was blazing, the embodiment of a sun that threatened to blind and burn— a cosmic force ready to swallow them all with her unyielding light. This glacial coldness was the exact opposite. It burned for entirely different reasons and it left her beyond terrified at its implications.

And then she saw it. A glimpse, a passing second so quick that Ginny might have attributed to an overtired mind finally cracking under stress— a ludicrous detail stemming from exhaustion. Yet, it was hard to fully chalk it up to delirium when she viscerally felt the effects of terror. Her eyes had changed. They were riveted in seemingly memorising the wound, glazing over with a distant look— but she had still witnessed it nonetheless. Those emerald eyes, a hue of such vivid green that it often left her knotted with envy, had flashed red. The same shade that haunted her dreams, a waking nightmare anytime she braved a peek at the morning’s copy of the Prophet and saw his face plastered on the front— crimson, an uncanny resemblance to freshly spilled blood. Her heart, reduced to a dulling beat, had nearly stopped, an audible hitch as Ginny struggled to swallow past the pocket of a half-realised breath stuck in her throat. Every instinct was screaming to flee, to run from that hellfire, to escape before it could consume her— yet the limbs refused to respond, paralysed even when Harri’s eyes had slipped closed.  ‘No, no no no,’ looped, a dizzying tide of sickness when searching fingers reached outwards, firmly resting upon her temples and caging her in. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be him— it just couldn’t. There was a spark, a prickling radiating outwards from the older girl’s touch. Ginny started to struggle, desperate to break free of the hold, panicked by the unusual sensation— the acute ache on the side of her head suddenly lessened.

One blink, and then two as Ginny’s own shaking fingers reached up hesitantly, stunned to feel the roughness of a scab under their pads. ‘She healed me?’ Fear took a backseat to surprise, bewilderment, and guilt when those eyes had reopened, crushing relief upon seeing that familiar green once more. Rationality chastised herself for assuming the worst, for even putting stock into the absurd notion that it was possibly the Dark Lord. ‘It was my imagination,’ a small voice tried to blame the lack of sleep, ‘Deprivation and nerves, that’s all.’ Yet even when she tried to return the sheepish half-smile, to completely believe it had been a hallucination, Ginny found herself unable to shake off the nagging feeling of wrongness. That something wasn’t normal nor kosher about her friend— a deep underlying instinct begging her to remain on guard, to not forget the out of place behaviour or resulting fear.

“Sorry. I’m not the best at healing so it’ll have to do for now,” Harri explained, flexing her hand and trying to chase off the pinpricks that robbed it of feeling. 

“At least until I can get my hands on some dittany,” she mumbled, studying the glossy sheen of newly formed skin and pleased enough that the infection had been curbed.

“It’s alright, really- Harri!” Ginny exclaimed in alarm, shuffling as the other girl moved to sit beside her along the wall, “Your nose— it’s bleeding!”

The sensation of warmth trickling caused Harri to frown, the taste of metal bright upon her tongue when some had slipped past the seal of her lips. Pale fingers reached up tentatively, only to pull away when they were coated by a tacky scarlet. Faint warning bells went off. By all accounts, the timing was odd and likely far from coincidental— and it wasn’t the first one of this nature either. In fact, such occurrences had become so commonplace in the past few weeks that they had begun to lose their edge of surprise. ‘You really should let him know,’— and there it was, the voice that sounded an awful lot like Hermione. A snort at such chidings, she fished a charcoal handkerchief out of the trouser’s pockets. ‘It can be dealt with later,’ was her firm decision, stubbornly pressing the cloth to her nose to stanch the bleeding.

“It’s fine,” her auburn crown bumped against the carved stone, trying not to dwell on the nauseating feeling of blood slipping down the back of her throat, “It’ll stop on its own.”

An awkward silence settled between them. Now that there was a chance for it to flourish, the quiet took the opportunity to do so as both girls tried to process the last hour loaded with nerves and emotions. The youngest Weasley was the one to finally break it, awkwardly clearing her throat and shifting uncertainly to draw her knees up to her chest— though the heat was slowly returning, it was offset by the residual chill of the ground.

“So,” Ginny said, “What’s uh, with the clothes? I mean, I’ve never seen you wear anything like that before. And it’s not like you to spend money on limited edition designs.”

Harri debated on how to answer that particular question. Somehow, claiming the Dark Lord had rather peculiar tastes didn’t exactly seem appropriate given the circumstances. Nor could she really insist to have picked them out either— not with her past experience, or ‘disasters’ as Lavender liked to call them, in the fashion department. She spared a glance down to the blouse with a twinge of embarrassment— truthfully, she had chosen it since it seemed less offensive than the dresses, thinking there was no way a simple shirt could cost that much. ‘Guess I was wrong.’ 

 In the end, her tongue moved on autopilot, opting for the safest possible route, “Narcissa has high standards. Seeing I’m his ward and all.”

“Right— forgot about the ‘ward’ business. Who’s Narcissa?”

“Malfoy. Draco’s mother,” Harri supplied, taking note of the guarded quality the younger girl’s voice had adopted.

“I see,” Ginny’s finger traced a pattern into the dirt floor idly, a thousand heavy questions queued yet none of them willing to be voiced for fear of ruining the comfortable moment, “And you can do wandless magic now?”

Harri twisted to eye the girl, a roguish smirk pulling on wine-tinted lips, “You sure bet I can.”

“Wicked,” admiration animated those brown eyes and lended them a lively sheen.

The warmth was unbidden in Harri’s chest at that, the inflections and wide grin reminding her so much of Ron that it wasn’t hard to see the similarities between siblings. It was a fleeting period of easiness, of how things used to be— and a part of her wanted it to never end. If she just closed her eyes and ignored the dripping sounds of water, the uncomfortable press of stone, the numbing sting of the floor, she could almost picture them back in the common room. Chatting so freely, so casually about whatever struck their fancy— an untroubled kind of companionship that marked different times. But then her eyes opened and the illusion was shattered. That era had passed, needed to be forgotten. Ginny didn’t have a place in this world, her world, not anymore. The life Harri was leading and the future she was going to herald wasn’t one that would be kind to someone like Ginevra Weasley— it would tear, warp, and destroy, take that purity of hers and utterly obliterate it. ‘Then remember what you’re here for. Get information. Free her.’ Fingers curled around the flask, nerves strung tightly, and conscience ladened with guilt. Yet she couldn’t completely deny the fear from earlier, the distrust and apprehension. The veritaserum had to be a necessary evil, one that was justified as being a safeguard, an added precaution— nothing more.

“I brought you some water,” there was ash in her mouth, the words sticking on her tongue as a souring taste, “I’m assuming you haven’t had any yet.”

Some part had wanted Ginny to refuse, to be smart and deny the offer— to recognise the concealed dangers resting in the innocent canteen. Because at least then Harri could explain she tried, could leave here without the perverse feeling of contrition from deceiving her friend. But the younger girl took it without hesitation, the rushed out gratitude a knife digging into the wound caused by her unwitting deceit. The auburn-haired witch strived to ignore the sound of the cap unscrewing, the heavy and greedy gulps as the laced water was consumed in abandon. ‘It’s her own fault for being this stupid,’ there was a snide voice, cruel and mean that made her teeth clench. ‘Shut up.’ Removing the handkerchief, noting in passing the bleeding had stopped, she folded it obsessively in on itself. Once. Twice. Three times— until the sound of drinking ceased and the emptied container was passed back.

“How’s everyone doing?” Harri asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “Has anyone new joined recently?”

There was a low hum as Ginny stretched her arms over her head, “Fine, I suppose. Hasn’t been easy, of course, but everyone’s pretty hopeful. There’s still the usual bunch, Remus and Sirius, Mum and Dad, and whatnot. But—oh, you’ll never believe it!”

Excitement bled into her voice, triumph evident as the younger girl shifted to face Harri, “Percy’s joined!”

Harri remained silent, fingers digging into the softness of her thigh and gaze set firmly on the ceiling. ‘Another name added to a doomed cause,’ the assessment was bitter, morose, forming before she could stop it.

“He’s been keeping us informed of what’s happening at the official level. Since he’s a secretary and all to Avery, it’s been pretty helpful actually. Of course, Percy doesn’t attend the meetings but he does send letters often. Mum’s thrilled,” Ginny rambled on eagerly.   

“Then there’s Neville and Luna-”

“Why?” Harri’s question slipped out involuntarily, lips moving in the whisper.

Ginny abruptly fell silent, brows furrowing in bewilderment, “Pardon?”

“I mean, why did you join?” she tucked the soiled cloth back into her pocket, tone coming out sharper than originally intended, “It’s dangerous, especially now— he’s furious, Gin. There’s a reason why the Order failed the first time and he wasn’t even as powerful back then.” ” 

“Bu- I wanted to get you back, of course,” Ginny fumbled for a response, caught off-guard by the unforeseen reprimand, “I love you, Harri. You saved me years ago and it’s my turn to do the same.”

And knowing that was the irrefutable truth, the most honest answer Ginny could have possibly given just somehow made it all the more terrible. This girl, this brave, naive girl who wore her heart upon her sleeve and devoted herself wholly to the concept of ‘love’ was going to pay for it in the end— and, by extension, it was Harri’s own fault. Green eyes screwed themselves closed, striving to choke down the frustrated scream that she had done nothing to deserve that kind of commitment, that loyalty, that affection. That it wasn’t worth dying over— because truly, it didn’t matter. A dark side of her personality wanted to bitterly laugh, to agree with the cynical voice that the youngest Weasley was, indeed, being foolish. After all, how could she even be “saved” at this point? The entirety of her life, her future, her body was irrevocably tied to the man they all sought to liberate her from— the same man that, in the literal sense of the word, was her soulmate. Or, perhaps, a better reworking would just be ‘soul’? Plus, in the end, it was he that would be walking the same path of immortality. It was he that would exist on this plane long after Ginny was reduced to mere dirt and ash— ‘Stop it.’ Harri tried to banish the negativity, the deprecation that the horcrux shard often sought to foster. Another development as of late that it was growing more active— a troubling turn of events she was content on ignoring. 

“I’m trying to negotiate with him into releasing you,” Harri reached up to tighten her ponytail, itching to do something, anything, a bursting need to find an outlet before she imploded.

“Wait, what-?” 

“But Gin, I need you to tell me something important,” emerald eyes slid to the younger girl, a cutting look that spoke of urgency, “He has a gold coin. You were the only person who had one. What is it?”

In the back of her mind, Harri could feel his presence flickering, the insistent tugging on their bond clear enough in its meaning— ‘Time’s running out.’ Voldemort was growing impatient, attempting to summon her back to him— and considering Ginny’s fate rested in his, albeit mercurial, hands, it was probably best to heed that particular call. Her gaze narrowed ever so slightly at the paling of the girl’s face, the stricken expression of horror that rendered her mute. Thin hands, fingers long and delicate, darted out to clutch at a grime-coated pair, rubbing insistent swipes across their palms.

“It’s important, Ginny. I can’t save them without knowing the details,” she repeated.

It took a second for it to sink in and then Ginny was frantically shaking her head, the loosened braid coming undone, “Oh no, no, no no no. Harri, you have to take it back. He can’t know what they are, I’m begging you.”

She leaned forward, a heavy swallow as brown eyes darkened with dismay, “If he does, he can find them. They’re portkeys, Harri. Meant to be used in emergencies and linked to our base. They have an incantation to activate their magic but I know he can figure it out.”

The world slowed at the disclosed confession— the pleading only a distant sound that Harri had trouble registering, growing murkier as she delved into her thoughts. ‘A portkey.’ There was ingenuity behind the idea, that much was undeniable, and one did have to applaud the Order for their cleverness. After all who would suspect something so mundane, so commonplace, as a coin to hold that much importance? Yet, there was also unfathomable stupidity in the concept— was no consideration given as to what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands? As it currently stood, the only thing preventing the Dark Lord from storming their stronghold was a mere chant, a simple arrangement of letters— one that she, like Ginny, had full faith in his abilities to decode. A throaty groan bubbled up, hands wrenching out of the girl’s grip to scrub down her face in panicked frustration. The chaos of her mind was struggling to formulate a strategy, a plan that might allow her to orchestrate the situation from a disaster to an advantage. ‘A bloody portkey.’

“Alright. I’ll get it back from him,” she finally relented, wincing at the stiffness in her legs— the caps of her knees popped in protest.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“He’s calling me, Gin. I have to leave,” she paused to glance over her shoulder, noting the desperation pinching the younger girl’s expression.

“I’ll be back soon, though. You have my word,” Harri lingered for as long as she would dare, waiting until there was a small acquiescing nod in response before slipping out the cell door— the iron gate swung shut behind her with a grating screech, the turning of the lock damning in more ways than one.



Harri’s strides were long and purposeful as she turned herself over to the instinctual call, legs functioning autonomously to guide her to its source. A moth drawn to an open flame, a planet helpless against the gravitational pull of its sun— the inherent rhythm of their relationship. That, without even meaning to, some portion to her always sought him out, was keenly aware of his position, his location, his temperament. She had found it best not to dwell on the implications— though sometimes it was hard not to when all was quiet. Like now, for instance. Compared to earlier, the corridors were mostly abandoned, the click of her boots against the polished tile thunderous in their echoes. The chaotic scramble and flurry of activity was lacking— but as she veered sharply to the left, it wasn’t difficult to hazard as to where they had disappeared off to. Carved oak doors, looming and austere in their grandness, stood proudly at the end of the hall and the girl strived to suppress the tide of exasperated dread. ‘Of course, he’s having a meeting.’ Frankly, an assembly was the last thing she felt like dealing with, temper fouling at the dawning revelation she had been summoned late on purpose. ‘Sadistic bastard,’ a resentful thought, fingers curling about the silver handle. For reasons quite unbeknownst to her, Voldemort loved his dramatic entrances— a little fact to his egomaniacal personality that would be met with outright denial if ever pointed out. And whenever his own chance had passed by, the man found perverse enjoyment in living vicariously through her instead.

A low exhale through her nose as she shook loose the tension held in slight shoulders, a bid to keep the dungeon’s conversations from the forefront of her thoughts. ‘Don’t let him see— avoid eye contact and it’ll be fine.’ Harri only cracked the door wide enough to slip past, the plan being to enter unnoticed and cling to the shadowed peripheries. Fate, however, had a different idea as it felt it appropriate to bestow a screech upon the hinges, an alarming sort of sound that was bound to garner attention. ‘So much for that.’ Sparing a mutinous glance towards the ceiling, cursing every possible god she knew of, Harri steeled herself for the inevitable. Eyes, more pairs than what was comfortable, trained upon her— burning and insufferable in their weight. Stiff legs marched determinedly onward, a struggle to look outwardly unhurried, relaxed, but also itching to reach the safety of her seat. 

“Ah, Harri. There you are,” Voldemort greeted from the throne, interlaced fingers perched atop the  mahogany table, “I was beginning to wonder whether you had gotten lost or not.”

“Come, sit. I’m afraid we have already started but Avery can fill you in on the particulars,” he motioned towards the empty spot by his side.

A mounting urge to be antagonistic made itself known at the amusement practically rolling off the man. Her gaze narrowed, an acidic retort, with a healthy dose of sarcasm to back it, already forming— and knowing some of the purebloods would, undoubtedly, have a conniption at such ‘inexcusable disrespect’ certainly didn’t help temper that desire. She snorted, ready to snipe back when a certain head of dark-hair caught her attention. Seated near the end, hooded eyes fixated impassively on the green flames shuddering in the mantle— ‘Dolohov.’

The anger that had been mostly quelled came back in a surge, unchecked by a formidable kind of vengeance. Embers were being fanned, the sight of those rings glinting upon his fingers only serving to be dry kindling. Ladened with ostentatious luxury, Harri never knew it was possible to despise hands the way she did now. And as her eyes roamed over each one, a spiteful debate was being made as to which one had been the culprit in damaging Ginny’s face— the gold signet was most likely, considering its bulk, the thickness of the band, the intricate pattern. A pathetic attempt made by a pathetic man to visibly showcase his worth. ‘Disgusting.’ Along the roof of her mouth was an acute ache, a pulsating drum within her ears, the world tunneling— a predator approaching its unaware prey, the warm spray of blood and crunch of shattering bone when imaginary canines sunk into its throat. Flames licked up the knobs of her spine— Harri ignored the questioning look of Voldemort, knowing full and well such feelings were seeping over into their connection. Rather, she stalked with singular motive to the carved chair, an insatiable itch bursting across her skin.

“My Lady?” Dolohov questioned with a perplexed frown, brought out of his musings by her unexpected approach.

There was a blur of pale flesh, a sweeping arc as the back of her hand cut through the air— a reverberant crack ensues. Even though Harri was aware that she, herself, should feel some pain, especially seeing how his head had snapped to the left, such a thing was absent— rather it was that sneaking wrath she felt most intensely. It numbed all other sensations in comparison, rendered them as empty imitations. Silence. Tensed and weighty, drawn breaths held and refusing to be let go. A cool glare was fixed down on his stunned form, eyes lent a toxic glow from the spite churning in her system— and swirling at their centers was warped satisfaction that only grew at the sight of the violent aftermath. The split lip, the wet sheen of blood, the ruby droplets scattered heavily on the marbled floor. Already a grotesque redness was blooming across that gaunt cheek, startling in contrast to his usual pallor. ‘Pity. I should have asked to borrow a ring first.’ The hand that hadn’t slapped him came to land heavily on the table between his chair and the neighbouring one, the sound amplified in the quiet. Nails curling into the wood, a subtle threat, Harri leant down closer to the man and took a moment to consider the way he was massaging his jaw in muted disbelief.

“If I ever,” her words slipped out as a whisper, each syllable laced with vitriol, “Catch you raising a hand against a woman or child again. Well. Let me assure you— that will be the last day you. Have. Hands.”

When a dark gaze lifted to bore into her own, lit up from their depths by bitter hostility, Harri simply smiled. A flash of her teeth, an unspoken challenge for him to act upon such a thing. He didn’t— and not that he could, she figured, considering the Dark Lord was keenly watching the entire interaction barely 2 feet away. But nonetheless, it felt good to have an outlet, a release for that anger, to find a suitable target to feed to the beast— in fact, she almost wished Dolohov would retaliate. At least then she would have sound enough cause to make him bleed a touch more, make him feel, hurt. The man must have seen something in her eyes for he suddenly broke contact, allowing his own to hastily slip to the ground. And there it was. A strange, though not entirely unwelcome, sense of predatory contentment at the fear she had incited, the one thing that cemented her victory of the moment. ‘Good.’ 

The buzzing in her mind had lessened and an awareness came rushing back. Without the armour of anger to shield from such, Harri felt vulnerable— the prying looks slipped through the cracks, the crevices, passing over her in incredulous shock and unfiltered affront. Though she knew why, of course. In their world, conflict was solved through magic and cutting words— purebloods, or even honorary ones who laid claim to ancient houses, weren’t meant to enact muggle violence upon one another. Even Dolohov, as despicable as he was, adhered to that rule, only ever getting physical with those below his perceived station. Then again, when had she ever followed societal conventions? What was it that Voldemort had called her, once upon a time? ‘Right. Feral.’ The girl straightened her spine, chin lifting evenly to try to portray a blasé attitude about it all, and struggled to keep her steps measured.

Harri slipped into the lesser throne, hand rubbing absentmindedly along the column of her throat. The continuing quiet was becoming unbearable and she shifted uneasily, praying, wishing, for someone to break it. ‘Nagini’s not here,’ a fierce longing that the snake would somehow turn up. And to make matters even worse, crimson eyes were tracing over her profile. An added weight that made her itch, squirm, it was the kind of insistent probing that vaguely reminded her of being dissected— like how a scientist might look at a new specimen under the lens of a microscope, increasing the magnification with each pass in hopes of spotting something new, something game changing. She twisted to demand he knock it off, to get the meeting on with when there was a change in their bond— ‘The prick’s amused.’ And sure enough, the signs were all there. In the twitching corners of his mouth as a smile was suppressed, the crossing and uncrossing of his legs, the gleam darkening his eyes to a richer shade. Yet there was something else just below the surface, its meaning difficult to pinpoint. A shriek, however, interrupted her contemplations, a grating sound that elicited hair to rise— and it made her nearly groan at who the culprit was. ‘Of bloody course.’

“She knows how to play!” the peals of delighted laughter from Bellatrix shattered the suspended moment, rowdy with glee as she nudged the shoulder of her husband, “Itty, bitty, baby Potter knows how to play!” 

Dolohov shot the Lestrange woman a dirty look at her unrestrained merriment, dabbing at his broken lip with a healthy dose of contempt— Harri found herself, oddly enough, agreeing. It was an uncanny talent of Bellatrix’s to sour just about any possible moment. And, somehow, that earlier sense of accomplishment felt trivial now, diminished by the woman’s incessant need to belittle. How it made her teeth nearly crack, fingers gripping the scrolls of the throne’s armrests to stifle the need to make her swallow down those words. Around the table, life was coming back as some saw fit to follow the General’s lead, laughing in a forced manner, while others whispered conspiratorially to their neighbour. Even positioned at the head, snippets were still heard: ‘wild’, ‘uncouth’, ‘youths today, so temperamental.’ It felt as though she were being chastised, instinctually bristling at their unwarranted assessments. They liked talking, always seemingly having a critique on this or that— yet the Death Eaters would miraculously turn mute if she ever outright confronted them. It was maddening.

“What was that about?” Voldemort questioned, leaning towards her in the illusion of private conversation.

On her periphery, he was frowning at the stubborn lack of an answer. ‘You’re being belligerent’ — there was undeniable truth to the statement. However, Harri just couldn’t really bring herself to care, too occupied in her own introspection. Why had she slapped the man in the first place? There were plenty of other ways she could have handled the situation, more peaceful solutions that wouldn’t have ended up with bloodshed or disdainful whispers. And it wasn’t like she was a violent person by nature— so just why had it felt so good? Why had she wanted to make him bleed further, mangle him? Had threatened to do just that? The girl couldn’t bring herself to look up, already predicting what would be awaiting— Narcissa’s face pinched in concern, unable to keep the shadows of disappointment out of her pale eyes, and Severus with his shrewd appraisal. Rather, Harri busied herself with tracing the white veins against the black marble floor.

When it became apparent there was no answer to be had, the Dark Lord shifted away from his horcrux and spared one last critical glance over her. Something was amiss, that much was blatantly obvious— though whether the witch was aware of exactly what was an entirely different question. A mental note was made to investigate it at a later time, preferably in private and away from prying eyes. For now, he settled for clearing his throat, the effect instantaneous as a hush blanketed the room.  

“As we were discussing before,” there was a sweep of the elder wand, “The matter of the Order and the items confiscated from their persons.” 

Several items had appeared in the center of the table, a puzzling array that was rather innocuous upon a first glimpse. A wand the colour of aspen and stained with drying blood— whose, exactly, Harri didn’t want to know. A silver spyglass imprinted with the initials ‘A.M’ and terribly dented on one side. A crumpled piece of parchment raggedly torn, the names smeared and splattered with heavy ink blots— and there, the coin. She stiffened at the sight of it, mind whirling as the glass was suspended in the air for all to see. Someone was droning in the background about its owner, utter drivel that led it to being dismissed as unimportant not even a few minutes later. The parchment, though incomplete, was apparently part of a larger ledger that Malfoy had managed to snag, his tone boastful upon launching into a long-winded recollection of the ordeal in obtaining it.

‘Think, Harri, think.’ Thoughts were rushing by at a dizzying speed, blurring into an incoherent mess that was of little help. She needed to give Voldemort something to prove that she was upholding her end of their deal, that she was capable of playing both the interrogator and spy when needed— but revealing the full truth would be damning. Fingers drummed impatiently against her thigh, unable to stop from fidgeting as nerves knotted themselves. Twisting, looping, tightening— she felt sick. The coin was held aloft, throat suddenly parched and tongue deadened when the Dark Lord had turned expectantly towards her.

Clearing her throat stiffly, a warning whispered in her mind not to meet his eye— she became fixated by the medallion twirling lazily above the table instead. It was catching the light on each rotation, the glint mocking in its reminder that time was running up nor that she could keep stalling forever. A shaky inhale, Harri vainly tried to feign indifference, to conceal any anxieties— and the creeping feeling that she wasn’t succeeding didn’t serve to bolster confidence.

“Uhm,” her heart hammered against her ribs, warmth leeching away as she could feel his curiosity peaking— rather than deterring, she was encouraging his interest. ‘Come on, Harri. Do better— lives are at stake for Merlin’s sake.’

“It’s a portkey,” she settled for an answer, striving to keep the tone level while fingers folded in her lap to stop their nervous tics.

When murmurs began to ripple, excited little things, Harri hummed and prayed her lie could be convincing enough, “But it won’t help much. Apparently, it’s only good for a single use and the landing location is randomised each time. The Order carries them around for emergencies and link up whenever they can. That one is as good as a dud, I imagine.”

A second and then two passed before she shrugged, slouching against the throne’s high back and crossing silk-covered arms to feign boredom. It was a ruse, a facade Harri was desperately trying to sell— one that was far from the reality. In fact, the truth could be found in her flighty pulse, how it skipped every other beat, and in the clammy sheen coating her skin. ‘I’m an idiot. I can’t lie,’ it was a mess inside her head, thoughts muddled and strung together, ‘He’s going to see right through it. And once he knows I’m keeping information from him, game over—.’ 

“I see.”

It took every ounce of her will not to look up in wide-eyed surprise at the neutrality of his response, the casualness in those 2 little words— almost as though he had believed it. Some part of her did wonder if he was only playing along, choosing to indulge her for now and was filing away this little infraction to use at a later date. After all, it wouldn’t be out of his character to do so. But then another part was clinging to the hope, the notion, that maybe, just maybe, she had pulled it off. Harri didn’t quite dare to meet his gaze, not yet. Though, when the coin was lowered back into the row and the bloodied wand was lifted up in its stead, she did allow herself to release the breath that had been burning in her lungs.

“A shame, indeed. Then what about this?” Voldemort inquired, fingers grazing over the knobbed ridges of the elder wand.

“Yes, My Lord,” Nott spoke from three spots down, hands clasped together and resting on the table, “We have determined the maker to be Mykew Gregorovitch.”

The Dark Lord went rigid, entirely too still and scarlet eyes glazing over in distant thought— it was as though he had been suspended in time, impervious to the passing seconds. The body situated in the throne had become a temporary placeholder, the soul fleeting and untethered to the realms of consciousness. Wherever it had gone was not a place for the masses, for the mere commoner to intrude upon. Several beats passed, a tranquil nothingness. And then sudden clarity trickled back in, jaw clicking in a show of vexed deliberation as his grip tightened minutely.

“Gregorovitch? Are you certain?”

“Quite sure, My Lord. And it looks to be recently made as well,” Nott explained with a grimace.

“That’s impossible. He’s supposed to be in retirement,” Lucius interjected his opinion, brows knitting together.

The palpable tension caused Harri to frown, gaze darting about the confused faces and trying to read the underlying context— they all seemed so unnerved by the mention of the man. Who was Gregorovitch? And why were they acting like it was a graven crime for a wandmaker to be continuing his craft? Considering the average lifespan of a wizard, it wasn’t so strange of a notion that he may have simply gotten bored and decided to reopen his doors for business. But just as she was about to question the turn of conversation, to demand answers, there was a voice in her head— his . The message had been interwoven into the patterns of her thoughts, the kind of firm command that left no room for compromise: ‘I will explain later.’

“And the registered owner?” Voldemort’s eyes slid shut, fingers steepled before him as though occupied in silent prayer— a mockery of reverent worship.

Nott flipped through the stack of notes, watery eyes scanning for the correct line, “Anna…Karenina? There’s no one in the Isles recorded to have that name, however.”

The Dark Lord spoke in a deceptively calm tone, far too quiet, unmoving, “Fenrir. Go to Europe, track Gregorovitch down, and bring him here. Alive.”

A scraping sound of wood against stone, chairs being pushed out, a grunt of acknowledgement and the roar of the mantle springing to life— none of it was really paid any attention to, however, the rustling fading into white noise. The name was a familiar one and it settled as a comfortable weight upon her tongue, rolling off with ease— but where had she heard it before? ‘Anna Karenina’.

Flashes of a late spring, unseasonably warm, two girls tucked away under the budding branches of the willow tree. They had just finished their exams and fled to the comforts of the outdoors, eyes strained and fingers marked with ink. One on her stomach, plucking at the new growth of the grass, rolling around and stretching in contentment. The other nestled against the base of the trunk, looking up from the age-worn  novel in her lap. The dog-eared pages and cracked spine spoke volumes to how well-loved it was— stern, yet soft, reprimands that the other girl was soiling her blouse with stains, that her skirt was hitching up to an immodest degree. A tongue stuck out in protest, a fistful of torn grass tossed her way— a good-natured shriek. ‘Honestly, Harri! Have some respect for Tolstoy.’ Hands lovingly brushing off the remnants from the jade green cover, tongue clicking disapprovingly— gold cursive on the front, the A and K bordering on the obnoxious in their flourish: Anna Karenina .  

The wand was Hermione’s. 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 55: An Impending Denouement

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy as we get into colder weather (if it's still warm where you are at, know that I am very envious 😂)

As a warning, this chapter might be a bit dense and is rather canon divergent. There are references to things that happened earlier on in the fic but don't worry if you don't recall them right away as they are contextualised in the dialogue! I am so excited to get to this point in the story because this chapter lays the groundwork for the upcoming arc + ties together some of the loose threads for the previous two. I hope you guys enjoy it!

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Harri couldn’t remove her eyes from the floating wand as it lazily rotated in place. In the oddest of sense, it reminded her of a dancer— a prima ballerina on her final act, bloodied and worn down from the unkind years spent upon the stage and ready to bid adieu come the closing curtain. A fitting analogy, she figured, for the second it would be lowered back down, Hermione’s fate, the Order’s fate, would be decided. And how her mind spun, thoughts tripping and plans falling apart at the seams. Though, panic set aside, the aspen truly did suit the girl— as beautifully made as she with a firm, underlying steadfastness. Yet, it was equally perturbing to behold something else other than the vine wand she had grown so accustomed to seeing— and to know that the blood marring its ivory veneer was her friend’s. ‘Hermione, what are you doing?’

“The date of production doesn’t quite match how old the wand actually is,” Nott explained hastily, flipping through his notes, “It says here it was stamped with the date of April 10, 1930. Yet, the core hasn’t fully fused with the wood and the spell history suggests it was first used only 2 months ago.”

“He is covering his tracks then,” Voldemort mused, fingers engaged in a rhythmic drumming against the mahogany table, “Stamping the wands with production dates that would coincide with when he was in business. How clever.”

She only half-heard their discussions, far too occupied with keeping the contents of that morning’s breakfast down. ‘First the coin and now this?’ It felt as though she were climbing a mountain— every time a challenge was evaded, every time she thought she could glimpse the plateaued peak that would ensure peace, another issue arose. A boulder tumbling down. The path suddenly lost in the underbrush. A mudslide that swept her back to the bottom. ‘At least they don’t actually have Hermione.’ It was the only silver lining to this situation she could find— and Harri was quite certain that if the brown-haired girl was in the dungeons, she would have known about it by now. After all, Voldemort himself had assured her that no other captives were those she had a connection with, could be someone she might lay a claim to loving. Nonetheless, the fact they even had the girl’s wand was unsettling— because it meant that Hermione had been there . That she had been caught amidst the scramble, the chaos, the spellfire. That her blood had been spilled and she was that much closer to being in Ginny’s current shoes— all in the name of the ‘Order’ and of ‘liberating’ her friend from the Devil’s clutches. Understandably, such a thing made her want to retch.

“Put a stasis on the wand,” Voldemort instructed.

Harri blinked in alarm as it was lowered slowly back to the table, gaze lingering for a second before sliding to the Dark Lord’s profile. ‘Stasis?’ She frowned at that, brows drawing together as her mind tried to puzzle out as to why. And then she had arrived at the answer just as he had opened his mouth, stomach clenching in a violent way.

“Thankfully, the blood is still fresh enough to use for a trace. Leave it in my study after it’s done. I will personally see to it later,” he rose from the throne, a symphony of scraping chairs as others rushed to hurriedly bow— a scrambling display to show their reverence.

The girl remained seated, staring numbly in abject horror at the innocuous row of objects. Out of everyone present, Harri knew most intimately the power resting in even a single drop of blood. How just a tear, a bead, a drip could sow the most permanent, the most damning, of consequences— after all, it was her own, forcibly taken but still her own all the same, that had set into motion the reckoning of their world. It was the very reason why she was here— arranged in a lesser throne amongst venomous snakes and ensnared by a man with far too much power. ‘He’s going to find them.’ And suddenly, she found herself immensely grateful that she wasn’t standing at the present, knees going lax and legs turning boneless. It felt like this was game over. Checkmate. The grand finale, the impending denouement to all of her efforts— that everything she had done, lied and fought for, was rendered pointless.

A cough, the slightest clearing of a throat to her left— the objects were cleared away in a flurry of activity.

“Come,” the instruction was simple enough, Voldemort’s hand extended out for her to take.

Chilled fingers slipped into the cradle of an open palm and Harri allowed it to support most of her weight. Though once opposed to public displays of affection in front of the Death Eaters, she was unable to bring herself to fully care at the moment. Not when those fingers of his had flexed about her own— nor when he had pulled her so close that their shoulders ended up brushing as a result. Propriety and an aloof image could be damned, she figured— especially when there were more substantial things to currently worry about.



Harri was half-expecting to be dragged back to the study, to be reprimanded and scolded— and to be faced with the impossible question of why she had lied in front of him. Or, perhaps, be brought down to the dungeons to glean further information out of Ginny— to prise open her jaws until she consumed her body weight’s worth of veritaserum. He had done neither. 

Rather, the Dark Lord was guiding them elsewhere, their final destination eluding her comprehension. Frowning, a green gaze darted about as her bewilderment grew upon the realisation that she hadn’t ever ventured to this side of the manor before. Yet, he hadn’t given any indication of stopping, long strides steering them onwards. Past the long hall adorned with moving portraits, past the ostentatious indoor fountain, past the tall doors of a solarium and up a banistered flight of stairs—  she blinked in a stupor when they arrived on the upper veranda. The manicured lawns rested in the backdrop— an endless sea of kempt green that eventually gave rise to a cluster of trees in the distance. And there, near the columns of stone that demarcated the railing, was a table. A tiered plate boasting an assortment of pastries and a set of fine china furnished the linen tablecloth.

“Tea? Really?” she asked flatly, already guessing that it meant one of two things— either he was looking to relax or the conversation was going to be grave. Harri assumed the latter.

His response came as a soft chuckle, already pulling out one of the carved chairs with a tilt of his head as a sign she should take it. The girl did so tentatively, dreading the impending discussion. What had he said once? Right— “Harri, we are British. It’s in our very nature to have tea during difficult conversations.” She busied herself with eyeing the albino peacock strutting between the trimmed hedges, only distantly aware that he had taken up residency in the opposite seat— a thousand questions threatened  to claw their way up her throat. Yet, despite that itching need to ask, the tongue remained uncooperative, deadened. And though the day was a fine one, temperate and spared the balmy heat that summer usually brought, the charm of it was entirely lost upon her.

A blur on her peripheral vision and emerald eyes slid back to him, tracking the movement as long fingers reached for the teapot’s handle. The fragrance of bergamot flooded the space between their bodies and Harri was unable to help herself from casually admiring Voldemort. There was an easy grace to the man, a fluidity in which he seemingly did everything— a charm that sometimes unnerved her with how inhuman it could be. An air of untouchable perfection that spoke of the dangers concealed under an aristocratic face— a charming predator whose nature to seduce was just as prevalent as the side that wished to kill. And, sometimes, Harri wondered how long it would be until everyone else saw it as well. Then again, perhaps they already had and were just content to go on believing in the beautiful nightmare— to continue to labour under the illusion he had crafted so well.

“Who’s Gregorovitch?” she asked, unable to contain the burning question any longer.

Voldemort had reached for the cream saucer, pouring a healthy dose into her cup before adding in a sugar cube. The twitches of a frown were unbidden. And it wasn’t for the fact that she disliked cream in her tea or sugar to lessen the astringency. Oh no, it was quite the opposite. In fact, that was the only way she could handle the bitterness he seemingly enjoyed. But it was more so that he had done it without prompting— that he had known her preferences and acted before she could do it herself. Fingers curled about the delicate handle, watching as the amber liquid became cloudy, diluted. A distant part of her conscious had suddenly become preoccupied with the awareness regarding the comfortable nature of their entire situation. When had they gotten like this? When had they gone from trying to kill each other, from being sworn enemies, to rather domestic in their interactions? It unnerved her when the dawning revelation came that she didn’t quite know— that it was impossible to pinpoint when, where, or how exactly that shift had occurred. The accompanying guilt was a confusing addition to the mix that writhed in her chest.

“It’s complicated, Harri,” he muttered, raising the gold painted rim to his lips and taking a slow sip.

“Try me,” the retort carried a bite that she hadn’t originally meant, pettish in its challenge.

The Dark Lord arched a brow in mild surprise, cup hovering mid-air as he considered her fouling mood. True, his horcrux had always been somewhat antagonistic, seeking to rile him up at her whim— but this felt different. In a way, it seemed more unprovoked than normal, her bleed-through in their link a touch on the combative side. Distant flashes of the outburst in the meeting room, the way those eyes of hers were alight in their rage— how they had glinted seeing Dolohov’s blood on the floor. ‘Different, indeed.’ The cup was slowly lowered down to the saucer, gaze critically passing over the girl across from him, searching, scanning for any outward sign that might betray what was amiss.

“He is a wandmaker,” he started slowly, crossing one long leg over another.

“One of a rather high caliber, I might add, who operated in mainland Europe. Whereas Ollivander supplied wands to those attending Hogwarts, Gregorovitch did the same for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang,” his fingers drummed against the table, “He was also the one to inform me of the elder wand’s location.”

He had placed a scone on her plate and Harri paused in picking at it, glancing up instead at the confession. Part of her always wondered where he had learned about the elder wand, having herself only stumbled across a mention of it during the futile hunt for information on horcruxes— and even then, she hadn’t put much stock into its existence. After all, the text had proclaimed it to be a legend, a fable, a passing note as a foretold way to attain immortality— ‘A Master of Death once all three hallows are united’ . It sounded far-fetched in her opinion. ‘Well, it obviously exists so I guess that’s just another thing he was right about,’ a sour thought supplied as she crumbled the pastry with misdirected enmity. 

“Tell me, Harri, how much are you aware of regarding the existence of a Dark Lord?”

Sweeping fingers brushed stray crumbs off the table and she actively ignored the flickering look of disdain pinching his expression. It was a puzzling question, one that had caught her off-guard by the seemingly abrupt change in direction. The topic of ‘Dark Lords’, naturally, wasn’t extensively covered at Hogwarts. And, from what she could recall, such discussion was mostly limited to history— a class that, the common consensus held, had always been a torture to endure. Though of course, her reasons for such were undoubtedly different than that of her peers. Sure, Binns liked to drone, his voice dull and the selected events dry at best. But her reservations mainly stemmed from the fact that history, particularly the modern periods, usually involved herself. And it was truly a jarring experience to open a textbook only to see her own name bolded, outlining her accomplishments and supposed hand in the ‘defeat’ of ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’. Even now, she could recall that first time Binns had realised the ‘Harri Potter’ was seated in the 4th row— how a ghost had managed to look so lively still remained a mystery. Brows furrowed as she vainly tried to jog her memory.

“Not much, honestly,” Harri finally admitted, shrugging as she took a contemplative sip from her cup. “Apart from my own experience with you, that is.”

“Well, I suppose that’s not entirely surprising considering Dumbledore’s influence on the curriculum,” he had given a dissatisfied hum.

“The position of a Dark Lord is an interesting one, to say the least. Simply put, it can not be obtained out of sheer desire alone. After all, if that was the only requirement, there are numerous dark-oriented wizards that could easily lay claim to the title. However, if that were to be the case, then surely there would be multiple Dark Lords roaming about. And yet, as far as we are aware, there haven’t been 2 existing at the same time. Why do you think that is?”

“Because you murder each other?”

“Funny, Harri. Very funny,” he sent her a scathing look and tried to gather the already fraying strands of his patience.

Harri allowed her attention to drift towards the lawn, squinting off into the distance at the blurred shapes of the treeline. How long would it take her to reach them? If she bolted right now with all her might, lept over this very banister and onto the ground below— how far would she make it until he caught up? ‘Not far.’ There it was again— that little voice. Her constant companion, the other tenant taking root in her mind. ‘You know he would catch you before you could even scream. It’s futile so stop thinking about it.’ She hated that it had a point. And try as she may to look beyond the thickened trunks and dense canopies, Harri was unable to even discern what might possibly be awaiting on the other side. An enchanted forest shrouding the castle, designed to safeguard and to prevent any from getting too close— or from potentially leaving. A resigned sigh, a heavy kind of sound, and green eyes tore themselves away to the manicured hedges instead. Of course, she was all too aware it would be pointless, that it wasn’t even worth seriously considering. And, for the most part, she usually didn’t dare to— it was just in those moments when freedom was presented ever so tantalisingly close, hovering on the boundaries of her awareness, that she found herself entertaining the ‘what-ifs’.

“The best way to think of it is more of an assigned role, one chosen by magic herself. In many ways, being a Dark Lord is as ingrained into my being as much as my parselmouth abilities. How magic decides a person is suitable to fulfill the position is unclear— only fools can claim to know otherwise. Of course, I do have my own speculations regarding the criteria but they can be saved for another time,” scarlet eyes misted over with a sheen of deliberation, “What is certain, however, is the why. If you recall from our lessons, magic has a will of its own— and it always seeks out balance. Wherever Light exists, so must Darkness. In the simplest of terms, a Dark Lord is created as an opposing force to keep the scales calibrated.”

“The main point to understand,” Voldemort leaned into the carved chair, clarity back in his gaze as it fixated upon the girl, “Is that it appears to be a cyclical pattern. When one Dark Lord falls, another rises. In essence, the cogs are being continuously replaced in order to keep the machine running.”

The peacock had given an obnoxious trill, a warbling and reedy melody as its fanned plumage was lifted into the air. A dazzling display of diamond pointed feathers, an arc of a colourless rainbow, a shock of white set against a verdant lushness. ‘If it’s a cyclical pattern based on the death of each Dark Lord—.’ Harri took a moment to process what he was implying, nearly choking on a half-formed breath when the revelation dawned upon her. An alarmed gaze snapped back to him, mouth gaping in a show of incredulity.

“But you’re immortal!”

“So I am,” he agreed lightly, a smirk that he tried to conceal behind the tea cup’s rim but failing miserably to do so.

“Unbelievable. You sly bastard,” Harri muttered in a mixture of wonder and horror, “You did that on purpose. Eliminating your competition through breaking the cycle, I mean. If it’s solely based on magic choosing someone to replace you when your time is up— Merlin.”

It would be an outright lie if Voldemort claimed that her marvel wasn’t doing awful things to his ego. While praise was something he was accustomed to, garnered daily from the sycophants that constantly buzzed about, it was oddly different coming from her. Though some might be inclined to label it as roundabout narcissism, considering the girl’s nature of creation, her words undeniably held more gravity, more weight. And as he took in the gleam in those wide eyes, the faintest flush on cream skin, the way she was leaning ever so slightly across the table— well, he would have given anything to make it last a touch longer.

“Of course, like I said, this is all mere speculation,” he refilled their emptied cups, “Only time will truly tell if my assumptions are correct. Though considering another Dark Lord wasn’t named even during the absence of my physical body, I do consider it to be a safe bet that it’s tied to my magic. If things go as planned, my throne and title should be secured for the eras to come.”

The novelty of the discovery was quickly evaporating and, in its stead, was the strangest urge to laugh. It bubbled up inside of her chest, a peril in how it threatened to spill forth from her lips. Some part of her had found the entire situation ridiculous— and it wasn’t because Voldemort had acted in such a paranoid manner. No, even she couldn’t deny the brilliance of the plan, the cunningness and thought put into protecting what was his. Rather, she wanted to laugh because of herself. While the man was already seeking to prepare his reign to last an eternity, devising ways to cheat magic of all things, she was here— still struggling to secure a way to protect her friends and fretting over a mere wand. It was times like these she was uneasily reminded of the differences in their abilities and aptitudes. Whereas he moved with concentrated purpose, always thinking on a broader scale and preparing for multiple scenarios, she had trouble considering anything beyond the present. An auburn crown fell into open hands, fingers massaging smarting temples. As much as she loathed to admit it, Voldemort was, in all regards, a virtuoso when it came to ruling. He was ambitious, a born strategist, possessed impeccable foresight— and yet, the Order was expecting her to take up the mantle for their war? ‘Truly laughable.’

Green eyes watched as lazy ripples spread concentrically across the amber surface in her cup. One. Two. Three. Each ring growing larger and larger until, at last, they hit the walls of the bone china— only to dissipate as though they were never even there to begin with.

“Hold on, isn’t Grindelwald still alive though?” she muttered, a headache on the rise as she tried to understand the nuances of how it all worked, “Shouldn’t he still be considered a Dark Lord? And, if that’s the case, how did you end up with the title?”

“Ah, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up,” Voldemort’s fingers interlaced together in his lap, the left leg crossing over the right, “You see, by the time I had reached my magical majority, Grindelwald was already defeated. Considering he was overpowered by Dumbledore and had his magic bound in the process, I am assuming that was enough to jumpstart the process in selecting another Lord.”

“But if having your magic bound is enough, isn’t there still a chance you could lose your title?”

“Oh Harri. I have no intention of that ever happening. And seeing as I now possess the legendary ‘wand of power’, it seems highly unlikely.” 

Her gaze lifted from the table and there it was— the underlying predator rising back to the surface and overshadowing the well-bred countenance he liked to portray. Its existence was there, as plain as day if one knew where to look. Camouflaged in that normally charming smile, each gleaming tooth as sharp as a razor. Hidden in those vivid eyes, a darkening promise streaking through them and casting shadows. But it was truly exposed by the subtle shifts in his aura, the unspoken danger that dripped from his long limbs, cloaking and swathing. It triggered an instinctual ‘fight or flight’ response. And the most startling thing was how she seemed to be getting more and more comfortable with this side of him— more adept at spotting those tells early on. The twitches of a frown in the corners of her mouth and Harri wearily rose from her seat, aimless feet carrying her to the veranda’s railing. Sometimes, it was easier to not look at him whenever he wore that particular expression— when he began to transcend the boundaries from ‘Tom’ and into ‘Lord Voldemort’. 

“What does this all have to do with Gregorovitch?” she finally asked the burning question, noting offhandedly that the sky was beginning to turn a dusty shade of pink.

Voldemort watched as the girl had moved towards the railing, ankles crossed and elbows resting upon the stone ledge as she leaned forward. It was hard to miss the flickers of her guarded expression, the way those painted lips had slid downwards— something was bothering his horcrux. And how it nettled him that he didn’t know what exactly was wrong. Shifting in the chair, his head tilted to the left in thoughtful observation as he raked slowly, purposefully, across her profile. The setting sun caught her hair and lent the strands a radiance akin to smoldering embers. A pert nose was defined against the warm glow, the outline of a long neck and shapely jaw fit enough to appear on a cameo. And, for the first time all day, he finally took notice of what she was wearing— but surely he hadn’t picked out trousers that tight? Or had he? Truthfully, it was difficult to remember considering the amount of clothes that had been ordered— yet, he also couldn’t say that he entirely minded them. The material was tailored so tightly that it clung to the contours of her legs, the shape of her thighs and the slope of her calves. Fingers twitched at the memory of how silky the skin at her hip had been under his touch, how soft the beginning swell of her— ‘Focus.’  He cleared his throat, draining the dregs in his cup in an attempt to recollect himself.

“Though magic does give one the right conditions to become a Dark Lord, granting the power necessary, just that alone isn’t enough,” he explained, firmly fixing his attention on her face and refusing to give into the urge to let his eyes wander.

“Historically, wandmakers have been valuable assets in turning the tides of war. They can increase the power thresholds of wands, create new core combinations for specific magics, and generate a surplus that could outfit an army. As such, many Dark Lords in the past persuaded them to join their crusades,” he said.

“While some did remain neutral, others were infamous for championing their Lords. Why do you think, Harri, that the first thing I did as Sovereign was sign into effect a mandate limiting foreign wands within the Isles?” he pressed, picking at the nonexistent lint on his austere robes when she seemed to notice his staring.

“I figured Ollivander must have bribed you to keep his competition out,” Harri added on dryly, tapping the toe of her boot against the ground impatiently.

This whole roundabout conversation they were having was starting to grate on her nerves, an insatiable itching as the familiar swell of darkness made itself known. Restless, pacing, the unspoken urge to do something— to move, to run, to fight. There was so much that needed to be done but, instead, her time was being eaten up. The slipping seconds, the dwindling minutes— all precious, all wasted. And the sky overhead, the slow transformation as it morphed into a shade of mauve, didn’t help to lessen that anxiety. His insistence on playing these little games was beyond vexing, her mind far too occupied with other matters to invest anything more than a half-baked interest. ‘The coin. The wand. Ginny. Hermione.’ The list was never-ending, looping continually in the foreground of her thoughts. And yet, instead of working towards gaining her friends’ freedoms and continued protections, she was stuck having tea with a Dark Lord who was insistent on skirting around the crux of the matter.  

“Can you get to the point already?” she snapped, reaching up to tighten her ponytail.

Crimson eyes narrowed marginally at the underlying impatience colouring her voice as he finally rose from his own seat. Elegant hands buried themselves into his pockets, studying the girl with an avid interest— ‘Something amiss, indeed.’ Measured steps carried him past the table, the heels of the Oxford shoes clicking against the stone tile.

“It was for control. Ollivander swore to remain neutral. Gregorovitch, on the other hand, is notorious for backing Grindelwald. By restricting foreign wands, I restrict the influence of foreign makers that haven’t pledged their allegiances to me. Therefore, I limit the chances of having a potential Dark Lord, or their supporters, encroach upon my territory and challenge my title. It was done to protect my claim on the Isles should the original plan of halting the cycle fail,” he explained.

A sparrow flitted overhead, looping in its flight with a dulcet chirp. The bird had landed for a second of respite on the ledge, the thin curve of its talons a rhythmic tap as it busied itself with preening. Two pairs of eyes were riveted by its unexpected entrance, observing with keen scrutiny for the sake of filling the lull in conversation. Neither spoke. A stretch of silence. And then there was movement from behind her, a red-eyed man slowly approaching that ended up startling the creature. Harri watched sullenly as it took to the skies in a flurry, a bitterness that she, too, wished to join in on its flight.

“Why is that an issue now though? Aren’t you the only Dark Lord out there?” she muttered, tracking as the small brown bird had faded into the distance.

“That’s true to some extent. Grindelwald, however, is still alive. Kept under lock and key in Nurmengard—  the very same tower he had built to hold his own prisoners of war. And while his magic is bound, that apparently isn’t enough to denounce him in the eyes of his followers. Did you know that there are still zealous factions loyal to him in Europe? That, at this very moment, there are people seeking to liberate him from his chains? Gregorovitch was one of them.”

There was an unexpected heat at her back, the press of something solid as it formed itself to her— Harri blinked dazedly, trying to pinpoint when he had gotten so close. The lines of his body were taut, the steady rise and fall of his chest a jarring sensation against her shoulder blades. Yet, she didn’t quite dare to step away, rooted to the spot and refusing to be intimidated. And the warmth seeping from him was, admittedly, pleasant enough, working to stave off the creeping chill brought on by the setting sun. 

“We paid him to go into retirement, to denounce his ties to Grindelwald’s campaigns and to prevent him from supporting another faction’s uprising in Europe,” his tone was soft, casual almost in nature— entirely unbefitting for the topic of conversation.

It was hard to completely ignore when large hands had snaked their way onto the ledge, idly coming to rest mere inches from her own. Curling into the stone to support his weight, Harri found herself morbidly fascinated by them. A passing, involuntary appraisal that they were, by all rights, strangely attractive. Shapely fingers gripped the stone with a surprising strength, the knuckles bleeding out white— the outline of fine bones brought closer to the surface, a subtle movement as they shifted under the skin. And there was the vaguest notion, as green eyes darted from one to the other, that he was attempting to cage her in. That his towering form and flexing grip were meant to serve as her prison.

“But why does it matter what happens in mainland Europe? The wizarding Isles have been independent from them for ages,” she asked, refusing to look away from those hands and not quite trusting their sudden appearance.

“Oh, Harri, sometimes your naivety is just downright sinful,” a breathy laugh as he leaned in closer.

“Did you not consider it odd that I was elected so quickly as Sovereign? That I managed to dismantle the Ministry so swiftly? So easily?” he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“Think about it. How would I, Marvolo Gaunt, a political newcomer that had seemingly appeared out of thin air, gain enough confidence votes to overturn the Wizengamot?” he asked innocently, a surge of smug triumph when her pulse had quickened.

His mouth pressed against the tender spot where the jaw and ear connected, “Yes, my Death Eaters are influential and most have the backing of the Sacred 28. But still, that wouldn’t be enough, now would it?”

Harri tried to pay attention. Truly, she did. But it was proving to be a difficult task, nearly insurmountable, when he was all but draping himself over her. That once pleasant warmth was sharpening into something stifling, suffocating— a heat entirely welcomed. The lips grazing across her skin and soft whispers stole away the capacity for coherency— a  settling fog that served to obscure. And the fear that someone might stumble upon them was the last thing she could bring herself to worry about. Somehow, his coaxing had lessened the bite of her earlier agitation, a soothing balm that tempered the darkness that she didn’t quite understand. The girl readily leaned into it, thankful that, for once, there was a sense of quiet at her center.

And then it all came crashing down when his implications finally registered through the haze. Her stomach lurched uneasily, not quite wanting to believe that he had done something so foolish, so potentially damaging— a heavy swallow, a knot of nerves tightening in her chest, a spasm in her ribcage.

“You didn’t,” she breathed out, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did,” he admitted easily, face buried into her neck and mouthing the words against the hollow of her collarbone, “You see, I needed to find a way around Dumbledore’s influence, a method to nullify it. And even he couldn’t fight against the full weight of the European institutions. After all, while we may be independent, so many things we take for granted rely on a congenial relationship. Trade, border security, peace— all so easily rescinded without warning.”

“Do they know then?” she wrenched her head away, spinning around in his grasp, “Who you truly are?”

Scarlet eyes widened a fraction in surprise at the unanticipated refusal, the way she appeared to be genuinely horrified with what he had done— and then it suddenly struck him that she hadn’t even considered the notion of foul play. That, in her mind, there wasn’t even the possibility for outside interference— or that his entire ascension to power had merely been the result of a rigged system. And, truly, how endearing that innocence of hers was. A growing smirk, the left corner lifting higher than the right, and he loomed over the girl trapped against the railing.

“Of course they do. I met with their councils and presented them with an ultimatum. They could assist me in taking the throne peacefully, without bloodshed and on a platform of goodwill. Or they could stand by as I tear apart the Isles in my claim. Observe from afar while the nation descends into anarchy and war before I begin to make a move on their own countries in retaliation. After all, Lord Voldemort never forgets.”

“I was rather convincing, as you might imagine. Apparently, a Dark Lord defying death and coming back after a supposed ‘defeat’ certainly lent gravity to my threats,” he chuckled, reaching over to twist a strand of auburn around his index finger, “Of course, I am a merciful ruler. In exchange, I offered up my services regarding Grindelwald’s remaining factions. They give me a crown, and I keep my reign restricted to the Isles while helping to suppress those pesky uprisings in Europe.”

“Naturally, they accepted,” he stated wryly, releasing the coil of hair and studying her waned expression, “In their minds, I imagine the justification was that it’s better to deal with a Dark Lord you know, and who is open to negotiations if need be, rather than one that has been spurned. I do have to give credit to them, however, for being smart enough to recognise the inevitability of my rule.” 

“‘Uprisings’,” she echoed, brows knitting together as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

“The centaur ‘uprisings’ you always talk about in the North,” emerald eyes narrowed as her tone took on an accusing note, “It’s code, isn’t it?”

“Well, look who has been paying attention— such a clever girl. Yes. We have been keeping an eye on the mainland’s activity for some time now, stepping in whenever needed.”

“And yet,” his voice had dropped abruptly, a coldness lacing the words as his left hand tightened about the stone railing, “All of my efforts, all of my planning is currently being jeopardised by your precious little Order.”

“Oh no, you can’t blame them for that,” she snapped back in defense, bristling at his accusations, “They couldn’t have known. Hell, even I didn’t know— and I live with you.

“Are you sure about that? After all, they are allying themselves with Gregorovitch who, need I remind you, is a loyalist to Grindelwald. If they are bringing him into the mix, Harri—,” Voldemort warned softly, the threat hanging heavily. 

There was the crackle of static between them, sharp pops as it ate away at the oxygen— a corroding force as magic leaked outwards, spilling forth and tumbling from its reservoir. And as much as Harri would have loved to continue to retaliate, to rise to the bait and fight him on this, she had enough self-awareness to realise that now wasn’t the ideal time. Judging by his clenched jaw, the molten heat blazing in those hellfire eyes, the hair raising on her arms, he was beyond the usual amount of upset— he was livid. She didn’t even need to rely on the bond to tell her that much, the trembling stone beneath their feet an indication of his feeling’s extent. In the background, the windows rattled precariously in their panes, a symphony approaching its crescendo. ‘Setting him off won’t help anyone’s case,’ rationality reasoned, attention flitting cautiously over the face hovering so close to her own. It wasn’t exactly impossible, either, to hazard a guess as to why the man was this upset— if the Order was truly attempting to involve Grindelwald in this fight, it would mark their transgressions as being more than personal in nature. That Voldemort would see it as them not merely rebelling, acting out of concern for her, but trying to usurp his title— his position as Dark Lord that he had been making every effort to safeguard. And how she desperately prayed that wasn’t the case— because if it was, then she was more than certain it would be beyond her control to save them. Promises be damned. 

A difficult swallow, a lump that refused to budge, and the girl strived to gather the frayed threads of that earlier calm. Her hand rose to splay across his heart, a bid to calm him, to show that she could understand his frustrations. Harri darted forward, a featherlight brush of her lips to the center of his sternum— another placed on his pulsepoint, at the curve of his jaw. She pulled away just as quickly before he could react, a silent plea to not react rashly. 

Voldemort stiffened, taken off guard by the unexpected displays of affection— tension crept along his spine, a calculating glint as he considered the girl before him. It was always a war in his mind, two factions suspended in a battle— a story as old as the conflicts foretold in the epics. Was she meaning to be genuine? Or was this an act, a ruse? Could she possibly be true or was she attempting to deceive? A side to him, the cynical one healthily nursed through the ages, sought to determine the latter— though there was still that shred of hope, the light never fully quelled, that ached for the former. ‘Don’t be a fool.’ The quaking ground stilled, quiet settling as a tensed, weighty thing. 

He glanced down at the hand on his chest, a detached thought wondering if it had always been that small? That fragile? And yet, there was so much power resting in it, the coursing current of might and magic held in each dip and crevice. After all, he had personally seen the chaos, the destruction it had been able to reap— and how much more would such a hand be capable of once she attained her true potential? He tried to suppress the shiver, the spreading thrill as crimson eyes drifted back to her face. There was a determination shining in those curse green eyes, an unwavering steadfast sort— it was easy to see why so many were loyal to her, why there were those willing to even die with her name on their lips.

They are not. I’ll speak to Ginny and find out for certain but I can assure you that they would never dare,” she tried to reassure, attempting to exude a confidence that she didn’t quite feel.

“You can later,” the words were resolute, a firm command that was hard to argue against when he unfurled to reach his full height.

“But, I--.”

“Later, Harri. For now, I want to talk about you .”

An arm had shot out to snake about her waist, a brusque motion that caught her off guard when she was yanked even closer to him. The hand on his chest twitched, its companion rising to push half-heartedly in a bid to earn some distance. Protests were already forming on her tongue at his rashness, at the unexplained switch in priorities— it was important they find out  now for both of their sake’s. There wasn’t any time left to talk about her, the window of opportunity shortening the longer they stalled. And truthfully, whatever the particulars that conversation would entail weren’t ones she could even feign an excitement for, a tide of exasperated dread mounting. Plus, there was still the important matter of figuring out what to do about the wand, the coin— how to conceal Hermione’s tracks from the trace. 

Squirming in the constraining grasp, the warning she had received was his forearm tensing, slotting her body against his with a bruising strength— ‘Later.’ And as she spared a glimpse up at his carefully blank mask, her heart suddenly plummeted, a sheen of cold sweat appearing on the back of her neck. ‘He knows I lied.’ A pit formed in her stomach, an encompassing wave of nausea— the last thing the girl saw was the encroaching violet of dusk, the northern star already visible against the waxing moon.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 56: The Blood of a Thestral

Notes:

Hello everyone! As promised, here's a bit of a spicy chapter for you guys 💕

Also, as a heads up, I'm doing some lore building on Occlumens as well this in this section that isn't canon + some parselmouth information.

As always, thank you to everyone who is still reading along and showing this fic love! 💕

I hope you guys enjoy! 💕

 

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



They were pulled through the vacuum of space, their molecules, their very essences intertwining— mingling and morphing until all that remained was a singular entity. A reunion of a split soul, a merging that had lasted for only a few moments. A sense of wholeness. Completion. 

And then they landed back into the mortal plane, wrenched apart and divvied up as the familiar surroundings of the study materialised. Sometime during their absence, the candles on the walls had been lit and the fire, now far from anemic, restoked. The flames danced in the mantle, the warmth of its glow warding off the infringing darkness the evening brought— the prolonged quiet continued as the pair stood there. One was held tightly in the embrace of the other, a reluctance to move away.

Voldemort eyed the girl in his arms, a twinge of concern at how she appeared to be more affected by the apparition than usual. Her eyes were screwed shut, the rise and fall of slight shoulders offset by an uneven rhythm— laboured breathing, quick inhalations through her nose as shaking fingers curled into the front of his robes. And how such a display only fed his curiosity, driving him onwards with that unabating need to figure out what was happening to her. A frown twitched in the corners of his mouth when she had finally stumbled out of reach, unsteady feet crossing to the lounge and sinking down onto it. The beginnings of protest were bubbling up from his chest, a sense of ever-growing unease when an auburn crown fell into open palms. He swallowed it down the best he knew how. Logic dictated that reprimands were the last thing she needed at the current moment or something she could even handle. No, those could be reserved for later.

Instead, long strides carried him to the bar cart to pour the carafe of mineral water into a glass— wordlessly, he placed it on the chaise’s side table. There was an unspoken command behind the simple action: ‘Drink’. However, the girl had made no move to do so, head still willfully buried and fingers entangled in her hair. A passing glance, cutting and critical, raked over her bowed form, debating if he should say or do something. One beat passed and then another before an indecisive mind finally settled on an answer.

He retreated to the desk, allowing his horcrux some time alone to compose herself— in all retrospect, he considered that much was at least owed to her before the questions could start. It was a mayhem of parchment on the polished oak surface. Hands, far too idle and itching to be occupied, reached for the stack of letters that were perched precariously on the edge. That was the downside to being an openly public figure, the burden that came along with holding the crown— and one that his reception of could be described, at best, as being tepid. Letters, endless correspondences, official documents outlining treaties and personal invites constantly found a permanent home in the study. And there were days when he found himself consumed with an internal debate if going the political route had been wise. After all, it wasn’t as though he had to deal with upcoming conferences or interviews when he was simply and wholly ‘Lord Voldemort’. ‘The price for absolute control,’ an inner thought supplied dryly, carding through the documents with languid speed. The passing minutes found themselves settling into a repetitive routine— scanning the return addresses, flipping over the crisp envelopes, noting the wax seals before tossing them into a different stack impatiently.

Thump. Thump. Thumpthumptump. The noise had given him pause, crimson eyes lifting in curiosity at the disruption to the quiet. In the background, the redhead was still slumped over but the left leg had begun to bounce restlessly against the carpet— an indication that the lingering effects were, apparently, starting to lessen. ‘Give her a few minutes longer.’ Voldemort threw the final letter down, scanning the desk for— ‘Ah, there it is.’ Placed amongst the ledgers and scrolls was the bloodied wand, a slanted note attached that assured a stasis had been successfully put into place. With a nonchalant hum, fingers curled about the leather-wrapped handle. Fixing the girl with a sidelong glance, the Dark Lord rounded the desk and came to pause at a series of locked drawers built into its side. Pushing his magic outwards, the topmost had sprung open with ease— depositing the aspen, it slid closed of its own accord, the soft click causing Harri to finally raise her head.

“What do you want?” she muttered, reaching for the glass and taking an unenthusiastic sip. 

“What do I want? Well, I want a lot of things,” his response was slow, purposeful, “But what I want at this very moment is to talk about you .”

Voldemort moved out from behind the desk to lean against its front instead. Ankles casually crossing, darkening eyes roamed over her face and noting the way it was still pinched with the persisting tells of discomfort. This was the problem in having a human as a horcrux vessel, he figured— she was more susceptible to damage. To breaking. His attention drifted down to the half-empty tumbler held between shaking fingers, a tilt of his chin as an indication for her to keep drinking. There was a sense of sneaking satisfaction when she had obediently drained the glass to follow his command— it was almost enough to make him forget her transgressions. Almost.

“Tell me, how have you been feeling?” he asked.

A muscle jumped above her brow in a betrayal of her annoyance, eyes narrowing with barely-concealed disbelief. The man had just apparated her without warning after dropping the lovely bomb that he had rigged their entire political system— and with the help, no less, from the very same alliance the Isles had worked decades in trying to separate from. Then he had deemed it necessary to let her in on the hidden secrets behind a Dark Lord’s existence— all while deciding, at the same time, it was entirely appropriate to get rather handsy. And, to top it off, he was keeping one friend hostage while planning to use the other’s blood for a trace. Yet he had the gall to ask her how she was feeling? Rather than working to secure their protections, she was here— forced to undergo a pseudo-therapy session with a man who sorely needed one himself. Suddenly, Harri found herself rather glad that she had had the foresight to set the glass down before he could speak— the temptation to throw it was stronger than she would care to admit. Thin fingers pinched the bridge of her nose, a striving endeavour to stave off the urge to explode.

“Oh yeah— love being apparated and being told all of your deepest, darkest little secrets. I’m doing completely wonderful,” she sniped back, tone dripping with sarcasm, “Everything’s just bloody sunshine and rainbows.” 

“Harri,” the warning was soft though its weight was felt all the same.

He shrugged off the black outer robes, letting the material fall gracefully from his frame. Before they could even pool on the ground, however, an invisible force had lifted them up into the air. The garment found purchase on the three-pronged coat rack and a whisper of settling fabric followed as magic smoothed out the wrinkles. One glance at her thunderous expression and it was apparent where the nature of this conversation was heading— he was far too intimate with that look of hers, after all, to know she meant to be anything other than purposefully belligerent. A deep inhale to resist the urge to already snap, the Dark Lord busied himself with undoing the monogrammed cufflinks instead— the starched material of the collared shirt was pushed up to reveal the expanse of his forearms. There was a tic in the corded muscle as the left hand gripped the desk’s edge— two purposeful taps in quick succession as the index finger drummed against the wood.

“Do not try to play me for a fool,” he levelled a burning gaze on her.

“You have been rather deceitful as of late, haven’t you?” he questioned coolly, the right hand reaching up to loosen the charcoal tie about his throat, “And no, I’m not just referring to that little stunt you pulled in the meeting regarding the coins.”

“How did you—?”

“Know that you weren’t being fully honest?” he finished for her, scoffing at her blatant surprise, “You seem to keep forgetting that I can literally sense it.”

“When you lie, did you know that your arousal heightens? That your pulse begins to quicken and your body heat increases? So many little physical tells,” he pointed out offhandedly, smirking as he slipped into parseltongue to further prove his point, “And you, pet, are the worst possible liar out there. I could practically taste your guilt the entire time.”

His tongue ran across the roof of his mouth in deliberation at her tense posture, “But you weren’t fully lying back there either. There was some truth to your statement so I am willing to forgive you on that front. No, what I am referring to is your constant, ongoing deceit over these past few weeks.” 

Harri frowned at what he was implying, brows drawing together as her mind turned over to figure it out. And silently, she cursed herself for the ignorance, for the stupidity in not realising that he would be able to sense the physical signs that went along with deception. How badly she wished to slap herself, to scream and to demand to know why she kept so conveniently forgetting that he wasn’t an ordinary man at the worst of times. ‘Well, at least he isn’t pressing the matter.’ That was the silver lining to the situation, the one small blessing. But such relief was offset by the fact that she had, apparently, done something even worse to offend— and, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what. Toes curled and uncurled in her boots, a leg bouncing aimlessly— reflexive measures to jog her memory but failing miserably to do so. 

“The uptick in aggressive behaviour, the constant headaches, the increasing exhaustion. Not to mention the frequent nosebleeds,” he listed them off, patience slipping at her feigned innocence.

‘Oh,’ it was her only thought and she took note of his growing frustration that had begun to colour the edges of their bond.

“Did you not think that Narcissa wouldn’t come to me when you kept having them during your lessons? That she wouldn’t be a sensible adult and alert me the minute that something was wrong?” he pressed, lip curling at her unfathomable stubbornness.

“Thankfully, she at least possesses a shred of self-preservation and the common sense to realise what is happening to you is not normal,” his grip tightened on the desk, “Did you honestly not consider, even for the briefest of a second, that you should tell me? That you should at least allow me that one courtesy?”

Harri remained steadfast in her silence, bristling under the heat in his gaze and the tendrils of his magic that were being purposefully let out. Her jaw clenched and she rolled her shoulders in a bid to rid them of their tension. It was a game, she had come to realise, that he liked to play whenever she toed the boundaries of his patience— an incessant need of his to make her bow, to submit. And how it always left a rather sharp taste in her mouth, tart enough to sour everything else in turn— her words, her mood, her magic, her dreams. ‘Courtesy, huh?’ It was a laughable concept and she actively had to force down the embittered laugh. He was trying to dress it up with pretty words and a sense of pleasantry, a choice on her end and under the guise of a congenial relationship. But it was hard to fully ignore the true message— ‘You’re my horcrux so I deserve to know everything that’s happening to my soul’s vessel.’ Apparently, she wasn’t even allowed the decency or privacy to deal with the happenings of her own body without having to let him know. Fingers spasmed at the buzz in the back of her mind, the awareness of him heightening— some distant part practically purring at the fact, a longing she hated to feel. ‘He’s just worried, don’t fault him for it, ’ that little voice whispered in his defense. ‘Stop it.’ Emerald eyes anchored resolutely on the fire, refusing to yield nor to look over at him.

“I am concerned, Harri. I thought we were finally moving past this constant hiding,” he tried to reason, despising the fact that she wasn’t looking at him, “Help me understand. Why did you keep it from me?”

There was a sense of smugness, a victorious murmur— ‘I told you so.’ She was starting to despise its ongoing commentary more and more as of late. 

The emphasis he had placed on ‘concerned’ was a despicable pull on her nerves. It was a poisonous word, one that polluted her blood and writhed about her heart. Teeth worried the velvet softness of her cheek, gnawing until copper coated and overwhelmed. The answer, truthfully, was one she had already known for quite some time— and how she hated herself for it. It was a habit formed in the impressionable ages of her youth and one that refused to abate even as the years stretched on. Harri hated worrying others. Plain and simple. It was to the extent that she even went out of her way to keep things that were wrong out of sight— to fix them on her own without anyone being the wiser. Hermione had determined it to be one of her crippling faults, a coping mechanism leftover from a childhood saddled with the weight of adult responsibility. And yet, no matter how many reassurances she was given that it was perfectly fine to tell others when something was happening, or whenever she felt overwhelmed, Harri could never bring herself to do so. An irrational fear, a nagging feeling that prevented her from even opening her mouth— What if I’m being a burden?’ It was such a simple line of thought that held a terrifying degree of power— a ceaseless whisper that stole her voice, suffocated and drowned it in her lungs. However, there was an added aspect that Hermione hadn’t factored in, one that went beyond the tender mercies of the Dursleys and, rather, stemmed from the wizarding world. With so many people dependent on her, how could she possibly reveal that she was just like them? As fragile, as vulnerable, as weak? What would they think if they saw their hero as flawed as they were? Or, perhaps, even more so?

Yet, the self-hatred didn’t come from her ingrained aptitude for concealing, hiding, and pretending. Rather, it was because she was falling into that familiar routine once again. That, against all odds, he was beginning to mean something to her. That her brain was irrationally classifying the man as something other than ‘captor’ or ‘Dark Lord’ and felt the need to preserve her image as being capable or strong in his eyes. And how much easier would it be if she could believe her own claims about hating him, about seeing him as an overbearing villain.

“I didn’t think it mattered. And I didn’t want to bother you,” she muttered, loathing that it was the undeniable truth, “None of it seemed like a big deal at the time.”

He paused at that, irritation tempered by the resulting bewilderment. Arms crossed over his chest as he watched her turned profile with shrewd interest, the conflict from her a cacophony of white noise in his consciousness. And not for the first time was Voldemort left speechless by the girl and the brightness of her emotions, the extent to which she could feel so many things at once.

“Harri, did I not promise that I would protect you? Claim you were mine and vow to never let anything harm you?” he questioned softly, angling to make her see reason, “Your health matters to me. And I can not fulfill my end of that promise unless I am made aware of everything that is wrong.”

She flinched at that, arms wrapping about her middle in an effort to provide comfort as she vacantly stared into the flames. It was wrong— all of this. Dumbledore would be turning in his grave if he knew and, heaven forbid, if Sirius, Hermione, any of them ever found out. And yet, those little moments whenever he proved to not just be a murderer, a Devil, were the most damning, the most twisting. They threw her convictions out the window, her hate, her anger, crumbled it all into fine dust beneath her feet. Whenever he spoke so softly, spun such lovely sentiments, and let honey fall from his lips, it was always enough to disarm her— to push back the memories of a wraith in a graveyard, to not dwell on the monster hidden under a turban, or the cold glint in dark eyes when he commanded a basilisk to hunt her down. Unbidden, Nagini’s words suddenly came back to her, a tide of a shiver— “You are his and he is yours.” And how irrefutably true that assessment was.

“Have you at least been taking your elixirs?”

“No,” she responded bluntly, watching as a log cracked in half and sent a spray of embers against the metal grate.

He had to resist the urge to rake his fingers through his hair in frustration, despising the fact that she still wasn’t looking at him, “We are attempting to reverse a decade and a half of malnutrition, incorrectly healed injuries, and Merlin only knows what else—.”

“I know that,” she interjected.

“Then why, for the love of all things—,” he grit out, unable to fully understand her logic.

“They taste terrible,” was her protest, fingers smoothing over the velvet fabric of the lounge distractedly, “And I figured I don’t really need them anymore. Frankly, I’m feeling fine enough as it is and don’t see the point.”

And there it was, her insistence on ruining the moment with a baffling impulsive and mulish attitude. Long strides carried him back to the bar cart in search of a distraction— it came in the form of a healthy dose of brandy sloshing into a crystal tumbler.  The sound filled the room, pervading the quiet as the cracks from the fire supplied the refrain. ‘Patience,’ a voice warned as he knocked back the amber liquid without reservation. The burn slipping down helped to temper the swelling agitation, the warmth settling heavily in his chest a pleasant enough feeling. A sharp inhalation held for a beat, a slow exhale. True, she had most likely received that stubbornness from himself, the strength of will a quality he could reluctantly admire. Yet, he was also more than certain hers was an entirely different breed, a new strain that deviated from its original source— after all, he, at least, knew when to throw in the towel and act out of self-preservation. And Voldemort did wonder if the girl was secretly nursing a death wish— if she was actively courting it or was caught in a proverbial game of ‘chicken’ to see which would bow first. It would explain some of her questionable behaviours, that heedlessness in which she always charged into any situation, the consequences be damned. ‘Of all the stupid things she could possibly do.’

Scarlet eyes lifted from the decanter to bore holes into the flickering flames, not quite trusting himself to face her just yet. ‘Moronic. Imbecilic. Reckless. Irresponsible,’ the list went on, blunt nails tapping against the glass surface. It was a piercing sound that rose above all others, a testament to his fouling mood— the shadows on the peripheral edges of the room shuddered. He poured himself another helping and raised the rim to his lips, tilting it back steadily, purposefully.

“How many dosages have you skipped?” the question was whispered, a flatness in its inflections.

“A few,” she stated tentatively, gaze finally drifting over to him and studying the broadness of his back.

Harri winced at the tension visibly entering the lines of his shoulders, “Maybe two?”

He scoffed humourlessly at her response, draining the dregs from his glass before sparing a glance over his shoulder, “Did we not just talk about how I can tell whenever you lie, Harri? Because let me assure you, you are dreadful at concealing it.”

A snap of his fingers and a house-elf had suddenly appeared before him, its knobby knees sunk down to the ground in a show of subservience. Little mind was paid to its grovelling or the assurances that it only lived to serve. Rather, he focused on replacing the stopper in the decanter and reorganizing the crystalware on the cart— anything to allow him to gather the frayed cords of his patience.

“Bring me Miss Potter’s medicine chest,” the instruction was simple and curt.

It is a terrible thing to know the exact moment when one is caught in a lie— when the truth is looming and there’s nothing one can do to prevent the web from unspinning. And as the sight of a brown leather case had appeared on the side table, Harri was witnessing just that— everything unravelling. The grip of numbing dread had made itself known as it seized her heart, a squeeze that caused the muscle to skip a beat. Even though the room was, by all means, comfortably warm, the heat had done little to prevent the chilled skin from prickling. A nervous gaze flitted between his turned back and the box containing the viles, an idea forming that, perhaps, she should just grab it and run. Of course, it had been far more than merely two missed— some part of her had just hoped he would take the number at face value and not call the bluff. Would act out of mercy and let it slide just as he had done with the coins. ‘Foolish girl.’ Snape’s words floated to the forefront of her thoughts and it was difficult to argue against that particular assessment.

The Dark Lord had set the glass down with a jarring clink, slowly turning on his heels in the process. Her stomach churned as his steps were leisurely, unhurried— no doubt purposefully dragging out the suspense. And how mesmerising the pattern of the rug beneath her feet was, attention consumed by it and mind turning over with how many paces, exactly, it was to the door.

The turning of a lock, the creak of the leather straps being stretched as the case was opened— the girl shifted on the couch, grimacing at the tensed silence that followed.

“Would you like to revise your statement?”

‘Shit,’ was her only coherent thought, peeking up cautiously from fanned lashes to take in the stormy countenance of his expression. Thankfully, those narrowed eyes of his were transfixed in counting the vials— but even turned from her, Harri could see the emotions, the anger that made them burn.

“Eight, Harri. Eight dosages you have missed,” his voice had turned hard and clipped with displeasure, “Nearly four weeks’ worth.”

“I really don’t need them—,” she tried to argue, mouth closing with an audible click when he had turned towards her.

“We talked about this,” the words were borderline on hissing, exasperation lacing each syllable, “Your current body is physically unable to handle the change required to achieve your full potential. It’s a miracle you have lasted this long as it is. And considering the instabilities regarding your behaviour as of late, I would wager your time is running out.”

“Or do you want to spend the next decade, or perhaps even longer, in a magic-induced coma because it was unable to handle the shift?” he accused, searching vainly for any comprehension on her end.

Without waiting for her answer, Voldemort reached for a glass vial and pried it from the indented casing that cushioned it from all sides— a precious resource that required the utmost protection. They hadn’t been easy, nor inexpensive, to obtain seeing as the main ingredient was the blood of a thestral— a creature that was, technically, illegal to harvest from. But the healing properties were rumoured to be exceptional and even Severus had acknowledged that it would cut the absorption time of normal nutrition elixirs in half— and time wasn’t, unfortunately, on their side in this scenario. Truthfully, he had already foreseen a negative outcome from her examination, having found the girl to be a touch too slight, too delicate and frail even during their very first encounter. Though, despite having that expectation in mind, it still came as a shock to learn the extent of her body’s deterioration— far too many years of being underfed and of sustaining improperly healed injuries were finally taking a damning toll. A ticking bomb had been the verdict, her core and parselmouth abilities growing at an alarming rate that would soon surpass the body’s physical capacity. What should have been a logistic curve, plateauing out eventually and stabilising, was rapidly morphing into an exponential one without any carrying limitations. And how it burned him to know that no one saw fit to try to reverse the damages sooner, to become aware of her condition at the earlier stages when it would count.

The tar coloured liquid had rippled when it was disturbed from its resting place, a viscous consistency that clung as a film to the vial’s walls. Truly, he couldn’t fault the girl for not being thrilled about taking it— and he might have had some sympathy if she hadn’t been so inane in her protests or if they weren’t absolutely essential. Long fingers curled about the thin neck of the bottle and he moved towards the lounge— one knee sunk down onto the plush fabric while the other remained firmly on the ground. Even half-sitting, his height towered over the girl. And though he was aware that it was partially due to her malnourishment, it would have been a lie to say that he didn’t at least somewhat enjoy the differences in their stature— the thrill it was to overshadow and dominate. That wide-eyed astonishment whenever she became actively conscious of the fact didn’t quite help, either, to temper that satisfaction.

“Open,” he commanded.

Owlish eyes blinked up at him when he had leaned in closer without warning, one of his hands gripping the chaise’s frame near her head. Admittedly, it was a rather intimidating stance— although, referring to it as solely ‘intimidating’ wasn’t exactly truthful either. Then understanding dawned when she pieced together what he was planning, brows lifting in mild surprise. Lips pursed closed, an unyielding seal as green eyes narrowed in a silent challenge. And sure, Harri did consider she was being a touch pettish in the blatant refusal— but she would be damned if she was going to be forced fed by Lord Voldemort, of all people. It was an undignified notion and far too infantilizing in her opinion— even Madam Pomfrey had the tact to let her patients take their own medications while under her watchful care. Plus, knowing the sadist he was, she just knew that he was going to enjoy the humiliation to a personal degree. 

The man moved closer, frustration evident in the tensing of his jaw when she hadn’t outright acquiesced— she pressed her back into the lounge, pointlessly trying to buy some more space between them.

“Open, Harri,” he repeated, scowling when she refused to budge.

A soft growl, tongue dragging over his canines in contemplation when it became evident that the girl wasn’t going to listen. ‘Fine then. Have it your way,’ a dark passing thought, grip releasing from the couch to settle upon the nape of her neck. She stiffened under the unanticipated touch, the slightest squeeze of his fingers an effective enough warning. The flicker of alarm in those green depths told him she was expecting some form of pain to follow—  a smirk slid the corners of his mouth upwards as he searched for their bond. And there it was, just waiting to be exploited. It had been some time since he felt the need to use it against her and the fact that he was having issues in ignoring it was a testament to how long it had been. That all-encompassing warmth, that liquid sweetness and devastating buoyancy— had it always been this intense? This feverish? It was hard to say. Suppressing the urge to shudder, Voldemort blindly searched his mindscape for the tendrils of shadow, for the safety it would provide. As effective as tapping into the horcrux connection may be, it was a double-edged sword, a necessary evil that was all too quick to turn on its master. 

The slightest shake of his head to clear away the haze, a pull in his core to hide behind the occlumency shields— that glow battered against the translucent barriers, a monster thrashing and insistent on swallowing him whole. His breathing was shallow when he had finally reentered the mortal world, content enough that the fortifications should be enough to ward off the allure--- a semblance of control had been won, though not without cost. It felt as though electricity had been poured into his veins, an exposed wire that was seeking to wreak havoc upon its environment. ‘Definitely different than before,’ he had determined and wary of the implications. 

Scarlet eyes drifted down to the girl caged under him, noting that she wasn’t faring any better than he had. She was practically melted into the lounge, auburn crown tilted back, and gaze blown wide. That verdant green had been eclipsed, pupils dilated in a betrayal of her struggles--- they suddenly slipped closed, the column of her throat bobbing in a tell of a difficult swallow. Distantly, he was aware of his mission, the cooling weight of vial between locked fingers. ‘Get her to drink it,’ the inner-dialogue was fuzzy, muddled. It was hard to focus, especially when her mouth had slightly parted. The bottle slipped to the couch, bouncing harmlessly against the cushions as his hand rose to cup her jaw— the pad of the thumb dragged across the full bottom lip. Petal soft to the touch, the wine-hued lipstick smeared under his administrations. A streak of red. ‘Beautiful’. And there was the rising urge to do more than just touch them, the fog of their bond a polluting force that he couldn’t completely rid his system of.

“Fuck,” the word was breathy, a whisper slipping out from between her lips.

Then the moment of bliss came crashing down. She had somehow twisted from his grasp, gaining enough awareness of the situation to know the hand on her neck was the cause— he froze in shock when that damning light was diminished. Neither of them saw fit to move as an alarming amount of clarity had begun to trickle back in her consciousness, the connection lessening without a point of contact. It would appear that her own lessons with Snape were beginning to pay off— a development he shouldn’t know whether to be proud of or disappointed by.

“Fuck!” her ears were ringing, the world tilting as she gasped for breath—but the greedy lungfuls only made her even more lightheaded. 

“You know I hate it when you do that,” the accusation was sharp, a throbbing in her temples as she callously shoved him away from her, “Fucking bloody hell.”

Though the push had barely any notable strength behind it, Voldemort heeded the demand all the same. Leaning away to grant her the space she so desired, he studied her in disbelieving wonder. While, in hindsight, it had been an underhanded move on his part, it should have worked by all accounts— considering their past track record, it was a marvel that she had managed to break free without his permission first. And yet, once again, it would appear that he had underestimated Harri Potter’s unwieldy tenacity. That inexplicable talent of hers to always defy and surprise at every turn, producing outcomes that often escaped even his abilities to predict. And what was most surprising about this all was that she had chosen to counteract the effects through pain. Even with the physical connection broken, it was still raw and exposed more so than usual— and that pulsating ache on her end was a sensation he could feel just as viscerally. It was a fascinating trick, one that a distant note was made to inquire about later. 

“Language,” he reminded, reaching forward to retrieve the vial that had fallen between the throw pillows.

“Oh, shove off,” she bit back, hands scrubbing irately over her face— it felt as though she had been set on fire, the pain radiating outwards from the curse mark above her brow.

It had taken more concentration and willpower than she was comfortable admitting in order to fend off the pull, a reckless bid to break free of his manipulations. And she was most certainly paying the price for it now— Snape would have her head if he ever knew. During their lessons, he had mentioned that the most successful Occlumens usually concealed their minds during attacks by hyperfixating on a singular emotion or experience. The only downside is that they often relived, physically, that event all over again to a lesser degree. While that wouldn’t be an issue if the memory or emotion was pleasant in nature, it could have unintended consequences if a negative one was chosen— and he had explicitly stated that it could be rather debilitating to endure. So naturally, having disregard for any and all warnings, the girl had done just that. 

Amidst the scramble to escape, Harri found herself focusing on the memory of when Voldemort had touched her scar before either knew the mechanics of the bond. That searing agony that made her feel as though she had been flayed alive, had cleaved her skull in two— a groan tore from her throat, fingers massaging her temples to ease the ache. ‘Snape’s never going to let me live it down.’ It was decided, right then and there, that she wasn’t to ever tell the potions master for the sake of keeping her pride intact. Every limb felt both boneless and weighted at the same time, as though they had been carved from concrete rather than flesh and sinew. Gravity was an enticing call—- she heeded it by sinking down into the couch, relishing in the softness of the pillows.

“Would it really be so terrible if I don’t grow fangs?” she questioned, head turning towards him when he had scoffed in response, “No, I’m serious. Would it be the end of the world if I just remained human?”

Though Harri knew it wasn’t the only reason why she was being forced to drink thestral blood, it was, by a large part, the main underlying reason for her resolute determination against taking the elixirs. It was all in a bid, as pointless as it may be, to retain a vague notion of normalcy for just a touch longer. To continue to hold onto her old life, to not enter this new phase, this unknown transition that seemed so daunting. While her friends only had to worry about becoming adults and having their cores finally level out, she was to become an entirely different creature— one that, from his fleeting and brief explanations, had the ability to kill through a mere bite alone. And maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t drink them, it could all be prolonged— could be staved off to allow her to continue to live in that blessed state of ignorance.  

And he would most certainly argue vehemently, would likely take a great deal of offense if he ever overheard her speak the word aloud, but Harri couldn’t fully quell the hateful voice that whispered ‘freak’ . While he viewed it as a privilege, a heralding of a ‘noble lineage’, it was her final damning. By all accounts, her existence was already an anomaly, atypical, a blight that defied nature’s inherent order— the furthest possible thing from the unexceptional one she desperately craved. And for once, just once, the girl considered it would be lovely to have a taste of that dream, to experience what it was like to be so similar to everyone else. ‘Non-freakish’. Turning into a half-snake creature wasn’t exactly congruent to that definition or rose-coloured vision. 

He arched a brow, the corners of his mouth quirking as though the suggestion was a source of endless amusement, “Well, you could. However, I think you are forgetting one small, important detail, Harri— you were never human to begin with.”

A beat of silence stretched on into two, then three— the words processed and her eyes flashed with affronted indignation. He just couldn’t go along with her even once, could he? Ignoring the protesting ache in her calves, Harri leapt to her feet and brushed past him. There were calls, ones that demanded she come back— they were paid barely any notice, concentrated efforts striving to ignore that he was trailing after her. A hand shot out to clamp about her wrist and she aggressively wrenched it free, a resentful anger kept simmering only just below the surface.

The girl spun on her heels, voice pitching ever so slightly, “And whose bloody fault is—.”

Without warning or fanfare, she was pulled back to him, stiffening instinctively when his mouth had crashed against hers. Harri blinked in alarm, trying to comprehend how he had managed to move so quickly, to act so brazenly without a single reservation. And it was truly disorienting how immediately that anger deflated, the resentment fleeing from her as though it had been driven out, exorcised from her very being. A hand reached up to tilt her chin for better access— she allowed it, too dumbstruck to consider anything else. Unlike her, his eyes were closed and, from this distance, Harri could easily discern each individual fanned lash that was currently splayed against those high cheekbones— all of the angles and sharpness he was composed of. 

Pulse a flighty cadence, it came as an additional shock when his other hand had found purchase on the small of her waist. The fingers flexed, a searing heat through the blouse’s flimsy material that steered her closer to him— it was oddly natural in the way they seemed to complement the curve of the other’s body, how perfectly they could slot together. And, not for the first time, Harri was unfairly reminded of his height— how a person could possibly be that tall was utterly mystifying. Even with him leaning down, the girl was nearly on her toes to meet him, eyes slipping shut when his lips moved insistently against her own.

Even though she was aware that she should be upset he was kissing her only minutes after manipulating their bond, and insulting her in a roundabout way, it was hard to even entertain that notion— not when she felt as though she was floating, soaring. His feet had begun to move forwards, hers helplessly following the lead in an effort to not break their contact. A bookcase bumped against the knobs of her spine, one of his legs slipping between hers to pin her into place. Distant warning bells were going off at their arranged positions— they were readily ignored when that hand had trailed from the waist to her hip, a resulting squeeze that toed the line between pain and pleasure. It was exhilarating and she felt akin to a livewire, a surge of a restless current without anything to ground her. 

His mouth, she had determined, was a perplexing juxtaposition between soft and hard— the feeling similar to velvet but the force behind them far from gentle. It was a sensation, an experience that could easily become addicting— and, for the first time in her life, Harri could understand the inclination some had towards kissing. The air stored in her lungs, burning from being held for far too long, was gradually being stolen away— so willingly sacrificed to the Devil in exchange for something sweeter, more promising. Back arching from the wall, chasing after what, exactly, she didn’t fully know, her own hands had curled into the broad planes of his shoulders. Nails sunk into the fabric, biting half-moons into the skin below that had earned a deep chuckle on his end. The hold on her chin drifted down to lightly clasp about her throat, fingers a loose collar adorning it— she paid it no mind. Instead, it seemed all current thought was focused, hyper-aware of the warmth seeping from him, entirely fixated on a single word— ‘More’.

When the demanding swipe of a tongue ran across her bottom lip, an unspoken acknowledgment that sought to oblige her desires, Harri had no reservations in yielding. Behind closed lids were pockets of light, bright bursts of neon colours that punctuated the darkness— an encroaching dizziness that made the world sway on its axis. ‘ More, more, more.’ A clash of teeth, the fingers jerking on her neck, a wound coil settling in her stomach, a knot of nerves squirming between her ribs— something bitter overcame her senses.

Not for the first time that night was she taken by surprise, eyes flying open in panic when a liquid was forcibly passed into her mouth from his own— she squirmed, a muffled cry of shock, a refusal to swallow. Scarlet eyes, molten in their heat, were already waiting for her, watching the struggle with a glint of triumph. He refused to pull away. Hands fell to his sternum, a feeble push as the shadows hovering on the periphery grew inwards and started to eclipse her vision. Every instinct was screaming, begging to draw in a blessed breath— the hand loose about the throat had constricted in direct defiance. An insistent downwards drag, the thumb tracing pressured strokes along the main column’s pipe. He was attempting to imitate the act of swallowing, an encouragement for the muscle to function autonomously without her conscious consent. ‘Bastard,’ the thought was spiteful, a glare fixing on him. 

Unable to withstand it any longer, the meek inhales through her nose no longer cutting it, Harri swallowed the elixir. Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she gagged on the deluge, the taste overpowering and cloying with how the film coated her tongue.

Voldemort waited for a second longer to ensure she had followed through before dropping the grip and breaking their kiss. His horcrux spluttered for a second, choking and ragged in her breathing as she gulped down air with abandon. Wisely having the foresight to step out of her reach, he tried to stifle the thrill writhing in his chest when that glowing gaze had snapped back to him.

“You bloody psycho!” she accused with a healthy amount of vitriol, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and gaping at him in disbelief.

“Sticks and stones,” he crooned, waving the empty vial in a smug show of victory, “Sticks and stones.”

“You—,” she struggled to find the right words, cheeks flushing in a mixture of embarrassment and outrage, “You could have killed me!”

“Oh please, Harri, don’t be so dramatic. You know I would have never let it go that far,” he flashed her a smile, a set of teeth revealed that seemed far from innocent, “And it’s not like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Her mouth parted and then closed again with an audible snap, completely at a loss for words. Because as much as she did, she refused to give him further gratification by verbally admitting to it. A scream of frustration was threatening to rise, the taste of the blood lingering— it burned her sinuses, the need to cough tenacious in its pursuit. ‘At least he suffered too,’ a hateful thought as she shoved past him, clipping his shoulder in the process. In every sense of the word, she was done for today— done with his antics, his words, his teasing. And, as it currently stood, spending the night away from him seemed like a brilliant plan— after all, she couldn’t be held accountable at this point if she strangled him in his sleep. ‘Would serve him right, the absolute prick.’ Ignoring the lilting calls of where she was going, an edge of amusement in his voice that made her teeth grind, Harri crossed the study to her own, long-forgotten bedroom.  

“Do you really have to teassse her like that?” 

The last thing Harri had heard before slamming the door behind her was Nagini’s reproachful words, the snake seeing fit to only now just make an appearance. ‘Would have been nice of you to show up earlier.’ Voldemort had apparently said something humorous in response as a stuttering hiss of laughter followed, his own intermixing with the slippery sound.

‘Bloody Dark Lords.’

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 57: In the Dark of the Night

Notes:

Hello everyone! My apologies for taking an unexpected mini-hiatus and for not posting this chapter sooner. This past month has just been a wild, not to mention stressful, time of dealing with working on my term papers and preparing for finals. To everyone who is still suffering from exam stress— you can do it! I have full faith in you 💕

Thank you as well to everyone who has been so patient with me in terms of uploading. Now that I have some free time, I will be trying to post a bit more regularly during my break 💕 As always, you guys are such amazing readers and I so appreciate your willingness to engage with me in the comments or by bookmarking/subscribing/giving kudos!

Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



‘This is a profoundly stupid idea— even by your standards.’

The inner-commentary was undercut by exasperation, a snarkiness meant to goad her into second-guessing herself— to change the course of her recklessness and to not go through with the plan. Unfortunately, the girl refused to be lured into its trap, a turn of events that didn’t bode well for its mission. The words were muddled, faint. Distant. A whisper spoken through the muffle of a pillow, one too easily ignored if the conscious effort was made— and that’s exactly what was happening. Harri was choosing to willfully ignore its chiding call, the beginning flickers of the horcrux’s panic as the bathtub filled.

'Harri. Are you listening? Nothing good is going to amount from this.’

She turned the handle and the stream of water trickled off into a stop. One drop, then two from the faucet, the surface of the water rippling in response— green eyes were glued to the concentric movement, the curls of steam dancing up playfully into the air. It was a stupid idea— that much the horcrux was right about. But this was also the only plan she could think of at the moment, her brain refusing to cooperate otherwise. And so, despite the begging, the demands to rethink her strategy, she slipped into the tub. A sharp hiss through parted lips at the temperature, the girl gingerly lowered herself down, sinking inch by inch. Her knees, her hips, her stomach, her chest, her collarbones— all slowly submerged. 

And then Harri took the final plunge, eyes screwing themselves shut as the water came rushing in its greedy claim. The initial panic to crest the surface was stamped down, her last breath an acute burn in her lungs— she waited.

Once upon a time, when things had been normal, they had discussed blood traces in class—- back when she had roamed the castle’s vaulted halls and slept under its spires. Such a life now seemed like a distant past, a dream that could have very well been a figment of her imagination. During a time when her concerns had been simple, uncomplicated— when they mainly revolved around upcoming exams, looming matches against Slytherin, and, more short-term though equally important, that evening’s dinner menu. The point was, Harri knew she had studied them. The term had struck a chord when Voldemort so casually announced it during the assembly—- and that meant it existed, somewhere, buried deep within the logs of her memory. All she needed was to access that tucked away file.

'Can you stop already? You are going to pass out-- Harri, listen.'

True as its words may be, there was a sense of calm to be found under the water— one where the burdensome trivialities of human existence didn’t quite matter. Like breathing. Here in the clawfoot bath, shoulders sliding further and further down until they rested comfortably against the bottom curve of the porcelain, it was a different world. With the heated pull, the ripples lapping at her skin, the absolute quiet it provided—- if there was any better place to think, Harri couldn't outright name one. And Merlin only knew how badly she needed a solution, the laborious tasks ahead ever so mounting. When the burning in her throat had sharpened, a restless itch bursting behind her breastbone, she only sunk down further. 'Come on, help me,' a silent prayer to the universe, a petition to give her even an inkling— to force herself to enter into her mindscape in search of answers.

'This isn’t working. So can you stop already before you incur brain damage?'

Fingers curled into the bottom of the tub to anchor herself down, lungs spasming in their cage— a violent constriction. ‘Come on, come on.’ She needed her consciousness to become detached from this world, to separate itself from reality— to enter into that grey area between life and death, a space where one was not fully committed to one existence or the other. A sense of dizziness, fluorescent bursts of blues, purples, and greens behind closed lids— her own twisted fireworks show. The sensation in her chest had transcended the boundaries from being a mild discomfort to a  searing ordeal.

‘Harri!’

Flashes of Not-Moody's classes, blurred snippets of his gruff voice echoing as Harri was pulled into her memories.

Heart an erratic thumping, its tempo too uneven, unstable, as darkness grew inwards— weightlessness spread through her limbs, a gripping numbness. Pockets of air slipped past the seal of her lips only to bubble up ominously to the surface.

The Defense classroom was distorted, lacklustre in colour—- shades of muted greens, reds, and greys where her mind couldn't be bothered to supply further definition. Students sat scattered about the long benches, ill-defined and blurred in their details, their faces smooth masks. Harri paid them no mind, attention latching onto the only crystal clear thing in this poor reconstruction—- a textbook. Spread haphazardly on the table, the title of the section was bolded: Blood Traces and Their Mechanics.

Her fingers were twitching, a spasm in the muscles as the lack of oxygen started to deprive them of their autonomy. Distantly, she could register the slowing of her heart, a startling development when compared to the earlier frenzy of its beating.

Mind turning over, she scanned the text in a rushed manner, the tip of her index finger dragging across the parchment. Time was running out, her body threatening to recall her at any moment. Already, the peripheral edges of the room were darkening, wavering. ‘Come on, come on, c’mon’ Darting eyes, lips mouthing silently the words before her, and there, halfway down the page— her answer.

‘-ri! Harri!’

Harri broke the surface with a ragged gasp, choking when air, too much of it and too soon, expanded in her lungs. It stung in the best of ways, a sweetness to it that didn’t derive from the lavender-scented bathwater. Pale hands gripped the tub’s edge to keep herself afloat, trembling fingers weak from their deprivation. And yet, as she curled inwards in the lukewarm water to alleviate the symptoms of shock, Harri couldn’t quite help the burst of victory. It tasted glorious on her tongue— bright and welcomed. She had her answer, the next move clear. The quirk of a small smile, one hand pushing the auburn hair off her face and slicking it back.

"It’s okay. I'm fine," she muttered.

She shifted to rest against the curved slope of the tub, shoulder blades instinctively flexing against the hard porcelain. Half-lidded eyes drifted down to idly watch her hair float in a halo across the surface. The vivid colour was darkened by the water, almost black in nature— save for the clumps that had broken apart, a rebellious few strands that clung to the swell of her chest. They reminded her of capillaries, a delicately intricate web of crimson crisscrossing her sternum. A palm lifted to cup the beginning curve of her left breast, inhalations slowly evening though the burn lingered. Blinking back the water from her fanned lashes, Harri listened to the rhythm of her pulse, the upticks and downbeats of the muscle constricting. And she tried to picture that piece of him inside of her, that little shard that was beginning to speak so freely after having spent a decade and a half in quiet solitude. Brows knitted together as she searched for it, tried to imagine what it must have looked like. Was it like him? Too sharp angles and gleaming teeth, eyes as red as Grecian fire? Or was it different— a formless shape or a flickering shadow? Once upon a time, the notion of it writhing between the empty spaces of her ribs, of it circulating in her veins and finding a home within the chambers of her heart had terrified her. But now? Now, it didn’t so much.

"I'm fine, I promise," she whispered again, trying to coax the horcrux into responding.

Silence greeted her, thoughts far too empty as it refused to answer. There were the slightest twitches of a frown, a growing worry as the seconds ticked on. Perhaps she had gone too far in upsetting it? 

And then the horcrux seemed to have gotten over its sour mood, a disbelieving hiss, 'You really are a fool.’

The assertion elicited a good-natured scoff on her end and a shake of a dampened head. It was right, of course— Snape had said the exact same thing on countless occasions. And there was a sneaking suspicion that if the two had ever met, the horcrux and the potions master, they would get along just fine. 

Weakened knees lifted her from the bath, a touch too shaky for comfort. There was an ensuing slosh as the cooling water cascaded off her skin, the sound deafening in the quiet of the bathroom.  It threatened to spill over the tub’s rim. And then it did, soaking the polished tile underneath bare feet.  She paid the mess no mind, not bothering to even reach for a towel, her attention otherwise occupied. After puzzling it through all night, thoughts a racing mess in the wake of her encounter with the Dark Lord, she finally had an answer— now just to pray it was the right one. Trekking puddles across the marble-veined floor, heavy droplets falling from her hair, Harri wrapped a terry cloth robe tight about her frame. Cooled hands cinched it closed, mouth pressed into a grim line. ‘Merlin, this better work.’



When she slipped past her bedroom door, cracked as wide as she would dare without it screeching on the hinges, an eerie stillness was there to greet her. The moonlight filtering through the drapes had cast the room in a glow of silver, the shadows in the corners stretched long. Green eyes peered into them uneasily, half-expecting Voldemort to step out from them and to foil her plans once again. He didn’t. 

Harri’s gaze bounced to the mantle, the fire long since dead and the chill clinging to the air an indication that it had been quite some time since a house-elf stopped by. Compared to earlier, the study seemed abandoned. Unwelcoming. As though it knew she was intruding upon its fleeting moment of peace, that she was about to betray its master.

A shiver passed over her, a trail of goosebumps left in its wake— Harri clutched the robe tighter. While it made sense that he wouldn’t be here, the night long into its witching hours, part of her had expected to see the Dark Lord lounging in the armchair that was, irrevocably, his. Just as the one to its left had become, undeniably, hers. Yet, the man appeared to be otherwise engaged. Squinting across the way to his door, Harri noted the slivers of orange leaking out from under its threshold— a warm radiance that confirmed its occupant was still awake. She would have to be on guard— a shaky inhale was followed by a controlled exhale, parted lips forcing the air out quietly.

Bare feet were a whisper over the ground, heels elevated so the body’s weight was shifted to the toes. Harri crept with purpose, attention fixated onto the desk— a homing beacon in the darkness. It was where her prize lay in wait, a siren’s call with the victory it guaranteed. The girl rounded the piece of furniture, hands skirting down the series of drawers carved inconspicuously into its side. Fingers curled experimentally around one of the brass handles, the slightest tug refusing to give as the topmost drawer rattled on the hinges. ‘It’s locked.’ All things considered, it wasn’t a surprise seeing how paranoid the Dark Lord was— only he would feel the need to take extra precautions within his own study. Green eyes darted about the mess of parchment, quills, and inkwells that littered the table’s surface in a blind search for a key. She shifted through the sheaves of documents, hurried touches that disrupted them from their resting place— and yet, nothing of note was found.

A creak cut through the silence of the room.

Tension licked up the knobs of her spine, limbs freezing at the unexpected sound. An owlish gaze snapped upwards, heart pulsating in the back of her throat. There was no one. A delayed reaction of relief, the cool wash of it as Harri tried to swallow past the lump. ‘It’s just the house shifting,’ she tried to rationalise, letting go of a breath she wasn’t even aware that had been held. Yet, despite the logic, the justification aimed to quell her nerves, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the carved oak door across the study. It was so innocent looking, so unobtrusive in how it blended into the wall. Above suspicion or apprehension— that is, if one remained blissfully ignorant as to who was on the other side. And there was a creeping feeling that she had narrowly dodged a bullet, that luck, though on her side, had barely saved her hide. ‘Better hurry it up.’ Taking a beat to watch the scroll of the door’s handle, just to make certain it wasn’t turning, Harri quickly dropped to one knee. There was no keyhole impressed into the metal, she quickly realised, and how that discovery inspired a deep-set frown. The pad of her index finger idly brushed over the cooling brass, eyes narrowing a fraction as she tried to recall what he had done earlier. A distant memory of a latch springing free and the aspen wand being placed inside— ‘All he did was touch it though’.

The revelation hit her full force— the drawers responded to his magic. Her forehead fell against the desk’s edge with a groan. She felt foolish for not seeing this ahead of time, for not guessing that Voldemort wouldn’t keep the desk locked with something as muggle, as fallible and so easily circumvented as a key. ‘Bloody typical.’ Already, her mind was spinning and whirling and racing in trying to find a way around this little hiccup in her grand scheme. ‘Forcing it open is probably out of the question,’ she confirmed it with another quick jerk, the handle rattling in protest. ‘Maybe I could just explode the entire thing,’ the idea was backed by a biting sourness— it was appealing enough if not for only letting her physically vent some frustration. But even that, she figured, would most likely backfire— who knew the number of enchantments he had even put on it in the first place. ‘Then there’s no other choice.’ Retreating was the logical next step— to head back to her room, lick her wounds, and find out another way to keep stalling.

She moved to rise, the bile of failure sharp in the back of her throat, when the strangest memory had given her pause. It was summoned to the forefront of her consciousness unbidden— herself, a 12-year-old with lanky limbs and knobby knees, standing in front of the hidden chamber. The 7-pronged snake that had waited decades to hear its ancient tongue once more— how it had slid open all too eagerly when she had accommodated its greatest desire. ‘It could be the same.’ Harri eyed the brass handle, tongue running over the roof of her mouth in contemplation at the horcrux’s suggestion. Truthfully, it was more than likely a long shot. What were even the chances? But, then again, if he truly wanted to protect the contents of the desk, why wouldn’t he rely on parseltongue to keep out prying eyes— an ability that, according to him, he only knew of 2 users. Anxious fingers drummed against the cluttered surface, the sound dulled by the parchment, an internal struggle to not get her expectations up. They stilled. ‘Screw it. Might as well try.’

“Open?” the word slipped out as a question, a lilt that betrayed her uncertainty.

For a moment, nothing had happened. It was as though the drawer was taking measure of her, striving to determine if it should heed the command from anyone other than its master. She hung in a pendulous state somewhere between disappointment and hope, willing the latch to spring free for her as it had for him. And then it eventually came— the slow click of a lock turning. Not quite able to bring herself to fully believe it had worked, Harri blinked in surprise and chanced a quick glance over the desk’s edge to make certain she didn’t have an unanticipated audience. Pacified when there was no one, the girl rifled through the desk’s contents with a sense of urgency. 

Kneeling made the task more difficult than probably necessary but Harri wasn’t inclined to fully stand, far too nervous of that door opening without warning and revealing a red-eyed man leaning against its frame. It would be fitting for his character, she figured, to pop up at the most inopportune moment. And, as it currently stood, that was a risk she couldn’t take— not when her plan was working so far. Skittish fingers brushed against a manner of all objects, blindly searching for the comforting weight of a wand. Part of her feared that he may have moved it between now and their last encounter, that he had used his uncanny, and quite inconvenient, ability of foresight to relocate it to a more secure spot.

Such worries evaporated, curled away like smoke in the air, when the pads of her fingers met with the rough hide of a leather cord. Triumph. A roguish grin unfurled as she received her prize. There was a faint light clinging to the grooves of the white wood, cornflower blue and pulsating rhythmically— oddly enough, the aureole of its glow was almost comforting to behold in the darkness of the study. It lapped over her skin, turning her into a bioluminescent entity in the night. ‘The stasis charm,’ a distant thought, idly turning over the aspen wand— and then she noticed the stains. The beauty of the radiance had distracted her from them, a pleasant diversion from the gore that marred its surface. Even now, those spots glinted in their wet sheen, refusing to dry down or flake off— a telling sign that the charm was fulfilling its intended purpose. A heavy swallow. It was one thing to see blood being shed— her own, a stranger’s, it didn’t matter. In fact, the girl had seen so much of it in her lifetime that she thought herself immune to the shock value it had for some. After all, her entire existence was just one canvas dyed in various shades of red— had been from the moment she was brought into this world, scarlet-faced and screaming.

But as emerald eyes roamed along the straight and narrow grain of the wand, she had come to the conclusion it was an entirely different thing seeing the blood of someone you knew. Someone that you cared for, would risk life and limb to protect. To know this was Hermione’s very life’s essence being held in her palm. And a morbid passing thought formed wondering how much more had been spilt at the Hog’s Head. Or how much more would be in the future? 

‘Focus.’ Harri blinked once, then twice, grip flexing about the corded handle— she still had a task to complete. With a half-nod for her own benefit, and spurred on by the burst of victory, the girl rose on aching knees. Long since had her toes turned numb from the cold air nipping at her dampened skin, the pins prickling in her legs barely felt as she opened the locked drawers in a hurried search. She needed something sharp, something that could break the skin— a knife, in this instance, would be preferable. As much as she was used to pain, it wasn’t a habit of hers to willingly inflict copious amounts and the idea of trying to carve into herself with a nib of a quill wasn’t exactly an attractive one.

Thankfully, Fate was feeling inclined towards mercy as in the second drawer, nestled among inkwells and coloured waxes for seals, was a letter opener. Setting down the wand and exchanging it for the knife, Harri warily tested its weight. It was surprisingly heavy in her hand, the golden filigree inlaid into the handle not just for show— the slanted edge of the blade glinted as it caught a refraction of moonlight. ‘Perfect’. Attention bouncing back to the aspen, teeth worried her bottom lip. It was a reckless plan to bank on, a last-ditch strategy that spoke volumes to her desperation. After all, the answer she had found was borne from a buried memory of a textbook that may very well have been a product of her mind’s own wishful thinking— if that was the case, this might not work. But say that it did, say she could confuse the trace— Voldemort would be livid if he found out what she had done. ‘Not if. When,’ her mind supplied unhelpfully, reminding her of the inevitability of the situation as she twirled the opener in her grasp. It was undeniable that he would be furious, that he would be on a warpath once he discovered her meddling. Her deceit. ‘It’ll be fine. I’ll find something else to barter with,’ a hesitant thought that lacked any reassurance. But that was their game, after all. Trading and bargaining, a relationship built upon promises and deals that had a compounding interest rate attached.

‘And do tell, what, exactly, are you going to trade with? We both know that negotiation isn’t your strongest talent,’ a snide voice answered in kind— Harri tried to ignore it. 

“That’s a problem for later,” she muttered under her breath.

In all honesty, she just needed time. Time to plan, to think, to plot. For it to all slow down, for everything to stop moving so quickly— to have a blessed second where she wasn’t being constantly bombarded with issue after issue. And how paradoxical was it that she, someone who was supposedly immortal, was lacking the one thing that she was supposed to have a surplus of? But there it was again. That six-letter epithet that summed up the entire existence of one Harri Potter. Her ever-present companion, that private joke she wasn’t privy to understanding: I-r-o-n-i-c. A humourless scoff, a dry swallow. The blade was pressed into the unblemished softness of her left palm.

A slow drag, the skin splitting under the cruel edge, a sting as scarlet welled in its wake. Harri sucked in a sharp hiss of a breath as the cut began to weep, its path neatly bisecting her life and heart lines. Refusing to look away from the gore, the girl wiped the letter opener clean against the hem of her bathrobe. It wouldn’t do, after all, to have the evidence of her deception just casually lying around. But then mild panic flared to life at the realisation she may have cut too deeply, the blood bubbling up at an unanticipated rate.

“Shit shit shit shit,” she mumbled, cupping her palm to prevent it from spilling over onto the desk and staining the sheaves of parchment.

Gingerly reaching for the wand, she enclosed the injured palm about it. The ache sharpened as the girl drew the length of the aspen along the incision, coating the already darkening spots on the wood further. In the memory, the textbook hadn’t been clear as to how much outside blood was required to confuse the trace, to render it incapable of pinpointing one’s location. In fact, the passage had only mentioned it as a passing note as a downside— the spell was only capable of tracking one individual at a time. Nonetheless, Harri figured it was best to err on the side of caution by being rather thorough.

The girl only returned the wand to its original hiding spot when she was satisfied that it had been polluted enough, that not a drop or spot remained that wasn’t coated with her own blood. Untying the bathrobe, shuddering at the onslaught of chilled air against her naked torso, Harri tightly wrapped the waist tie around the cut. A mental note was made to heal it when she was safe back in her room— when the threat of being caught wasn’t imminent. She was about to close the drawer, driven forward by the wings of victory and smug pride at knowing what she had accomplished tonight, when something else caught her eye. Stuffed near the back, tucked deep within, was an envelope. Lifting her gaze to the door in an internal debate if she could spare just a few more minutes, Harri shifted her weight from one foot to another. There were very little instances in which she could glimpse into Voldemort’s psyche, to see that private side to him that he often hid away— and how the innocent sight of a mere envelope inspired a morbid fascination. What was so precious about it that he had deemed it significant enough to keep locked away? Despite all logic telling her to ignore that burning curiosity, to wisely retreat while Fate was on her side, Harri couldn’t help herself. She reached for the letter.

It was ivory and wrinkled at the corners, the burgundy seal one that she could recognise just about anywhere. ‘He kept his Hogwarts letter?’ A surge of fondness as her thumb lovingly brushed over the crest impressed into the wax, bittersweet memories of when she had received her own. Had he been just as excited? As elated? Truthfully, it was hard to imagine Voldemort ever being giddy. Or, for that matter, being a child— that those broad shoulders and imposingly tall frame hadn’t always been there. A boy without red eyes and whose soul was still whole, complete. Unadulterated. Of course, it would be a foolish thing to ever think, a cruel delusion to labour under, that such a child still existed. No, that boy was long dead, lost to the ages and twisted by the cruelties of the world— and of himself. But yet, he hadn’t always been a Dark Lord, now had he? Even he had to have some reaction to learning his identity as a wizard, had to have experienced something upon holding that acceptance letter for the first time, and realising there was a world out there that would welcome him in kind. Or so, Harri had hoped. It may have been wishful thinking on her end but it was easier to relate to him this way, to understand as one outcast to another. The quirk of a smile when she turned over the envelope, a piqued interest to see how it had been addressed to him— Mr. Tom Riddle of so-and-so room at so-and-so Orphanage.

She froze. Much to her unbridled surprise, it was not addressed to a ‘Mr. Tom Riddle’, but, rather, to one ‘Ms. Harri Potter’. ‘The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,’ it read, the emerald ink and cursive scrawl unmistakable. Harri blinked once, twice, three times, turning it over and over again just to make sure she had read it correctly. Though unable to fully explain it, it was disconcerting to see that her own acceptance letter had found its way into a locked drawer at Malfoy Manor. ‘Why does he have it?’ The last time she had seen it, the letter had been safely tucked under a loose floorboard along with the other pitiful baubles and mementos of her youth— scraps and bits she had managed to collect throughout the years in an attempt to create her own materialistic identity. To concrete her existence into this reality, to make it feel as though she existed as a complete person and not just simply ‘Girl’. It had once been safely hidden from prying eyes and hateful hands that despised her to have anything of her own. Now, however, it would seem that the letter had been relocated. Logically, she knew that he had gone to the Dursley’s home. That he would have seen the cupboard and the locks littering the spare bedroom’s frame. Would have walked through that pastel pink nightmare of a living room, with its lace curtains and floral motifs, only to witness the shrine of photos dedicated to ‘dearest Dudley’. Would have been privy to knowing the extent to which she had been isolated, scorned, repulsed by her closest living family. But never did she entertain the idea that he had actually gone inside her old room. That he had knowingly perused her life, had looked upon the tatters of it, the shame, and dissected it piece by piece. And, to top it all off, had claimed a bit of it for his own— had stolen a twisted version of a trophy and seen fit to bring it back with him. Fingers tightened and crinkled the envelope further, trying to process the feelings of raw exposure—.

The handle turned.

An alarmed gaze snapped towards the sound of accompanying footsteps and muffled voices filtering through the oak door. Pushing the drawer closed hastily, mind reeling, Harri settled for ducking behind the desk. The fingers of her injured hand clutched the robe closed, cursing silently as she pressed her back against the column of drawers. The brass handles dug into her skin through the terry cloth, her shoulder blades shifting under the skin in protest. A breath was drawn and held, refusing to be let go for fear of drawing attention. The wall opposite to her hiding spot had been bathed in orange light, two distorted silhouettes painted upon the bookshelves. Eyeing them, she watched in horror.

“My Lord, Thicknesse—.”

Harri frowned at the lofty tone of Lucius being interrupted, one of the shadows raising what looked to be an ill-defined outline of a hand. She went rigid, refusing to look away with bated breath. Did he know that she was here? Already, she could vividly picture Voldemort casually stalking over to the desk, his eyes narrowed in that typical predatory manner, mouth lifting up into a sneer—.

“My Lord?”

“It’s nothing, Lucius. I thought I had sensed something,” Voldemort responded slowly, a guarded quality to his voice, “But I appear to have been mistaken.”

“A-ah, I see.”

There was a clearing of a throat and Lucius was quickly rushing out, “Thicknesse has assured me the wards have been put into place and the transfer can begin as early as Friday morning. I have already arranged for a suitable team to escort them to the new grounds.” 

She watched the silhouette belonging to the Dark Lord with caution, tracking as it shifted across the shelving, distorting and narrowing. There were measured steps across the carpet, the pronounced clip of Oxford shoes followed by the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass. Harri only dared to breathe through her nose, trying to pinpoint their exact location in the room. Across from her was the door to her chambers, closed and mocking from afar— taunting as though to say ‘you shouldn’t have wasted your time’. Even if she did decide to make a break for it, to slink along the shadows, she doubted she could have been fast enough— and if she was caught? Merlin, have mercy. Having to explain what she was doing there with a bleeding palm and half-naked in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly an experience to look forward to— especially after their latest little encounter. Suddenly, the girl found herself unable to look at the bookcases, a mortified flush fanning her skin upon remembering that, just a few hours prior,  she had found herself in a rather precarious position against them.

‘Bloody hell,’ her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, auburn crown resting against the desk.  It was best to just wait it out until they left. And at least there was one advantage to her current predicament— she might get some answers. It was odd that the Malfoy patriarch was here this late, his tone far too self-satisfied to indicate anything good was happening. And what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning? And what did ‘transfer’ and ‘new grounds’ refer to, exactly? Though she didn’t quite dare to move, Harri tilted her head, ears straining to hear over the rush of her blood pounding in them.

“Excellent, Lucius. Prepare a press statement and have it on my desk before then.”

“Of course, My Lord,” a hurried reply, a shadow bending in half in a show of subservience.

“Though, if I may, My Lord”  Lucius’s words were stilted, uncertain, “What of using the girl? It would certainly be to your advantage to have her, ah, assist in this endeavour. With the popularity she has and the love of the common people, she could surely rally them in support? ”

There was a stretch of quiet between the men, a tensed and weighty thing that even Harri wilted under from her hiding spot. She waited in nervously strung anticipation, fingers tightening about the robe. Lucius was bold in offering up a suggestion, apparently too high on the earlier compliment to recognise he was overstepping his bounds. Though, perhaps, Voldemort wouldn’t mind? There was a clink of a glass being forcefully set down, thunderous in the lull of conversation, and she instinctively winced at the unpleasant sound. ‘Guess not.’

“Leave Harri to me,” Voldemort responded sharply.

Green eyes stared unblinkingly at the crown moulding, shoulders drawing up anxiously. It was a troubling thing to overhear a conversation involving oneself, and even more so when one remained oblivious to the particulars or context. But it was especially rattling when a plan was being formed that somehow involved, and yet also didn’t, one in turn. Unease sparked to life, the realisation trickling in that this was the first time she had ever heard the Dark Lord refer to her as ‘Harri’ in front of one of his followers. Sure, in the comforts of privacy he freely used her first name without hesitation— but in public, and especially in the company of his Death Eaters, it was always ‘Miss Potter’ or, on the rare occasion, simply ‘Harri Potter’. Sometimes, if he felt like really mixing things up, he would just use her last name curtly—  but never just ‘Harri’. It made her stomach twist in a churning sensation, a heavy pit. Though why, precisely, she could not understand.

 However, her introspection was cut short when one of the shadows moved, its outline getting less fuzzy and becoming more detailed. Focused. It drew nearer and, for one prolonged moment of wrought nerves, she feared her hiding spot had been discovered. That she would be found out, her deceit prematurely uncovered and, ultimately, ending her fleeting role as a spy.

But when the rustling of fabric came, one of the men apparently retrieving a cloak from the rack near the desk, she had been almost tempted to sigh in relief. Of course, Harri wouldn’t dare to allow herself that indulgence, not yet at least— a low, controlled exhale of a stuttering breath was what was settled for in the end.

“I will deal with the girl, Lucius. Focus on upholding your end and see to it that Avery is informed,” came his clipped instructions, “And do relay to your son, once he arrives, that I do not want a single word spoken to her on this matter. If I hear otherwise, I can assure you that it will be met with my utmost displeasure.

The threat hung in the air— even from behind the desk, Harri knew he had meant it. In her mind’s eye, she could already so clearly picture his posture. That slight lift of his chin whenever he doled out a warning, how those hellfire eyes tended to flash in the wake of his promise, the tension that would enter the curve of his jaw. Having been on the receiving end of that look a fair share in her short life, it was one she had come to anticipate whenever the pitch in his voice lowered. And, judging by the lack of a response, Lucius now had the misfortune of being in her shoes. ‘At least he has the self-preservation to remain silent.’ It was a fair enough assessment and not one she could fault the blond for— not everyone had the same reckless, almost-bordering-on-the-suicidal-at-times abandon she did when it came to the Dark Lord. Nor the afforded protection of housing his soul. But with the stretch of quiet also came numerous questions, the mystery behind their conversation mounting. Jagged piece after jagged piece was being presented and none of them seemed to fit congruently— a mess of a puzzle. ‘Draco’s coming back?’ The tidbit brought with it a vague sense of alarm that the school year was already at its end and a sense of muted giddiness at their impending reunion. Then it was quickly overshadowed by a more perplexing line of thought. ‘Draco knows what’s happening.’ And though Harri would be loathed to admit it, hating the bitterness that twinged in her at the thought, the boy was in on Voldemort’s plotting before she was.

“O-of course, My Lord,” another low bow of the shadow across the shelves, the click of a door handle opening.

 “I assure you, Draco will say nothing to her. You have my word.”

The door closed behind them with a soft click, a finality that plunged the study into a suspended state of existence. It was silent, devoid of any sound— save for the white noise in her eardrums and the crinkle of paper as she crushed the Hogwarts letter. It would appear that she had exchanged one rabbit hole for another, one task accomplished only to be presented immediately with a different one. And, unbeknownst to her, far too wrapped up in her introspection to take notice, the lacerated flesh of her palm knitted itself back together.



Harri returned to her chambers shortly after, only lingering behind long enough to ensure the men weren’t coming back. The events of the past few hours were finally catching up, mowing her down and leaving her mind frazzled, her body weary. The near drowning to induce a meditative state, the adrenaline from sneaking about, and from almost getting caught, the sting that was suspiciously no longer there— entirely too much to process in one day. Seeping past the drawn curtains were wisps of pale light, tinted blue with the tells of the approaching dawn. Frankly, sleep was the only thing she truly desired at the moment, the very idea of it heavenly. And the girl wasn’t one to deny herself any longer despite that little voice within the recesses of her mind screaming that she should be planning her own schemes. ‘Worry about it in the morning’ — it was a persistent thought, a firmness found in its coaxing.

Peeling back the duvet and slipping into the silken sheets, a burst of sluggish contentment at the softness, Harri surrendered to the call. Crumpled Hogwarts letter tucked in one hand, bloodied fabric wound about the other, darkness overcame her.



Her reprieve, unfortunately, had only endured for a few hours— barely enough time to enter the throes of deep sleep and to be carried away by vivid dreams. There was a flurry of activity about the room, a cheerful humming set to a tuneless melody— Harri absolutely refused to acknowledge the unwanted presence. A whisper of fabric sliding against iron rails followed, the click of latched windows being lifted, the dulcet tones of birdsong carried by the crisp morning breeze. With a groan, the girl stubbornly buried her face into the downy pillows, already having the sense to predict what was about to happen. And sure enough, the drawn drapes about the canopied bed were thrown wide, the morning sun flooding through them to warm her skin. ‘Of bloody course.’

“Rise and shine,” came the chipper voice of Narcissa.

Harri didn’t heed the instruction right away. Rather, she burrowed deeper under the duvet, mumbling in blatant protest when the hurried steps of the older woman hadn’t retreated like she had been angling for. At this point, the amount of sleep she had received was better suited to be called a ‘nap’ and getting up ranked extremely low on her list of priorities. An impatient, though gentle, tap on her shoulder, the rounded nail tip felt through the plush covers. 

“Madam Malkin will be here within the hour for your fitting, child. Unless you want to greet her in your pajamas, it would be wise to get up now.”

Judging from the lilt in her voice, the Malfoy woman was in a good mood. ‘At least one of us is,’ a sullen thought as Harri threw the covers off her head and hauled herself into a sitting position. It was slightly jarring to see the witch be this lively so early in the morning and Harri suspected that it had to do with the fact they were in her bedroom rather than the Dark Lord's— even though the man was always long gone by the time she woke up, Narcissa was usually hesitant, cautious. Wary. ‘Then again, Nagini’s presence probably doesn’t help,’ an amused thought as she watched the blonde bend over a silver platter on the side table, pouring a healthy amount of coffee into a gold-rimmed mug— it was chased with equal parts cream, equal parts sugar.

“Good heavens— Harri! What have you done?!”

Harri froze mid-way of accepting the mug, jolting at the alarmed quality Narcissa’s voice had taken on. And then refined hands were clasping at her own bound in bloodied fabric, the Malfoy woman rushing to unravel it with muttered, reproachful breaths. Excuses were already forming and Harri was silently berating herself for not taking care of it as she had originally planned. Who knew how ghastly it looked now, most likely having bled through the night. Infection was probable and—.

There was nothing there. No wound, no weeping incision, not even a pink line to indicate where it once had been. Narcissa seemed equally confused, wiping away the flaking blood with one end of the robe’s waist tie, nervous fingers prodding at the soft palm for any signs of injury. The beginnings of a frown twitched in the corners of her mouth, mind puzzling over when she had possibly healed herself. Harri was more than certain that she hadn’t.

“O-oh, I cut myself last night,” Harri explained slowly, trying to sound confident in her answer.

“By accident, of course!” she added when Narcissa had looked up sharply with evident worry, “But I healed myself. Just forgot to take off the bandage, I guess.”

Pale eyes watched her shrewdly, a shaky smile as she folded the waist tie and set it on the bed, “I see. Well, you did an excellent job. Though, if that happens again, please do call me or a house-elf first.”

Narcissa handed her the mug with a shake of her head and a click of her tongue, “You certainly know how to liven up my mornings, don’t you?”

Harri graciously accepted the coffee, a strained smile tossed the woman’s way— she let it slip the minute Narcissa turned back to the tray. The cup felt warm between her hands, a comforting heat as it was raised to her lips. It had scalded her tongue on the first slow sip, a trickle of fire down the column of her throat— not that she entirely minded. With the delayed release of caffeine in her system, her mind started to replay last night with a degree of lucidity born from hindsight. From the hurried snippets of conversation, Voldemort was planning something— and she highly doubted anything good would arise from it. After all, plots made in the witching hours were unlikely to be anything but nefarious in nature. Another slow sip. ‘And Draco somehow knows.’ She absentmindedly turned the mug in her palms, rotating it twice counterclockwise. That was the most perplexing thing, the puzzle piece that eluded her understanding. From what she had gathered on how the Death Eater hierarchy functioned, the boy was positioned rather lowly. As a teenager, and a relatively new recruit, there was no feasible way that he should be apprised of the Dark Lord’s plans. ‘So where does he fit into all of this?’

Though, all things considered, it was best to look at Draco’s involvement as a blessing in disguise. Out of everyone, he would be the person more inclined to a loosened tongue around her, the one she could probably pry answers out of. Harri drained the cup, barely noticing the bitterness of the dregs that followed.  

A breakfast tray was placed over her lap, a vibrant display of orange tomatoes and poached eggs. Harri set the mug down, registering distantly that Narcissa had disappeared into the closet in pursuit of an appropriate outfit to greet their guests— apparently, a bathrobe with a blood-stained hem wasn’t going to cut it. Decidedly avoiding the wedged tomatoes, she settled on tearing the toast into smaller pieces, popping them into her mouth, and unenthusiastically chewing. ‘Well, at least the wand situation is taken care of.’ It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, hardly worthy of celebration until it was certain that it would work— nonetheless, she felt the flickers of accomplishment. 

And yet, she was also suffering from no small amount of unease. There was the matter of finding something else to bargain with, another tidbit to distract and appease him. ‘Maybe I could offer up a new deal?’ Though, as it was so kindly pointed out last night, her negotiation skills could be a hit or miss. She sourly tore the crust off the bread, leaving it as crumbled pieces on the plate.

Her fork toyed with the delicate skin of the egg, not quite puncturing the yolk— green eyes slid to the left hand gripping the metal utensil. Her gaze narrowed a fraction in distrust. Despite her best attempts to recall, Harri was confident that she hadn’t consciously healed herself last night. That she hadn’t willed forth her magic to stop the bleeding and to knit together the lacerated flesh. But, despite that, there wasn’t a single trace of what had transpired— not a scar, not a scratch, not a mark. ‘Troubling’ was the word that came to mind but even that fell short in fully capturing the situation— though, the time to worry about it wasn’t now. It was best to chalk it up to a fluke and redirect her focus to more important, pressing matters. Like Ginny. Like getting some answers from her about this Grindelwald mess the Order was seemingly embroiling themselves in. Like securing her freedom and returning her back to the arms of the Weasley clan. ‘Get answers, get Ginny’s freedom, and then worry later.’ It was a decisive list, a resolute course of action. She actively forced the tension to bleed out from the tendons of her flexed hand, relaxing and smoothing it over the duvet covers instead.

“Narcissa?” Harri called out, “Would it be possible to cancel Malkin for today? I have some important matters that I need to deal with.”

There was an affronted scoff from the closet, Narcissa emerging two seconds later with a bundle of dove grey silk in her arms. She merely shook her head in a dismissive manner, one stray blonde curl bouncing with the motion. Draping the dress over the edge of the chaise, pale eyes passed critically over the girl— it was difficult to ignore the tightness in her posture, the pinched look in a far-off gaze. A coil wound too tightly, the question remaining if it was going to snap from the tension or unexpectedly spring loose. ‘So much stress in one so young,’ it was a pitying thought and Narcissa found herself unable to do anything but watch the redhead from the corner of her eye as she removed the tray. A quick glance down and her brows lowered slightly— it had been barely touched. Placing the still-full plates down near the door, the woman racked her brain to find the right approach, the correct words that would relax the girl. Truthfully, the suggestion of cancelling a fitting was unfathomable to her— for a woman raised in the world of privilege and aristocracy, it was these kinds of occasions that were the most exciting. Even as a girl, younger than Harri is now, they had always been her favourite, an enchanting mark on her youth that meant far more than the balls or parties. To see the magic unfold of the dress’s creation, to touch fabrics and jewels that a majority of the population couldn’t even dream of. But even if Harri hadn’t been raised in a similar upbringing, she, at the very least, had to enjoy shopping? Of trying on pretty things? After all, what girl could resist?

“I am afraid Madam Malkin is rather busy as it is and it would be remiss of us to impose the inconvenience of rescheduling onto her,” she explained slowly and retrieved a black vial from the vanity.

“Not to mention we barely have any time left until your birthday. Really, she is doing us a favour by agreeing to this on such a short notice. And you wouldn’t want to be rude by rejecting such a gracious offer, would you?”

Harri eyed the vial with no small amount of distaste and reached for it with as much fervour as a man walking to the gallows. There was some truth in the older woman’s reasoning— it  was short notice. But considering the extent of her closet, she couldn’t find the practicality behind a fitting. Why on Earth did she need a new dress when half of the wardrobe she already had remained unworn? Uncorking the glass, a vain attempt to not breathe in the fumes, an auburn crown was tilted back to swallow. Despite the efforts to not let the elixir linger for too long on her tongue, she could still taste it— that acrid film that clung foully, offending and sharp to the point her eyes watered. A dry cough and a sugar cube was offered up in apology. It dissolved far too quickly in her mouth.

“It really isn’t necessary, Narcissa, this whole gala thing. And I really have other plans that—.”

“Can wait,” Narcissa interjected, gesturing with her head towards the vanity, “Now come, let’s see what we can do about that tangled mess.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 58: Refractions

Notes:

Hello everyone!

First off, Happy New Year ✨✨ I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and here's to surviving 2020 🥂 Secondly, I am sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter up— after the holidays, things were slow to settle down and then I had to edit this 10k monster. That being said, this chapter is a bit longer/heftier because I just had far too much fun with writing it 😂 It ended up getting away from me and I actually had to cut some material lol.

Things are going to be very fun in these next few upcoming instalments, particularly chapters 60 and 61, so just bear with me a touch longer 💕 As usual, you guys are so amazing! I had so much fun replying to your comments on the last chapter and thank you to everyone who has tkane the time to leave me one/bookmark/subscribe/kudos 💕 The love you have shown this fic is unreal and I absolutely appreciate every single one of you!

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“I’m assuming you’ve already heard the news!”

The suspended quiet of the headmaster’s office was shattered, the peace cleaved in two by the walnut doors being thrown open— they vibrated on their polished hinges, a low, thunderous clamour. Severus felt it down to his very teeth, his bones and marrow— that sense of foreboding that left him prematurely exhausted by what was to come. A storm was forming on the horizon, ominous clouds rolling in at an alarming speed— and, much to his immense dismay, it was taking the shape of his godson. Unbidden, dark eyes darted to the rotating hourglass, the suspended globe tilting on an invisible axis, and he watched the slow trickle of obsidian sand fall through the funnel with dejected longing. He had been well on track to earning some much-deserved peace— barely an hour was left in his post as acting headmaster before summer vacation would officially begin. A mere 60 minutes later and he would have been relieved of the duties afforded to him for just a few blissful, tranquil months.

Though, as per usual, the universe felt it appropriate to subvert any and all of his longstanding desires— particularly those for solitude. A resigned click of his tongue, he forced his attention to the boy instead, passing over him with shrewd appraisal. Draco’s countenance was twisted and there was rising colour in his normally pale cheeks. Much like the forebearers of his name, the Malfoy heir possessed a penchant for the dramatic and a predisposition towards hysterics— and, in Severus’s humble opinion, it was always best to try to discern what was wrong ahead of time for the sake of keeping his sanity intact. Of course, that was easier said than done when everything, as of late, seemed to be wrong. Thin fingers continued to guide the quill across the ledger, a brief glance up to the shock of blond hair. The usual slicked back style had been foregone, the strands almost messy, wild. Unkempt— a testament that something was truly amiss.

“Good afternoon to you as well, Draco,” Severus drawled.

That was all the invitation Draco needed before he was marching into the circular room, the heavy doors swinging closed. His strides were stilted, longer than usual, and driven by an outraged purpose. The starched material of the school’s button-down had been uncuffed at the wrists and crudely shoved up towards his elbows, a futile attempt to combat the balm of summer— even in the heart of the castle, it was stifling. Though, that vague sense of being smothered wasn’t fully due to the weather. This entire year had been choking him— and how he couldn’t wait to leave behind the noxious rumours that festered in the Great Hall, in the common room, in the dorms. In fact, he had been hastily packing, all too eager to board the Express in a bid for his freedom— to return to the solace of the Manor and a girl with quick, little smiles— when the letter from his father had arrived. And, oh, how its contents dampened his good mood considerably. The polished toes of his uniform’s loafers bumped against the desk’s edge. Dark eyes met his for a brief moment before falling away, his godfather resuming his writing, head bowed in concentration.

“My father’s letter was just delivered. The Dark Lord’s mandate has passed with the Council’s approval.” 

Snape had to resist the urge to scoff. Was this what had sent the boy into such a state? It wasn’t exactly new, nor unheard of, for the Dark Lord to have gotten his way— in fact, it would have been more shocking to hear otherwise. After all, the so-called ‘Council’ possessed very little influence in dissuading him from any course of action, the assembly mostly comprised of his own Death Eaters— the greatest ruse to grant the public a false sense of security that their Sovereign still had a check to his power.  

“Indeed.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at the dismissive reply and leant forward to place his hands on the desk, “I also heard that Harri’s name was added as a primary supporter.”

The quill stilled.

It had happened reflexively, the barest sign of an outward reaction that Snape would allow himself. Now it was making sense why Draco had all but charged into his office— and even the headmaster found himself in a state of bewilderment at the news. The idea of the girl somehow getting involved was perplexing, especially considering the nature of the edict— and one that, truthfully, wrought his nerves. In hindsight, he supposed it was only logical that the Dark Lord was dragging her into such a grandiose scheme— the man would have to be blind to not recognise the public advantage she held as the ‘Girl Who Lived’. And it certainly wasn’t by chance that he had made himself her guardian— no, ‘chances’ weren’t a thing when it came to his Lord, a lesson he had learned the hard way. But the question still remained what was possibly to be the girl’s upcoming role? Because the truth stood that Harri Potter was the furthest thing from a politician. A fighter? True. A proficient dueler? Absolutely— Severus had witnessed it himself on numerous occasions. But she wasn’t very socially tactical, her personality too brazen and brash to navigate the finer nuances required of negotiation.

And, most concerning, why hadn’t he been made aware of this development sooner? A knot in the pit of his stomach at the realisation that he hadn’t been apprised of any of this. He, Severus Snape, one of the Dark Lord’s closest confidants, had been pushed to the periphery. It was unsettling— and, dare he say, almost insulting to have been clued in by a schoolboy, one whose ink had barely dried on his left arm. Was this merely an off chance occurrence? Or was it to be more permanent? If the latter, then how was he supposed to work to sway things to Harri’s advantage, to temper any volatile decisions made under the haze of anger? Severus forced himself to continue to write, the nib a slow drag across the parchment— the scrawled penmanship was becoming more and more illegible.

“I see,” Severus fought to maintain the monotonous tone as he dipped the quill into the inkwell.

A pause in their conversation as Draco looked on with thinly-veiled incredulity. Pale eyes darted over the bowed form of his godfather, trying to discern whether or not the man was being sincere in his reaction. They both knew full and well that there was no way Harri would ever be in support of the motion— not considering the extent of her social circle or her own morals. And the fact her name, her very signature , had appeared on the proposal could only mean one thing. His jaw tensed.

“You know as well as I do that Harri would never willingly sign it,” Draco forced out through gritted teeth, “He forged her signature.”

His fingers curled into the desk, “He has even forbidden that anyone, namely myself, mentions it to her.”

“If that is the Dark Lord’s will, it is best to follow it,” Snape said.

“It’s ludicrous!” Draco’s voice had pitched in his discontentment, “He must be completely mad to think she’ll be okay with this! Or, you know, think he can hide it from her! Not to mention what he’s doing is illegal and—.”

“Draco!” the headmaster admonished sharply, head snapping up in alarm.

Coal eyes narrowed a fraction and thin lips pressed into a grim line. While he could understand the boy’s anger, the upset on the behalf of someone close to him, being this free with such dangerous opinions could only prove to be catastrophic. Far too many times had Severus witnessed another’s punishment for lesser offenses— and things were already disturbingly tense between the Malfoy heir and the Dark Lord, their point of contention clear enough. Not for the first time did he curse Narcissa for refusing to heed his advice, to send her son away at the first sign of conflicting interest. And while Draco may have turned 17, his maturity was still that of a teenager— and teenagers, particularly teenage boys, never proved to be the most rational. Add a girl into the unstable mix, especially a girl like a certain redhead, and it was assuredly detrimental. Calamitous— he, of all people, knew from firsthand experience how it was. The blight of youth. It was almost enough to drive him to drink whenever he thought of it. And how vainly did Severus wish for a different reality, one wherein his godson remained ignorant, had continued to labour under the illusion of false hatred towards her— it would certainly have made both of their lives easier. An exasperated sigh, fingers tightly pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the impending headache.

“As your godfather, I can only advise that you keep such ill comments regarding the Dark Lord’s behaviour to yourself,” Snape supplied pointedly as he returned the quill to its stand, “As for the legality behind his actions, need I also remind you who now determines what falls into that category? Or, for a different matter, who is her formal guardian?”

“He is using her and she’s completely oblivious to it! Merlin only knows he keeps her locked away as it is. Harri needs to know what’s happening—.”

“Our Lord is acting within perfectly legal bounds.”

“But—.”

“As his ward, he has the authourity to act on her behalf. That includes making decisions for her and using her name however he wishes, so long as she remains under age. It is no different from your own parents',” Snape interjected with a sense of finality.

Severus rose from the high-backed chair and rounded the desk. A pale hand, its fingers long and palm slender, found purchase on Draco’s shoulder— the slightest of a squeeze, the touch fleeting, ghostlike. An unspoken acknowledgement of the similarities in their feelings, a nonverbal reassurance that he understood. Then it dropped away just as quickly— a hasty retreat.

“If you are looking for my counsel, Draco,” he muttered, gathering up the sheaves of parchment, “Heed the Dark Lord’s instructions and consider the consequences if you informed Harri. What would you have her do given her current situation?”

“To— Maybe— I don’t know. Do something,” Draco admitted, “The Potter I knew wouldn’t stand for any of this!”

“Exactly, Draco. The Potter you knew ,” Snape said.

Deftly rolling up the ledgers and securing them with ribbons, the potions master sent them sailing across the room with a flick of his wand. The scrolls slotted themselves into the built-in shelving, a honeycomb structure where records of years long since passed were kept. Dark eyes watched as they settled into their final resting places, the most minute of a twitch in the corners of his mouth. Truly, he could understand his godson. The fear it was to watch a man with too much power manipulate and twist everything to his advantage— the discomforting revelation that no one was spared. Including the defiant Harri Potter. A girl who actively denied Fate at every turn, who rebelled in unyielding mutiny against the injustices of the world as easily as breathing. And yet, here she was— seemingly brought to heel without even fully knowing it and made to support one of the greatest possible inequities. It made one question their own position in turn— how often were they, themselves, a product of unwitting manipulation? How often had they been poised and propped up as actors on someone else’s stage, completely unaware of such?

“Consider her circumstances. It is as you said— she is locked away, her contact with the outside world kept minimal, and is refused a wand. Not to mention the Dark Lord is keeping an even closer watch on her after the Grimmauld incident. If you did tell her, what is she supposed to do with that information?” Severus explained, voice low and even.

“What Harri needs at the moment is to adapt. The Dark Lord clearly has expectations of her now, ones that she will be wholly unsuited to face. If you want to help, then assist her in that regard. Focus on being productive rather than needlessly adding kindling to the fire,” the headmaster added with a pointed arch of his brow.

Severus took in the boy’s darkening expression, the jump in the muscle above his right brow— the telltale sign that he was about to stubbornly argue. It was a dreadful habit of his godson, one formed when he had been barely out of leading strings. Thankfully, Severus had 16— ‘17 now,’ he corrected himself— years of practice on diverting the impending tantrum before it could break the surface. He returned back behind the desk, an arcing sweep of the black wand— the remaining papers organised themselves into neat piles.

“Rather than worrying about Harri, you should be more concerned with yourself. You were tasked with a mission, were you not?” 

“I was,” Draco muttered, albeit a bit reluctantly.

“And?” Snape prompted when it was evident the boy wasn’t going to be forthcoming with the details of his own volition.

“They’ve given me their written pledges to take the Mark before the summer’s end. I’ve already sent the oaths to my father. It wasn’t easy to convince them, especially Blaise, but they eventually came around.”

“Well done.”

“Though, honestly, I don’t see the point in recruiting any of them while they are still students. Theo’s father is already high enough in the ranks— it’s only a matter of time before he joins after graduation. It just seems impractical to rush—.”

“I believe, Draco,” Snape sent a sharp look his godson’s way, “It would be prudent for you to hurry along. You wouldn’t want to miss the train, now would you?”

It wasn’t until the boy had left that Severus allowed the mask to slip— for the frown he had been fighting back to flourish and for the lines etched into his forehead to deepen their creases. There was an ominous understanding, a disquieting thought, that was a storm was, indeed, beginning to brew— and he only prayed that his mettle was enough to weather it out.



The more Draco reflected on it, the clearer it was becoming as to why Harri’s particular situation was upsetting— it was one he was entirely too familiar with. The life of an heir to a house as ancient as Malfoy, a line extending back to the year 1066 and the height of the Norman conquest, was one of orchestration. Of a never-ending symphony, his part, though small in the grand picture, crucial in keeping the melody intact. Fluid. It was a life of posing and of being swept away by the crescendo that dictated the rules of high society— of acquiescing, entirely unable to fight against it. Not if he wanted to avoid the frigidness that was his father’s disapproval— the ensuing heavy, viselike touches that silently warned him to behave. Or, far worse in his opinion, the paralysing disappointment of his mother— that tightness in the corners of her mouth, the spark of unease in her eyes whenever she considered the implications of her son’s actions upon himself, on their family. And as the only child, his burdens were tenfold without the support of siblings to divvy it up— it was solely up to him to advance the Malfoy prestige, to maintain the status quo that had endured for centuries. It was as Severus had pointed out— his parents practically owned him. His voice, his rights, his everything— and now Harri was in a similar position.

Draco sharply turned the corner, the crook of his index finger yanking free the knot in his uniform’s tie— considering most of the castle had been abandoned, such a slip in propriety could be allowed. The hurried footfalls echoed off the stone, the reverberation dulled— a testament to how insignificant he was when compared to the atavistic might of the vaulted halls. In the distance, there was a faint swell of chatter carried on by the breeze. Yet, the more he focussed on it, on picking out the individual pitches, the more it blurred into a wall of white noise.

Yes, his life was outlined by demands— if asked to smile, he did so. If asked to charm for the betterment of his family, be it acquaintance or adversary, it was done without complaint— nevermind his own personal feelings. It was how they all operated— himself, his friends, the upper-class echelon. But Harri? She was different. A rarity. Despite her respectable lineage, of possessing a station most would gluttonously covet, she was an anomaly that didn’t buy into their rules. The girl existed far beyond the ordered world of aristocracy and privilege, working to defy the principles and precepts at every opportunity. Whereas he was a mere planet stuck on the same orbital path, unable to stray by inherent nature, she was an entirely different entity— she was her own sun. Harri was free, untethered. That spark of rebellion he so admired, so craved, so wished to emulate— his very own antithesis. Even their rivalry, formed by one-sided jealous admiration, had been freeing, all pretenses dropped during their bickering. He was always allowed to be himself around her— not Heir Malfoy but simply plain Draco.

Another sharp left and he was hurrying down the wide steps, the staircases still for once. The portraits lining the gallery walls were mostly emptied, their occupants deciding to take up residency elsewhere for the summer. It was painfully silent without their incessant chattering. 

Perhaps though the biggest objection to the Dark Lord involving Harri in his schemes was that Draco knew her. He had been privy to her wishes, her hopes and dreams, to the inner-workings of her psyche— he knew of her truest desires and now had to carry the damning knowledge with him that they would never be attained. Too many lazy afternoons between them had been passed lakeside. It was there, tucked into the inlet, the lull of water lapping against the pebble-lined banks and the warmth of autumn sunshine upon their skin, that they had discussed their dreams for the future. Hers was fairly simple— one might call it boring. Without fail, Harri always wistfully mentioned going off the grid. Of carrying out an uncomplicated life, one removed from the toxicity of fame and that could afford her anonymity— one where she was merely just ‘Harri’. Of course, given her status, her history, her everything, it seemed nigh on impossible. But even now, Draco could envision how those impossibly green eyes sparkled, how animated they were as she painted the quaintest possible life— one involving a seaside cottage, the imagined days filled with beachcombing and toes buried in dampened sand. It was a life he had never personally entertained— but when she had turned to him, seeking his agreement as to how lovely it sounded, Draco found himself to be a believer in that moment. That he, too, wanted that sort of life more than anything else in this world— that he would be the one to give her it, and, perhaps, just maybe, live it alongside her. They had even gotten so far as discussing what colour the walls might be— “Anything but pink,” she had said— how many rooms it would have.

 But now the possibility for such was shattered. A childish illusion dismantled.

The doors to the Great Hall had been closed as he passed them, fingers raking through his unstyled hair. There were a few pockets of students lingering in the cobblestone courtyard, their whispers bordering on the obnoxious as they begged one another to write during their vacations. Pale eyes flickered over to them, a lurch in his stomach at how normal the scene appeared— as though it was just another year. Another boring, ordinary school year coming to a close— how he envied their ability to play pretend. ‘Ignorance is bliss,’ a distant thought, attention unwillingly drifting to the shadowed corner of the square. That lurching sensation gave way to a knot, an uncomfortable lump felt all the way to the back of his throat.

He should have done more for her that night. Should have hid her, concealed her, apparated her away on the spot— perhaps to that imagined cottage she always talked about. Yet, instead, he had made the fatal error of letting her go, of underestimating the Dark Lord’s tenacity. Now look at her— she was facing the threat of being pulled into the same gravitational well alongside everyone else. Her dreams, the ones shared in private, were falling apart at the seams, her freedoms increasingly limited. And Draco felt the nagging sensation that he held most of the blame, that he was accountable in more ways than one.

“—co!”

What had these past few months been like for her? Was she well? Healthy? His letters, numerous as they were, remained unanswered— not a single reply or indication that they had even been received by their intended recipient to begin with. The last time Draco laid eyes on her, she had been covered in questionable bruises, a parting plea on her lips for him to seek out her friends. How many more would be painted across her skin now? And though he despised the idea of letting her down yet again, of explaining his failure in finding Granger or Weasley, it was the fear of what would be awaiting him that spurred him on. His strides lengthened, a quickened march.

“—raco! Hey!”

Hurried steps behind him, the sound sporadic as they fell onto the uneven alignment of the cobblestone path. It wasn’t until a hand had clamped around his wrist, yanking him insistently to a stop, that Draco even registered someone had been trailing him. He faltered, a retort bright on his tongue that he was coming— that they should have waited on the train in their usual spot like instructed. However, rather than a familiar face, it was a stranger who greeted him.

Pale eyes narrowed as he sought to place a name to the girl— and to understand why, of all things, she was acting so familiar towards him. Her brassy blonde curls were secured by a pink ribbon, a matching flush on her cheeks. ‘She was running after me?’ a perplexing thought, his attention shifting past her shoulder and to the castle in the distance. Admittedly, the girl was attractive enough— and his mind jumped to the assumption of this being a last-ditch attempt at a confession. He held back a derisive scoff— those had been coming in scores as of late, a flattery quickly turned annoyance. The boy pried himself free of her grasp after a moment of prolonged contact, his brow arching disdainfully as she tripped over an apology.

“I’m sorry, uhm— I’m Lavender. Lavender Brown,” she explained quickly, hand dropping to her side.

‘Lavender Brown?’ The name rang very faint bells— a memory of walking on the edges of the forest, shoulders bumping as Harri complained about her roommate’s latest romantic endeavour. His retort as to why anyone would name their child after a plant or, even worse, two colours— her good-natured snort, a fistful of leaves tossed his way. ‘Ah, that’s where.’ But why was she seeking him out now? Draco looked further down the trail, the platform a little ways off. An itch of impatience, hands finding purchase in the pockets of his trousers.

“Ah. Do you mind?” he tilted his chin towards the winding path, already beginning to resume his previous pace— albeit a touch slower, “I would prefer not to miss the train.”

“O-oh yeah, of course,” she nodded, jogging slightly to keep up.

The brief silence between them was only temporary.

“Say, uhm, how’s Harri doing?” Lavender asked, fingers tightening around the drawstring bag in her left hand.

His jaw tensed though his voice remained flat, neutral, “Fine.”

“So you do see her!” she exclaimed cheerfully. 

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I was so worried, you know! She hasn’t answered any of my letters. And when she and Hermione both disappeared after the break, I thought the worst— especially with that nasty raid business. Though, at least Hermione wrote back. Something about going home on excused leave— muggle issues, she said. But Harri, well. She gets to be a bit reckless, you know— and no letter! No explanation! But when I saw her in the Prophet, next to His Majesty to top it off, I couldn’t believe it! Lucky girl, that one.”

Draco spared a sidelong glance towards her, briefly wondering if she was always this talkative— especially to strangers. Especially to strangers that so happened to be Slytherins. Wasn’t she aware of how they tended to be gossip mongers— that information held far more value in their circles than gold? He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her ignorance, the scarlet train materialising before them. The platform was deserted, most already comfortably seated and deeply engrossed in discussion of their impending vacation plans— the first warning whistle pierced the air.

“What do you want, Brown?” he finally asked, deciding it was best to cut to the chase.

“R-right! Well, Harri left this and never came back for it,” Lavender held out the drawstring bag to the boy, “I was wondering if you could give it to her? It’s probably terribly important— she always keeps it under her bed for whatever reason.”

He took the ratty backpack from her gingerly, eyeing it with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion, “Of course.”

The Malfoy heir spun on his heels, already marching towards the last compartment’s railing where he knew his own people were waiting. Lavender called after him, her voice rising in competition with another whistle.

“And tell Harri that I miss her! It’s not the same here without her!”

Gripping the iron railing, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure, Draco hoisted himself up onto the train. And as he slipped past the door, avoiding the bustle of students swarming to their seats, he found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with the ringing words.



In retrospect, many would be inclined to agree with the assessment of one Miss Lavender Brown. The absence of a certain redhead was noted across several lives— but none more so than in a cottage tucked away in the rolling hills of the English countryside. Behind its age-worn bricks and thatched roofing, one of its faces overtaken by an untamed spray of ivy, was a pair of unlikely friends. Back in their glory days, the days in which things had been right, happy, they were once a trio— a rowdy group that sowed the best sort of chaos in their wake. And while the brain and the heart still remained united, a vital piece was now missing— the spirit. And without the spirit, the very soul, what was the body but a mere husk? Yes, out of everyone, it was Hermione and Ron that knew what ‘missing’ and ‘it’s not the same’ meant most intimately.

It was a fact Hermione found herself pondering on more than one instance— usually at night. During those long stretches when silence would descend, she would lay awake and think. Think back to their past adventures and the ensuing detentions. Think back to that blinding smile and heartfelt conversations held under a willow tree. Think back to the parties, the quidditch matches, the study sessions. And, sometimes, when that hollowness would grow and grow, would gnaw at her chest until her breath was stolen away, she would reach out. A searching hand in the darkness, a foolish hope to feel the brush of a familiar palm— to find a body curled up next to hers like it so often had in the past 6 years. A vain hunt for a phantom limb long since severed. It was never found. And though she hadn't asked Ron about it, an unspoken rule between them that acknowledging Harri’s absence was forbidden, she knew the boy felt it too. That those bright blue eyes of his were as haunted as her own— that he sometimes heard the same ghostly laugh, saw the same glimpses of a redheaded spectre. 8.5 months. 37 weeks. 259 days. 6,216 hours. 372,960 minutes— not that she was keeping track, of course. But how terribly long was a mere almost 9 months to be wondering if someone was still alive or dead in an unmarked grave.

The dutiful ticking of the wall’s clock drew her from the novel in her lap, the gold lettering on ‘Anna’ and the ‘r’ in ‘Karenina’ finally flaking off. ‘372,961,’ she noted, turning a dog-eared page absentmindedly. Truthfully, she had long since lost her place, the prose of Tolstoy a jumbled, rambling mess at this point. Her mind, though as much as it loved being consumed by the world of fiction, was otherwise distracted. ‘372,962.’ 

“Well, Mum’s done it again.”

Hermione jolted in the window seat. It was a dreadful habit nursed by the past few months, her nerves unbearably strung— Ron tossed her a sheepish, apologetic smile. In his hands was a plate piled with scones, the sugar crust missing from the top— ‘Red currants this time.’ The beginnings of a frown, she closed the book and drew her knees up so the boy could join her in the alcove.

“She’s baking again?” Hermione asked as she plucked one of the pastries from the top.

“Mhm,” a muffled reply as he took a bite of his own.

After the Hog’s Head ambush, and the resulting capture of her daughter, Mrs. Weasley had taken up baking to cope— to an excessive degree, that is. For the entire month, and then some, the woman had the ovens going nonstop, a nervous energy clinging to her rounded silhouette as she flitted about. The amount of times one of them had to dash down to the shops for more flour or sugar was unfathomable at this point— not that anyone dared to complain. It was far preferable this way, her being occupied in the kitchens rather than openly weeping— especially when compared to the sounds that had filled their tight living quarters during that first week. At least now her distress was reserved for the nighttime, just like everyone else’s. A dry bite and she broke the scone in half, idly plucking out the bits of dried fruit.

“How’s the hand?” Ron gestured with a tilt of his chin.

Amber eyes drifted down to the hand in question. It was resting limply on her thigh, a rising bitterness at the back of her throat. While Hermione knew she should consider herself lucky, seeing as how many had been gravely injured— or killed— in the attack, it was difficult to feel anything remotely like relief. Like gratefulness. Without the intervention of a licensed mediwitch, a trip to the hospital posing too many dangers for exposure, it had to be healed to the best of their abilities. Yet despite the cleanly snapped fractures having been righted, there was a persistent stiffness in the joints, an unwillingness to bend. And sometimes there would be a dulled pain, a throbbing she couldn’t quite pinpoint its origins. But the truest reason for her resentful misery was that it had been her wand hand. Relearning everything with her left was marked by insufferably slow progress, her reflexes sluggish and movements unrefined.  

“Oh. It’s—,” Hermione began, rigid fingers spasming, mouth pressing into a tight line, “Fine.”

She hid the hand under the novel, “Where are the twins?”

“With Sirius, working on the plan,” Ron’s leg bounced restlessly against the ground, “They think they can improve Gregorovitch’s formula. Something about adding in an Erumpent horn.”

A drawn-out lull in their conversation, the pair busying themselves with the thankless task of chewing. Neither were particularly hungry, nor could they claim to enjoy the bland pastries, but at least it was something to do— something that didn’t require the effort of talking. In the back of the house, there was a crash— a mixing bowl falling to the ground, a rattling as it spun on its axis before settling with a final clang.  A brief cry followed, the sound caught between upset and frustration— entirely too relatable.

“She says she’s fine,” Ron mumbled, gaze trained on the study’s open door,  “But Mum’s never been a good liar, you know?”

Hermione traced over his turned profile, the crease between his brows, the slightest flare of his nostrils— that misty, far-off look that was starting to cloud his eyes. It was a face she had seen him make countless times in the past month alone, the one he refused to wear in front of the adults. In front of his parents, his brothers. The face that broadcasted his hurt so plainly that her own heart squeezed uncomfortably in turn. Gently prying the plate from his lax hold, she relocated it to the side table and, unthinkingly, reached for him instead— a familiar routine. Though they had become increasingly less affectionate throughout the years, the heightened awareness that accompanied puberty making it otherwise awkward, such decorum was now easily dismissed. Fitting, all things considered, as they only had the other to lean on now.

A stubborn, though gentle, tug and she guided Ron’s head to rest in the crook of her shoulder. He didn’t fight it. Rather, the boy had gone boneless, let himself be manoeuvred and cajoled by the lethargic beating of her pulse. A steady rhythm, the upticks strong and the downbeats mellow. The good hand of hers rose to card through the wild crown of his hair, the colour reminding her of warmth, of a summer’s sunset— a comforting sort of hue.

“I should have done something,” his words were hollowed, emptied, “I should have helped her. But I didn’t. I just— I sat there.”

“Ron—.”

“I let him take her. I let him take Gin and who bloody knows what’s happening to her now.”

“Ron, there wasn’t much you could have done,” Hermione angled for reason, chin resting atop his head, “If you had moved, you would’ve been splinched. And that wouldn’t have helped anyone or changed anything.”

“She has to be alright, ‘Mione.”

Quiet settled in the wake of his response— the tacky feeling of something wet seeping into the neckline of her sweater. Hermione didn’t mention it, an arm wrapping about his shoulders and pulling him in closer. Fingers carried on running through his hair— an illusion of ignorance to the tears, a false construction of privacy as she shielded him from the world.

“I know, I know,” she muttered, “And she will be. We just have to believe that. Plus, we know Harri. If— No. Harri definitely won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Our plan will work and we’ll get them back. Both of them,” amber eyes slid to the wall clock, “I promise.” 

‘372,982.’



Time was moving unbearably slow, a sluggish crawl that seemed less than inclined to hurry its pace for anyone— least of all Harri. Stuck in the perpetual purgatory of the dress fitting, she distantly wondered if they were always this torturous or if that was just her luck. Either way, it was an entirely different kind of torment, an agony that she was ill-suited to endure. Raising the rim of the teacup to her lips, she took a slow, contemplative sip— a discreet attempt to study the woman seated to her left.

Madam Malkin could best be described as a stout and portly kind of woman. There wasn’t any debate as to whether or not she had once been beautiful in her youth, her lined face too homely and plain to ever be considered anything truly remarkable. She was short, even in comparison to Harri— a fact the girl secretly took immense delight in— but there was a welcoming air about her. The kind one might expect from a grandmother— though, referring to her as ‘matronly’ would be an unthinkable disservice. Where she lacked in natural beauty, the tailor made up tenfold everywhere else. The light mauve suit, outfitted as a blazer and pencil skirt, had been fashionably tailored to her plump form, the white-gold buttons just flashy enough without being overly ostentatious. Her tea heels, a modest height, manicured nails, cat-eyed glasses, and lips all donned the same shade of burgundy— a bold, yet respectable, choice. And her hair, snow-white in colour, was swept back into a modest chignon that rested at her nape. All in all, Malkin cut a commanding figure, one that entirely befitted a woman who dominated the fashion world, her gaze shrewd and lips permanently fixed into a half-smile.

Though, much to Harri’s unbridled horror, the seamstress was also extremely talkative. And as she sat there, demurely dismantling her tea cake with a polished fork, it was becoming increasingly clear that she was infringing upon unknown territory. Currently, the women were cloistered away in the ‘Lilac Room’, adequately named for its palette of dusky purples, creams, and powder blues. The hostess, one Narcissa Malfoy, was eagerly chatting away with their guest, plying her with a constant stream of tea and endless cakes in exchange for interesting, albeit scandalous, tidbits. And though she may be dressed like one of them, her own outfit the height of vogue with its floor-length silk and flowing sleeves, Harri felt like an imposter. An outsider looking in. Their refined mannerisms, the knowledge of the inner-workings of the aristocracy— it was all lost upon her. And while, admittedly, ‘girl talk’ hadn’t ever been her strongest suit, her interests or pressing concerns usually unaligned with other teenage girls, it was startling to realise that the topics didn’t really change even amongst grown women. Gossip was at the heart, sly quips about who wore what or who was seen dancing together at the last soiree. Just as it had been in the common room, Harri was left out of the loop.

“And then she ran away! Eloped,” Malkin confided in a whisper, “Right after I finished the dress, to top it all off. Beautiful thing it was, truly, but that poor girl! I can’t fully fault her. After all, Mason Tremblay isn’t the brightest nor best looking.”

“But to elope! If my child ever saw fit to subject me to such humiliation, I believe I would meet my end prematurely,” Narcissa remarked in turn.

“Speaking of your child, I overheard something rather interesting the other day. Do you know who came into the shop?”

Narcissa arched a brow and placed a sugar-crusted scone onto the tailor’s plate, “Oh?”

“Victoria Parkinson!”

“Did she now?”

“Oh yes, and, apparently, she is looking to marry off her daughter right quick— you know Victoria. Forever the social climber, that one. But I do believe there was mention of your son being a potential in-law? She seemed rather confident on the match.”

Harri choked. She had just taken a bite of the raspberry spongecake when Malkin had let slip that lovely little piece of news— tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she coughed vainly to clear her throat. Concerned twin looks fixed on her as she reached for the cup of jasmine, downing it with abandon. ‘Draco and Pansy? Together ?’ It was difficult to imagine, despite how close the two had been at Hogwarts. For one, Draco had proclaimed his resolution, rather fervently she might add, time and time again to remain merely friends with the girl. And, for another, though Harri was unable to say she was privy to Pansy’s feelings, it felt remiss all the same to be discussing her in the context as mere chattel. Not to mention both parties were still in school— so why was marriage even being entertained? Was this a normal thing by pureblood standards? It made her head spin.

Narcissa extended a napkin to the coughing girl and quickly poured another serving from the teapot into the drained cup. Gently sliding the saucer back to Harri, a painted mouth thinned as she placed a cube of sugar into her own.

“Where Victoria even found the nerve to suggest something so preposterous, I haven’t the faintest idea. However, I would sooner give up the château in Paris than allow my son to marry into that family,” Narcissa replied curtly with the slightest sniff of her nose, “And if you must know, we are not currently considering any marriage propositions for Draco. My husband and I decided it would be best to allow him to focus on his studies for the moment.”

Malkin sat there, grey eyes drinking in the scene from behind cat-eyed glasses. It was certainly an interesting juxtaposition, to say the very least. The tenderness Narcissa so blatantly held for the redheaded girl set against the outright disdain for the alluded to Miss Parkinson— not to mention the fact that Harri Potter had apparently taken up a seemingly permanent residence at Malfoy Manor. One really couldn’t help but ponder the implications behind such things. A sly smile, a slow unfurling on burgundy lips, her keen gaze sliding purposefully between the two witches.

“Well, that is unfortunate, considering how handsome young Draco is. If you do happen to find a suitable bride, however, do let me know. I would be more than happy to design her gown,” Malkin said.

A suspended quiet, strained and weighty, fell over the parlour. Harri took the opportunity to finish her tea, eyes flickering restlessly about the room— anything to avoid looking at the women flanking her sides. The tension between them was a spark, an unspoken challenge for the other to rise to the bait— to let something slip that most definitely shouldn’t. And seeing as how the tailor had just spent the past few hours prattling on about matters best kept private, it wasn’t difficult to hazard that any and all secrets spilled to her didn’t remain guarded for long. Peeking up through her lashes, Harri noted the rigidity of Narcissa— her carmine lips were stretched in an effort to maintain a polite smile. Her eyes, however, were stormy. Malkin, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the subtle current of enmity, too busy browsing the selection of petit fours— that or she, simply, did not care. Harri stamped down the urge to flee.

“Perhaps,” Narcissa said slowly, a well-mannered tilt of her chin towards the platform in the middle of the room, “We should get on with the fitting. I know you must have a rather busy schedule, Madam Malkin, and I would hate to take up any more of your time.”

A click of a tongue and a flurry of mauve fabric, “Oh, nonsense! I do quite enjoy our visits, Mrs. Malfoy. Come, my dear. Up, up, up.”

And then Harri was being ushered towards the low dais, stumbling on uncertain legs as firm hands pushed between her shoulders. Freestanding mirrors had been placed in a half-circle about the constructed platform, positioned just right so every angle was reflected off the other— she blinked and a jarring kaleidoscope of emerald green eyes followed in a delay. ‘What?’ An apprehensive tilt of her head and there it was again— the likeness was lagging. Malkin appeared behind her with a knowing smile, waving nonchalantly in demonstration.

“Recording mirrors,” she explained with a wink, “For designing. They help me to visualise and tailor everything to my client’s specifications. Though, I assure you, they remain completely private! And they automatically wipe themselves clean after the dress is finished.”

Malkin had given two claps of her hands in rapid succession— the golden bracelets about her wrists suddenly started to glow. Lifting up into the air, the metal stretched and elongated with fluid ease— Harri looked on in awe as the jewellery became transfigured into tape measurers. They writhed in the air, sentient beings that curled playfully about the tailor’s plump form in wait of their next commands.

“His Majesty tried to argue that there was no need to retake your measurements but I think otherwise. After all, you are a growing young lady! And I just couldn’t stand for any discrepancies. You know how these things go, don’t you, Narcissa dear?” Malkin spared a glance over her shoulder before turning back to Harri, “Now, if you please.”

Harri followed the pointed glance down to the sash holding her dress closed, brows lifting ever so slightly at the implication. However, when she went to confirm her suspicions, it was to see neither woman being particularly nonplussed by the request. The Malfoy matriarch was consumed by folding and refolding a linen napkin to her liking whereas Malkin was shuffling through her sewing bag with a tuneless hum. ‘For placing so much emphasis on what’s proper,’ she thought, caught somewhere between bafflement and amusement, ‘They really don’t seem to mind nudity.’ And how true that was— after all, how many times had Narcissa insisted on bathing her, much to her immense chagrin, or helped her dress in the morning? ‘But yet, wearing a jumper with holes in it is a mortal sin.’ A scoff as deft fingers undid the waist tie, the dove grey silk pooling at her feet.

A nervous look was spared towards the mirrors. Harri did her best to find comfort in the tailor’s assurance that whatever they captured would be eventually deleted, that it would remain private. Her weight shifted— the refracted image of a girl with too-bright eyes and too-sharp shoulders and too-long legs lagged in pursuit. It was jarring to look upon a full-body image of herself, the instances in which she could do so few— partially because she did, admittedly, exert effort in avoidance of such. And yet, the girl couldn’t fully stop herself from critically studying the mirrors, a morbid curiosity spurred on by the minute changes. Though one might be inclined to claim she never looked healthier, having been afforded a life of luxury and care that did miracles to her once gaunt frame, it was a difficult thing to comprehend that it was her own likeness staring back. This version seemed off. Strange. The original Harri Potter was marked by a smattering of bruises and scuffed knees, tissue-deep scars and dried sprays of blood— they were her warpaint, her armour, her physical trophies of battles fought and won. It was why whenever someone suggested she was an identical copy of her mother, she would inwardly deny it— though she may have her colouration, Lily had been more genteel. Ladylike, elegant. That, in all actuality, she embodied James more— was as rough and scrappy and battle-hewn as her father had been. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy realised long before she could even speak or walk. Her legacy was meant to be gritty. She was named after rulers, kings, emperors— a far cry from the flower tradition that her mother and aunt had demanded. And truly, she had no qualms about the fact. It might even be more accurate to say Harri welcomed it, revelled even.

Yet, this rendition was the furthest thing from that ideal. The scars had been erased, the scuffed knees healed, the blood and grime sloughed and scrubbed away until all that remained was unblemished skin. Her armour was stripped, the helm of her legacy dismantled. And as she stared at the forest green satin of her underwear, the delicate lace set against the swell of her chest and the slope of her hips, she thought of leaves— that, against all odds, she had been transformed into the flower the women in her family were always destined to become.

The introspective reverie was broken as the golden measurer wrapped tightly about the peak of her bust, a strangled noise in her throat at the unexpected constriction. And then it released her, flying back to the open, waiting palm of its master.

“Aha! I knew it— 3.5 more inches!” Malkin exclaimed, clicking her tongue disapprovingly, “And His Majesty didn’t want me to retake your measurements. Do you know how disastrous this would have been if I made his design based on your old size? Men, I swear.”

Harri glanced over her shoulder, eyes widening marginally as she tripped over the words, “Uhm, I— 'his design’?”

“Mhm,” Malkin hummed, jotting down the new number with a quick notes quill, “Oh yes, he was very insistent with his vision. Of course, I am making some minor alterations here and there to it.”

“But I will say, it is rare indeed to find a man with such artistic insight,” the tailor added shrewdly.

The measuring tape was joined by its twin, both wrapping about Harri’s upper-arms and lighting up pink at the appropriate tick. Truthfully, she was dumbstruck. For some reason, knowing that Voldemort had been personally involved in the process was both utterly horrifying and riotously comical. The latter for it meant the Dark Lord had spent his free time drafting up gown designs in his study, weighing the pros and cons to each style of neckline or sleeve. But moreso the former because she was all too aware of his predilections— and judging by her current wardrobe, namely the drawers of underwear, it was a catastrophe in the making. Already her mind, seeing fit to torture her, was conjuring up images of dresses hardly suitable for polite company, ones that she would rather bite her own tongue than be caught wearing— ‘It would be just like him too, the bloody sadist.’ Warmth crept over her cheeks as she cleared her throat with some difficulty.

“O-oh, I see. Uhm, would it be at all possible to see the sketches? Just out of curiosity,” Harri asked— ‘So I can decide whether to strangle him or not’ was left unspoken.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the tailor narrowed her eyes in busy deliberation of the measurer’s accuracy, “He was very resolute on it remaining a surprise.”

Burgundy lips quirked into a smile upon seeing the girl’s uneasy expression, “But worry not. As I said, his tastes are impeccable and you will look absolutely divine.”

Harri glanced helplessly towards Narcissa, the matriarch occupied with reading a leather-bound novel. She willed the woman to look up, to interject on her behalf— to use that commanding voice dripping with graceful authourity to sway Madam Malkin into breaking. However, she did no such thing. The tailor returned to the sewing bag, pulling out swatches of fabrics and laces, an energetic glow about the rounded lines of her body. And try as Harri did to have the same confidence in the Dark Lord’s ‘tastes’, she found herself entirely unable to. Surprises, as backed by her past experiences, rarely turned out to be positive— and that held especially true when a certain red-eyed man was at their centre. Not to mention that ‘looking divine’ had been the furthest thing from her ongoing list of concerns— but now, however, it was quickly soaring to the top. Hell, she would settle for ‘acceptable’ if it meant wearing a dress that leaned safely towards the conservative side of things.

“Not that I don’t appreciate your work, Madam Malkin,” Harri grappled for reason, “But surely one of my other dresses would do? I mean, I have so many and—.”

“Absolutely not!” both Narcissa and Malkin had chimed in at the same time, the book snapping closed and the tailor spinning around in alarm.

“Oh, honestly, Harri,” Narcissa had given a dismissive shake of her head, elegant curls swaying with the motion.

“How do I explain this,” Malkin muttered, snapping her fingers impatiently as though trying to think of the proper phrase, “A witch has only two very important milestones in her life— her 17th debut and her wedding. Simply put, she doesn’t wear anything ordinary or something another person may already have. No, it’s de rigueur to have something entirely new made for these moments, do you understand? After all, this is her chance to shine!”

Narcissa nodded sagely, setting down her novel on the tea table to agree— and Harri was left dumbstruck by the passion the two witches held for a simple dress, of all things. Because, in her mind, it was just that— a dress. Though, in all fairness, most of what pureblooded women put stock into went over her head.

“Do have some faith, dear,” the tailor implored, “Trust in the process.”

And then before more could be said on the matter, a flurry of swatches were being held against her skin. A rainbow and an assortment of patterns— brocades, silks, chiffons, satins. Harri, wisely, decided to concede and keep her mouth shut during the process for fear of accidentally setting the women off again— a tactical move on her end to pick her battles. Every once and a while there would be a chime from Narcissa that a certain shade looked especially pleasing or a texture looked, to quote, ‘decadent’. In Harri’s own discerning eye, they truthfully all looked the same— ‘eggshell’ or ‘ivory’, ‘navy’ or ‘sapphire’, it was ludicrous to give such similar colours completely different names. And yet, the two older witches were able to make the distinction with an impressive, and terrifying, degree of speed and accuracy. She tried her best to hold back a yawn, an ache in the arches of her feet making itself known from standing for so long.

The baroque clock on the mantel ticked on.

At some point, Narcissa had risen from her seat and brought with her a blush pink saucer— it was handed to the tailor in exchange for the notebook the quick notes quill had been furiously scribbling in. Pale eyes flickered across the cursive scrawl, a contented noise of approval under her breath.

“How has your shop been doing as of late, Madam Malkin? Busy, I trust?” Narcissa asked, a manicured nail tapping on the list and muttering out a quick, “This one looked especially becoming on her.”

“Indeed,” the tailor sipped her tea as the quill underlined the choice, “After Miss Potter appeared on the front page of the Prophet wearing that little number— you know, the black dress with the scales— I have been bogged down with commissions. I’m even getting requests from overseas! Imagine that. I’ve actually been giving some thought on opening another shop in Paris.”

“Though, I must admit I am rather disappointed with the lack of courting proposals. I was so certain that after that article, they would’ve come flooding in,” Malkin sighed sympathetically and tilted her teacup towards Harri, “But no matter. With your looks and reputation, I am willing to place money that they will come in droves after your debut.”

“Well now, that would be a fool’s bet, Malkin,” Narcissa commented idly, passing the pocketbook back to the stout woman, “Seeing as she already has had multiple propositions.”

Harri stiffened, green eyes widening to a doe-ish degree. It took a beat for her mind to sluggishly process what ‘propositions’ entailed, a stricken look twisting on her face once it sunk in. There were people out there, real people, that had actually requested permission to court her. Her. There was a choking sound in the back of her throat, a wheezing inhale as a half-realised breath was prematurely swallowed. She spun on the dais in alarm.

“Wait—what?! But Vol—,” she spluttered.

His Majesty,” Narcissa quickly interjected, a stern look aimed towards Harri, “Has been personally handling any and all requests regarding the matter.”

“As his ward, he is taking Miss Potter’s future quite seriously, I assure you,” the Malfoy matriarch added for the benefit of the seamstress.

She had barely heard the tittering excitement of Malkin, the keen whispers seeking to pry some names— the polite refusal on Narcissa’s end to divulge any further information. Rather, Harri’s thoughts had wandered, entirely too occupied with trying to understand why none of this had been mentioned to her before. After all, it seemed like a rather important development— something that Voldemort most certainly should have kept her informed of. ‘Then again, he has been keeping quite a few secrets of his own, hasn’t he?’ The acceptance letter buried in the depths of the drawer flashed in her mind’s eye, a sourness on her tongue. ‘Taking my future seriously, huh?’ Tension drew her shoulders up, a bristling along the length of her spine— a disquieting realisation that he was, once again, orchestrating things without her knowledge— especially things that, apparently, concerned herself. It was just another item to add to the ongoing list of topics they would need to have a serious conversation about at some point.

“Oh, Narcissa, so secretive! Well, can you at least confirm one thing? I had heard from a little bird that the French Sovereign and his son will be coming to the gala?” Malkin prompted, the hovering tape measurers returning to her wrists.

“While I am not in a position to outright confirm anything,” Narcissa’s painted lips quirked into a half-smile, a note of pride colouring her voice, “I just might have to hire your ‘little bird’ for myself.”

“Well now!” the seamstress exclaimed brightly, clapping her hands together in delight, “Wouldn’t that just be a most advantageous match? Oh my! Do you think perhaps that’s why the French were invited?!”

Harri forced a smile when Malkin had glanced her way expectantly. It was too tight, too flat, too stretched— and it didn’t quite reach her eyes. As the women retreated to conclude the final particulars of their business, she remained behind on the platform, line of sight blurring. The only clear thing was the reflection of the insignia at her throat, the ruby that demarcated the snake’s eye catching the light— a mocking wink. Not for the first time was she left blindsided by his actions, unable to foresee what he was possibly playing at. As Malkin pointed out, it would certainly be a smart match. Entirely auspicious. As his officially recognised ward, she now, unfortunately, had the pleasure of representing a new line of succession in the quasi-monarchical system he had constructed. Before his ascension to the throne, it was how the Isles chose to differentiate themselves from their mainland counterparts. While Europe continued to operate under inherited legacies, of keeping the ruling authourity within the same family line, the Isles opted for a ministry— to function through election and democratic processes. A chance for fresh ideas to enter the office, for power to change into new hands in hopes of continually revitalising it— though it was, admittedly, highly impractical at times. Particularly when the Ministers of Magic kept disappearing.

But then Voldemort sought to uproot it all in favour of returning to the old ways— just like his broadcasted announcement in the Great Hall had assured he would. And while he was immortal, the need of securing his line through heirs conceived by political marriages obsolete, the public remained unaware of that one crucial fact— hence her ‘adoption’. So now the responsibility of continuing his dynasty fell to her— and tying the Isle’s sovereignty to the French’s would most certainly do that. In fact, it would be a wise move to have his claim backed by an institution that had already endured for centuries— one that was thoroughly established. Unshakeable. ‘What are you planning?’ she questioned the medallion silently, index finger lightly tracing over the cool metal.

And though Harri considered he wouldn’t dare let her out of his sight, her status as his horcrux far too valuable, she couldn’t entirely silence that little voice worrying over Malkin’s suggestion. True, he had been rather outright when it came to his desires towards her. That much was blatantly obvious— the burning look in those scarlet eyes, the possessive touches, the breath-stealing kisses. And, admittedly, she didn’t mind any of it— would even go as far to venture that their feelings were one and the same on that front. But she also wasn’t a fool to underestimate his lust for power nor his need to secure it. She had borne witness to that hunger, had felt the suffocating amount of want and desire for it in his mindscape— had choked time and time again on the deluge. And he was the most Slytherin of them all, far too ambitious for anything good to amount from inviting the French into their home. A damning revelation— she was, truly, his most attractive bargaining chip at the moment, wasn’t she? ‘It’s not like that. The old woman doesn’t know what she's saying. He would never.’ Despite the attempts to make her see the logic, the rationale, it didn’t help. In the reflection, her chest was too still— a breath being held that she had to force herself to release. There was a churning in her stomach and a steadily increasing desire for a drink— a sneaking suspicion that she craved something far stronger than merely water.

The chatter in the background was becoming too much, their hushed murmurs over potential prospects and matches having the same effect as a tsunami— suffocating, battering, filling her lungs, her body, her mind with the torrent. She wanted to leave. To seek out that one person who was always at the heart of her problems— the very same that had also become her most confusing comfort. To demand answers from him for her sanity’s sake, to—.

The door handle turned.

Voices flooded in, rising in competing volume as they bickered and quarrelled.

“Draco! I told you they are occupied. You can’t just barge in—.”

“It is my house, Bartemius. I can bloody well ‘barge in’ wherever I please, appointment or not!”

Harri whirled around when a familiar face had suddenly appeared in the mirror, a sneer contorting its refined features. The blond had shoved past the looming form of her guard, desperate hands snatching at the air when he slipped out of arm’s reach. Draco, too busy directing spiteful retorts the Death Eater’s way, had yet to notice her— an unbidden smile and a warmth blossoming behind her breastbone. While she had overheard news of his return in the study last night, she hadn’t considered it would happen so soon— not that it was unwelcomed, of course.

“Draco!” Harri cried.

At the same time, Narcissa had risen from the table abruptly, the teacups clattering dangerously. Her voice was sharp, alarmed, an admonishment clear in the bite of the two syllables, “Draco!”

“Oh my!” Malkin contributed to the clamour. 

“H-,” Draco had turned from Barty, the word dying on the tip of his tongue.

A sense of puzzlement overcame Harri as she took in the steadily creeping flush on the boy’s cheeks, the way his mouth had frozen around forming her name. He was rooted to the spot, his eyes the most owlish she had ever seen them— they were fixed unblinkingly ahead, their usual sly glint missing. Barty cleared his throat. Her gaze snapped to the man just as he was turning his head stubbornly up towards the ceiling, his hand darting out to grip the back of Draco’s neck— an insistent tug to turn him around. There was no protest, no hissing or spitting as the boy finally regained some of his wits, all too eagerly following the silent instruction. Brows knitted together at their unusual reactions. ‘What on Earth?’ 

And then her dress was being shoved into her open arms by a flustered Madam Malkin, attention finally drifting down. There was a delayed blink upon seeing the curve of her chest and the dip of her cleavage, the contrast of dark green against her skin. ‘Oh.’ The tendrils of mortification began to spread, a wildfire across her skin at the belated realisation she was still in her underwear. ‘Well, that certainly explains it.’

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 59: Vices

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and to those returning back to school, you have my condolences: we will get through it together 😭 A fair warning, this chapter is a bit long— I spent a few days trying to trim it back but it wasn't happening. I figured though you guys wouldn't mind having a bit more to read this time around though **hopefully**.

As always, you guys are absolutely wonderful and so make the writing process worth it 💕

Enjoy! ✨

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



"My Lady, please wait!"

She smiled to herself, a quick, sharp little thing when he had called out— the man had been vying for her attention ever since they had left the entertainment parlour. And while Harri, originally, hadn't meant to ignore Barty, thoughts of French princes and secret courting proposals weighing heavily on her mind, it was quickly turning into an amusing game. The vaulted halls of the corridor had been abandoned, the mansion blissfully quiet as the afternoon hours lazily stretched on. Streams of mild sunshine, not quite uncharacteristic for the summers in the Isles, filtered through the curved windows, the latticed design of their panes casting interesting shadows upon the checkered black and white tiles— and on the pleasant breeze was carried the scent of honeysuckle, the dulcet chirps of birdsong. The tranquillity of such a day was only disrupted by the slight clicking of tea-heels and the muffled sound of boots in a steadfast accompaniment. Every few steps forward and his would come rushing up behind, never daring to step in front of her though not quite willing to call off the pursuit. 

And on her periphery, her guard was frantic, flighty. Those dark brown eyes kept darting to her stubbornly turned profile, helplessly seeking a form of acknowledgement. 'Perhaps he thinks I'm upset?' The thought was as equally hilarious as his desperation— that private smile threatened to grow, a thrill of perverse delight at his heightened anxiety. A fitting recompense, she figured, that he should squirm a bit for the year he had spent deceiving her as fake-Moody.

They had turned the corner, the porcelain busts on their Grecian podiums bearing witness to the scene— they were animated, whitened eyes following after the pair and their carved necks twisting to further enjoy the drama. Harri paid them no mind, far too used to their eavesdropping.

"My Lady! Please!"

The heels came to a stop on the staircase's landing, a feigned disinterest as though she had only paused to adjust the bracelet upon her wrist— a rather pretty thing of silver braids, polished emeralds interlaid into every other space. How much it cost, she did not know— though, if she had to guess, it was probably a rather sufficient sum, especially considering who had picked it out. After the disruption to the fitting, a rather red-faced Draco had been spirited away by his mother with a slew of stern reprimands, while Malkin, fraught with secondhand embarrassment, had taken her leave. Which now meant her day had become blessedly free— and though she would have loved nothing more than to spend it outside while the weather was temperate, there was a girl waiting for her down in the dungeons. However, Barty was tenacious in trailing after her, no doubt looking to ascertain the degree of her forgiveness— a reluctant concession that she should probably humour him before he had an aneurysm. Arms folding across her chest, she did her best to fix her expression into what, she hoped, would amount to a faux-displeasure, not willing to give up their game just yet. 

"Please know it was not my intention, nor Draco's, to barge in on you like that— especially not in your, uhm, compromised state," he explained hastily.

Harri arched a single brow.

"And, I was wondering, if you could, uh," Barty fought for the right words, tongue darting skittishly over his lips, "perhaps, not tell my Lord about, well—.

"Seeing me in my underwear?" she finished for him, a struggle to keep the mirth out of her voice.

"Ah, yes. If it could remain between just us, I would be grateful."

"So, let me get this straight, you are asking that I lie to Voldemort on your behalf?"

"Why, Barty, I'm shocked!" she exclaimed in mock surprise, a hand flying, scandalised, to her chest. "And here I was thinking you never lied to your Lord ."

His eyes had blown wide in alarm, panic nearly palpable, "No, not lie, certainly not lie! Just— not telling him, per se. After all, my Lord doesn't need to be made aware of every little thing and it could be a burden—."

Harri couldn't keep it contained any longer— a quick giggle, a hiccup as she fought to swallow it down. Her vision watered, composure further slipping at his confusion, that bemused distress that made him appear more like an owl than a man. Her breaths were stilted as she tried to recover, one of the portraits on the wall wrinkling his nose at the unrefined display.

"Oh relax, Barty," she managed to get out. "I'm not telling him."

And then she was sauntering down the staircase, leaving behind the relieved man and calling out over her shoulder, "You're lucky that I like you."



Hidden by the shadows and leaning against the dampened wall, Harri had paused outside of the iron bars to take in the scene before her with some mode of delight. Over the course of the month, the cell had experienced quite the transformation, much to Voldemort's rather vocal disapproval— but Harri would be damned if Ron's sister continued to rot in the squalor of the dungeons. The conditions down here were grim, dingy, and a remodel was their best compromise— especially seeing as the Dark Lord had been adamant against moving a ‘prisoner’ to a guest bedroom. A heating charm had been cast to stave off the persistent draft, a twin bed shoved crudely against one wall— that had been a luxury she fought extensively for— and house-elves routinely dropped off hot meals. At the present, Ginevra Weasley was in what one might be inclined to call a state of relaxation. The ginger girl was on the bed, legs crossed and chin propped up by a fist. A magazine was before her, the two-page spread animated to show women on brooms executing death-defying plunges— a strobe of camera flashes and the white blaze of stadium lights illuminated the photograph.

"So, who won?"

"The Harpies, of course," Ginny muttered.

A delayed reaction as Ginny registered that someone had asked the question, a surge of adrenaline causing her to leap from the bed— a hand, unthinkingly, reached for a wand that wasn't there. She only relaxed minutely when a familiar face had stepped into the light, an exasperated groan.

"Blimey—!" she cried sharply. "Wear a bell next time or something, would you?!"

"Sorry," Harri said though her tone suggested she was anything but.

Pushing off from the archway, Harri slipped past the cell door— a creak on the hinges as metal grated against stone, the bars dutifully granting her entry. A roguish grin, shoulder playfully nudging the younger girl as she chose to settle on the bed rather than the cold grime of the floor. The air was noticeably warmer in the room and she readily welcomed it, the material of her gown not suited to ward off the frigidity of being underground. Drawing up her knees and wiggling back until there was enough room for both of them, she goodnaturedly patted the empty space next to her. Ginny rolled her eyes but joined her anyways, the springs groaning in protest under the added weight— per usual, Harri did her best to ignore the worshipful touches that discreetly grazed over the dress’s silk, the clear want in amber eyes when they landed upon the jewellery that adorned her throat, her wrists. At one point, she had tried to give Ginny some of her clothes to wear, to eventually take back with her, but Voldemort had vehemently drawn the line on the matter. It had been a topic of contention between them for days afterwards, his justification that one doesn't give away 'gifts'— though, what he truly meant was that one didn't give away gifts that came from him. 'Possessive git.'

"So the Harpies won again? What move did Griffiths pull this time?" she asked as Ginny sidled up closer, the lines of their bodies melding.

"A nosedive feint and brilliant it was— kind of like the one you did against Malfoy in 4th year. Absolutely ballsy!" Ginny explained, voice animated as she jabbed at the moving photograph with her index finger.

A small smile as Harri listened to her excitement, the enthusiasm as the girl gave a play-by-play recount of the match. While she, herself, enjoyed quidditch, it was what Ginny had lived and breathed for— in that regard, she was so much like her brother. And how comfortable the conversation was, a deja vu that they had had this exact same one before. The dynamic pitches in the girl's voice were lulling, consoling— the way one's favourite blanket was. The ratty sort that had holes in it and was pilling to an excessive degree, the kind that held happy memories in every stitch and smelled inexplicably of home. At one point, Ginny had placed her head on her shoulder, finding a place in the crook of her neck— an idle hand ran aimlessly across a back broader than her own, the mauve jumper scratchy and tickling her palm. A glow of contentment. For all she knew, or cared, they could have been back at the Burrow or tucked into the nest of floor pillows in the common room— the furthest thing from the reality of the dungeons.

"Honestly, when we get out of here, we have to try out together. You could be a Seeker and I'll be a Chaser, of course. The world won't know what hit them," Ginny's voice was wistful as she stared down at the silhouettes of women diving.

The smile faltered and the hand stilled. Harri didn't even have to look to know what kind of expression Ginny was sporting, what was held in her doe-ish eyes as she entertained the possibility of a future that would never pass. A dream— a foolish one at that. All she managed, in turn, was a soft hum, hand dropping down to the mattress— fingers twitched on the soft, but thin, covers of the bedspread, a strain to keep her expression from revealing too much. It was difficult to have some suspension of disbelief, the same level of fervour, when one was painfully aware of the limitations of reality. Her attention bounced about the cell, seeking a distraction to drown out Ginny's prattling on where tryouts were held, what stadiums they might play in. And there, etched into the opposite wall, were a slew of tally marks. They were engraved deeply into the stone in disordered rows, none of them uniform in height— a detached, passing thought wondering if they had been done by Ginny or the prison’s previous occupant. 

"And speaking of getting out," Ginny hopped off the bed, "I have a plan."

"What? Another famous Ginevra Weasley plan already?" Harri fought back a groan.

"Hey! They are pretty solid."

"Oh yeah— like fighting our way through a manor filled with armed Death Eaters."

"Well, I mean," Ginny squinted, voice hesitant as though not wanting to offend, "with your new, uhm, abilities, I figured it wouldn't be too hard. And with you doing wandless magic, we could knock someone out and I could steal their—."

This time, Harri did groan, "We already talked about that."

"Okay, yeah, yeah fine. You're right," Ginny acknowledged, albeit a bit reluctantly. "But this new one is absolutely failproof."

Emerald eyes tracked the path of the younger girl's pacing, fingers interlocked behind her back. That was another thing that was difficult to tolerate as of late, to have the patience to endure— these hare-brained schemes concocted without a care or thought. And every single time, Harri had to remind herself this was how Ginny was coping, that she was frightened and thinking of freedom allowed her to manage. It was understandable, of course. Most people generally jumped to formulating strategies for escape when captured— she most certainly did herself, once upon a time. But, unlike Ginny, Harri had months to wisen up. She had seen the truth of her circumstances and made her peace with it— had learned to act to preserve herself, her integrity, while attempting to find some semblance of comfort in this strange, unexpected life. Unbidden, red eyes flashed in her mind— she tried to banish them, to not focus too hard on the implications of her subconscious. Thankfully, Ginny had taken to talking, a much-needed diversion.

"You figure out where he took the coin, right, and we activate it. I know the phrase, it'll bring us directly back to the base," the Weasley girl spun on her heels, eyes bright with expectation. "Easy, right? And no, well maybe some, fighting involved."

Harri flopped down on the mattress, the frame creaking precariously under the sudden movement. Sure, it would be 'easy' enough for Ginny— she wouldn't have to do the legwork. 'Easy' for Ginny in that she didn't have the weight on her shoulders of a solemn promise to hunt her down to the ends of the Earth if she ran. The heels of her palms pressed into her eyes, a desperate attempt to stifle the smallest spark that remained after all this time— the one that still mutinously entertained the notion of seeing Hermione, Ron, everyone, again. At maybe getting to return to the life she once had and chalking this all up to a wild, fictitious dream— but was that even possible? Or, and she despised this was a question, did she even want to? Leaving would mean leaving Vol— she pressed down harder, a burst of neon colours behind closed lids. It was a struggle to keep the agitation out of her voice.

"I can't."

"What— Harri, it would be easy! We activate the portkey—."

"Except, I can't."

She hauled herself up into a sitting position, tone flat, "I'm keyed into the wards, Gin. Portkey or not, I'm not getting through by apparating."

Ginny's brows knitted together at the unforeseen problem, visibly deflating, "Okay, okay, minor hiccup. But they have a floo here, right? Wards or not, you could still use the network. We could get to—. "

"He's locked that too," Harri waved her hand dismissively. "I've already tried unlocking the door and it doesn't respond to an alohomora."

"Maybe we could—."

"Ginny, everything you're thinking of, he's already thought through. Trust me on this."

"Why are you shooting down everything I have to say?! Can’t you see I’m trying?!"

Harri blinked at the sudden outburst, a stupor overcoming her at the sudden shift in mood. The Weasley girl was clearly holding back tears, the wet sheen evident in those amber eyes— she glanced down to the quiver of her chin, the trembling of squared shoulders. Desperation had turned her voice high, reedy, faltering. And some small part of Harri, a part she would outright deny to ever existing, found warped satisfaction in Ginny’s distress— that the oh-so-optimistic girl was finally grasping the gravity of their grim realities. That the time for fairytales, for playing quidditch and returning to the past, were up. 'Finally.'  

"As much as all of this," Ginny gestured wildly about the cell, "isn't as bad as I thought it would be, I want to go home! And I thought you did too— so why aren't you doing anything to get us out of here?! Don't you want to go back to the Order— to get out and fight!?"

And she waited for the anger. For the hot blaze of it, for the consuming heat to grow at the accusation— after all, she had done everything she could to initially fight against Voldemort. That had been her entire life's vendetta, her one, singular, thankless mission bestowed onto her by Fate. Yet, look where it had gotten them all— broken, scattered. Hiding like rats in a sewer while he had gained a crown and a country. She waited to feel the burn of indignation, to bristle against the accusation— what came in its stead, however, was a sense of detached calmness, a disimpassionment. And when her mouth opened, it was a steady whisper that had slipped out.

"Did it ever occur to you that, maybe, I don't want to fight? That I'm tired of it?"

"W-what?"

"Maybe I don't feel like risking my neck for an organisation that willingly allies themselves with another Dark Lord," Harri levelled the younger girl with an unblinking stare.

"Harri!"

She rose from the bed with a fluid grace, eyeing as Ginny had shrunk in her mystified panic, "Oh yes, I know all about Gregorovitch. Like how you guys are getting wands from him illegally, how you are all registering them under aliases."

"Yeah, but Harri, that's not the same! Gregorovitch isn't Grindelwald."

"No, just his most loyal. Tell me, what did Gregorovitch ask in return? Surely it wasn't just money— after all, he was paid to go into retirement."

"I-I don't know. I- Sirius and Mum, the adults, they deal with him."

"Well," Harri hummed, "I have some guesses as to what he wants— and let's hope the Order can't uphold their end of the deal."

She had taken a step forward, emerald gaze narrowed. The silver medallion at her throat caught the light— Ginny had taken an uneasy step back in response, the flickers of fear causing those brown eyes to turn murky. And Harri did briefly wonder what she must have looked like, what possible expression she was wearing that could have frightened the girl so— there it was again, that festering, foreign sense of self-satisfaction.   

"Seriously, did you not consider, for one moment, that this was a terrible idea?"

"I- We—."

There was a ringing in her ears, a persistent, unyielding sound that refused to cease— Harri rolled her shoulders in an attempt to drive it off.

"He’s furious, you know. Voldemort views your attempts to involve Grindelwald as a threat to his claim as the Dark Lord— and he won't tolerate another trying to rise back into power," she had unconsciously slipped into parseltongue. "You can be certain he'll be on a warpath if that happens. And we both better pray that it doesn't."

A moment too late Harri realised what she had done. The waned face of Ginny was sobering, her mouth slack and shoulders drawn up— she looked petrified and on the verge of fainting. Guilt stung remorselessly, an edge of dismay that she had been the cause for such a reaction— she should have known better, should have been more aware considering the girl's previous experience in the chamber. And some part of her felt disgusted that she had even enjoyed seeing her friend look so fearful, that cowing her had given her an undeserved sense of complacency. The ringing abruptly ended— a trail off into blessed silence.

"Shit— I'm sorry, Gin," Harri tried for an apology, a shaky smile entirely too watery as she took a step forward— the other girl winced. Regret flourished.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I—," she extended a hand in a truce, "I know it isn't your fault, Gin, I know. But I want to help." 

An unsteady exhale, a pleading as she tried to make Ginny understand, "You guys are messing with things that you shouldn't and I just want to protect you— Ron, your brothers, your Mum. Everyone. But I can't unless you tell me everything you remember about Gregorovitch, this deal. Where he might be. Anything— please."

And for a moment, Harri feared Ginny might refuse. That she had been scared too witless by whatever she had seen to comply, had been too frightened by the unconscious slip into parseltongue— that she might doubt such intentions. She tried to exude a comforting air, one of reassurance— whether she was successful or not, however, was a matter of debate. But then Ginny had given a small, reluctant nod, a nervous acquiescence as she took the proffered hand.  The hesitation made her stomach clench but Harri jumped at the opportunity nonetheless.



Silence reigned, a heavy, swaddling weight. Her dinner, a simple enough affair of roasted pheasant, rested on the side table, long since abandoned and long since cold. Harri couldn't bring herself to touch it, head assaulted by a dull throbbing and stomach too unsettled to even consider eating— a shame for it had smelled quite wonderful when the house-elf had brought it by. Lengthening shadows were quickly adorning the walls, the ornate pattern of the Persian rug, the intricate crown-moulding on the ceiling. A purgatory as the evening stretched on, her very own limbo as the next course of action remained unclear— an infernal waiting room where she could do nothing but sit with bated breath until he returned.

She had hoped that after talking to Ginny, things would have straightened out— that they would have come into focus, made sense. Perhaps not have been as damning as she had initially feared. Things, however, could never be that easy, oh no. Not whenever Harri Potter was concerned. What was gleaned from Ginny's rather limited knowledge told her that the Order knew, exactly, what Gregorovitch desired, that they were willing to oblige him in hopes that one Dark Lord would neutralise the other— an incriminating plan that reeked of desperation. And though fools they may be, Harri knew she couldn't watch from afar as they were crushed under the blowback of such rash decisions. What had Voldemort once called her? 'Right. A 'bleeding heart',' a derisive snort at how true the assessment was. Currently nestled in one of the plush chairs, bare legs slung over the armrest to dangle freely, her toes wriggled in discontentment. It was a sight that would surely cause Narcissa to have a conniption.

An unexpected pop from the mantle, the sound of a log cracking in half as its integrity succumbed to the heat. Emerald eyes looked over to it lazily, tracking the path of a rebellious ember— it sparked against the metal grate before dying. How long had she been waiting? When the house-elf first arrived with the evening meal, an apology had been passed along for the Dark Lord’s absence— working late had been the excuse, the nervous energy of the creature betraying that it hadn't been entirely forthcoming. 'Working, huh?' Without anyone around, Harri didn't feel the need to stifle the urge to roll her eyes, feet flexing to a point. It wasn't difficult to figure out what the code was— but why she hadn't been invited to the meeting, despite having been to countless ones prior, was bewildering. Nonetheless, she was determined to stay up and wait for him, the need for a conversation greater than that of sleep— and if she was, secretly, itching for a suitable target for her ire, who could blame her? 

Somewhere deep within the heart of the mansion, the grandfather clock sounded off the chime of another dying hour. Harri counted along, moaning when the thunderous melody trailed off. '10 pm? Are you bloody kidding me— what the hell are they even talking about?!’

Surrendering to gravity, her crown tilted back— a cascade of auburn hair spilled over, the tips grazing the floor. Fixating a glare up to the ceiling, mind distractedly trying to envision blurred faces in the flourished design, she yawned. Toes curled and uncurled to chase off the numbing pinpricks, an itch of impatience behind her breastbone and a flare of annoyance that worsened the pain in her temples. It had been getting incrementally worse since her encounter with Ginny in the dungeons, an unrelenting pounding. Hands folded across her stomach, lashes lowering to lessen the headache's intensity.

The doors slammed open abruptly. Their frames rattled precariously— Harri jolted at the show of violence. Feigning sleep, she cracked one eye and watched from a downturned gaze as Voldemort stormed in, a flare in her scar and the crackle of charged static following close behind. He was donning the severely cut robes reserved for the meetings with his acolytes, the fluid cloth of them cut, seemingly, from Death's own shroud— she considered it was to make him look more fearsome, menacing. Not that he needed much help on that front. The angelic mask usually borne for the public’s sake was nowhere to be found, his features contorted by a snarl. 'Well, that explains the headache.' He was muttering under his breath, the incoherent blurring of parseltongue too rapid for her to catch— and Harri feared, rightfully so, that such displeasure was inspired by her. The lines of her body went taut, a suspended second where she waited. Waited for him to hover over her, waited for those hands to shake her awake, waited for the demands to know what she had done— for that magic of his to wrap around her, a snake constricting, and just squeeze. And Harri fortified herself to face his anger with her own, to feed off that vitriolic mood and channel it into something she could use for armour.

He stalked past her.

The twitches of a frown and an overriding sense of bemusement as the balcony doors were opened. She only paused long enough to make sure he had left before daring to sit up, strung nerves turning lax. Twisting to peer over the edge of the armchair, a symphony of cracks along her spine, she peered out onto the veranda. The Dark Lord had his back to her— a sight rarely experienced as of late— his shoulders flexed and head bowed ever so slightly. Bemusement fell to concern. And then, against her better judgement, she was tentatively approaching him, feet a whisper over the ground.

"Go back inside. You're going to catch a cold," his muttered command. 

She pressed on, resolutely ignoring the sting of the evening air against her exposed limbs and the stone tile nipping her toes. Long since had she changed into her nightclothes and she halfheartedly regretted it, the honeysuckle-breeze carrying a chill. Even though they were approaching the peak of summer, the days balmy and sometimes unforgiving, the dusk was still marked by a dip in temperature. And while Harri had no idea as to where, exactly, Malfoy Manor was located, there was a suspicion they were close to the North Sea— after all, Little Whinging had never been like this.

"I don't mind," she said slowly.

"You haven't eaten," he pointed out tersely, not quite looking at her.

"Not hungry, I suppose."

Harri paused by his shoulder, the barest glimmers of alarm at how off he seemed. His eyes, nearly as dark as wine under the moonlight, were fixed firmly out onto the manicured lawn, the muscle flexed in the curve of his jaw— she glanced down to his hands, the knuckles whitened from the pressure in which they were gripping the railing. Something was wrong and she had a feeling that, for once, it wasn't her fault— or, at least, not yet. A soft sigh and the girl leaned against the balustrade, elbows propping her up and back turned to the acres of kempt grass. She continued to observe him, eyes dragging over his profile when he had fallen silent. It would be a truth universally acknowledged that, even in his rancour and displeasure, Tom Riddle was a beautiful creature— one might even be inclined to say that only added to the appeal. A man who had the face of a god and the thrill of a power to back it. 'How many,' she noted the curl that rested above his brow, fingers itching to brush it back into place, 'have fallen for that face alone?' Harri considered it had to be an impressive number if the clamouring in the Great Hall each morning was to be an indication— flashes of Lavender sitting cross-legged on her bed, joyfully pasting his photos into a scrapbook. 

And despite having been around the man nearly every day, there were still moments when he would manage to stun her— the flash of an indulgent smile, the casual grace in his hands, the sound of his laughter. 'What Lav would give to be in my shoes right now,' a fleeting thought, enraptured by how radiant he was under the halo of stars. Luminous, splendent— in the depths of her subconscious, an image persisted. How flawless his naked skin had been, how broad his shoulders, the sharp angles of his hips as the towel hung off them haphazardly—.

"You're staring again."

A blink— the trance shattered. Harri snapped her head forward, the tips of her ears burning, "Sorry."

Voldemort chuckled under his breath, tone edged with something close to amusement, "I never said that I minded."

And that was the truth— at least where Harri was concerned. While there were times when he didn't mind the scrutiny as much, times when it even entertained him— gave him the sense of a god transversing amongst mortals— it mostly irked him. Especially in those unfortunate instances when he was privy to their vapid thoughts. And yes, having a face most deemed attractive was an undeniable advantage, especially when combined with a honeyed tongue— it was how he had managed to climb so high, so quickly, to do what Icarus, ultimately, could not. But the benefits were nulled whenever those prying looks and untempered lusts edged under his skin, festering and cloying— an unwavering, never-quieting buzz in his conscious. But Harri? Harri, with those impossibly green eyes and reverential innocence? Well, she could make any king or man feel as though they owned the world— an uncanny power he was certain she wasn't even aware of possessing. And some masochistic side to himself wondered how many, exactly, had she unknowingly influenced in that way? How many had she trapped under such a spell— pale eyes and blond hair made an uninvited appearance in his thoughts. A boy with an air of arrogance— how hopeful he had looked entering the assembly, no doubt searching for a certain girl.

He clenched his jaw, teeth nearly cracking. A wandering hand slipped into the inner pocket to retrieve a cardboard carton and lighter. The blissful moments where he had forgotten the meeting were gone, frustration only growing with hindsight— a cigarette was brought to his mouth, lighter flaring to life. He considered there were probably more refined methods of smoking, something more magical and befitting of his reputation— but they weren't nearly as mollifying. That there was something comforting found in the remnants of his adolescent rebellion, a solace in the routine. Voldemort inhaled, encouraging the embers to grow. He knew she was watching. That astonishment was clear in those wide eyes, her surprise a palpable, vibrant, living thing in their bond. A slow drag, crimson gaze sliding over to his horcrux. Logic demanded that he get her a coat, a cloak, something to cover herself up with— the girl was shaking to a considerable degree. But sadism thought it would be a shame— not when she wore the moonlight oh-so-prettily, not when she shivered oh-so-beautifully. And feeling the need to contribute, depravity wondered how she would look trembling from something other than the cold. A war of multiple factions, of truths in his mind. Voldemort pulled the cigarette away, exhaling through parted lips. The smoke curled into the night sky, a wisp dancing up to the stars.

"Bad meeting?" Harri finally asked, trying to recover from the shock of seeing the Dark Lord smoke, of all things.

"If you would count being surrounded by incompetent, useless fools as a ‘bad meeting’," he gritted out, "then yes."

“Incompetent fools’? Yikes, what did they do? Forget to meet their monthly quota of burning down villages and robbing cradles?" she angled for a joke to lessen the tension— all she received was a scowl.

"A month. They've already had a month. And yet, Fenrir and those useless mutts of his still haven't found Gregorovitch."

Harri watched as he tapped the ash over the veranda's balustrade, tracing the glow of embers as they plunged into the darkness below— they extinguished mid-way through their freefall. The malice in his tone made even her wince, a rush of pity for the werewolf. While she held no love for Fenrir, their past interactions leading her to find him rather distasteful, it wasn't entirely his fault Gregorovitch was eluding capture. Green eyes trailed back over to Voldemort, his stare focused on some point in the distance. He took another inhale, two truths processing unexpectedly— one, smoking was strangely attractive when he did it, and two, she was intrigued. She had the oddest urge to try it herself, despite never giving much thought to the habit prior, a heightened curiosity as to what it must feel and taste like. Entranced as he held the cigarette loosely between two fingers, she studied the smouldering end.

"A month really isn't that long. Europe's a big place, after all," she reasoned.

"Not that you would understand, Harri, but time is of the essence here," Voldemort snapped. "The longer I sit around waiting, the more active Grindelwald's remaining factions will become."

He could feel his temper rising— those little solar flares in the darkness of his mindscape, the scattered pockets of heat that threatened to coalesce. And he rationally knew it wasn't because of Harri— no, she was just unlucky enough to be in his vicinity at the moment. But while she was sleeping soundly at night, a fact he made certain of, he was kept awake by troubled thoughts— thoughts mostly involving Grindelwald. While confident in his abilities, having the edge of being younger and possessing the elder wand, and assured by his theory that Dark Lords were chosen cyclically, the possibility still nagged, however slight, that he could be defeated— after all, Dumbledore had nearly been when the two faced each other in their youth. And now wasn't the right time to potentially face Grindelwald, not when he was still missing one of the vital pieces that would secure him an ultimate victory— a piece he was still searching for. He had come too far, sacrificed too much, bled too deeply for everything to come collapsing down now.

And then there was the separate matter of a menace that took the form of a teenage boy with pointed features and an upturned nose. Another looming threat, another pressing question— 'Just how close are they?' A constant worry that something was missed while he had been busy building his empire, his legacy. And though she never explicitly mentioned the boy to him, it was undeniable that she held some degree of affectionate concern towards Draco— however, whether it was romantic or platonic remained unaddressed. It set him on edge.

Voldemort took another slow drag, the paper turning to ash in a slow crawl.

“While you may be able to sit around all day, playing dress-up and Merlin only knows what else, not all of us have that luxury,” his tongue turned silver— a distant voice screaming for him to shut up, to stop talking— he couldn't. "Some of us have responsibilities that we can't just ignore whenever we want."

She stared at him with thinly-veiled incredulity. Harri did her best to rationalise he hadn't necessarily meant it, that he was speaking from a place of frustration— she could feel it, after all, as vivid and defined as her own emotions. 'He's upset and venting,' logic reminded— and how she hated that it did. The rough grit of the railing bit into her elbows, a sustained ache that only added to her worsening mood. And while she knew it was best to not overreact, it was difficult to fully resist the desire to become a thorn in his side nonetheless. Before she knew what she was doing, she was reaching for the cigarette. Plucking it from his lips, Harri didn't deign to answer that sharp, silent question held in his gaze— a tentative inhale, the acidic taste of tobacco a bright bloom on her tongue. It mildly burnt her lungs, a scratching tickle as she exhaled— a steady stream of smoke filled the space between them as she turned to Voldemort, something akin to triumph upon seeing that bewildered expression of his.

"Well, it's not surprising," she stated nonchalantly.

"What is?"

"That Fenrir can't find Gregorovitch," Harri explained with an arch of her brow and the slightest smirk. "Considering he isn't even in Europe at the moment."

That triumph morphed into unbridled exultation when he was rendered mute— the slack in his jaw at what she was insinuating, the hunger held in those scarlet depths. Harri twisted around to press her stomach into the railing, leaning forward and ankles crossed— she wanted to savour the moment.

"You know where he is," Voldemort finally breathed out.

"That I do."

"And?"

She tapped off the ash with the ease of a practised smoker, a teasing lilt in her voice, “Relax, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. But you know, I can’t divulge something as precious as this without a little quid pro quo.”

Harri knew he had tried to stifle his scoff, the sound caught between outrage and amusement— a muttered 'brat' under his breath. And when he had asked her what she wanted, that small smirk lifted even higher. Unable to fully help herself, relishing that she had, finally, gotten the upper-hand, glinting eyes shifted over her shoulder. They landed purposefully on the desk— it stood out in the study, so starkly austere that it could be seen from beyond the double French doors. 

"Oh, I already took the liberty of working out a new deal between us."

"You-!"

A delayed reaction before he was fleeing back inside. She was being, by no means, subtle, both of them knowing intimately what was housed in the top drawer of the desk. There was hissing, the clean snap of a latch springing free— a frantic shuffling. Harri took a drag, chancing a glimpse up to the northern star. It twinkled against the inky backdrop, the brightest pinpoint in a sky punctuated by them— a beacon for all those who were lost to follow. A cry of dismay, of vexation from behind her. ‘Looks like he found the wand.’

"Harri!" he called her, demanding to be obeyed.

Satisfaction thrummed in her veins as she dabbed the remainder of the lit cigarette onto the railing. It fizzled in protest, a blackened pockmark set against the white stone. And as she left the bud next to the ash, a thought crossed her mind that smoking was something she could rather get used to. 

The bloodied wand was laxly held between long fingers, his eyes a matching shade that sparked in their blatant displeasure. They were fixed on his horcrux, slanting with derision at how blasé she appeared— and, inwardly, he was begrudgingly impressed that she managed to figure out the drawer's locking mechanisms in the first place. Harri had paused in the balcony's doorway, arms crossed defiantly and leaning into the frame— the pair stared at one another, a silent appraisal and unspoken challenge to see who would determine the course of the conversation. And then numerous things clicked— what she had been doing lurking in the study, the perplexing scent of fresh blood. 'She was throwing off the trace.' Astonishment caused his mask to slip, brows raising in his surprise. He had been so certain she was unaware of how the charm functioned, nevermind how to impede its accuracy— yet, as always, the girl was intent on defying his expectations.

When her face had lit up with mirth, with unfiltered delight, he realised he had been caught gaping— embarrassment became an ugly twin to anger. Voldemort tossed the wand onto the desk, the sound a dull clang as it bounced once, then twice, before rolling off the edge. It disappeared somewhere on the floor below. Where, exactly, he did not care— it was next to useless to him now. 

"You-," he seethed quietly, "do you have any idea what you have done?!"

"Oh, stop with the theatrics," she snapped in turn."You don't need the wand!"

Harri moved further into the room, crossing the rug with measured strides. The orange glow of the fire stretched her shadow long, a distorted image imposed upon the rows of bookcases that made her seem larger than she actually was. Marching to the desk, pausing on the side opposite to him, hands found purchase among the sheaves of parchment. Fingers splayed to balance her weight, she leant forward, chin lifting mulishly. Mentally, she added 'sore loser' to the ongoing list of areas that the Dark Lord needed to sorely improve in.

"You don't need it," she repeated, "when I'm giving you the maker instead. What's worth more to you— a stranger's wand or knowing where Gregorovitch is?"

Voldemort slammed his hands down on the desk to mimic her posture, leaning forward to loom over her— his lip curled into a sneer at that belligerent, obstinate look burning in those verdant eyes. In retrospect, he supposed he should be happy about the development— his horcrux was proving to do what his followers could not. She was capable, resourceful, cunning— that, as Bellatrix had pointed out, she was quickly learning what it meant to play their game. Not to mention, in a roundabout way, Harri was hinting that she was on his side, was willing to help him through her own methods. But there was a fundamental truth to his character that baulked at the notion of being outsmarted, shown-up, that despised it more than anything else— especially when her motives for doing such were spurred on by a past that refused to die. That her entire reason for providing any assistance on the matter was to find another lamb for slaughter and not out of any modicum of loyalty.

"Don't be coy, Harri, we both know whose wand that was. Miss Granger will surely be missing it— all I wanted was to ensure their proper reunion," he moved closer, his face hovering near her own. "But offering up one life for another? A touch dark for you, wouldn't you say, love?"

Harri stifled her nerves when he had so casually acknowledged that it was Hermione's spare, a mild surge of panic at the admission. But such a feeling rapidly ebbed when he had shifted forward so their noses nearly brushed— that, despite the gravity, the threats, the strung tension, there was an unwitting skip in her pulse. And she cursed herself for instinctively glancing down to his lips, an inappropriate thought, however brief, entertaining the possibility that he might kiss her— he seemed to have noticed it as smug interest coloured the foreground of their bond. A dry swallow and she made herself scowl at the spot between his brows, a stern self-admonition that now wasn't the time to become distracted— and, rationally, she should have put some distance between them by now to enforce that boundary. But that taunt of his, that snide comment, made it impossible to back down first, to grant him the flustered reaction he was clearly angling for.

"Do you want to know where Gregorovitch is or not?" she gritted out.

A beat of silence as he remained uncompromisingly close, not moving as though he were weighing his current options. Then there was a click of his tongue, a reluctant adjustment as he leaned back to the slightest degree.

Harri interpreted it as his way of saying yes without verbally acknowledging she held all of the pieces— 'Ass.'

"As I said, he's not even in Europe. The last weekend of every month, he comes to the Isles to meet with the Order and sell them the wands— probably through an illegal portkey. They meet in the back of the Three Broomsticks," she explained. "If you send someone there tomorrow, they'll be there when he arrives." 

Voldemort straightened his spine— a curt nod on his end as he closed the drawer, mind turning over with a plan. If her intel was correct, then they would have the wandmaker in custody sooner than later— it was the good news he desperately needed. Yet, despite that, he couldn’t quite ignore the desire to express his discontent. 

"While I admit you've done well in upholding your promise on retrieving information from Miss Weasley, Harri, results do not excuse your methods. The sneaking around, the deception— we talked about this, did we not?"

A delayed blink on her end.

"Deception?" she echoed softly.

And she might have laughed at his nerve for even suggesting such a thing if she wasn't so appalled by his apparent inability to recognise his own hypocrisy. Harri levelled a withering look on him, lips thinning— ambling slowly over to the bookcases, she sought to divert herself with some of the trinkets littering the shelves before she saw fit to set him on fire. Or worse. 'Be an adult about this,' a stern reminder as the spyglass, silver and put on display under a glass cloche, was the recipient of her animosity. The metal tarnished, ugly blooms spreading over the once pristine surface. 'Calm yourself'— her conscience chimed in, a persistent buzz, an annoying fly.

"Yeah, I thought we had. Talked about it, I mean."

"What are you implying, Harri?" the question was a quiet one, an undercurrent of a warning.

"Just that I thought we both agreed to trust one another, that's all," fingers traced idly over the spines of the books. "But that's my bad if I misunderstood."

There was no immediate response but Harri could feel the weight of his shrewd appraisal on her shoulders, the way he was following from afar as she paced along the shelving. And somehow, him refusing to say anything just made it all the more incriminating— it fuelled her forward, a surge of resentment.

"You want to talk about deception? Alright, fine. When were you going to tell me about the courting proposals? Or, for another matter, the fact you, inexplicably, had my acceptance letter in a locked drawer?"

"Har—."

"Or, oh I don't know," she interrupted him at the first signs of protest, glaring at the slanted titles of the novels, "that you decided to invite the French to my birthday? Seems like something you should have mentioned to me by now, doesn't it?"

Her steps came to a halt, a belated realisation that she had walked halfway around the study's perimeter in a bout of distracted anger. Harri allowed her hand to drop from the bookcases, a coil of nerves and a spark behind her ribs as she waited— waited for a reply, a drawn out anticipation to fight with him, for that ever-cresting wave of antagonism to crash. And some part of her truly hoped he would attempt to lie his way out of it, to somehow make it out to be her fault. A shaky breath was held, a burning as her lungs swelled— an endeavour to find her center before it was too late.

"Harri, you wouldn't understand."

Ah— there it was. The safest route— a purposefully ambiguous answer that didn't outright confirm nor deny, that belittling phrase that made it seem as though she were little more than a simple child. It was a tactic she had spent years enduring, the favourite move of a certain ex-headmaster whenever he felt tired of dealing with her, when he couldn't be bothered to put in the effort to explain his decisions. The coil wound tighter, an ache in her teeth— that insatiable itch somewhere deep inside of her flourished.

"It is difficult to explain and not for you—."

She whirled around, voice pitching, "So make it make sense then, Tom!"

If he was surprised by the sudden usage of his name, he hadn't shown it— save for the slightest jump in the muscle above his brow and the rigidity bleeding into his shoulders. Her hands fell to her sides— nails impressed deep half-moons into their palms, the pain nor the impending threat to break the skin heeded. Voldemort had gone impossibly still from behind the desk, a calculating light as he regarded the girl, her emotions spilling over into their shared connection— an ugly whirlwind of embittered spite and heightened dread. 

"Do you want to know what I've been thinking during those times you claim I'm 'playing dressup'? I'm wondering if I made the wrong choice," she moved half a step closer to him. "If I made a mistake in choosing you. So tell me, should I regret it? Am I your equal? Or just another bargaining chip for you to trade off to whoever makes the highest offer?!"

This time, the shock did show clearly upon his face— his brows drew together, a crease between them deepening. Static crackled over his skin, a charged current from her leaking magic that made the air in the room feel alive, voltaic. The puzzle was complete— why she had brought up the French invitation in the first place, the courting proposals, the presence of dread mixed into her anger. And Voldemort, though he tried, couldn't quite help the burst of laughter, far too entertained by the ludicrous notion to suppress it. 'So that is what she's thinking?' A flash of too-white, too-sharp teeth— the delight of him a startling contrast to the bewilderment of her. He rounded the desk, the chuckle trailing off as his amusement darkened, morphed into something more warped— a driving, possessive need to remedy any and all of her misconceptions of the matter as thoroughly as possible.

The Dark Lord approached the girl, hands reaching for her own— a frown when she jerked away from him, a rush of irritation at the ensuing vehement objections.

"It's not funny! I'm being serious— I'm not going to go off and marry some stranger so you can keep up this stupid pretense—."

"Harri," Voldemort interjected, reaching for her hands again and grasping them tightly— she protested, trying to yank free. "Will you stop and listen for just one second?!"

"I didn't tell you about the proposals because they don't matter. It's not my intention, not now or ever, to make you marry anyone— least of all a stranger," he explained. “Do you really think I would send you away like that?”

Harri stopped struggling. Teeth sunk into the soft flesh of her inner-cheek, a deliberate gnaw as she sought to determine the truth of the sentiment. 'He could be lying.' His thumbs were running across the backs of her hands— the delicate bones shifted under his administrations, the joints pliant. Warmth was spreading out from the point of their contact, a creeping crawl up her arms, over her chest, a pleasant heat on the back of her neck. And while she, normally, would have been upset with him for tapping into the horcrux bond without her consent, it was difficult to be when relief rolled through her like one wave after another— an unwitting, soothing balm.

"Then what about the French? You're not trying to match me with a certain prince of theirs?" the question was muttered as she looked down to their hands— the way his engulfed hers, tapered fingers so easily interwoven with her own.

"Wherever did you get such an idea?" 

"Madam Malkin suggested—."

"Malkin," a sneer on the name, his grip a fleeting squeeze, "is an old gossip that only exists to create needless drama."

The corners of his mouth twitched at the lingering traces of her anxiety— intense bursts of putrid yellow in his mindscape, the ensuing acidity an unwelcome dance upon his own tongue. 'She doesn't believe me.' And that thought alone inspired an odd sort of muted panic, the origins of the impulse to relieve her of such worries eluding him. Untangling their fingers, he lightly cupped her palms instead, coaxing them to turn over— they limply followed the instruction, their smoothness marred with deep impressions from her nails. Her wrists were exposed, his gaze roaming over the fork of them with keen interest. They were beautiful, he had determined in the moment, a blue that bled away into purple, a lovely contrast against the translucency of her skin— like the morning sky in the early hours before dawn, a poetic beauty. And how easy, almost terrifyingly so, it would be to make that sky bleed red— to see what secrets were held inside of her, what she was composed of.

"I promise you, Harri, my only purpose for inviting them was to show that I can play nice. Nothing more and nothing less."

And then he was dipping his head, lips pressing into the open left palm— a chaste kiss in the cradle between her life and heart lines, seeking to cover where those half-moons lay. She jolted at the unexpected contact, confusion offset by the driving curiosity that kept her rooted into place— a thrum of anticipation. Another featherlight kiss to her Mount of Venus, the soft muscle where the thumb converged into the palm. When his lips met her wrist, however, it was a harder press, more grounded, more real. Over the branching veins, he could feel her pulse, the way it was a flighty rhythm, an erratic cadence. The very opposite to his own lethargy— a possessive sort of pride that he could elicit such a reaction, the desire to see what else he could draw out from her curbed by a barely-strung will. Crimson eyes lifted up to hers, evenly held. Unwavering.

"You are far more than a 'bargaining chip', his words were a solemn whisper into her skin. "No, my dear one, you are a gift— one that isn't to be so casually squandered on lesser men."

Harri fought to gain a level head— to not be blindsided by such unforeseen tenderness. But, as she was quickly learning, it was a battle near impossible to win. The window for clear thoughts was narrowing at an alarming rate, the sensation of his lips on her and the slip into parseltongue a fatal combination for her sanity. And as she stared down into those eyes, a heat held in them that made her breath hitch and her skin flush, she did her best to listen to the faint warning bells. That muddled plea to understand this was still Lord Voldemort— that things were never fully innocent or sweet or normal between them. It wasn't in either of their nature. And yet, Harri found herself succumbing to the idea anyways— perhaps it was a willful ignorance or a naive need for escapism, who could say. All the same, his words made her choke. Like she had taken a greedy gulp of water, too-fast and too-much, a pocket of air that stung on its way down and persisted as a strange fullness in her stomach. A heavy swallow, his eyes drawn to the movement of the column of her throat.

"And what about the letter?" she forced the question, voice hoarse, cracking.

His gaze flitted back to her face, spine straightening as he noted how pinched her expression remained. A guarded look, a carefully constructed mask though all he truly desired was to draw her to him, to smooth out every line, every crease— but then she had to ask about the letter. And he knew that whatever he would say or do next was going to make things worse— at least the proposals had been a misunderstanding, simple enough to correct. But the letter? That was different. 

Eyes glinting in the dim light, their colour enriched by the warmth of the fire, he guided her to the lounge— a tilt of his chin in an unspoken request she sit. Mind racing with countless scenarios, he allowed her the chance to settle while he turned to the one thing he knew he could always rely on for fortification— the Dark Lord poured himself a drink. Scotch splashed noisily into the glass, the rounded globe of ice spinning under the steady stream. A pause and then, before rationality could talk him out of it, he prepped a second one— she was going to be seventeen soon enough anyway. 'Who knows, it might even make her more receptive to the conversation,' a humourless, scathing thought.

Voldemort arranged himself next to the girl, pointedly glancing down to the feet that rested upon the sofa— an arch of his brow and a defiant tilt of her head in response. Wisely, he chose to withhold his commentary. Handing her a tumbler, the left leg crossed over the right as he leaned back into the chaise. Her stare pinned him down, a weighted expectation— an unbidden look as she drew her knees up to her chest, the nightgown shifting to reveal more skin than usual. Tongue running over his canines, he took a contemplative sip to distract himself from the direction his thoughts were heading, the burn of alcohol an anchor.

"I'm starting a new school," he stated bluntly, staring at the quivering flames in the mantel instead.

"For muggleborns," he clarified before she could ask.

The girl inhaled her liquor, a wet cough as she choked— Voldemort inwardly grimaced at the reaction. 'There it is.' He took another swig from his glass, waiting until she could gather her bearings enough to speak.

"A new school?! What about Hogwarts?"

He swished the amber-coloured liquid around the rim, "Indeed. Though, to only call it a 'school' would be a disservice. It's meant to be more extensive than Hogwarts, housing children as young as three."

"Three—?!"

Harri straightened, mouth dropping into a rounded 'oh' at what he was hinting at. No parent in their right mind would let their three-year-old attend a magical boarding school— which meant that they had no say in the matter.

"You can't be serious! What about their parents?"

"I'm not cruel," he snapped back, grip tightening on the glass. "All parties involved will be obliviated. It'll be as though they never even had a magical child to begin with."

"Wha— this is madness! You can't just segregate children based on blood heritage—."

Crimson eyes slid over to her, a sharp look in them and a darkening around the irises— a telltale sign that she was encroaching upon dangerous territory. The silent warning was enough to make her jaw click close, an audible snap though she continued to scowl.

"You said it yourself, Harri. Muggleborns are at a disadvantage by the time they are introduced to the wizarding world. Eleven is far too late for them to adjust properly, especially when compared to their half or pureblooded classmates."

"Well, yeah, but I meant maybe introducing them sooner— not stealing them from their parents!"

"'Stealing'? '' he echoed, scoffing at the concept. "Do you even know what happens to most muggleborns? Psychologically speaking, that is. They grow up with fractured identities. By the time they receive their Hogwarts letter, they are either too acclimated to the muggle world to know what to do or were taught to hide their magic by their parents— most of them are even admitted to the infirmary during their first year for panic attacks. And that's the best-case scenario."

"But then we have cases of children who can't adjust," Voldemort's tone had taken on a solemn quality. "Cases in which a child was taught to suppress their magic. Do you know what they usually become? The few where it's more than just a minor psychological block? They develop an obscurus—a parasitic force, Harri. And, at that point, the child either dies on their own before adulthood or they have to be destroyed before the Statute of Secrecy is broken."

He tilted his head back in a quick swallow, "For those who have to live in both worlds, they exist in purgatory. In the wizarding world, they are so far behind that it's damn near impossible to catch up— you and I both know that struggle. We also know what it's like living in the muggle world after learning of our true identities. We can't use magic for months unless we want to trip the Trace, which can lead to a wand being snapped or expulsion, and we can't tell anyone what we are for the exact same reasons."

"It's time they took their place among their own kind," Voldemort reasoned, looking over to the girl who had fallen silent.

"But it's a bit extreme, don't you think?" she couldn't meet his eyes, the intensity held in them— rather, she looked to the glinting surface of the liquor for a distraction. "Some of them can be well-adjusted. I mean, look at Hermione."

He shook his head, "Your friend Miss Granger is in the minority. Even if the parents accept them, then what of their siblings? Their muggle relatives? Your own mother was a prime example of what happens when one sibling is blessed with magic and the other is not. Resentment thrives in the shadows of greatness."

"And we both know intimately how muggles can react when faced with things they do not, cannot, understand," his words were heavy, his face unsmiling.

When those red, red eyes had landed on her, it was a wake of fire she could viscerally feel across her skin. And it was just that one simple allusion that drudged up the worst sorts of memories, ones that were suppressed but oh so easily coaxed out by the implications in his soft voice. She wished she could deny it, could find fault in his reasoning— to point out that their own tragic experiences weren't universal. But it was difficult when all she saw was every unkind hand and heard every harsh word, when she relived every burn, every bone-deep bruise, every angry welt. An endless, vile loop— 'Freak' . Flashes of dusty spaces and barred windows, of blood on the steps and decapitated snakes. A stone in her stomach, bile rising. The malevolent whisper that pointed out her demons were long since vanquished, that she had personally signed their own death warrants, hadn't helped the nausea. A muted memory of broken bodies in the dungeons, the horrors of torture as her own pain was returned back to them tenfold. She took a long, deep sip, striving to ignore the fact her grip had turned weak, shaky— from the cold, she liked to imagine, though the study's fire was far from anaemic.

The trembling hadn't gone unnoticed by him. Voldemort took one look at her hands and knew what she was thinking without even having to peer into her mind. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and the hand not holding his glass wrapped about her ankle— a gentle tug to encourage the drawn up leg to straighten out. He draped it across his lap, the other, having taken the hint, followed. A glance was spared down to them once they settled, idly noting the curve of her calves, the thinness of the ankles, the taper of her feet.

"Did you know that I grew up in the '40s?" he asked offhandedly, hand coming to rest on her shin.

"I was born in 1926. The Interwar Period," he had chuckled humourlessly to himself, the sound blackened, sardonic. "Not many orphans can say they were actually born in the orphanage— but I had that lucky privilege."

The ice cube clinked in his glass, a deafening sound. A log popped, a spray of crackling embers in the background— Voldemort continued to study the legs in his lap, thumb rubbing circles along the shin and noting the contrast of soft skin against hard bone. Truthfully, he wasn't even entirely sure why he was being so forthcoming with his past, with those blots and stains upon his youth— those secrets he had long since buried, memories he had been content to lock away and never revisit. But he figured, to some extent, it would be remiss of him to let her battle her demons alone— and maybe, just maybe, it would make her understand why this was important.

"Things hadn't fully recovered from the first war. And then the depression hit in '31. The system was overloaded with both those willingly surrendered by their parents and those who had lost them— Wool's wasn't an exception. They rationed nearly everything— food, clothes, water. Some turned to begging, some opted to become legitimate through low-paying labour. But most of us stole," his hand wandered down to her ankle, fingers skirting over the jut of bone. "It wasn't exactly the best of circumstances, admittedly. Those who became sick typically never recovered and those who were caught thieving rarely returned."

"The London after my first year was preparing for war. Raid shelters took the place of pharmacies, there were soldiers in the streets, anti-air guns on every corner. And the sirens— they were the worst part. At the end of the summer, all children were supposed to leave. 'Operation Pied Piper' they called it— but not us. No, the muggleborns, we had to stay because if we went, that meant we had no way of getting back to the Express. By the time I left, Germany had invaded Poland."

There was a darkness flickering in his gaze, a tick in the muscle of his jaw, "I had begged Dippet to let me stay at the school over the summer— he refused. August 9th, the Birmingham Blitz. August 24th and Oxford Street followed. The main event we all knew was coming— it was just a matter of when. Eight months of continuous bombing and, while I had Hogwarts to be my sanctuary during it, I was forced to eventually return."

He drained the remainder of the glass, the fire slipping down to his stomach and into his limbs doing little to cut the coldness that always accompanied such recollections. Even now, he could hear the screech of the sirens piercing the air, smell the choking scent of sulfur— the smoking carnage, the scorched rubble littering the streets where buildings once stood, tall and proud. Blackened corpses, their skin and sinew melted away to leave behind charred bones— a constant, looming reminder that Death was on the move, just waiting his turn to have his pound of flesh. That cloying taste of fear, those ever-rising tides of shadow that threaten to drown him, consume him— throw him into the abyss, forgotten. His hold tightened on her ankle, viselike and unrelenting as fingers impressed themselves into the cream of her skin— if it was painful, she hadn't given any indication. A strained inhale through his nose, a struggle to gather together his narrative and come back into the present.

"There were a few others, some in my year, some below, some upper, who were in the same position as I was. While I was lucky enough to make it the Express each year, they were not."

"I saw things that no child should ever have to. I saw the desperation of humanity, the cruelty muggles inflict upon one another. I was caught in the middle of their war," his voice had dropped to a whisper. "And the most damning thing was that I couldn't use my magic. I couldn't rely on it to save myself when I needed it, no matter how tempting it was. You see, I couldn't risk being expelled from Hogwarts, from having my wand snapped if the Trace was tripped— because I needed to be able to go back."

"And that is precisely why I'm building this school for them. I don't ever want a magical child to be in a situation like that again, to be caught up in muggle conflicts, to feel as—," the word he meant was 'helpless'— but it wouldn't form no matter how hard he tried, an acrid taste that refused to abate.

"I was not planning on using your letter without your permission first," a detached sense of guilt as he released her ankle, the handprint left behind an ugly bloom, "But it is a prime example of what can happen when a magical child is left to the whims of the muggle world. It would help people see the reality, especially if it came from you."

Harri looked on with mute horror, unable to formulate a coherent response. A silent tear had slipped past her lashes, a scorching path carved into her cheek. While his words were disquieting enough, it was what she had felt from him that truly broke her. Their connection, whether he was aware of it or not, was raw, untempered— a living, sentient thing that brought with it a torrent of memories not entirely her own. She had seen everything, had been an unwilling participant to the atrocities of his formative years. And how damning it was. It flashed by at a dizzying speed, a blurred cycle of images. The mutilated bodies, the shrieking alarms, the suffocating smoke— the unholy aftermath signature of an acrimonious god. Something writhed about her heart, an uncomfortable squeeze as she recognised his emotions all too well. That fear she hadn't believed him capable of possessing, the desperation of a young boy unable to do anything about his circumstances but be swept along— a sense of helplessness she understood. And how less like Lord Voldemort did he seem right now— so far from that ineffable, deific man that casually moved the heavens to his design. Rather, it was Tom— just Tom, as broken and scarred as she.

And there was a nagging sensation, an urgency that she had to reach out before it was too late, before that vulnerable boy she had fallen for all those years ago disappeared once more. 

Abandoning her glass to the side table, the girl moved before he could blink— her legs straddled him, her arms wrapping about his shoulders for support. He had gone rigid, taken off guard— a hiss of a drawn breath when her face burrowed in the crook of his neck, a stark juxtaposition between the coolness of him and the warmth of her. Those thin arms constricted with a surprising amount of strength, body melding into his as though she sought to single-handedly ward off his demons, to become his personal shield.

"Okay," Harri whispered the word into his shoulder.

A moment passed where all she did was cling to him, striving to find solace in the slowness of his pulse, the heady scent of his cologne— it was a lulling tide, her fingers flexing against the broadness of his back. There was a brush against the dip of her waist, hesitant as though waiting to see if she would become startled, flee. When she hadn't, when there were no protests or objections, his arms circled warily, loosely about her torso— caging her in but not confining. No further words had been exchanged— an unspoken conversation passed only through the beating of their hearts and the steadfast rhythm of their breaths, a primal devotion written into every inhale, every exhale.

They had remained like that for an immeasurable amount of time, the fire slowly dying until it had become nothing more than smouldering ash in the mantle. Under the cover of darkness, the slivers of moonlight bore witness to the reunion of a split soul, a fractured half seeking out its twin and refusing to part. A moment of peace, of repose— a portion of the universe carved out just for two. 

 

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 60: A Witch's Debut

Notes:

Hello everyone!

This chapter turned out to be....far longer than I originally intended and perhaps is a touch self-indulgent (I really love ballroom scenes and I can't help myself even though I truly didn't intend to write this much) but I hope you will all enjoy it nonetheless 💕 I had fun writing it and I hope it'll be a fun read for you guys as well— lots of really good Tom and Harri interactions going on.

As always, thank you so much to everyone who has been leaving me comments, bookmarking, interacting with me on my other platforms— I really appreciate every single one of you 💕

You are all shining stars ✨

Enjoy!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The morning of July 31st had been marked by a gentle summer breeze and not a cloud in sight— a perfectly fine sort of day that promised to reap only good tidings. Waking long before the household could, Harri passed the first few hours of her birthday alone, the rising sun her companion— the lilac sky was streaked with magentas and oranges, the aureole of light golden as it crested the horizon. Peaceful. And how curious was it that the quietest of moments always brought with them an interlude of introspection, how the most mundane could turn out to be the most magical. Like now, for instance. As the girl stood there, peeking out from the heavy silk of the drapes and past the dew-ladened panes, she marvelled at the fact today arrived at all. That, against every design of Fate, she had managed to survive to see the dawning of her 17th year— alive and all limbs intact, no less. ‘I bet Snape can’t believe it either,’ a good-natured scoff, a finger swiping across the misty glass— a streak was left behind in the moisture, cutting through it and turning the pad numb. In the distance was the reedy trill of the residential peacocks, an unapologetic declaration that it was time for the world to awaken. 

She stepped away from the window and allowed the curtain to resettle— the bedroom was bathed in dusky light once more, a second of serenity before the festivities could begin in earnest. It had been a few days since their conversation in the study, a heartfelt tête-à-tête that only the crackling mantle had borne witness to, and her ensuing promise to help in whichever way she could. Yet, despite that, Voldemort hadn’t said much more on the matter. Rather, he suggested it could be dealt with after her birthday, a claim— though she wasn’t quite sure how truthful it was— that he didn’t want to take away from the joy of the celebration. ‘Everyone’s taking this quite seriously, aren’t they?’ 

A hum as she nursed a cup of earl grey— a pot she had brewed herself and a fact that would leave the house-elves aghast upon learning— breathing in the fragrant curls of bergamot, her tongue scalded with the first sip. With a muttered curse, emerald eyes slid over to the ratty backpack abandoned on the coffee table. It had been waiting for her when she came back to what was, formally, known as ‘her room’, an embossed card attached.

'Your roommate, the one named after a plant, asked me to give this to you. - D.M'

Harri hadn’t bothered to open it, too swept along with the final preparations for the gala to contemplate such. But now, finding herself quite alone and without distractions, there was a rising curiosity as to what it contained. Trinkets, for sure, but the bag had been packed months ago when she had thought she was going to the Burrow for the holidays— a plan which never came to fruition. And most of her old belongings weren’t ever retrieved to her knowledge. Not the oversized jumpers, not the crumpled school uniform, not her Gryffindor red-and-gold pyjamas— none of it. No, Voldemort had made quite certain she entered into this new life without any physical reminders of the past, with things only he bought for her and deemed appropriate. At this point, ‘possessive’ seemed too mild of a word. 

Another burning sip before she abandoned the cup, reaching for the shredded nylon backpack instead. It felt odd holding it, the texture rough against her palms— fingers brushed tentatively over the tarnished metal plaque, the stamped name of the brand faded with time. She had swiped it from the trash years ago when Dudley had thrown it out— in pristine condition nonetheless— because he ‘hated’ the maroon colour. Years ago when her life had been sustained by scraps and hand-me-downs, little things to accumulate in her hoard, things no one ever thought to miss— and how out of place did it look now in her room of sheer opulence. A dry swallow as she undid the drawstring tie, blindly reaching in. Near the top was cool metal, a rounded object— one of the many snitches she had kept as victory trophies. She always brought one with her to the Burrow so she and the Weasley siblings could have a game, Hermione their very reluctant referee. A carton of unopened Bertie Botts, a thought to bring them down to Ginny later. A deck of exploding snaps, the packaging wrinkled. One of the numerous sweaters Mrs. Weasley had knitted, a deep, deep pine green— her heart squeezed, a burst of bittersweetness.

But such reminiscence was scattered, dandelion wisps blown away by the slightest of wind, when she felt the silk pooled at the bottom. A light-weightedness to the material, a slippery feel that she didn’t even have to look to know what it was. ‘The invisibility cloak.’ A relic from her father, an heirloom kept within the Potter family for generations. Emerald eyes widened slightly, a bewildered, unseeing blink as her grip clenched and unclenched the fabric to truly confirm— but yes, it was actually there. She had assumed she would never see it again, that it had disappeared along with the rest of her things to some mysterious void.

A knock on the door, the quick succession of two raps.

Her gaze snapped to the silver handle, an odd, panicked desire that pleaded no one could know what she had. 

"Harri?" the muffled question. "It's time to get up."

And then she was frantically stashing the backpack under the couch, a difficulty to make it fit— it finally gave under the administration of a swift kick, the door being pushed inwards not a second later. A strained smile when Narcissa had rushed in, harrowed and afflicted, no doubt, by wrought, excited nerves. And yet, despite that, she still looked as beautiful and put together as always. White blonde hair piled up high and a donning a simple, cream dressing gown, the Malfoy matriarch was the spitting image of elegance even in the early morning hours.

"Har— oh! You're already awake!"

"Yeah, couldn't sleep," Harri offered up a half-baked excuse, trying to pass off the fact her heart was racing from excitement and nothing more.

A sympathetic quirk of full lips, a well-manicured hand helping her off the couch, "Well, it can't be helped, I suppose. I remember the night before my own 17th— the shadows under my eyes were next to impossible to conceal!” 

And then Narcissa was steering her towards the bathroom, tittering at the work that still needed to be accomplished before the evening. Harri, on the other hand, had to bite back a groan.



‘Work’ would have been a remissive description of the laborious routine she had been put through, a foreboding understanding that it was only the beginning. After soaking in a bath scented by rose petals, mercilessly scrubbed until she practically glowed, Narcissa had insisted on anointing rose oil upon her wrists and pulse points— and Harri, for the life of her, couldn’t understand why it was necessary. She refrained from making such a comment. 

Feeling rather raw, the girl had been ushered to the vanity, the silk of her robe a balm to the chafed skin— there was only a brief reprieve to eat when the elves had brought with them an assortment of jams, fruits and pastries. Harri had a few bites of an almond croissant before her stomach churned, a not-so-subtle warning— she settled for some dried apricots instead, a thoughtful chew as she fixated on the reflection of Narcissa in the mirror. There were pins held in the older woman’s mouth, her brows knitted together and a crease between them as she wrestled with a considerable length of auburn hair, fingers deftly working to braid and coil the strands.

“You’re sure you remember the procedure?” Narcissa mumbled past the hairpins.

"Of course— we’ve only talked about it a million times," Harri responded.

She winced as the blunt head of a bobby pin stabbed into her scalp.
"After you finish the formal ceremony," the older woman carried on anyway, "the first dance is given to our Lord. Normally, that honour would be given to the Head of the House but seeing as my cousin is unable to fulfil that duty, His Majesty will be substituting. The remaining dances can be given to whomever— so long as you refrain from dancing with the same person more than three times. Merlin only knows we do not need that sort of scandal at the moment. And the concluding dance—"

"With Voldemort," Harri finished for her, a playful roll of her eyes.  

"And the athame? Once you get to the podium, you know what to do?"

"Yes, Narcissa— don't worry. I won't forget."

The chair was spun around, a flurry of brushes— every once in a while, Narcissa would take a step back, humming in approval at whatever colour she had picked out. The afternoon was stretching on, the chimes of the grandfather clock and the lengthening, slanted rays of sunshine ever-present reminders that time was slipping away. The drag across her lips, the tacky feel of a tint. A dab on her cheeks, the soft bristles leaving behind a dusting on the highpoints. The pull on her lids, a streak of kohl in its wake. Harri wisely suppressed a yawn when pale eyes snapped to her in a silent warning, the look in them a clear enough message— ‘Don’t you dare.’ And she wondered how much longer she would be in this chair, her joints stiffening and patience ever so waning. But then, much to her immense relief, Narcissa had stepped back, picking free a curled wisp in a last-minute adjustment.

"There! That should do."

A hand mirror, gilded and dainty, was pressed into her open palm. Harri angled it towards the vanity, a low whistle at the reflection. A halo of a braided crown had been interwoven into the upper-half of her hair, the design becoming more and more intricate the longer she stared. Resting above the twists and nestled safely into their centre was a headpiece depicting three erupting stars— the largest, eight-pointed, was in the middle while two smaller ones, four-pointed, flanked their companion. They caught the light, encrusted with what, Harri had a suspicion, were actual diamonds. Connected to each outer-star were three looping chains, a fine closely-knit silver, and as she tilted her head, she saw they led to another twin, smaller but no less fine, that rested near her temples. The remaining length of her hair had been curled and left loose, a cascade of fire down her back. Interspersed into the flowing coils were pins of pale gems— she vainly hoped they were merely crystals— that glinted with every slight movement. ‘If only Ginny could see this.’ In the quite literal sense, her hair was dripping wealth and Harri was hesitant to know what the dress would look like in turn.

Her attention shifted to give a cursory glance over her face, thankful enough that the simple makeup balanced out the ornate flamboyancy of her hair. Full lips had been left next to bare, only the slightest tint of rose to them, and her cheeks were brought to life with a modest amount of blush. A pale shimmer decorated her lids, a streak of dark brown liner bringing definition to her eyes while still keeping them soft, innocent almost. A mercy, she figured, that Narcissa had abstained from going overboard— that she was still, more or less, recognisable as herself.

A hand landed on her shoulder, a gentle squeeze and a small smile, “You look absolutely stunning, Harri. Truly the belle of the ball.” 

She returned the smile, unsure of what to say, when there was a knock on the door— both women looked over when a servant entered, a floating garment box trailing close behind. The elf announced a package from Madam Malkin’s had arrived, the giddiness of Narcissa barely contained as she ordered it to be left on the bed. And Harri couldn’t stop the grin from growing as the older woman rushed over once the house-elf departed, an uncharacteristic, childlike anticipation that took years off her face.

“You know,” Harri commented lightly, “I’d say you’re more excited about this than I am.” 

Narcissa responded with an embarrassed clearing of her throat, “Right, yes. Well.”

"I'm kidding, Narcissa," Harri lifted the box’s top off and peeled back the layers of protective tissue paper. "Be as excited as you want.”

Setting the lid aside, there was a quiet gasp next to her— and Harri found herself wholly agreeing with the initial reaction. What first caught her eye was the fabric itself, how it was, seemingly, made of diamonds— blinding, shimmering, starlight itself captured and formed into a dress. Tentative, nervous hands went to pick it up, worried about sullying it, and she blinked in surprise at the unexpected fluidity to the material. It had a silky feel to it, despite her expectations of it being stiff, a coolness that she was already imagining against her skin. And even in the dimness of the bedroom, the filtered streams of light seeping past the sheer inner-drapes, it shone. It seemed to attract and absorb the light for its own gain, glinting with a thousand refractions— a heavy swallow when she contemplated the price. The second detail Harri noticed, and perhaps the most alarming, was the neckline— though, perhaps, it would be more appropriate to say the lack thereof. Mesh, the exact same shade as her skin, composed the front half, a cluster of the flat-back gems coalescing where she supposed her chest was meant to be, providing the barest modicum of modesty— such a notion was severely undercut, however, by the sharp v that extended down to a rather considerable degree. It was a sleeveless design, the back, as she vainly turned it around in hopes she had accidentally opened the box the wrong way, equally nonexistent. And while she did find the material to be beautiful, the scandalous design was enough to warm her ears. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ a passing thought as she allowed Narcissa to take it from her hands.

“Well, Malkin was certainly right about our Lord’s taste,” Narcissa muttered, helplessly awestruck. “Come, let’s try it on.” 

And as Narcissa helped her into the gown, Harri’s impressions were plenty. She couldn’t deny the craftsmanship behind it, how Malkin had done an exemplary job in designing the dress to fit her— it clung like a second skin. But there was an ungodly amount of fabric to manoeuvre, a featherlight charm surely having been cast to keep it from weighing her down. And if she had deemed it to be scandalous in the box, it was positively sinful on. The colourless jewels were scattered sparsely about her shoulders and collarbones, making it appear as though they had been embedded into her skin— and she had been correct in assuming the concentration of them were around her chest. They increased in frequency and in closeness as they dipped down towards her navel, eventually bleeding away into the rest of the shimmering fabric. However, the plunge cut a clean path through them, shattering the illusion of propriety as she was exposed down to her third rib. The bodice was fitted and supported with boning, accentuating the sharp curve of her waist, while the slit on the left side of the skirt bared most of her leg nearly to the upper-thigh. 

The bulk of the dress, however, came from the gathered train attached to the beginning jut of her hips, the material flaring out behind her as an added attachment to the mermaid silhouette. It trailed on the floor, an obscene amount of the same sparkling material that rustled as she shifted in front of the mirror. On the train’s edges were the same jewels from the bodice, scattered in intervals to bleed upwards, climbing like curling vines. Harri half-twisted to take in the back, a discomforting sight to see the smooth curve of her spine and the blades of her shoulders on display for all to see. ‘Definitely going to kill him.’

"I dare say," Narcissa breathed out in wonder, fluffing out the train. "No other witch will ever be able to compete after this."

A strained smile on rosy lips. It was beautiful, that much Harri couldn’t deny— and the material was stunning against her complexion. The silvery-whiteness of it made her own colourations look that much richer in turn, a blank canvas offset by the redness of her hair and the greenness of her eyes. It did paint a pretty enough picture, even if a shocking amount of her was exposed as a consequence. Her hand shot down to grip Narcissa’s upper arm as the woman unexpectedly lifted one of her ankles, sliding the foot into a shoe. Even they had suffered no expense, an off-white satin with a cage of silver leaves crawling up the metallic heel. Harri debated if Voldemort had picked them out as well.

"So," Harri asked, lifting the other foot, "will you be the one walking with me to the podium?"

A frown darkened Narcissa’s expression, a spark of unease as she set down the girl’s foot, “Well— unfortunately, no. Typically, it would be done by your mother or female guardian. However, considering the uniqueness of your circumstances, the duty reverts to the eldest—” 

"Me," a chime from the door.

Harri peered over her shoulder, nearly groaning at the dark-haired woman leaning in the frame, her wine-red lips stretched into a Cheshire grin. Bellatrix was donned in a burgundy silk that was tailored to be suggestively form-fitting— however, for once, she was relatively covered up. Though, true to her usual self, the Death Eater did have an impressive amount of cleavage on display, the plunging neckline drawing the eye to her more well-endowed assets. The waist on the dress had been cinched with a golden cage of writhing snakes, a befitting symbolism considering her personality. ‘Bloody great.’ 

"You?" Harri echoed suspiciously.

"Me," Bellatrix repeated. "As the eldest woman in the Black family, it's my duty to escort you. Oh cheer up, Harrikins— it'll be fun!"

"Doubt it," Harri muttered under her breath.

In the distance, the grandfather clocked signalled the end of the 17th hour, the beginnings of the evening. Narcissa looked fretfully between her sister and the younger girl, a nagging worry she shouldn’t leave the two alone despite herself not being dressed. A well-founded concern in retrospect, considering the last time had resulted in a destroyed dining table and shattered windows. And she, of all people, intimately knew what a menace her eldest sister could be when she so desired— an antagonising force that thrived off chaos and flared tempers.

"Cissy, why, you're not even ready!" 

"Oh, oh yes. Well, I still have to finish here with Harri and—"

"I can take care of her. Go on," Bellatrix was steering her sister firmly towards the door, a joviality in her voice that only bespoke of mischief.

And before Narcissa could edge in a word otherwise, the door had clicked closed behind her. With an aimless, tuneless hum, Bella crossed the room to the open jewellery box on the nightstand, fingers grazing the gem-inlaid pieces wedged between the plush rows. She was aware of those curse-green eyes following her, the atmosphere of the room not quite hostile but close— it was enough to make her almost smile. Plucking a necklace from its resting place with a sharp noise of approval, measured strides carried her to where Harri was still lingering in front of the mirror.

"Despite what you may think, I do take this seriously, you know," her voice was soft, a sharpness held in dark eyes. "However distant, you are now a Black. And that means I have no intention of seeing you make a fool of yourself."

Bellatrix draped the necklace across the younger girl’s throat, finding some amusement that, despite Harri wearing heels, she still had the advantage of height. The piece was a pretty, dainty thing of silver and teardrop diamonds, the lowest of them grazing the hollows of her collarbones— flashy without being too overwhelming. After all, one look at the dress, her hair, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what her Lord’s vision was for the girl’s image tonight— untouchable wealth. Royalty. A giggle to herself when dark eyes lifted to meet guarded emerald ones in the mirror, the twitch she had given when the chilled metal met her skin. ‘So jumpy.’

"You've changed, Harrikins. There's something different about you now. Darker," Bellatrix fixed the clasp, watching the turned profile for any signs of denial— she was met with a guarded mask that had her humming with approval.

Bellatrix rested clawed nails on slight shoulders, lips quirking into a smirk, "Should I give you some advice then, from one woman to another? Something that dear old Cissy probably hasn't taught you yet?”

Narrowed eyes slid questioningly to her but Bellatrix ignored them, dark gaze drifting down to the exposed back, the expanse of unmarred skin. Her own had been like that, once upon a time— in the days before she rotted in Azkaban, before she had become a soldier. But now she was littered with scars, ones that couldn’t be so easily erased— and some that could. Such as the one running down the length of her face, the jagged blemish her Lord had chosen as punishment. An ever-present reminder of her failure, a silent warning not to do it again. The pointed tip of her nail dragged lightly down the ridge of Harri’s spine, following the curve of it. And truly, she couldn’t blame her Lord for his current fixation with the girl, for his wandering eye— it was understandable to a degree. After all, Bella had decades of experience in dealing with the realm of men, intimately knowing their afflictions, their predilections towards new things. Young things— innocent things. And, at least this way, he hadn’t strayed too far, was still well within her reach the second he opted to seek the comfort and ease of a relationship forged by the passage of time.

"I see something of myself in you, Harri. And, because of that, I know exactly what's going to happen the second you sign your name in the compendium,” the slightest pressure put into the touch but not enough to leave behind any physical markers. "Men are going to throw themselves at you. Oh yes, a pretty little lamb like yourself, how could they resist? They'll be lining up at the troughs, eager to own your affection. They'll want to keep you, chain you, break you— shape you to fit their warped, little fantasies.”

“Some are going to try through sweet words and tenderness— I’m sure that’s the kind Cissy has told you about. They’ll paint a pretty life, one of love, marriage, children. A perfect house,” Bellatrix bit out a sardonic laugh, voice dropping to a whisper as though it was a secret to be had between two friends. “But some are going to be crueler, more direct. They might try to use your body against you, might twist your mind or target your weaknesses, your emotions— manipulate you. See, some men don’t like things they can’t predict or control— and for women, like you and I who abide by our own rules, they get scared. And that fear, it does terrible things to a man and his ego.”

Harri watched as the reflection of those wine-red lips parted to reveal gleaming teeth, a promise that if you looked away for a second, they would be buried in your throat. She tried to stop the shudder, to steel herself against the threat of clawed nails and the ominous warning of things she hadn’t even given thought to before. That Bellatrix, for once, was surprisingly sane, her eyes clear and bright— and how terrifying it was, a damning oracle delivering an equally damning prophecy. 

“But remember, you have all the power in the end. And never, ever, be afraid to show them your teeth,” there was a distant chime and Bellatrix reached around to lightly tap her cheek. “And I believe that’s our cue.”



Bellatrix was leading them down unfamiliar halls, the winding corridors belonging to a portion of the manor Harri had yet to explore. It was strangely quiet, an oppressive sort of silence— and she only had the clicking of their heels to keep her thoughts grounded. They had paused in front of a panel, a door carved into its ivory plaster. Harri eyed the Parisian embellishments set against powder blue paint, the raised scrolls and flourishes, with some apprehension— there was a squeeze on her forearm, fleeting but forceful. Emerald eyes looked down to where their arms were linked, the black nails of Bella a wicked gleam in the evening light, before wandering up to the woman’s turned profile— an alarming thought that they truly did look somewhat similar. That rosebud mouth was one Harri easily recognised, the same slope of their foreheads, the same arches in their necks. Even their faces both now bore a scar, albeit in different forms.

"Don't lose your nerve," Bellatrix muttered before pushing the concealed door inwards.

A stilted inhale and her feet reluctantly followed. It was barely lit inside the antechamber, the heavy iron sconces secured to the stone walls flickering with bluebell flames that washed everything in a cool tint. Laid out before them was a running carpet of maroon velvet, a podium at its end showcasing an open tome, a bowl carved from obsidian, and an athame knife that, even from this distance, looked lethal— the word 'sacrificial altar’ sprang to mind. Though, perhaps more unnerving than the knife, her heels sinking into the plush fabric underfoot and the soft glide of the train echoing in the barren space, were the women lining the path. They were outfitted in black robes, sunk low to the ground, their faces half-covered by fine, silver masks. It didn’t take Harri long to make the association, heart beating in her throat— ‘They must be the wives of his Death Eaters.’ Positioned near the end of the line, closest to the pedestal, was a familiar shock of blonde hair, a calming sight— ‘Narcissa.’ And as she forced her attention forward, to keep her chin lifted, Harri briefly wondered if this sort of reverence was commonplace for all debuts or if it was because it was her— there was a nagging feeling it was the latter.

They had reached the podium far too quickly, Bellatrix unravelling their arms and stepping away— Harri shivered from the absence. Before her the yellowed pages of the tome were open, rows upon rows containing the names of legacies extant through the adult, female line. Some, she noted, were bright red in colouration while others were faded or completely black— Harri guessed those with darkened names were long since departed from this world. The flourished scrawl of ‘House of Black’ titled one section, the last signature written in rust— ‘Narcissa Malfoy née Black’. Her attention drifted to the carved obsidian bowl, the azure fire flickering in a distorted image of itself against the polished surface— soon enough, she would join the others in this book, would become integrated into its ancient history. Immortalised.

The dagger was passed into a reluctant palm, the weight surprising. Stares, intense and too many to be comfortable, settled over her, boring into her back, those onyx eyes of Bellatrix watching in avid suspense. The handle of the knife was carved from bone, whose or what she did not want to know, a ruby interlaid into the hilt— the blade itself was carved from matching obsidian, a nasty glint that relayed its edge hadn’t been dulled throughout the years. Harri braced herself, Narcissa’s distant words coming back— ‘Birthdays are a time of transformation.’ And a transformation it would be— she was finally affirming the truth of herself, her ancestry.

She pressed the tip unflinchingly against her lifeline, a sharp inhale at the bead of blood that erupted under the cruel point. A slow drag against the curve, steadily following the path as crimson welled in its wake— upon arriving at the branching fork near the bottom, Harri only debated for a second on which to follow. Fingers curling inwards, she squeezed the droplets into the bowl— they hissed violently, a frantic sizzling though the stone remained cool to the touch.

"I, Harri Potter, daughter of Lily Potter née Evans and James Potter, descendant of Dorea Potter née Black and Charlus Potter, hereby submit my name to the Sacred 28 Compendium," she declared, letting the blood flow. "In doing so, I pledge fealty to the Black family, vowing to uphold its honoured name and continue its legacy as my solemn duty. On my blood, this I promise."

Bellatrix had taken the knife from her, slicing her own palm without a second thought— her blood joined Harri's in the bowl, intermixing, the shade just a touch darker, "I, Bellatrix Lestrange née Black, eldest of the Black line, hereby accept this young woman's pledge and her sacrifice. On my blood, this I acknowledge."

From behind them, a unison of voices rang out, the sound thunderous in the resonating chamber, “On their blood, this we bear witness.”

Those specks of red suddenly melted through the stone, slipping through the pores and invisible cracks. Harri wondered where it had gone when a movement on the tome’s next available line drew her eye— and there, magically appearing in her own slanted penmanship was her name. A startling shade of red, fresh and bright, she watched in fascination at the looping of the ‘a’, the dot missing over the ‘i’, the run-together double ‘t’s. It was as though she had signed it herself though she most certainly had not. The polite applause in the background went largely unnoticed, the tingling in her palm an otherwise distraction. Where she had cut herself was knitting back together, the lifeline deeply etched and the once-fork at its end disappearing— only one solid, continuous path remained, her future determined.

"Now then," a wide grin and Bellatrix’s hand reached for Harri's elbow, pulling her through a door behind the podium. “Let’s go have some fun.”



He had been waiting for their arrival outside of the ballroom’s imposing double doors, their height so grand that they nearly reached the ceiling. Flanking either side of him were the respective husbands of Narcissa and Bellatrix, their voices low in hushed conversation. At the sound of approaching footsteps, the men had turned in unison— a half-realised breath caught in her throat, the muttered acknowledgements of ‘my Lord’ muddled. 

The Dark Lord had kept true to his usual monochromatic palette, the varying shades of black standing out against his pale complexion. Yet, despite the one colour he was entirely composed of, there were nuances to the texture of his suit that made it seem all that richer, that more intriguing. Set against the satin button-down was a vest of matte velvet, single-breasted with a row of polished buttons— and even in the hall’s lighting, it was difficult to miss the sheen of its embroidery. Metallic charcoal thread had been interwoven as a brocade, a swirl of subtle designs. The tie about his neck was cut from the same pattern, the formal robes forgone in favour of a matte suit jacket instead— it was a swallowtail style, the split hems grazing the backs of his knees and held closed with a polished waist chain. And, for the first time she could recall, his hair had been styled, pushed back— the boyish charm of that one curl was exchanged for something more cutting, something sharper. It was, truly, a devastating image. While the man had always been attractive, tonight he was an entirely different entity— and Harri considered if ‘Sin’ ever took a human form, it would come in the way of this version of Tom Riddle.

Eyes, far too red and far too heated, landed on her, the left corner of his mouth lifting. There it was, the barest flickers in their bond— satisfaction tinged with something darker, something she instinctively recognised but had a hard time ascribing it a word. It made it impossible to swallow— and she may as well have chewed on chalk when that darkening gaze flickered down appreciatively, a slow drag back up. 

"Harri," his greeting bordered on parseltongue, the 'r's softly dragged out— a shiver up her spine.

Though she hated to admit it, she was more than certain if she tried to speak right now, nothing coherent would come out. Thankfully, he was in a humouring mood, extending the crook of his arm instead— smug triumph joined in the background of their connection, colouring their shared canvas. Looping her arm with his, hand resting lightly on the cord of his forearm, she tried to gather her wits. ‘C’mon, Harri. You see him everyday for Merlin’s sake— so what if he’s dressed up and changed his hairstyle and is looking at you like that.’ The panicked inner-voice didn’t really inspire much in the way of confident composure, her gaze bouncing down to where their arms were interlinked. A seemingly random thought crossed her mind that they were opposites tonight— that she was dressed solely in silver and he in black.

The doors swung open— a blessed distraction.

A wall of cameras greeted them, a strobing of flashes and acrid curls of smoke as their moving likenesses were captured— Harri forced a smile all the same, blinking back the sunbursts superimposed behind her lids. It was a fleeting onslaught, a momentary battle waged before the reporters dispersed to concede to them, a daze as Voldemort guided her into the ballroom. She couldn’t help but gape.

Grecian pillars carved from ivory, massive and grand, had been constructed about the room’s perimeters, guarding sentinels that towered above them. Vines of dark ivy encased the columns, climbing up higher and higher as full white roses bloomed in the empty pockets between the leaves— Harri craned her neck, a choked noise upon seeing that the pillars spanned all the way to the ceiling. And then she noticed that there was, seemingly, no roof above their heads. Rather than the gold-plated crown moulding she had been accustomed to seeing, it was a stretch of a clear night sky. A rich shade of navy, almost black, the inky backdrop was sporadically riddled with twinkling pinpoints of white— and even as he guided her along, Harri marvelled at the enchanted ceiling, at how lifelike it appeared. The stars were alive, winking down at them, the constellations perfectly aligned.

It was the clearing of a throat that finally drew her attention, wide emerald eyes snapping to Voldemort— there was obvious delight held in those scarlet depths, a pointed lift of a brow. Harri glanced over her shoulder, a belated realisation that a crowd had gathered on the edges of the dancefloor— the slightest tilt of his head, a nonverbal cue that she tried to process what it meant. ‘Oh, shit. Right.’ She dropped to a curtsy, trying to rely on muscle memory to mimic the pose Narcissa had attempted to drill into her. A low sweep nearly to the ground, head dipped demurely, a graceful tilt of an arched neck— the portrayal of such elegance was slightly ruined, however, by her quiet, gleeful gasp. Before, she had been too busy admiring the ceiling, too enraptured by the loveliness of it to notice, but the polished tiles of the floor were obscured by swirls of thick mist. The haze was tinged with the barest hints of gold, a lazy, rolling motion that reminded her of one thing— ‘clouds.’ They were going to be dancing on clouds. A giddy revelation, a wild fantasy she didn’t even know she had until now.

Voldemort extended a hand to her and Harri gratefully accepted it as she rose. Abruptly, his other palm splayed across her mid-back, the touch an electrifying jolt on her bare skin— a momentary stupor, his smirk lifting higher as he gently squeezed their interlaced fingers. Prompted into action, her hand lifted to rest upon his shoulder. The first chords of a waltz filled the air from an unknown source, the swells of its melody carrying— he took the first step and she followed.

"I see you've finally overcome your greatest foe— cameras," his tease was a low whisper, a leading push across the floor. "You didn't faint this time."

Harri watched him with incredulity, the way that rakish smile hadn't lessened— she sniped back with a level of good-natured contempt, "I didn't faint last time, you git. It seems that your old age is finally catching up with you."

A low chuckle on his end as he directed her into a spin, the pace of the music sweeping them along. The enchanted ground beneath them parted for the glide of her skirts, a dazzling display of refractions of light as she twirled— the vision she made in the dress was far better than any he might have imagined. And he couldn’t abstain from the urge to let his eyes wander, darting down to the shocking plunge of the neckline and the dip of her cleavage covered with scattered gems. ‘Far better.’ She hadn’t seemed to notice him openly studying her, far too enamoured with the room’s decor— he forced himself to look up, to focus his attention elsewhere. Crimson stare shifted beyond her, observing how their audience was attending to their dance with rapt attention— and he knew just who they were all looking at. A burst of possessive contentment at the development, an overriding gratification that the object of their interest belonged only to him in the moment— his very own diamond kept tantalisingly out of their reach.

"And would you look at that? She can dance without stepping on my toes!"

"Yeah, well," she muttered, gracefully returning to the standard position from the spin as the train whirled behind her. Emerald eyes squinted past him to where Narcissa was watching from the sidelines, a napkin wrung between her manicured hands. “I think Narcissa would actually murder me if I did.”

"Ah, yes. I believe you would be correct in that assumption— she seems rather nervous, doesn't she?"

The rising crescendo of the refrain, an unexpected liveliness to the music as the tempo changed. The hand on her back flexed before dancing down to her waist, a featherlight brush— the other dropped from her palm to join its twin on the opposite side. Alarmed green eyes snapped to his, panicked at the deviation from the choreography she had memorised with Barty’s help— a soft gasp as he lifted her into the air. An enthusiastic applause from their spectators intermixed with the music, arising murmurs of appreciation that blended into white noise— her fingers sunk into the muscles of his shoulders, a vain attempt to steady herself as her feet left the ground. And Harri wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed by the unexpected show of strength or to be unnerved that he was clearly intent on adding his own flair to what should have been a standard waltz— that she wasn’t prepared to know what step should come next. Scarlet eyes lightened a few shades in their mirth, apparently finding her attempts to keep outwardly calm hilarious— Harri resisted the urge to groan at his theatrics when he lowered her back down.

Thankfully, and much to her immense relief, he seamlessly blended them back into the familiar routine, not missing a beat himself— she stumbled once to keep up. When his hands repositioned themselves, one returning to her awaiting palm, it was to find the other on her back much, much lower than when their dance had initially begun.

“Not funny!” she hissed. “Are you trying to kill Narcissa?!”

"Oh, come now, Harri. I thought it was."

She fixed a mutinous glare on him— the indignation quickly faded, however, when his thumb brushed over a knob in her spine, dangerously close to the junction where her tailbone began. Harri considered it a small mercy that the dress at least had the decency to stop there, to not put her entire backside on display. And though she tried to ignore that hand’s existence, to not hyperfixate on its weight, when she looked up to see how intently he was studying her, it was futile. Her skin warmed, their bond lively and bright from his bleed-through.

"Was this even all necessary?” she sought a distraction, glancing around the room instead. “I mean— wait, is that statue pouring champagne!?" 

On the next spin, Harri had caught sight of a towering marble fountain in the corner, a woman carved out of stone and standing amidst a basin shaped like a scallop. She looked suspiciously like Aphrodite, the loose dress wrapped about her and intricate curls magically animated to sway— it was as though she were being caressed by an ocean’s breeze though none was to be found. A jug rested between her hands, golden liquid cascading out and spilling into the shell below. 

The Dark Lord pulled her closer, their chests flushed— she could feel the vibration as he laughed, "Of course it is, Harri. We are royalty, after all."

They broke apart just as the music ended— he bowed and she returned in a shallow curtsy, the zealous clapping signalling the denouement to their opening dance. Harri straightened, ready to step away when he had unexpectedly grabbed her hand, brushing the knuckles with his mouth in a barely-there kiss that had her pulse skip unwittingly. And there was an understanding that this part wasn’t playing to the script either— that if her first dance had been with Sirius as the head of her house, this most certainly wouldn’t be happening.

"Not to mention any excuse to see a beautiful woman in a beautiful dress is worth the effort," Voldemort returned to his towering height, hand still firmly gripping hers.

And sure, perhaps he was teasing her more than typical— but the gaiety of the night somehow made her flustered reactions all the more worth it. That the pale silver of the gown made her blushing even more enticing, more tempting, an irrational need to showcase his triumph in eliciting such reactions— to make those present understand that any possible connection ever forged with her would always be inferior in comparison. His very own star— a treasure they would never know. 

Voldemort led her off the dance floor as others began to stream in, the clicking of her heels behind him rushed as she struggled to match his strides. He spared a glance back to her, the strangest sort of warmth blooming at her astonishment, how she was still trying to soak everything in. That earlier triumph only grew, a sated primal desire that wanted to smugly point out that ‘see? I can provide for you better than anyone else.’ Though, the ability to voice such a thought quickly escaped him, mesmerised by those auburn curls every time she craned her neck— the diamond pins captured the light, sparkling, the chains on the ornate headpiece swaying. He made a note to give his compliments to Narcissa later.

They were heading towards the raised dais positioned near the back of the room, its white marble steps adorned with a runner carpet of deep green velvet and scattered rose petals, the dark throne atop awaiting its master. Ivy covered columns, miniatures of the ones about the room, circled the platform, their heights disappearing into the illuminated, starry sky above. It was where he intended for them to stay for the night, two young gods retiring from the masses to observe the frivolities of humanity from afar— and if such a notion was spurred on by covetous envy to keep her to himself, who could blame him?

"Come," he said. "We have to greet the French monarch."

It was on the second step that she had gotten the message, her face crumpling slightly and the traces of a frown upon rose-painted lips. That look spoke volumes— playing hostess was the last thing she wanted to do. He paused on the third stair, a war of conflicting interests in his mind. A tongue ran across his canines in contemplation, the energy clinging to her anxious as she looked behind her with blatant longing— a sigh under his breath, a distant thought wondering when he had gotten so complaisant when it came to his horcrux.

"I suppose," his words were slow, those doe-like eyes fixed on him with curious hope, "I could greet him on my own. That is if you would prefer to look around for a bit longer."



Harri was weaving through the thickets of the crowd, plastering on a smile every time someone offered up their congratulations. And the more she walked about the ballroom, the more she was taken back with the little, unassuming details. The bouquets that littered every inch of the walls and corners, with their arrangements of pristine white lilies, cream-coloured snapdragons, towering larkspurs, and ivory carnations, looked as though they had cost a small fortune alone— and she didn’t even want to imagine how great of an expense this gala had been. The clouded floor beneath her feet parted in swirls as she meandered about, climbing up her ankles in playful, cooling puffs and dancing joyously over the dress’s train— she still couldn’t comprehend how, exactly, the effect had been accomplished. Overhead, free-floating orbs of light cast the room in a soft, romantic glow, a warming presence seeking to add to the ambience alongside the phantom music carried out by an invisible orchestra. The air about the space was heavily perfumed with the scent of flowers, the opposite wall consisting of multiple, glass French doors that led out onto the veranda— they were opened to welcome the mild summer breeze, their thresholds outlined with garlands of flowers and gold, metallic leaves. In the distance, the manicured lawn was littered with lanterns, flickering torches to stave off the encroaching darkness. And everywhere she looked, those in attendance were outfitted in finery— a kaleidoscopic array of colours and heavily ladened with jewels. It reminded her of a scene taken directly from a fairytale.

She had finally paused by the Aphrodite serving champagne, taking a flute and perusing the banquet table flaunting an array of refreshments. Pastries, intricate confections, savoury appetisers, porcelain cornucopias overflowing with fruits, some of which she had never seen before— a spread fit for a gathering of the gods and far too much even for the number of guests present. ‘Are those gold grapes?’ Harri plucked one, a thoughtful chew as the taste of lemonade burst upon her tongue.

"Merlin be damned," a low whistle from behind her. "He really went all out, didn't he?"

Whirling around, she saw a blond emerge from the crowd, his hair slicked back and dressed in an all-white suit. A warm smile, "Draco!”

He had taken his own glass from the supply hovering near the basin, eyes turning owlish as he finally had the opportunity to observe her up close. From a distance, he had seen that the gown was backless, the contrast of the glittering fabric against her skin hard to miss— it was just unexpected for the front to be equally as revealing, if not more. And though he had already profusely apologised for the fitting incident, Draco almost felt the need to do so again at the mental images being conjured, the amount of her bared working against him. A quick drink, he unthinkingly reached for the necklace, lightly tracing the teardrop gems that grazed her collarbones— an incredulous shake of his head.

"Well, at least the diamond industry won't go out of business anytime soon. Bloody hell, it's just excessive at this point," he had given a derisive scoff, eyeing the jewellery as he took another swig.

"Trust me, I know," she agreed, the bubbles sliding down her throat a welcomed sensation. "But be honest, how bad was it?"

"Regarding—?"

"The waltz! I hate dancing with him," she complained, plucking another grape off its vine. "He's so stupidly graceful that I feel like a blundering idiot."

Draco hummed as though deliberating, "Well I wouldn't say 'blundering'— I've definitely seen worse. You were 'heavy footed', at best.”

Harri gaped at him with feigned outrage, "You-!"

A sharp, playful nudge of her shoulder against his, a shake of her head that sent a spray of curls flying. Draco noticed her glass had been drained, reaching for another from the statue and passing it to her. They were separated out from the masses, hovering on its fringes— and he was grateful that, for once, it was just the two of them. That no one was busy watching them, the suffocating presence of the adults blissfully absent. It had been so long since they had an opportunity to be together, joking and mockingly chastising the other— an easy, amenable sort of banter that, now more than ever, he was certain he could only have with her. Draco smiled, a quick little grin, as he returned the shove, shoulder pressed against hers— he tried to not dwell on how warm she was, how her skin absolutely burned through the thinness of his dress shirt. How alive and radiant she felt. Long legs crossed at their ankles as he leaned against the table, arms folding over his chest but not willing to move away.

"Oh relax, Potter," he angled for reassurance, a tilt of his chin gesturing to the clouded dancefloor. "You were perfectly fine out there. Graceful, even."

And then a roguish grin flourished, those blue eyes of his glinting.

"There's a reason why I always asked if you were training for the ballet," he said nonchalantly. "You probably would’ve made a better dancer than a seeker.”

A suspended moment of disbelief before she threw her head back, an unrestrained bout of laughter uninhibited with the encouragement of alcohol. It was a high, melodious sound, a flash of white teeth as tears sprung to the corners of her eyes, a buoyancy in her chest at his sheer audacity— she hiccuped, trying to get it under control when questioning glances were directed their way. 

"You, Draco Malfoy," she bit out between giggles, "are an incorrigible ass!"

"Oh, please, you know you miss me despite my apparent shortcomings."

She didn't deny it— and how that grin stretched even further. Another swallow and he turned his head towards her, "Though I am curious— what was it like?"

Harri smoothed out the front of her dress, "What do you mean?"

"The whole ceremony thing. Mother's been terribly secretive about it."

"Oh, that . Well," she hummed, swirling the alcohol in the flute. "Very cultish— I would not recommend. I walked in and they were all wearing masks and curtsying at me. At me , Draco. Felt like I spouted three heads or something. They wouldn't even look me in the eye, your mum included!"

He mulled over her admission, jaw clicking and a tinge of bitterness in his voice, "Well, it’s not surprising, all things considered."

"Hm?"

"Think about it, you're the closest thing our Lord has to an heir at the moment. They’re playing it safe until he either marries, which probably is going to be— nevermind."

Shrewd green eyes traced over his turned profile, striving to understand why, exactly, his mood had darkened unexpectedly. Turning to stare out into the colourful sea of swaying bodies, her mind scrambled for another topic, to return them back to the congenial atmosphere from earlier. 

"Did you have anything like this?" she gestured with her glass towards the crowd before them.

“What? Oh. No. For men, we turn 17 without any of this pomp. Mother will throw me a soiree later but certainly nothing to this— extent. Like bloody hell, have you seen your gift table?”

Harri squinted past the bobbing heads to the other side of the room where a table had been positioned, overflowing with wrapped boxes of various sizes and colours— honestly, she had thought them to be an odd part of the decor. Not once had she considered, until Draco pointed it out, that they were actually meant for her— that they were symbols of the guests’ adoration and respect.

"Those are mine?" she muttered in bewilderment.

This time, it was he who laughed first, "Who else would they be for?"

Her mind spun from the sheer opulence and the pleasant haze of champagne— setting down the empty glass, Harri reached for the blond instead. Draco seemed surprised by such, staring down in puzzled panic at how her fingers interlaced readily with his own— a wide smile, beatific and serene, was aimed towards him, a flush dusting her cheeks. And then she was dragging him towards the dance floor, calling over her shoulder. 

"Okay, fine— then I'm officially declaring this to be a joint celebration! Now, will you dance with me already? I don't want to spend the entire night on the wall!"

Draco allowed her to guide them into the heart of the clouds, the other dancing couples parting to make room for their sudden entrance. Still grinning, Harri arched a brow as though asking ‘what are you waiting for?’ Nervous, tentative hands found the small of her waist, striving to remain respectful of where he was touching— and when she giggled, a girlish sound that only ever made an appearance whenever she was tipsy, he could feel the vibration through his hand. How her ribs had shifted, expanding and collapsing, a disarming revelation at how petite she actually was. His hand experimentally flexed about hers, suddenly irrationally worried about crushing the fine bones. It was disconcerting, impossible to think this was the same girl that had always acted so brashly, had executed death-defying plunges on her broom, had soared among the heavens without a care— that, despite her fragility, she held no fears of shattering. 

A sharp inhale, the breath sucked between his teeth when she moved closer, the softness of her chest pressing against him— he glanced down without meaning to. Draco coughed, a vain attempt to pass off the blush as a result of something catching in his throat and nothing more— the music started, leaving him with little choice but to lead.



The pair had come off the dance floor after two consecutive waltzes, riotous laughter announcing their arrivals and faces reddened from exertion. They were veering towards the champagne table, seeking refreshments— Severus had been waiting in ambush for them, dark eyes tracking their every move. The way their arms remained linked, her half-bent over in a fit, how they were speaking just a touch too loudly and garnering a touch too much attention. And he knew that the Dark Lord was watching from afar, that those scarlet eyes had followed after the girl the second she entered into the throng of dancers. And he also knew, without even looking, that stare would be one of possession, of ravenous greed— he had borne witness, after all, to their opening waltz. How they had been so fluidly intertwined together, darkness encircling the light, how enthralled he had been with her— and her with him. That the Dark Lord’s hand had been in a position a lover’s might be, their eyes never straying for too long. 

Even the theme of the gala wasn’t subtle, a blatant message for any that cared to read into it. The ballroom had been reconstructed to resemble the axis mundi of Olympus, their respective colour palettes befitting the tale of Hades and Persephone— it was a claim that, now more than ever, ascertained his Lord’s true intentions. It wasn’t a mere liaison he was looking for, not a driving carnal desire to be sated— no, this was too intricate to simply be that. A party like this was a declaration of intent— he was looking for a Queen and one would have to be blind to not see who the primary candidate was.

It was a headache to even consider, a strange, dismaying turn of events he was ill-equipped to deal with. And he couldn’t help but ponder if Draco was being willfully ignorant or merely foolish— or, perhaps, it was both. Snape glanced over to the flowing champagne fountain, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

"Severus!"

He shifted from scrutinising the statue to observe Harri break free of Draco’s hold, bare leg flashing as she gathered up the train to rush over. The girl stopped short before him, curls tumbling messily over her shoulders and doing little to lend her a sense of modesty. His brows lifted in surprise, choosing to focus on the colourless gems erupting from her collarbones and not daring to look down. That was another thing that bespoke of his Lord’s interest to a considerable degree— if he truly saw her as his ‘ward’ and nothing more, she wouldn’t be in that sort of gown. No parent would ever allow their child to wear something like that, least of all a father— he, himself, most certainly wouldn’t.

"Harri," he greeted neutrally, gaze sharp when Draco had pushed another flute into her hands. "I believe congratulations are in order for making it to adulthood in one piece."

"Oh— trust me, I'm just as surprised as you are, professor," she chuckled, glancing about the room. "I'm glad to see you came!”

"Indeed," he drawled, mouth thinning at the particularly deep sip she had just taken.

"Harri, another dance is starting," Draco pointed out, already taking a step towards her as the dancers repositioned themselves on the floor.

Severus looked past his godson’s shoulder, the pinpricks creeping along his arm a clear enough sign— and there, situated on the throne as the French monarch chatted away, the Dark Lord had honed in on their trio. Even from this distance, his expression was thunderous, unsmiling. And how intimately did he know what dangers such a countenance could reap, what destruction the brewing storm would sow if left untempered. The headmaster imposed himself between the pair, dark eyes refusing to stray from the man on the dais.

"Perhaps, Draco, it is time to give someone else a turn to dance with Miss Potter?" Severus suggested— there was a warning behind his words that seemed to go unnoticed by the girl. Draco, however, hadn't missed it.

Harri stared in puzzlement at the hand offered to her, trying to comprehend the dour man wanted to dance, of all things— even during the Yule Ball, he had remained stubbornly on the sidelines, testing the punchbowl every five minutes to ensure it remained untampered and stalking couples that attempted to leave early. Him dancing was a rare occurrence, a chance that might never come again— she took it readily, not willing to waste the opportunity.

"Just stay right there!" she called to the blond-haired boy as the headmaster steered her away. "I'll be right back!”



"Miss Potter is certainly popular, is she not?"

Voldemort despised the man for pointing it out— he’s already well aware without having to suffer such insipid, tactless commentary. He has been watching her, after all, has been eagerly awaiting her to return to him all night— and yet, she hadn’t even so much as looked up towards him. At the present, she’s occupied with the company of what used to be her fellow schoolmates— and, regrettably, the French prince. ‘Slytherins,’ he noted, an impatient finger tapping on the scroll of the throne’s armrest. ‘And all boys.’ They kept joking with her, some going as far as nudging her, short-lived little touches that they probably thought were discreet. They weren’t. Brushes against her arms, a hand on her shoulder, fingers feeling the fabric of the gown near her hip and far too close to the exposed leg— it set him on edge. And the worst offender was taking the form of a blond menace who had dressed to purposefully match her— though he doesn’t have any evidence of it being true. They had already danced twice together, their expressions fixed in a look of bliss, of joy, their laughter carrying so he could hear it even from the platform. It would have been a third time had Severus not intervened, the headmaster having enough common sense to recognise the perceived indecency of them dancing together so frequently.

And while she was busy flirting, he had been stuck playing politician and host to a balding man who provided very little of substance in the way of conversation. The French monarch had proven to be overconfident, his manners lacking as he, seemingly, kept forgetting who he was speaking with— at one point, he even had the audacity to interject his unwarranted advice on how to rule ‘effectively’. It was through sheer will alone that the man was still breathing. But he had borne it all, had continued to smile charmingly and play the role of an amenable, assenting Devil even if the flowers to his right had shrivelled. With some difficulty, he kept trying to justify that murdering another sovereign at a highly public event would send a particularly undesirable message— a gamble he had debated over numerous times already.

"Indeed she is," Voldemort mused.

An echo of a giggle, the buzz in their bond a cross between intoxicated giddiness and his own souring mood— scarlet eyes snapped to her, that glittering dress a beacon. Apparently, the monarch's son, Laurent if he remembered correctly, had said something particularly amusing, earning a round of laughter from the boys and the coveted approval of a certain redhead. His jaw tensed.

"But Laurent, your Harri seems fond of him, no? Though, the Malfoy heir seems to be healthy competition as well. It is getting rather late but look at them— they don’t seem to mind at all!” a wistful muttering as the balding man signalled for a glass of water.

The Dark Lord determined this is what madness must feel like— an insatiable, esurient itch that refused to be alleviated no matter how valiantly one tried. If he had known that damned gown was going to amass such unsavoury attention, he wouldn’t have designed it in the first place— but, then again, his plan was to have her seated beside him all evening, safe and within arm’s reach. Not getting drunk with a bunch of schoolboys. His tongue traced over his canines, the rhythmic tapping ceasing. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was uncrossing his legs and rising from the throne, finding himself incapable of withstanding it any longer.

"It is getting quite late, isn't it? If you will excuse me," it was a half-baked excuse at best but Voldemort couldn't care, his descent down the stairs predatory. 



After returning from her dance with Snape, who was surprisingly quite versed, it was to see some of her old classmates surrounding Draco. Though her interactions with the Slytherins were minimal, their main connections being shared classes, shared quidditch matches, and a shared friendship with the Malfoy heir, they were a welcomed sight nonetheless. At the present, they were clustered near the balcony’s doors, enjoying the chilled night air and being perhaps just a touch too boisterous, too unruly with the assistance of never-ending champagne.

"Okay okay but Flint, I'm dying to know— what was Slytherin's win record this year?" Harri asked, emerald eyes gleaming in their keenness.

"We won the Hogwarts Cup," Marcus Flint had responded smugly, his broad chest puffing up— even among the circle, he stood half a head taller than everyone else, his bulking form somehow still massive even without the quidditch gear. "20 wins now that Gryffindor lost their ace. Couldn't have done it without you not playing this year."

"We would have won more if somebody was still seeker," Theo Nott interjected, glaring good-naturedly at Draco. "But no, I had to fill in— and, as it turns out, I'm bloody lousy at it."

"You! A seeker?" Harri shrieked, the thought amusing considering Nott could barely fly straight— she tilted her flute towards the blond. "What happened, Draco? I thought you would have enjoyed finally not getting your ass handed to you every match."

"Nah," Blaise chimed in, a flash of white teeth as he nudged the redhead's shoulder. "Malfoy here is a masochist when it comes to you— absolutely loves getting 'his ass handed to him' when it's you doing the handing, Potter."

The laughter was unrestrained and Draco had to shout above it to be heard, a darkening flush on his cheeks— though whether it was from embarrassment or from drinking, only he knew, "Oh, come off it already! Just shut up and enjoy your drinks.”

"I must admit," Harri was quick to change the subject, seeking out peace. "I'm surprised that any of you came. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to see some familiar faces— but why?"

What? And miss all of this?" Blaise gestured wildly with a free hand to the room before them. "Not on my life, Potter. I mean, c'mon— gold grapes? A statue for champagne? Mini cakes? Yeah no, not a chance I’d skip it." 

"Plus, our parents were coming and seeing as the invitation came from the Dark Lord, saying 'no' wasn't exactly an option," Graham Avery put forth his own opinion, tilting his head towards a group of adults conversing amongst themselves further away— Harri recognised Narcissa and Lucius among them, easily enough piecing together who the others were.

She swirled the pale liquid, a symphony of bubbling in her glass— it was strange to hear her classmates openly admit to knowing who invited them, that it hadn’t been just her and Draco who were aware of their monarch’s true identity. But, in hindsight, she considered she shouldn’t have been too surprised seeing as they all shared prominent names with those she recognised from the meetings— Nott, Avery, Flint. And perhaps it was her fault for not guessing sooner, for not piecing it together. Emerald eyes darted about the young faces before her, a surge of morbid curiosity.

"Are you guys?" she glanced pointedly down to her bare left forearm.

"Oh, no," Theo was quick to jump in. "Apart from Draco, that is. The rest of us haven't taken the Mark."

The unspoken ‘yet’ remained heavy in the air, a nonverbal understanding between them as Flint shifted uneasily and Avery drank deeply from his glass. Draco was kicking at the clouds beneath their feet, disrupting their languid rolling motion, an odd air of guilt clinging to him— she bumped his shoulder lightly, frowning at the tense atmosphere. In a way, Harri pitied them and their blatant lack of enthusiasm to officially join the ranks— to be shepherded into this sort of life solely due to their parents’ choices. 

"Though, speaking of the Dark Lord," Blaise was the first to attempt to revive the conversation. "How did that even happen, Potter? Did you end up seduc—"

Avery jabbed the boy in the ribs with his elbow, a quiet hiss, "For Merlin's sake, Zabini, show some decency for once will you?"

Thankfully, before tensions could rise, a boy with tanned skin and hair the colour of spun gold had wandered over, bringing with him an easy smile and a much-needed sense of humour. He had introduced himself as Laurent, the heir to wizarding France— and, despite the lofty title, his sense of self was grounded, amicable. A pleasant diversion.

A few quick-witted jokes later and the laughter was back among the circle. Harri bent over at one in particular, a hand clutching at Draco's shoulder to steady herself.

“Harri.”

The riotous mood ended, their laughter cleaved in two at the unexpected addition to their group. It took her a second to realise who had wandered over, the waned faces of the boys before her a confusing reaction— they averted their eyes, heads dropped in respect, a muttered unison of ‘Your Majesty’.

She spun around, the high notes of joy still in her voice, mind too sluggish and laden with a pleasant thrumming to work out what she should refer to him in this situation— especially considering there was an outsider present, Laurent bowing by her side. Voldemort was looming before them, towering even over Flint, his shoulders squared and head tilted ever so slightly to the left in expectation— if she had been sober, Harri might have recognised such a stance to be a sign of danger. 

"Oh, hello!" Harri settled for an informal greeting, paying no mind to how Draco's shoulder had tensed. "You just missed the most hilarious story— uhm, I'm sure Laurent won't mind repeating it though."

Crimson eyes landed on her hand resting on Malfoy, flashing for a second at the unpleasant sight. And then he smiled— a slow thing, teeth too sharp, too white, too perfect— his voice smooth and even, “Indeed. Though, I must regretfully inform you, however, it is getting quite late and our guests are looking to leave.”

"Might I suggest we conclude the party?" he gestured towards the emptied dancefloor— it was disguised as a question, an invitation, though those present knew it was anything but.

A quick blink as she processed his words— how late was it? It certainly didn’t feel like hours had passed but time, as she intimately knew from the countless, illegal common-room parties she had attended on the sly, always passed in a blur whenever she drank. With an acquiescing nod, she abandoned her glass to the side table.

The girl had taken a step forward and Voldemort turned to follow, the polite mask still in place. His hand settled on the low of her back, just where the dress began, flexing as it guided her. At the last second, he spared a glance over his shoulder just as Draco had raised his head, that congenial smile slipping when they made eye contact— a silent warning, an advising for caution, flickered in those scarlet depths. The Malfoy heir only dared to hold the stare for a few seconds before breaking it, pale gaze darting down to the floor in search of a reprieve— a burst of twisted satisfaction behind his sternum, between his ribs, a hum of approval.



The concluding dance was kept fairly simple, a waltz that would last only a few minutes— and, this time, he refrained from adding in any unnecessary, extra steps. Partially it was because he was afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the amount of champagne she had consumed and partially because he wanted it to be over, to not further prolong the requirement of their presences— to whisk her away from prying eyes and to have her to himself for just a few, undivided minutes. 

"Did you enjoy the party?" he asked as they glided across the floor, observing, with some relief, that she had no trouble keeping up.

"Honestly? I did," she admitted. "It was extra, and you really didn't have to bankrupt the country doing it, but I loved it nonetheless."

“Bankrupt the country? Well then, on behalf of the country, I would say it was a worthy cause.” 

As they entered into the final spin, the soft swells of the waltz coming to a close, he tried to school his expression into something neutral, to not prematurely give away the grand finale yet to come— the final, drawn-out note and the lights extinguished. Under his touch, he could feel her go rigid in alarm, her hand squeezing his own in an instinctual panic— he chuckled at the visceral reaction, finding it to be strangely endearing.

“Look,” he instructed, tilting her chin up to the fake heavens he had created.

And then she gasped. 

Above them, streaks of colour filled the otherwise dark sky, twisting and twirling rays of blues and purples, greens and yellows as meteors chased one another in an endless game of tag. The glow of them filled the room, reaching into every corner and tinting everything, everyone, with their radiance as they zipped by at dizzying speeds— a comet show made just for her. He had bent the cosmos, had redesigned them at his own leisure for this one moment— had done it all for this wisp of a girl in his arms. And in her eyes, he could see the reflection of each individual one, how she, quite literally, beheld the stars within her, made them her own, was composed of them— she was their ruler, their Queen. The smile he allowed himself this time was a genuine one, a small little thing influenced by the sheer amount of awe that overflowed from her and into him— a suspended second where the bitterness and the jealousy and the spite from earlier ebbed with the reconfirmation he had made her feel this way. That he was the cause of such ecstasy in her, such rapture.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, too afraid to raise her voice any further for the irrational fear of making them disappear.

His fingers folded in on her own, interweaving and intertangling, a breathy chuckle at the, literal, starstruck stupor he had brought upon her. But the night wasn’t over— not yet. 

“There's still one last surprise,” he returned the whisper, lips grazing the shell of her ear. 

And as the last falling comet split the darkness, there was a tug at their navels, a pull on their very cores— as though they, too, were being swallowed whole by the chasm of the void, seeking to be assimilated among the stars. 

When the lights had flickered back to life, the Dark Lord and the Girl Who Lived were noticeably absent from the swirl of clouds.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 61: Savage Devotion

Notes:

Hello everyone!

**cue Panic at the Disco: Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've been waiting for**

A word of caution, please do mind the rating and the tags for this chapter— this fic was tagged Explicit for a reason so just a heads up for everyone.

 

Without further ado, enjoy!! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



"So, where the bloody hell are we?" 

The question slipped out with a healthy dose of incredulity to back it— and Harri knew, without even looking, what sort of expression Voldemort would be sporting. Stern, his mouth slightly thinned, the evidence of his exasperation found in the crease between his brows. He despised her cursing, even mildly, his adamant opinion being that she should "more eloquently" express herself— that it wasn't appropriate for someone of "her station" to have such a "foul mouth.”

At this point, she mostly did it just to annoy him. 

"Language," came his muttered reprimand.

Her scoff was cut short as a palm pressed into her back and firmly pushed her forward— Harri stumbled. Even with the recent improvements in her eyesight, she couldn't make out anything in the darkness of the room. No details, no colours, nothing of distinction to break up the monotony of the chasm they had found themselves in— just a stretch of cold, all-encompassing night. 

That hand dropped away and his footsteps retreated. 

Without a guide to navigate the treachery of the shadows, Harri dared not to move or take another step— who knew what dangers were lying in wait? Robbed of her sight, staying still was the best, and only, course of action— and that’s exactly what she did. Rooted in place, she listened intently, striving to pinpoint where he had possibly wandered off to. And though she did consider she should probably begin to fret over what the man was planning, Harri was, oddly enough, rather calm. 

A rush of magic, the heady taste of it upon her tongue one that she readily recognised as his signature— the roar of a fire igniting. 

Harri blinked against the unexpected flood of light.

Voldemort, with an air of easy grace, was leaning against a mantle, the polished black stone of it heavily carved. And it was through that one, simple detail that Harri ascertained they were, most definitely, no longer at Malfoy Manor. Contrary to the running theme of the mansion, with its Parisian style and ivory fixtures, this was an austere piece. Stark. Severe. 'Narcissa would absolutely hate it.' 

A myriad of serpents, fine attention paid to detailing each individual scale, had been chiselled into the obsidian— they wound their way up the sides, crawling and interweaving through tangled vines. So lifelike they were, Harri half-expected them to begin moving at any second. Contained behind the charred grate, flames jumped in a lively dance, their colour a lush verdant that awashed the world in green.

With a playful curl upon his mouth, he watched her. And how at home did the Dark Lord look, how perfectly at ease— as though he were the master of this strange room and she his esteemed guest.

"Take a look around," he said, gesturing broadly behind her. "I would love to hear your impressions."

Harri arched a brow at the amusement in his voice, the dreaded sign he was seeking to play a game of sorts— a game that, as per usual, he was withholding from fully explaining. The blissful buzz from the champagne was dissipating and how she keenly wished for more, particularly if it meant the rest of the night would be spent entertaining his theatrics. Stamping down the urge to roll her eyes, she obliged the request anyway—  her mouth slackened at the sight.

He had brought them to a library of some kind— but it wasn’t one like any she had ever encountered before. The shelves were completely circular, encasing them from all sides with leather-bound novels, the air perfumed cloyingly by their yellowed pages and dried ink— and how the bookcases towered . Every fourth shelf had a balcony demarcated by a balustrade of wrought iron, the railings composed of metal vines and tarnished leaves. Stone vessels resting atop miniature columns were placed sporadically about the landings, the same green fire flickering in their bowls. 

How the place hadn’t been burnt down already by accident was proof that miracles existed. 

Near one of the bookcases, steps made from the same iron hovered in the air, suspended by an invisible force and climbing upwards in a spiral. Floating orbs of light, reminiscent of fireflies, illuminated the ascending path. Curious as to how high the staircase actually extended, she craned her neck only to cry out in surprise. 

At a dizzying height above them and sprouting from the ceiling were stalactites— a jutting array of crystals. They varied in sizes, multifaceted in their cut, their points sharpened to a wicked degree. And how they absolutely sparkled. The emerald light refracted off their polished surfaces at a multitude of angles, warping and manipulating the flames in the mantle. Harri cocked her head, noting with some delight that the glint changed directions with her. A dazzling, kaleidoscopic rainbow— nature’s own take on a chandelier. 

However, the splendid effect was abruptly ruined by the strangest, worrying thought. For the first time since entering the room, she had become aware of the absence of windows. And as she listened desperately for any noises that might betray where, exactly, they were, she found none— a vacuum of quiet save for the occasional pop in the hearth.

"Are we underground?" she asked softly, a flicker of fear that those crystals could come crashing down at any second.

“Indeed.”

And how disconcerting that answer was— her eyes snapped to him, narrowing at his apparent nonchalance.

"They are secure, Harri. I promise."

But, oh, how she despised enclosed spaces. She despised the thought of there being no way out, despised the feelings of suffocation and hopelessness— and she absolutely despised the concept of being buried alive. 

And while that wasn’t apparently his foremost concern, it was rapidly becoming one of hers. 

Harri continued to stare distrustfully at the ceiling, hesitant to look away— an annoyed click of her tongue as her brain argued it was simply best to believe him. She eventually gave in to logic, pacifying herself with the knowledge that Voldemort wouldn’t dare bring her to a place that could jeopardise either of them— though, it didn’t make it any less of a difficult pill to swallow.

Fixing him with a look of irked expectation, she waited for him to explain where they were.

He refused to yield.

This time around, Harri didn't stifle the urge to roll her eyes. ‘So he still wants to play this stupid guessing game? Wonderful.'

Hands finding their way to her hips, fingers drummed against them pensively as she took a turn about the room in search of clues. The train of her gown dragged across the floor, smooth tiles in the colour of slate, the noise of her heels muffled by the walls of books. She didn't even want to try to guess how many there were in total. 

Decoration, for the most part, was kept sparse and bland in the library— save for the muted hues of the tomes' covers. Harri observed a desk positioned towards the back of the circular room, the buffed wood dark against a lighter grain. Like the fireplace, it also sported a motif of curling snakes and ivy, the design carved to an exorbitant degree. 

The only carpet was a runner tapestry positioned in front of the hearth, its style a remnant from the medieval era— like the books, the colours of it were long since faded by time. A serpent encircling a tree was interwoven into the fabric, the scales losing their definition and the canopy of leaves dulled. At one point, it might have been beautiful. Now, however, it was shabby. Lacklustre.

She frowned.

A crackle as the logs turned to ash in the fireplace. 

Embers sparking angrily against the grate. 

The whisper of fabric against stone. 

Minutes of lengthening silence only punctuated by the staccato clicking of her heels.

"You seem to be sobering up," he commented offhandedly.

"Yeah, well. You seem to be underestimating my tolerance." 

"Oh? And how is it that you have come by a 'tolerance', Harri?"

"Mhm— you don't want to know." 

Harri paused in front of a cleared shelf, a small alcove of respite in the sea of books. On it, a dusty bottle of wine, the cork sealed with weeping tears of black wax, was flanked by two tarnished goblets. She picked one up tentatively, the weight signifying it was of pure silver— she had spent enough time polishing Aunt Petunia’s good silverware to know— while the ring of dust served as an indication that it hadn't been used in quite some time. And there it was again. A snake coiling about the stem.

"Someone’s a Slytherin fan," she mused.

"Well, yes. I would hope so considering he invented the house."

She nearly dropped the goblet.

A spluttering sound caught in the back of her throat as she whirled around in alarm. Part of her was half-expecting him to claim to only be joking— but that smug air clearly said otherwise. Wide eyes darted down to the chalice in her hand, a burst of panic as it was quickly returned to the shelf. She didn't even want to fathom how old it must be, how ancient the room itself was— how much knowledge it contained, how many events it had borne witness to throughout the centuries. 

A quick glance to the bookcases, an uneasy feeling she was encroaching on a place that she, most certainly, should not be in.

"W-wait, so you mean to tell me—”

"That this is Salazar Slytherin's own personal study? Then yes."

Voldemort watched as it sunk in, finding no small degree of satisfaction at the stupor overcoming her. The way she had returned the chalice as if it had burnt her, how those green eyes widened in reverential awe, that quiet exhale of wonder— he catalogued it all. Stepping away from the mantle, finding himself no longer content to simply watch the sway to her gait as she waltzed about, long legs crossed the study. 

Pausing near the desk, the Dark Lord waited for her to come to him. 

A burst of contentment, bright and welcome, when she had done just that— two magnets perpetually drawn to the other. He smothered the smirk the best he could, stifled that gratification from showing too clearly when the girl leaned her hip against the desk. She was openly staring at him, bewilderment held in a green gaze— the curiosity seeping from her was a lively, animated thing. It almost caused his mask to slip. 

Rather than indulging her right away, Voldemort chose to drag out the suspense. The crook of his finger slipped behind the knot of his tie. Loosening it, he reached for one of the abandoned volumes strewn about the table and airily flipped to a random page.

"And?! Is that all you have to say— 'This is Salazar Slytherin's own personal study'?!" she demanded. 

The mask cracked. 

A slight smile formed at the pitiful attempt to mimic his accent. There was an immense weight to that expectant stare of hers as she willed him to look up. He didn’t. Rather, a devious thought was entertained as he turned to the next page— an index finger trailed down the edges of the tome. It was a languid, purposeful movement that he knew would catch her eye. The result was a clearing of her throat that spoke volumes, the next words a touch too rushed, too quick to be anything but a betrayal of her piqued interest. ‘How endearing.’

That smile only grew.

"You can't just drop a bomb like that,” she protested. “How did you even—"

"I found it the year I opened the Chamber," he explained casually.

A delayed blink at the admission. "Hold on. Does that mean—?"

When she had tilted her chin to look up at the crystalline roof, the column of her throat exposed and the muscle strained as it worked to bend back, he was captivated. And, as though it were a siren's call, a beckoning impossible to ignore, his attention shifted to that pale, silver mark adorning her neck. Despite the diamonds dripping down into her décolletage, he could see it so clearly— his own personal brand. That spot where his fangs had pierced her skin, a sight far more becoming than any piece of jewellery could ever be.

"That we are currently at Hogwarts?" he said, finishing the thought for her. "The answer would also be yes."

She lowered her chin to stare flatly at him, her confusion nearly palpable. "But you can't apparate into Hogwarts." 

Voldemort chuckled under his breath and arched his brow. "Can't I?"

His voice was smug, confident, that smirk entirely too cocky. And Harri was perplexed, and perhaps just a touch annoyed, by the fact that he wore such arrogance so attractively. The tilt of his head to the left, the twitch in the corners of his mouth as they lifted unevenly— and when he laughed, a quiet little thing, her pulse quickened. During the past few months, Harri often found herself in a moral quandary whenever he did so. Whenever he would chuckle in that manner and that seed of possession unwittingly sprouted. It always started in her chest, spreading outwards with its tendrils into her limbs, her fingertips, her mind— and it ended up in full bloom with that desperate need to hear him do it once more. To have this man who was so severe, so reserved in front of his followers to look at her and smile— to have a side of him that no one else could ever claim to be privy to. Truly, she never considered herself to be the covetous, territorial type— but with him? It was difficult to be anything else.

Harri averted her eyes before he caught her staring. 

It was peculiar how being underground seemed to only amplify all other sounds. And as she sought a distraction, trying to divert herself from the direction her thoughts were attempting to go, they stole into her mind— the unhurried breathing of him, the thunderous drumming in her ears, the crinkle of pages being turned, the robust crackling in the mantle. Absolutely irritating. In the end, she became entranced by the tome in his hands, brows knitting together at the unfamiliar letters. To her, it appeared like slanted together squiggles and a run on jumble of poorly done cursive.

“What language is that?” 

"Parselscript," he supplied, setting down the book to cross his arms over his chest. "All of the texts here are written the same way."

Voldemort tilted his chin towards the shelves. "This is where I spent a great deal of my time at Hogwarts. Mainly learning, of course. I found answers here about myself and I figured it was time you found some as well."

"Pardon?"

When she looked up at him, there was blatant confusion in her gaze— but such a thing was overshadowed by that glint of untempered hunger at the mention of possible answers. It was a look he knew too intimately, a look that bespoke of desperation— of someone starved their entire life only to have a crust of bread dangled in front of them. An unwitting kinship and a flash of commiseration— a driving need to be the one to sate her hollowed stomach.

He reached over to casually, innocently, pluck an auburn curl off her shoulder. 

"Seeing as this is as much of your legacy as it is mine, it would be unfair to withhold it from you," he explained.

The air thinned in the room, tension slipping into her muscles and burrowing into her sinew— Harri refused to breathe, to move, to budge the slightest inch for fear of ruining the moment. Haunted by the sight of her hair being wrapped about his index finger, she watched, entirely hypnotised. It was a jarring juxtaposition, the colour of the strand so much brighter, so much richer, against his alabaster complexion. Blood— splatters against the snow, a river of it cutting a winding path. 

His words, admittedly, startled her. They were weighty, far too full of implication. Far too candid. She knew what the Chamber meant to him, how important it was— she knew for she had seen it. Down here, deep under the earth and kneeling on dampened tiles, she had borne witness to a specter proudly proclaiming to the Heavens that he was the Heir of Slytherin. Had beheld him cutting burning letters into the ether and rearranging them to reveal the dismal, excruciating truth— 'I am Lord Voldemort.’ Had understood that, for an orphan with so little, a single name composed his entire world. And she also knew that this was his true legacy— not hers. He had inherited it, had the blood and lineage to substantiate the claim whereas she only partook by proxy— a mishap brought about by a wayward soul.

Yet, he was letting her in— was trusting her with something so sacred. 

Her stomach churned uneasily, a lump caught in her throat. "What if I never change though?"

The twisting motion stilled. 

Harri cursed herself for even voicing such a thing, for ruining the moment despite her best attempts not to. Green eyes darted over his closed-off expression with a burgeoning sense of distress.

"You will." It was a decisive statement on his end.

And on the matter, Voldemort did consider he was being somewhat selfish. After all, it was a situation that nature would determine the outcome of. Yet, he willed it to happen all the same— needed it to. He needed his horcrux to take that final plunge and forsake humanity as he had done— to further, irrevocably bind them together. Needed someone to revel alongside him in being above the common man, to share in the pains and the accompanying glory. A damning revelation that he wanted her to be, exactly, like him.

The Dark Lord forced a placating smile when she had flinched at his tone, untwisting that curl and reaching for her hand instead. There was a gentleness in how he grasped it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles and the valleys between them.

"You will," he repeated, a touch more cajoling this time.

Harri held her tongue from arguing. 

"On a different matter, I have a gift for you," he changed the subject. 

His free hand, fingers splayed and palm turned down, cut a horizontal path above the desk, a wandless, wordless gesture— the traces of his magic rolled across her skin, a buzz in her system. In its wake, a box had begun to slowly materialise, knitting itself together from the green-tinted shadows until it became solid. Real. Harri spared a glance to it, curiosity spiking at the shape, the length. It almost looked like a— but could it be?

Emerald eyes slid questioningly to him. A dip of his head for her to open it and nervous hands, tentative and unsure, disentangled from his. 

The case was simple enough. Black and unwrapped, no added embellishments or bows to adorn it— rather befitting, she figured, to the personality of its giver. A breath held in smarting lungs, she lifted the lid off slowly and peeled back the layer of protective cloth— a strangled noise.

There, nestled among the velvet padding and recently polished, was a sight she would recognise anywhere— her wand. And not just the replacement that only half-listened but her wand— her original. That tapered, unwarped length of dark wood, the raised handle that mimicked tree bark, the notch midway through the grain. It was, undoubtedly, the one she had dropped in the graveyard all those years ago. Harri looked to Voldemort, vision blurring. He was watching her intensely, solemn instead of teasing for the first time all night, scarlet eyes roaming greedily across her face and drinking it all in.

And though Harri figured she should probably demand to know how the holly had found its way to him in the first place, or how long, exactly, he had kept them separated, she couldn’t bring herself to. None of that mattered. Not now. 

With a shaky exhale, she lifted the wand tenderly, gently, from the box. The weight in her palm was comforting, the groove of the handle familiar. A joyous reunion between two old, dear friends. And even if there was something else hovering in the background of their blissful reacquaintance, a blot of darkness that should be a cause of concern, she could care less. She had her wand back.

Elation— pure and unbridled, the smile upon her face wide and easy. Harri tested her grip with a flourish, relieved to find the movement still a second nature. She had barely noticed Voldemort coming closer until it was too late— until hands, large and solid, landed on her shoulders and that broad chest slotted firmly against her back. Lips hovered near the shell of her ear, his words a serious, somber whisper.

"Let this be a symbol of my trust in you, Harri. I am giving you a wand because you have earned it— do not make me regret such a decision."

Her acknowledgement came as a silent nod, only half-registering the threat interwoven into the message—  the implication that he could just as easily take away the holly as he had given it back. An itch, esurient and rampant, blossomed behind her sternum, a rush of excitement that made it hard to contain herself any longer— a call of her magic begging to be released now that it had a proper conduit to do so. She gave in.

With a snap of her wrist, brilliant sparks cascaded out from the tip. A fountain of shimmering gold erupted over their heads— an arc of radiance that cut through the darkness and brightened every corner of the library. Euphoria manifested as a sobbing laugh when magic, far stronger than when she would cast wandlessly, coursed in her veins. There was a peculiar sense of completion as the holly thrummed with an overabundance of energy, a deadened limb regaining life. Something inside of her sang. 

Harri, unthinkingly, turned her head— a chaste, fleeting press of her lips against his.

It took her a second to understand what she was doing. The sparks dancing above them faded as she withdrew in shock. 

Harri spun around in the cage of his arms, an apology already forming.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—," the words trailed off.

He was watching her— that part wasn't so unusual. It was a terrible habit of his that she had grown accustomed to, his scrutiny her constant companion. But it was the way he was looking at her that was different. Harri's nerves knotted as those scarlet eyes, darkened by the verdant flames, darted down to her mouth. There was a glint of desire in them and the barest flickers of— awe? But before she could determine the truth of the sentiment, he stepped in closer and disrupted her contemplation.

"No," he readily agreed. "You really shouldn't have."

He closed the gap between them before she could even blink.

Compared to her, there was a distinct lack of chasteness to be found in him. His mouth moved insistently against her own and Harri fumbled to set the wand down, her focus siphoned off to clumsily follow his lead. Surrendering to that magnetic pull that existed between them made her head swim— that sparking, subtle current, a live wire barely contained.

Their bond was flaring to life in the recesses of her mind, the drumming in her ears escalating to a white noise. 

And before Harri knew what was happening, hands were encircling her waist, their presence keenly felt through the fluid material of her gown. The desk's edge dug into the backs of her thighs as he crowded her against it.

She barely noticed.

There was a sharp nip and the ensuing gasp was readily taken advantage of. His tongue slipped past the seal of her lips— it tasted as honeyed as his words and as sweet as the lies he spun like sugar. Exhilarating. All too gladly did she ignore the voice screaming for caution as the air in her lungs was offered up in tribute for something far, far more gratifying. 

Her weight shifted to her toes as she sought to eliminate their distance, an eagerness as she chased after the kiss.

Apparently sensing her struggle, his hands sunk firmly into the gentle curve of her waist before lifting her up onto the desk. A clatter of inkwells and scrolls followed as they were disturbed from their decades-long resting places. Neither the Dark Lord nor the girl, however, saw fit to pay them any mind. Not to the alarming sounds of bottles tipping over, not to the errant vial that was rolling precariously towards the edge— not even when it shattered on the tile, the sound of glass rupturing into a million shards drowned out by their quickened breaths.  

Wandering hands drifted up to his shoulders and smoothed desperately over the fabric of his suit— the cord of muscle flexed under the touch.

Voldemort shifted and her legs, dangling off the desk, instinctively parted to let him edge in closer. The shared heat between their bodies was stifling, all-consuming— not that she entirely minded, especially considering her gown did little to fend off the evening’s chill. 

It was with a ragged gasp that they finally broke apart, both searching for air where little was to be found. Lightheadedness became her most enduring companion, her lungs plagued by an agonising burn— she loved it. There was something freeing to be found in the sensation, in succumbing to the inevitability— in letting herself feel for once without thinking.   

Green eyes locked with red ones in a momentary respite as she strived to ignore how dangerously the world was tilting on its axis. He looked dishevelled for once, that rebellious curl falling over his brow, his mouth fuller than usual— bruised almost with a wet sheen that caught the firelight. For a lack of a better word, Voldemort looked debauched— and Harri didn't even want to know what she must look like in turn. Though, judging by his current expression, she figured she must appear equally shameless. Equally indecent. 

It was a battle to gather her wits and calm herself— something that he, apparently, had no intentions of allowing.

He placed a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, carving out a deliberate path— along the curve of her jaw, the soft junction below her ear, down the column of her throat. A hitched sigh escaped her when his teeth grazed against her pulse point, not quite breaking the skin but still possessing the thrill of the threat.  

Harri tilted her head back, her next inhale sucked through clenched teeth when that open-mouthed kiss only increased in pressure. A bruising suck, a punishing nip— the flat pull of a tongue a soothing balm. She could viscerally feel the flush across her skin, a heat rising into her cheeks and pooling in her stomach— it barely registered that those hands had left her waist until it was too late.

Fingers trailed lazily up the exposed back of her dress, the touch featherlight as it traced over the ridges of her spine. She shivered.

Nails scraped teasingly against her scalp to disrupt that braided halo Narcissa had so lovingly created just a few hours prior. The tickle of undone wisps grazing bare shoulders— his grip constricted. A not-so-gentle tug wrenched her head back even further, an unrelenting hold that caused a low moan to slip out. 

Half-lidded eyes trained themselves down on him as her nails sunk deeper into the muscles of his shoulders, the crescent moon impressions a silent warning. On that swollen mouth of his, a smirk appeared, the left side lifting higher than the right as their gazes locked. 

He purposefully ventured lower— a ghosting kiss to the dip of her collarbones. It was surprisingly tame, a jarring juxtaposition to the pain felt down to her roots from the hand knotted firmly in her hair. Some twisted part of her adored it.

But how that sense of discomfort dulled in comparison to the weight of a hand trailing up the leg peeking out from the split hem— a path of fire. 

A moment of suspension.

Behind her ribs, Harri could feel her heart attempting to rupture, to burst past its cage with its frenzied beating. And she wondered if Voldemort could sense it as well— that evermounting wave just waiting to crest. Those scarlet eyes were attentive, something ravenous and starved held in them as that hand dared to climb— it slipped under the skirt. This was a game, she recognised, to see who would bow out first. She had no intentions of losing.

Higher and higher and higher— past the curve of her calf, past the rounded cap of her knee. The roaring in her ears increased when he had brazenly brushed against her inner-thigh, fingers burrowing into it with a bruising grip. A quick squeeze was all it took to muddle her rationality.

Distant warning bells were going off at how close he was, his intention all too clear— Harri ignored them in favour of wrenching herself free from the hand tangled in her hair. She cupped his jaw, thumbs greedily tracing the defined, sharp angles of it as she brought her mouth to his. Hunger— she thought she knew what it was after spending a childhood filled with it. The blight of an emptied stomach, of never having enough. She thought she knew— but this? No, this was a different sort. A terrifying sort— an unknown type that only served to thrill her.

Their bond was a solar flare in the shared darkness of their minds as her lips moved clumsily against his, a keen desperation spurring her on. It was difficult to not hyper-fixate on the weight of that hand that rested upon her thigh— how it refused to budge any higher and was seemingly content to massage into the pliant muscle. Absolutely maddening

"Fucking hell— just touch me already," she demanded, agitation causing her to slip into parseltongue.

Voldemort smirked against her mouth, a flood of triumph upon securing her verbal consent and the enthusiasm behind the insistence. And who was he to deny her?

He took his time in allowing his fingers to graze over the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of the heated blood circulating in her veins burning. In the moment, she seemed far less like a star and more of a sun. An imploding supernova.

The satin material of her underwear brushed against his hand, a bloom of eagerness, of impatience in his chest. Her reaction to him was clear enough, the material dampened as he lightly traced a path upwards— there was a bitten-off gasp from her, the word tumbling out a strangled 'fuck'

Scarlet eyes lifted to see her brows drawn together, the bottom lip caught between her teeth. And some part of him did wonder how much experience she could actually lay claim to having. 'Probably not much,' he figured, her reaction pitifully telling considering he hadn't even done anything yet. And there it was— that insatiable need, that depraved urge to see what kind of expressions she would have, what sort of sounds she would make when he pushed her over the edge.

A wicked, passing idea entirely too tempting to ignore.

"Tell me, Harri." His voice was low as his thumb brushed over her clit to get her attention— she jolted in response.

Pressure increasing, he leisurely, unhurriedly circled that bundle of nerves. Almost obsessively, he took to cataloguing each hitched breath, that becoming flush on her cheeks, the way those lids, painted with a pale shimmer, were lowered, their lashes fluttering. How often had he dreamt of this moment? Of seeing her this way because of him? And, not for the first time, did the Dark Lord determine that his imagination had failed him miserably, the reality painting a much prettier picture than any he could have ever conjured.

His free hand ended up behind her and splayed on the desk to keep himself grounded.

“At night, when you would touch yourself while everyone else slept, who would you think of?” he questioned quietly. 

Encouraged by the soft gasps, he edged his hand under the satin fabric’s band. There was a twitch in her thighs, an instinct for them to close, when he casually trailed his fingers through her center. A peculiar sense of pride bloomed at how wet she was— that he had been the one to reduce her to such a state.

"Who would be the star player in your fantasies? Who did you like to imagine?" he refused to relent.

The heel of his palm pressed down against that spot of nerves— a low hum of approval when her hips canted forward. She shuddered, those unintelligible little sounds spilling past her lips sending a spike of anticipation through his own veins.

That sharpening ache between her legs and the haze blanketing her mind muddled his questions. If Harri had thought her skin was on fire before, then she considered it must be molten by now. She felt too warm, too much, too floaty— and the only thing tethering her at the present were the solid shoulders she desperately clung to. Within her chest, utter mayhem reigned— a frantic beating, the upticks as the chambers of her heart contracted too strong to be normal. Everywhere he touched was electrifying, purposeful— not at all like those stolen, fumbling moments in the night when she attempted to figure it out for herself. No, this was far, far better. 

Her hips ground down against his hand for friction, a vain attempt to get him to oblige her already.

A finger pressed against her before slipping inside, another following close behind. Her head tilted back at the unexpected sensation, eyes screwing shut— a cascade of ruined curls and undone braids. Neon bursts erupted behind closed lids when he moved experimentally, nerves frayed as that thumb had resumed its teasing. 

Shit," the moan bubbled out from parted lips. 

An opened mouth kiss to the hollow of her throat— a choked back cry, flames licking up her spine.

"Was it me you would envision?"

Voldemort smirked when her words refused to form— but the truth was found in her body and the way her muscles had clenched in the ultimate betrayal. A surge of triumph, his teeth scraping the tender skin of her neck. 

This was a foreign feeling for her. Alien, bizarre—  she never wanted it to end. It felt as though she were falling apart, ready to collapse inward and just shatter. Everything was too heated, too much yet too little— and then those fingers had curled. They pushed unwaveringly into a spot inside of her that she wasn't even aware of existing, a blinding flash of white-hot light.

Fuck— ” 

That tension kept building, a crescendo ever rising. Her hold on him tightened as an auburn crown burrowed into his chest in a pathetic attempt to ride out the pleasure that was almost becoming too much to stand. It hurt to breathe, static crawling across her skin.

Those fingers pressed into that spot again— and she was lost. That wave finally came crashing down, a merciless tide. Her back arched, a shuddering breath of meaningless, incomprehensible sounds as she came undone.

And for a second, everything felt right. Perfect. Like she was floating, weightless— soaring through the sky and tasting the golden sun upon her tongue.

But then she was crashing down, the wax melted from her wings by that very same, once welcoming sun— a prodigious deception.

As that pleasure rapidly ebbed, all Harri felt was an overriding exhaustion competing with that blissful glow. Her chest ached, her nerves ached— everything felt overloaded. Too sensitive. Trembling fingers lost their strength, her face pushing into the crook of his neck as she made poor attempts to process what just happened. The scent of him was wonderfully calming— the fragrance of sweet smoke undercut by something clean, something else she couldn’t quite place. 

Was this what Lavender had been referring to all those times when she talked about "the best feeling in the world"? She considered it must be— because, despite the weariness, Harri found herself still wanting it. 'How bloody confusing.'

"Home. Now," she muttered against his skin the second she could get the words out.



Voldemort had granted the request.

A sharp pop cut through the quiet of the bedroom and cleaved the blanketing peace of the manor— it sounded thunderous even to her ringing ears and Harri half-worried whether or not they had woken anyone up. Probably not— or so she hoped. 

Despite arriving, he was steadfast in continuing to hold her, an arm looped under her legs and the other spanning across her back. And though she might have objected on any other occasion, Harri was, secretly, grateful for his stubbornness. Her body had seen fit to enact a mutiny, her legs shaky, unstable— ‘standing’, in particular, seemed quite high on the running list of impossibilities at the present. And yet, despite the physical state she currently found herself in, a little voice protested that it wasn't quite satisfied. Pandora's box had been opened, the unleashed spirits greedy in their eternal quest to devour—but, for once, she had no mind to try to shut it.

Silence reigned. Harri could feel those red, red eyes boring into her and she knew, if she was brave enough to look, fixation would be shining in their depths— he wasn't inclined to try to close the box either. 

Her gaze bounced about the room for a distraction, noting the deadened mantle and the drawn drapes. At some point, a house-elf had seen fit to light some of the filigree sconces on the walls and open the balcony doors to allow in the summer breeze— the perfume of honeysuckle filled the bedroom. Slanted rays of starlight, lengthening shadows, the occasional, dulcet chirp of a cricket— a serene enough scene as the rest of the world slept. 

And then she saw the bed. 

That grand, four-postered bed with its excessive amount of pillows and gossamer curtains. The very same one she had slept in so often without a second thought— the very same that had committed the shape of her body, of each curve and dip, to memory.

It seemed daunting now. Intimidating. 

Flashes of them tangled together in the black sheets, the feel of silk against naked skin— heat spread up to her ears, her heart refusing to calm.

Memories of what had just transpired were unwanted visitors, a barrage of indecent noises. Lips where lips should never stray, hands where hands should refrain from being— she could still feel it all as lingering, phantom sensations. And the fact she had barely lasted under his, albeit skillful, touch? It was almost embarrassing. ‘Sweet Merlin, kill me now.’ 

Harri cleared her throat, looking down to her manicured nails as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. 

"I think I can walk now," she said. 

She stared up at him, forcing herself to hold her ground when his arched brow called out the bald-faced lie. With an exasperated sigh, Voldemort eventually, reluctantly, lowered her down to the ground— her knees nearly buckled under the weight. 

Harri forced herself to walk it off when he had scoffed— an extremely poor attempt to hide his conceited amusement— the mortification and the desire to prove him wrong pushing her on towards the lounge. ‘Bloody, egotistical sadist.’

Relieved, she sunk down onto the chaise, thankful enough to have been spared the humiliation of being carried over. The Dark Lord was watching in silent, open interest as she busied herself with the laborious task of removing the diamond pins from her dismantled curls. A tense moment, the candles flickering on the walls casting an intimate ambience about the room. 

‘Just calm down. Lavender has done this a million times. How hard can it be?’ But the more she tried to recall her roommate’s promiscuous tales, the details of those giggle-laced whispers of liaisons held in broom closets, the more unnerved she felt— she couldn't remember anything. 

A slew of muttered curses as she wrestled with the pins. It was a losing battle, her nerves seeping into her fingers and making them stiff. Graceless.

"Uhm, do you— can you?" she finally asked, a sheepish smile as she avoided looking into his eyes. "Narcissa usually helps. But considering the uhm, circumstances, and the hour—"

"Of course."

She swallowed heavily. That agreeable smile of his did little to help ease away the pit in her stomach. The lounge dipped under the added weight as he settled behind her, shoulders drawn up. And how that afterglow from earlier was rapidly fading, eaten away by anxiety and anticipation, that too-wide bed hovering on the edges of her consciousness.

A stilted inhale when fingers brushed against the nape of her neck to gather up the mess of curls— she attempted to cover it up with a cough, striving to portray an air of nonchalance she most certainly did not feel. Surprisingly gentle, his movements were deft as he plucked out the diamond pins one by one— the quiet clink of them being set down on the glass coffee table occupied the silence.

And how odd was it to think that the Dark Lord, their ruler, the wizard most feared to even utter his name, was acting as her attendant tonight? Admittedly, the concept inspired an unwitting, possessive contentment deep within herself. 

Under the lull of his work, the pleasurable slight tugs on her scalp, Harri could feel some of her stress begin to wane.

 Her tentative question broke the quiet first. "How did you know?"

"Regarding?"

"When you, you know— earlier. When you uhm guessed who I thought about? That it was you?"

Those fingers stilled as though taken back by the question. She frowned at the reaction, thrown off when he had chuckled softly— a puff of cool air against her exposed neck. The last pin joined its companions and Voldemort leaned forward, hands draping over her shoulders to idly trace the pronounced outline of her collarbones.

Shivering at the featherlight touch, her hands clenched the glittering fabric of her gown.

"Oh, Harri— do you want to know a secret?"

She nodded slightly, mouth dry.

Brushing against the teardrop diamonds adorning that slender neck of hers, he whispered against auburn curls, "I didn't."

A flash of alarm at the admission, Harri craned her neck to stare back at him in shocked horror. Judging by the victory so clearly etched onto his face, he wasn't lying. 'But if he didn't know—.' Mortification flooded her.

Voldemort couldn't resist the rakish smile, finding her expression far too tempting to ignore. He swept a strand of red hair behind her ear. "Of course, I was aware of those little moments— those times when you would touch yourself. I felt it. Every emotion, the conflict, the frustration. Your shame. Truly, your bleedthrough was atrocious, Harri."

He laughed, a sharp sound edged with perverted delight as her cheeks blushed considerably. Her head snapped forward in embarrassment and he bestowed a kiss to the curve of her jaw, relishing in the petal-soft skin and the scent of roses it carried. 

Searching fingers found the clasp of her necklace and undid it with practiced ease. The diamonds slackened without the tension to hold them taut, crumpling inwards as he dragged them slowly off her throat— they fell into his waiting palm.

"But I’m flattered and I thank you for confirming my suspicions." He removed the headpiece of erupting stars. "Do you want to know another secret?"

Spread fingers carded through her wild auburn crown, disrupting the remaining braids that had valiantly clung to their integrity— they fell apart under his coaxing. In a final once-over, blunt nails scraped along her scalp and against that vulnerable point at the base of her skull. He hummed, pleased enough with her visceral reaction, the way she had leaned into him unconsciously.

When Voldemort spoke, his words were cutting, quiet— as though they were a secret, "I would think of you as well."

Harri's eyes, having slipped closed at some point under the pacifying massage, flew open. Before she could properly react and demand to know if that meant what she thought it did, he had already left. It was oddly cold without him crowding against her back, a twinge in her chest at the abrupt absence.

Rising from the chaise, he knelt on the Persian rug before her, one knee bent at an angle. The Dark Lord reached for a foot hidden under the voluminous skirts, resting it upon his thigh as he slipped off the satin heel. Darkening eyes were trained up on her, their gazes meeting— a chaste kiss to her bare calf before he gently guided the foot down to the ground.

Her pulse fluttered at that singular look of worship— and how some warped aspect of her, the side that thrived off having things for her own, revelled in the sight. That he, Lord Voldemort, the man who approached Fate as though he were the ruler of it, who deemed himself to be above the common rabble, was on his knees before her— that, for once, it wasn't the other way around. Heat in her stomach, a slip of fire that crept dangerously downward, her interest piqued when he placed another kiss to the opposite leg. A heady revelation that she felt in control, in power— it didn't lessen even as his arms caged her against the lounge.

His mouth slotted against hers and Harri nearly groaned—that sense of power deflated, evaporating just as quickly as it appeared when his skill dominated the foreground of their moment. 

It was dizzying the way he kissed, the force behind it, the artful pulls— he knew how to manipulate it, to set a pace that suited him. To rob her breath and make her head spin. She was putty in his hands, butterflies rampant behind her ribs. 

But then, against her better judgement, emerald eyes fluttered open and slid to that bed looming just a few feet away. 

That indomitable, imposing, intimidating bed.

The nerves were back tenfold.

"Shit," she mumbled against his mouth. "Shit. Fuck, sorry."

Harri shrank into the couch, recoiling from the contact— Voldemort tilted his head to the left in a silent, confused question as she retreated. That confusion, however, promptly gave way to concern when the girl ran her hands through her hair agitatedly. 

The stretching shadows from the candlelight did little to conceal the blatant apprehension crossing her face. 

"Sorry, I— fuck." Her tongue ran skittishly over kiss-swollen lips. " I- I don't know what I'm doing."

Voldemort blinked, bewilderment drawing his brows together. 

Harri glanced uneasily over to the silk sheets before turning back to him— and how she hated that, even during the moments when he looked utterly lost, the edge of his attractiveness refused to be dulled. She groaned again, stomach lurching as her insecurities waged battle against her desires. And though she strived to put such feelings into words, they came out as meek, feeble— a stinging truth.

"L-look, I don't know what I'm doing. Like, any of this." She gestured offhandedly to the space between their bodies. "And it's not that I don't want to, trust me I do, I just—"

Thin hands scrubbed over her face, head tilting back to rest on the lounge, "And you're probably used to a certain level of, bloody hell, proficiency— Merlin, help me."

The heels of her palms pressed into her eyes— colourful bursts of abstract shapes behind closed lids. And as much as she hated to admit it, Lavender’s ominous prediction was coming true— that she was “going to regret not practicing for the one moment when it would truly matter.” But Harri always considered it to be useless advice. Empty-headed and reserved for those with normal lives and normal expectations and normal troubles— not for those who were supposed to be preparing for a prophetic war. Well, regrets were abundant now. She was out of her depth, her fumbling attempts to follow along barely keeping her afloat. And compared to his own experience, Harri figured she must look rather pitiful in turn. After all, look at how he kissed, how easily he coaxed things out of her— with just his fingers to top it off. 

How was she supposed to compete?

Her words were muffled by the hands covering her face. "I just don't know if I'll be any good at it." 

It took a second for understanding to dawn over him. Of course, he had assumed his horcrux was, to delicately put it, inexperienced— her reactions all evening easily told him that. But hearing her confirm it? Truthfully, it did little to lessen his desire— if anything, it only heightened his greed to lay claim to something no other person had ever before. To show her a side of herself that she remained ignorant of— to show her what they could be together.

"You're worried you won't be able to perform?" he echoed, amusement lacing the words.

Harri refused to speak, too embarrassed to verbally acknowledge the concern.

"Well, considering you already came once, I don't believe 'performing' should prove to be an issue," he teased, unable to stop himself.

Her hands fell from her face, mouth dropping to an affronted 'oh' at his crassness. She stared at him in shock, unable to believe her ears. 

"W-wait— no, that's not," she spluttered. "I just don't want to disappoint you if, you know, it's not as— you know what I mean!"

He scoffed, a disbelieving shake of his head, "Trust me, Harri, when I say it's quite impossible for you to disappoint me right now."

The hand gripping the headboard of the chaise tightened as Voldemort leaned forward, towering over her. His other hand darted to her chin, thumb digging slightly into the tender point under her jaw as he forced her to look up. A purposeful, slow grind of his hips. She inhaled sharply at the evidence of his arousal digging into her thigh— a low groan had escaped him at the friction. 

The outline was heavy, solid— real. 

Entirely too real. 

He stared down into those wide eyes, their emerald colour eclipsed by dilated pupils, voice perhaps a touch too rough. "As I said, you can’t possibly disappoint me. However, if you do not want—"

"I do," she interjected quickly.

The Dark Lord eyed the girl under him for a second, seeking to confirm if it was the truth or not— he probed the surface of their connection, not so intensively as to tip her off but just enough to get a feel. The anxiety, though still present, was seemingly placated by his reassurance, her desire currently the stronger of the two emotions. He considered it as good of a sign as any.

A peck to the corner of her mouth, Voldemort released her from his hold and rose from the lounge. Extending a hand out for his horcrux, she took it and allowed him to guide her towards the foot of the four-postered frame. 

He instructed her to turn around— Harri nervously obeyed, gathering her hair over one shoulder so he could have access to the hidden zipper.

The bedroom was encumbered by a pitiless quiet. An oppressive silence— the sanctity of it was defiled by the subtle whir of the zip gliding down, the metal key inside undoing its teeth. She shifted her weight as he nudged off the mesh neckline— a rustling as the copious amount of fabric fell from her frame, a pool of liquid starlight about her feet. 

Harri instinctively shielded her bare chest with her arms. Due to the cut of the gown, a bra had been forgone and, as she gracelessly stepped out of the dress, nearly tripping, she desperately wished it hadn't.

Teeth gnawed her bottom lip unforgivingly as she turned to face him, her pulse a frenetic, uncontrolled thing. That gaze of his certainly didn't help either— she might as well have been a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car, unable to leap out of the way of the impending danger. Scarlet eyes were sweeping across her, a slow rake she could viscerally feel as they lingered upon certain portions of herself typically covered. Harri shifted, trying to get his attention. Was she supposed to also undress him? Or let him do it himself?

He was otherwise too occupied to notice her uncertainty. 

And there it was— that queasy, see-sawing in her mind, a nauseating flux between morbid curiosity and disparaging dread as to what he must be thinking. Was she too gangly? Too awkward looking? How did she compare to the other women he had slept with? Did she measure up— or was she a disappointment? But the more she searched for the answers in his expression, the less she could find.

A difficult swallow, throat dry, scratchy— she sunk down onto the edge of the mattress. 

The movement of her shifting broke his trance.

Undoing the polished buttons of the vest, its matching tie long since discarded, Voldemort took note of her waned and pallid countenance. Another confusing reaction on her end, an enigma without a forthcoming explanation. He tensed and untensed his jaw— a war of inner-deliberation. And he knew that he shouldn't, had assured her that he would refrain from such— he delved into her mind anyway. The slightest skimming, those occlumency shields fortified through months of practice still weakened in the face of her distress and distraction. 

He blinked once, utterly mystified.

'So, she's worrying about that?' In any other instance, he might have laughed at such a notion— however, the sheer gravity of her own self-deprecation was far too sobering. Crimson eyes narrowed a fraction as they traced over her turned profile and he wondered if she even knew what she looked like right now. Caught between two worlds, half-illuminated by the dancing flames of the candles— brilliant and radiant, a creature of the light. She absorbed the fire for her own, keeping it within her eyes, her skin, her hair— colours so rich that they made nature's own portraits of autumn look dull in comparison.

But that other portion belonged to the night, to the stars and the honey-suckle breeze. A stark contrast as shadows claimed half to paint bared flesh with their swirled designs. They crept past the sheer drapes, purposefully seeking her out— a magnet to even the darkest of forces in the world.

Absolutely enthralling— and the fact she possessed zero awareness of her own charm, her allure? It disturbed him perhaps more than it probably should have.

The vest fell to the floor, the shoes abandoned as he undid the first few buttons of his dress shirt. 

Cradling her cheek, he redirected her wayward attention back to him.

"You, Harri Potter, are truly the most singular, beautiful creature I have ever come across," he stated plainly, as though it were the utmost truth in the world.

And despite how many lies he told, how many fake plaudits he doled out to others, this was a compliment made in earnest— he had thought so, in fact, ever since that fateful night in the graveyard oh so many years ago. 

Her expression crumpled, suspended somewhere between relief and skepticism. Protests were already on her tongue. His lips slotted against hers, smothering them before they could be voiced. The Dark Lord leaned forward, a hand flatly pressed against her sternum in a silent command for her to move.

Harri acquiesced with some difficulty. Her back bumped against the nest of pillows lining the headboard, their kiss only breaking when the need for air became impossible to ignore. A twist in her stomach at the sensation of silk sheets under them, excited nerves alight at the fact they were actually here. When he had reached up to gently pry those shielding arms away, she warily allowed it.

He glanced down, unable to stave off his curiosity any longer. A man possessed, the sight of her naked chest only stirred his interest further. His wandering hand cupped one, the slightest squeeze as though to test if it was as soft as it looked. And while they weren't nearly as full as his previous partners' had been, it fit perfectly in his palm— a pleasing sight that he figured served as a testament that they were, truly, made for each other.

Experimentally rolling the peaked nipple between his thumb and index finger, a noise of approval vibrated deep in his chest at her gasp. An open-mouthed kiss was placed against the beginning curve of the other breast, her erratically beating heart felt past its uncompromising cage of bone. The sound was one he couldn't help but smile at, lips curling playfully against her skin. And that scent of roses, he noticed, had become increasingly more fragrant— a remnant, no doubt, from the flower-laced bath Narcissa had probably insisted on. 

Not that he was complaining.

"Lovely," he reaffirmed, squeezing just a touch harder.

Another kiss, the path creeping inwards— he latched on, teeth grazing over the other nipple, her back arching in response. He registered a breathy curse from her, tongue laving over the sting before redirecting his attention elsewhere— to her collarbones, the hollow of her throat, that pale silver mark of teeth long since impressed into her. 

A bruising pull on the faded scar as he teased it with a gentle bite. Fondness burst through him at how her trembling fingers were reaching greedily for his shirt only to fumble with the remaining buttons. The Dark Lord allowed her the task, pleased with the urgency in which she was trying to perform it. The term 'endearing' sprang to mind.

The hand not propping him above her grew restless. Brazenly skirting down the length of her body, it attempted to map out the contours and curves that composed her. Past the ridges of her ribcage, his fingers lazily dragging over each pronounced one. Past the curve of her waist, the skin almost unbearably warm. Past the taut stomach, the stretched muscle of it rising and falling with each uneven breath. Voldemort took a second to appreciate the slanted angle of her hips and the protruding bone that shifted under that cream-coloured canvas as she instinctively lifted them, chasing after those idle touches. 'Entirely sinful.'

But it was the satin fabric that garnered his undivided attention. Ivory and lined with lace, the underwear painted a tempting image— in the moonlight, the material shone against her. The last obstacle, the last thing that lent her any modicum of modesty— and it was the knowledge of what they guarded that made the innocent piece of clothing seem obscene. Indecent.

The grip on her hip tightened, the anticipation turning him impatient— he barely registered she had managed to unbutton his shirt until hands, scorching and searing, slipped over his chest. A hiss of surprise at the contact. 

And it was her finally touching him that did it, that made it sink in this wasn't some elaborate dream his warped imagination decided to torture him with— it was real. That finally, finally, she was here, those fingers trailing over his stomach both bold yet reserved at the same time. Shrugging off the button-down, he crumpled it up and threw it somewhere into the darkness beyond the bed. Wrinkles be damned. 

His entire world had been narrowed down to the girl, his girl, underneath him— those needy hands reaching for him, those willowy legs bent and parted, a halo of red hair spread across the pillows. It was too much to bear— his pants tightened.

The muscle in his jaw jumped, a molten syrup coursing in his veins as their bond amplified every feeling, every sensation. 'Damn it all.' A ripping sound tore through the quiet otherwise punctuated by their ragged gasps— the shredded remains of her underwear soon joined the discarded shirt on the floor.

He inhaled sharply— the following exhalation never came. 

The breath was trapped in his lungs as he zeroed in on the smooth, sacred point resting between her legs. And while he, undeniably, found the female form to be attractive in all of its complexity, he determined she wasn’t just merely attractive— she was exquisite. Despite having only the moonlight to illuminate the bedroom, the sconces long since extinguished, he could clearly see the evidence of the state she had been reduced to— glistening, a pearlescent sheen overspilling. It filled him with a sense of triumph— a fleeting kiss to the concave of her stomach before he captured her mouth once more.

“Absolutely stunning,” he spoke the words into their kiss, a hand slipping between her thighs. 

Harri lifted her head to eagerly meet him, that earlier sensation of being stretched flooding back as his fingers edged in— a shudder at that curling motion. The spike of pleasure wasn’t far behind. 

Her knees attempted to close of their own volition but he easily held them open with one hand, the strength in the grip encircling her calf admittedly doing more for her than it probably should have. And, distantly, she wondered if, perhaps, she was burning alive right now. Impossibly heated, his body a cool relief against her own, she clung to him for respite— though, if she were dying, this wouldn't be a terrible way to go all things considered.

She cupped his jaw in desperation to not let him pull away as those fingers kept curling at an insistent pace. That spreading weightlessness was back, albeit a touch more muted, a tightening coil as she arched up into his chest.

Shit— fucking hell,” a slew of curses, that buoyancy only growing—

He abruptly withdrew. 

Emerald eyes blinked up in a daze, unfocused for a second—  a dip in the mattress and a creak of the frame. Her vision cleared just in time to see him stand up. 

Harri propped herself up on her elbows, a twinge deep inside of her at being unexpectedly cut off from that wonderful, floating feeling. She was about to ask what he was doing, to demand he come back, when the click of a belt buckle coming undone silenced all possible words. It drew her attention, the sound amplified in the quiet of the night. 'Oh— oh.'

And, despite everything they had done up until this point, despite the fact she had been completely naked under him and shaking, she still blushed at the implication. Her gaze bounced to his face, the blight of shyness overcoming her— it was a grave mistake to look directly at him. Because, despite that amusement so easily found in the arch of his brow, in that lifted corner of his mouth, his eyes were fervid. Hellfire streaked through them— embers of a sinful glow. And the longer she stared, the more Harri could feel herself becoming lost, consumed— a feeling that, she was startled to realise, she rather enjoyed at the present. 'Merlin, save me.'

He pushed down his pants. The startling sound of fabric being discarded— Harri averted her eyes to the canopied ceiling above the bed. She could actually feel her blush deepen when he laughed in response, a breathy sort of thing.

"You can look, you know. I do not mind."

“R-right. Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly, eyes ever-so-slowly, ever-so-hesitantly drifting back down.

And while she had seen him naked from the waist up a handful of times— an inevitable occurrence when they co-inhabited the same space— this was different. This time, there was no towel to fully hide him.

In the slanted rays of silver light, the halo from the full moon, he was transcendent— less of a 'man' and something more 'divine'. 

Adonis would weep at being usurped. 

He was perfect— a term Harri applied in the literal sense. Because no matter how hard she looked, had searched in secret during those times he paraded around in a towel after showering, she couldn't find imperfections to his body— not a blemish, not a scar, not a mole. Though, perhaps that was his greatest flaw—unnerving perfection to the point of being inhuman. 

Timidly, she allowed herself to get comfortable with his nudity from afar. She studied those broad shoulders, a strength in them she intimately knew. Looked past the equally broad chest that housed his lethargically beating heart, the tempo a touch too slow, too unhurried to be normal. Past the definition of his stomach, the shadow of hidden muscle she was aware of existing— phantom sensations still felt in her fingertips, the power concealed and coiled under alabaster skin. 

Past the sharp lines of his hips, the slanted 'v' that gave way to— she blinked.

He was palming himself with long, even strokes— Harri was equally fascinated and mildly horrified at the prospect of where he wanted to put it. Truth be told, her experience with the male form was painfully limited— even in the quidditch changing rooms, certain articles of clothing were always kept on to maintain a sense of decorum. And the only reason she somewhat knew what to expect was thanks to Lavender and her risque magazines she snuck into their dorm— but how different was a photograph compared to real life.

Her ears were inflamed as indecent curiosity eventually won out over shyness— if he minded her watching, he didn't say anything. In a strange way, it was sort of beautiful. The head was slightly flushed in colour, a bead of fluid gathered at its tip. There was a spark in the air, a metallic tang that she immediately recognised as magic. 'A wordless spell?' She frowned, trying to figure out what he had just done— but as he continued to stroke himself, the rest of his length started to glisten. 'Oh—'. 

A dip in the mattress as he crawled towards her before slotting himself between knees that parted all too easily. His hand, fingers fanned and the bones jumping close to the surface, pressed into the tender spot just above her navel— Harri complied with the unspoken command, arms going lax as she flopped down to the nest of pillows. That hand remained there, content to feel the contraction of her stomach’s muscle with each breath— the other reached above her to anchor itself on the headboard. 

Eyes the colour of spilled wine met her own with a silent question.

Harri only managed to nod, tongue entirely uncooperative as nerves turned her pulse flighty.

Something blunt pressed against her— a breath sucked harshly between her teeth at the foreign feeling.

Voldemort shifted forward only to be met with some degree of resistance. Though, considering the nature of her situation, it wasn’t entirely surprising.

"Relax," he instructed, the word coming out strained.

The hold on the headboard turned viselike, his jaw set in determination. She was trying to listen to him, he knew she was, but her body was steadfast in its unwillingness to accept the intrusion. He ground his teeth, refusing to relent until that opposition gave way— it finally did.

The result was a shaky groan from her as he sunk in an inch. A cause for alarm, concerned eyes darted up to her pinched expression. Stillness overcame him. It was a losing battle to refrain from moving despite the overwhelming desire to do just that. And though he had tried to prep her the best he could, strived to help ease that initial discomfort, her face said it all. He was plagued by guilt— an odd feeling considering the depraved acts he had committed in this very room, considering that pain was something he usually thrived on and inflicted. 

But, on her, it was different— distressing. And, not for the first time, was he reminded of how small she was. How fragile. 

An irrational fear she might break.

"We could stop—"

"It's fine," she gritted out. 

And Harri wasn't sure why, exactly, she said it was— because, in reality, it burned. She felt strange. Too full, too much, too stretched, too hot, her insides twisting uncomfortably. And yet, despite all of that, it was equally intoxicating— that much Lavender had certainly been right about. Electrifying. It was the type of pain that made her feel alive— both tethered and yet untethered at the same time. Like when she dived on her broom, racing too close to the ground as it rained and the wind stung her face— like when those droplets pelted her skin and left angry welts behind.

Perhaps there was some truth in those jokes Draco always made about her masochistic tendencies.

A bitten off moan from her when he continued to sink in, the headboard creaking dangerously under his grasp. 

A stifled grunt from him as he kept going, trying to keep the pace controlled by letting her gradually adjust inch by inch.

Harri found it difficult to breathe normally, the spasms tearing through her muscles not exactly helping. 

But then he suddenly stopped, a momentary reprieve as his forehead fell against her own. 

Lashes fanned against the planes of his cheekbones, Harri distracted herself from the discomfort by observing him. Finely shaped brows were drawn together, a deep crease set between them, his mouth thinned— he looked as though he were concentrating. She had to actively force herself to let go of the sheets, a tentative hand brushing back that defiant, stray curl from his eyes. The burning sensation was slowly ebbing, the contentment knowing he only belonged to her right now helping to lessen some of the pain.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly.

Scarlet eyes slowly slid open, a glint of incredulity in them as he stared down at her. He had to resist the urge to scoff. But how like his horcrux was it to be worried about someone else when, in all actuality, it was she who deserved such concern?  'Entirely too selfless.' Plus, it wasn't as if it was painful for him. Excruciating? Most certainly— albeit for different reasons. It was taking every ounce and every shred of his self-restraint to not move until she indicated it was fine. But that was quickly proving to be an insurmountable feat, the self-discipline he always prided himself on rapidly deteriorating. She was tight, a welcoming fit, the heat of her scorching— and she kept, unconsciously he was certain, clenching down around him as though trying to spur him on. It was driving him insane.

And while she may have had the initial pain to deflect it, he didn't— that, unlike her, he was experiencing the brunt of their bond. The intensity of that hazing glow kept battering against the shields of his inner-resolve— a losing war.

He huffed, "I am fine, Harri. The question is, however, are you?"

The slightest of a frown before she nodded. "Y-yeah, I think so. You can, uhm, move, if you want?"

He didn't need to be told twice.

As though testing the waters, he withdrew only halfway— a slow roll of his hips forward to slide back in. The Dark Lord was watching her, searching for any sign that he should stop. Relieved when she appeared mostly fine, save for a grimace, he repeated the motion to get her used to it.

That rigidity was easing from her steadily, a flush bringing colour back to once pallid cheeks. When she started to visibly relax, the initial resistance mostly fading as her body turned pliant, he increased the pace into quickened, shallow thrusts that disrupted the sheets underneath them.

The hand pressing into her stomach grabbed one of her ankles and lifted it up— she had taken the hint and loosely wrapped her legs about his hips. With a satisfied hum, he spared a quick glance down to where they were joined, that bloom of possessive greed sated with the sight of himself driving into her. 

Reaching between her legs, idle fingers found that sensitive bundle of nerves with a light brush that earned a gasp. He smirked while increasing the pressure, entirely obsessed with eliciting a reaction. That rosebud mouth had rounded off, slackened, a look of ecstasy painting her features. It was clear she was starting to feel the effects of their bond, those invisible threads connecting them together— a pull at their cores as their souls recognised a long-lost twin. 

Her legs constricted, sunbursts dancing across her vision. And Harri couldn’t help but wonder if sex was like this for everyone or if this was a unique experience shared just between them. She figured it was the latter.

He was speeding up, pulling out and pushing in at what was becoming an unrestrained rhythm— she didn't entirely mind. The bed’s postered frame was groaning, the noise almost as obscene as their ragged panting. And how that friction, once uncomfortable, had morphed into a pleasure she remained ignorant of for 17 years, the burning sensation a stark contradiction to the shocks radiating out from the spot held unyieldingly under his thumb. It was going straight to her head— both her own Heaven and Hell, the man above her a god and a devil all in one.

Harri's hands found his back, the corded muscle more inviting and more satisfying to grasp at than the empty sheets.

"Fuck," she gasped at a particularly deep thrust. 

Nails sunk in. 

That had earned her a hiss from him as she left behind impressions on his skin. There was movement on her periphery as his hand released the headboard to find her hip. It was a bruising hold, an equal form of punishment as he left his own mark in turn— a thrill shot through her at the idea. 

Spilling past her lips was a strangled cry when he had angled himself to brush against that spot inside of her that made her see stars. And through the daze, Harri could sense the traces of his smug gloating.

He seemed intent on targeting that weakness, pulling out and snapping his hips forward with singular purpose—  it was enough to make her lashes flutter.

Behind her ribs, the curves and twists of bone, it was utter pandemonium. Her heart was erratic, sent into overdrive and drowning in the deluge of pleasure. That coil in her stomach was forever winding, tightening— a looming threat to snap at any second. And every time he drove into her, hitting that mark, the circling of his thumb refusing to cease, she was being pushed closer towards the edge— a siren's call beckoning her to leap and freefall like an Icarus.

Something warm erupted under her nails, a tackiness seeping down into their bed— a laugh from him in response, the sound making his chest vibrate.

"Oh, shit—" She scrambled to ground herself, clawed hands dragging down his bloodied back.

Her spine curved away from the mattress, arching as electricity coursed in her veins— her toes instinctively pointed as though seeking to redirect some of that pent-up energy. Any oxygen remaining in her lungs was replaced with that damning syrup, choking her until honey could be tasted upon her tongue. Compared to earlier, this was different. This was terrifying— more untamed, more exciting. A wild thing in her chest, a rabid beast that sought to tear down the floodwalls keeping that rising tide at bay— an inevitability for it to come crashing down at any second. 

And then it did. 

Solar flares in her vision, blinding sunspots— a single name tumbling out, "Tom—"

The Dark Lord was captivated as she came undone before him, a cry for a saviour— for him. And how beautifully did she fall. How exquisitely did she tumble from the Heavens under his coaxing— he was waiting to catch her before she could completely shatter.

His mouth crashed against hers, a savage devotion sealed in that one kiss as his pace dissolved into chaotic, irregular thrusts. A caging hand found the back of her neck, a subtle squeeze as his fingers dug into its tenderness— it was a hold that refused to let her pull away as he swallowed down her euphoric cries. 

She tasted almost unbearably sweet, an errant tear escaping past her lashes to fall onto his chest— a cutting path.

Warmth, sticky and unexpected, rushed into her as a flood— he had gone impossibly still, the lines of his body held in suspension. And just as when he had first pressed in, it felt equally foreign to have him come inside of her— a strange experience that Harri couldn't liken to anything else she had ever known. 

Strange but not entirely terrible.

She was the first to slump down against the pillows, a cradle beneath her worn body— a promise of reprieve and rest. 

Her heart was stubborn in its insistence of maintaining that painful drumming— and how raw did she feel at the present. All of her senses were overloaded and buzzing. Every strand of auburn hair was individually felt, an itching, suffocating weight on her nape— even the sheets, as silken and expensive as they were, felt rough against her bare skin.

When Voldemort had disentangled their bodies a second later, slipping out of her, Harri was completely baffled by the ensuing, hollow ache— there was a twitch in her muscles as though they missed him. And as that tacky warmth trickled down onto her thighs, a distant thought formed that she desperately needed to take a shower. 

But as her attention shifted tiredly towards the bathroom door, it seemed so impossibly far away. 

A cool wash over her skin, the sharpness of his magic—  a cleaning spell. 

She craned her neck with some difficulty, voice hoarser than expected. "Thanks."

There was only a hum for his acknowledgement as he propped himself up on his side, scarlet eyes running over the length of her naked body. Exhaustion was evident on her, that green gaze tired and threatening to slip close at any second. And though he, normally, would have been keen for another round, it was clear her endurance was not on par with his— yet. 'All in good time.’ Voldemort reached for the duvet and pulled it over them before gathering the girl up in his arms. 

Crowding her against him and pressing her head into his chest, he was pleased that she let him. A long leg slipped between hers to lock her into place, an arm draping over her waist— to no small amount of gratification, she wiggled in closer. Their connection had quieted to a pleasant buzz, a lulling, glowing flux in the backdrop of their shared mindscapes.

In the darkness of the bedroom, he purposefully sought out the sounds of her breathing, listening for the gentle tempo it was settling into. And how right did it seem to have her here like this. 

Safe. 

Alone. 

Undisturbed. 

That, for once, it was only them existing within the tranquillity the night was afforded— a soul partitioned out into two separate vessels but still piecing its way back together. And he knew he would give anything to keep it this way— would so readily tear the world asunder, split the earth and cleave the sky if any ever saw fit to separate them now.

She, truly, was his one, singular solace— a fact that disturbed as much as it mollified him.

Carding gently through the mess of tangled red hair, green eyes long since closed, he pressed his mouth against that raised scar above her brow.

“I would give the world to you if you merely asked for it,” he whispered solemnly. “Promise me you will never stray, never leave my arms, and everything I have will be yours.”

He wasn't expecting an answer— and none was to be found, save for the demure rising and falling of her chest. Those quiet, little exhalations. 

Crimson eyes stared unblinkingly into the darkness before him, his chin resting atop an auburn crown. And he remained that way until sleep finally saw fit to claim him for its own, until he could no longer stave off its call.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 62: Jealousy Has Thorns (pt. 1)

Notes:

Hello everyone!

My apologies for taking so long to update. I know a few of you have reached out to me on my media platforms and via comments to check-in so you're already aware of what's going on. As my finals approach, I've been swamped with deadlines and haven't been able to write in a while. However, I do appreciate everyone who was concerned 💕 You guys are all lovely and to everyone who is currently facing exam/final stress: we will get through it together 😭

That being said, while I do not have a concrete posting schedule at the moment, this fic is not abandoned in any way, shape or form— there will always be a new chapter eventually 💕 I just ask that you are patient with me until then!

On the note of this chapter, I actually had to split it in half because of the length. The other corresponding half will be up once I've had a chance to do a final read through. A lot of you asked me to do a 'morning after' scene so I took that feedback and ran with it 💕

As usual, thank you to everyone who has been reading along, kudosing, bookmarking, commenting, etc! You guys are so wonderful and I can't thank you enough for the attention you've been giving Appetence! 💕

Enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



Sleep started to slip away, the blessed darkness it brought softening behind her lids until flickers of hazy light danced in its place— a reluctant surrender. And as awareness trickled back in, occupying the spaces where meaningless dreams once had, Harri found there to be a singular truth to her waking state: it felt as though she had been blown into the Whomping Willow.

Experimentally rolling onto her back— a belated realisation she had been curled up onto her side for Merlin only knew how long— a groan slipped past parted lips. 

Muscles readily protested the movement. 

The dulling ache in her limbs, though mercifully not sharp enough to be an outright cause for concern, was unexpected, to say the least. Her hand came to gingerly rest on her stomach, noting the shallow rise and fall as it contracted with each breath. She grimaced at its tenderness. And, for the briefest second, the girl found herself wondering how long she had run through her drills yesterday. 

How long had she been on her broom running through the practice manoeuvres? How long had she executed plunges and sweeps and dips to the point of painstaking perfection? 

‘A few hours at least,’ she drowsily decided, the twinge at her core a familiar burn that only came from engaging it too long— from keeping herself upright on her Nimbus. ‘I’ll visit Pomfrey later. See if she can give me something for it.’ 

But then it processed, somewhere in her sleep-ladened brain, where she was: Malfoy Manor. 

That she, most certainly, had not been flying around the quidditch pitch yesterday. 

That there were no practice drills, no Madam Pomfrey, no Hogwarts. 

It was a disconcerting thought in itself considering how sore she felt at the moment.

However, such worry over her physical condition ceded to the more alarming, more pressing fact that processed someone else was there.

She wasn’t alone.

Though green eyes remained stubbornly screwed shut, an unwillingness on her end to greet the day just yet, Harri could viscerally feel a keen stare settling over her. At first, she considered it might have been him— yet, somehow, it felt different.

A wandering hand, fingers fanned, blindly slipped over silk sheets, searching and seeking only to find the bed was empty, cold— a telling sign its other occupant had long since fled. In the corners of her mouth, a frown twitched at the discovery. Not that it was unusual, per se. Voldemort always left long before she could awaken, summoned forth to his citadel by meetings and paperwork, the need to run his empire surpassing that of rest.

At this point, it was their routine— entirely typical. So why did she feel the twinge of disappointment? 

And, if he wasn't here, then who was?

In the end, it was the curiosity of who would even dare to enter his chambers that forced a reluctant eye to crack open. She peered out through a veil of lowered lashes— a strangled scream caught in her throat.

Interwoven into the curtained canopy above, thick body coiled about one of the posters of the bed's frame and tongue scenting the air, was none other than Nagini. The serpent blended into the shadows, the dappled pattern of her skin the ultimate camouflage— and, had Harri not known the snake better, she might have been concerned with how easily the predator could conceal herself. Unblinking golden eyes were the only thing to give her away, the keen shine of them cutting through the dimness of the hiding spot.

Harri glared up in turn. It felt as though water had been splashed on her, the cold wash of surprise driving off any lingering drowsiness. 'Well, if I wasn't awake before,' a sour thought as she tried to gather together her composure.

"Nagini," she complained, "you know I hate it when you do that."

"You're awake. Good."

As usual, the objection fell on deaf ears, unaddressed and unheeded by the snake.

Instead, Nagini had started to uncurl herself, a ripple of muscle under gleaming scales, as she abandoned her dutiful watch from above in favour of settling on the mattress. With a wince, Harri shifted to make room for the snake, the considerable mass of her taking up a fair amount of space. Half-sitting, half-reclining, the girl piled up the excessive pillows to prop herself up.

A glance was briefly spared over to the side of the bed where he slept; it only further confirmed that the man was indeed gone. His own pillow— the singular, lonely one he had claimed— was smoothed out of any creases and placed neatly against the headboard as it was every morning. Her mouth twisted into a half-smile at the sight as idle fingers plucked at the invisible lint on its cover.

It was then she noticed the drapes around the bed were still drawn to ward off the slanted rays of sunshine. The light that did manage to seep through the cracks was strong and untinted by the hazy lilacs of dawn— that was enough of a sign for Harri to realise it was already late into the morning.

Ears strained to listen to the mansion, seeking out any signs of activity or life— none were found. Deep-seated confusion thrived. Normally, Narcissa would have been there to rouse her, to dress her, and to go over the schedule for the day. And yet, the woman was, apparently, absent altogether. The thought crossed her mind as to what time it was then, the lack of routine disrupting any concept she had of it.

Under the snake's weight, the mattress creaked and she was drawn out of her musings.

There was the whisper of tangled sheets being disturbed further as Nagini wound her way up from the foot of the bed. Ultimately, she coiled near Harri's knees, seemingly content to bask in the warmth seeping from the displaced blanket. The girl sluggishly rubbed the grains of sleep from her eyes and stifled a yawn.

"Where have you been? " Harri asked, rolling her neck and grimacing at its stiffness. "I haven't seen you for a few days."

"Around," Nagini said, not caring to elaborate. "It has been noisy so I left. Too many people coming and going. I was going to come back yesterday."

A forked tongue flicked out. "But it was even louder last night."

Brows pulled together, her mind still muddled and unable to fully process what the snake was implying. "What?"

There was a cheeky quality to Nagini's hissing, "Well, judging by your neck, I suppose it explains why it was. It looks like you had some fun."

The insinuation was entirely lost on her. 

Green eyes drifted down to where Nagini was pointedly staring— mortification took the place of confusion. She had given a choked noise of dismay upon realising she was very much so naked. It was a fact Harri had been remiss of until now, her body heated from the covers and the room a comfortable enough temperature to make it slip her mind entirely. But what was even more distressing were the marks adorning her chest, bruised little things of deep purple with some darker, more embedded, than others. 

Things were slow to click into place— why she felt so sore, why she was undressed in his bed— memories resurfacing.

A cry of chagrin, of embarrassment, and Harri yanked the top sheet up to her chest for a semblance of modesty. That sputtering hiss, the one she had come to recognise as laughter, resounded from Nagini. The heat fanning across her cheeks crept up to the tips of her ears, an unstoppable, burning force.  

'So it wasn't just some vivid dream then.' Her mind worked futilely to determine how it even happened in the first place, how they had even gotten to that point— how they both had managed to, for a lack of a better term, royally screw up and lose control to such a degree. 

She groaned, her face burying itself into hands knotted in the sheets. "Oh, sweet Merlin."

Worry not, little one," Nagini assured. "I do not judge. In fact, I approve. Master has done well in choosing you as his mate. I feared for a bit he would not act— ” 

"Nagini! " Harri interrupted, head snapping up in alarm. "We're not, oh bloody hell. It's not like that! "

Slitted eyes narrowed skeptically as they studied the girl. She was bent over, knees huddled to her chest and clutching at the sheet, green gaze wide and adrift— confused. Nagini couldn't understand any of it. She was in his bed, wore the clothes he picked out for her, let him take care of her— yet she was denying such a relationship?

"You say you are not," Nagini echoed, lifting her upper-body and swaying as she tried to puzzle it out. "But you wear his marks? "

"W-well, I mean—," Harri grappled for a reason.

"And are covered in his scent."

"Nagini—"

"And you coupled together."

"I don't think you're—"

"And sleep in his nest."

"Nagini, please," Harri groaned, burying her face back in her hands and just praying for the conversation to end.

The snake nodded sagely. "These are all things 'mates' do, little one. You say you are not but the signs are there."

Nagini shifted forward, tongue flicking out against a bare shoulder and tasting the girl's own bewilderment. It hit her then, that, perhaps, her hatchling was simply a bit slow when it came to these things. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. Master is the perfect mate for you. You are special, as is he, and he knows it. A suitable match entirely."

When the girl had yet to look up, she added slyly, "Not to mention you are the first he has let stay in his nest."

Harri blinked slowly before peeking out from spread fingers, undeniably intrigued by the prospect. 'The first he's let stay in his room?' It was difficult to understand how that was even possible— after all, judging from last night, he was experienced in a way that had to come from practising. Surely he had multiple partners, right? Surely some of them had stayed here too?

"The first? "

"Oh yes," Nagini said, tone almost conspiratorial. "Master has had several bedmates but you are the first he has let stay. Typically, he makes them leave after he has finished— but not you."

The snake had begun to edge under the duvet in search of warmth. Chilled scales brushed against bare ankles and Harri flinched at the unpleasant coldness. 'But not you'— it was damning how the statement played over and over and over in her mind, an odd burst of satisfaction brought on by those simple words that she couldn't quite pinpoint.

She lifted the covers slightly, peering down into the watery darkness below to find the glint of shining eyes near her feet. "Did he do it often? With his, erm, 'bedmates', I mean. What were they like? "

Some part of her did feel foolish for even voicing such questions aloud, the rational side of her mind chastising herself for such an interest. But it was a festering sort of curiosity to know about the life he had before she unexpectedly appeared and uprooted it.

"Quite often. Master certainly has an— appetite for these things, that is undeniable. But they were noisy," Nagini said. "And always fleeting. He never took the same one twice."

Relief, unexpected and bright, washed over her. Apparently, that was an unknown fear she had been nursing, a fear that he might already have someone else— that she was, in a roundabout way, intruding on something already established as the ‘other woman’. And how that relief was also accompanied by the dulling bite of guilt. Up until now, it hadn't even been entertained to question him about any potential romantic endeavours; she simply assumed there were none to speak of. In hindsight, Harri guessed she probably should have. 

But if he didn't have anyone else, if she didn't have any competition to worry about—

"Well, actually, there was one that lasted for a while."

That relief shattered, a coldness seizing her at the admission.

"O-oh? " Harri asked, struggling to keep her voice nonchalant. "What, uhm, was she like? "

"She was loud, always so loud," Nagini grumbled. "And she smelled terrible— ‘perfume’ you humans call it. Personally, I thought she was too greedy, always clinging to Master to get his attention."

Yellowed eyes blinked slowly, that translucent lid flickering. "But he did seem to like her well enough. Enough so to have her frequent his nest rather often. And she was attractive, I suppose."

There was something writhing and constricting about her heart, mouth going dry— a spike of ugly jealousy. But even armed with the understanding it was unwarranted, that it wasn't her place to begrudge him for any prior relationships, Harri couldn't help it. And she did wonder if this was a horcrux thing— if it was that sliver of him that existed within her that baulked at the very notion of sharing him with another. 

Or, perhaps, it was just her. Her and her incessant need to keep things to, and for, herself— to hoard and collect and gather up whatever she could to feel a semblance of being whole. Of being complete. 

Either way, the idea left a bitterness behind. 

She lifted the cover's edge higher, a gnawing desire to know more about this mystery woman. "Do they still see each other? Are they still together?

The snake nodded. "Indeed. She is his General, after all. But if you are worried if she continues to act as his bedmate, she does not. In fact, he—"

"That is quite enough, Nagini."

The curtains about the bed magically slid open and Harri dropped the duvet at the interruption. 

Sunlight flooded in, a dazzling brightness that relayed it was a fine day— she squinted against it, her eyes watering at the assault. And there, hovering in the bathroom's doorway, a towel casually draped over one bare shoulder and lounge pants low on his hips, was the Dark Lord. He had, presumably, just gotten out of the shower, his hair still damp and curling about his ears. She thought it lent him an almost boyish charm— an arresting sort of sight.

"You're still here?" Harri asked, dumbfounded by his unexpected appearance.

His brow lifted as he regarded her from the door. "Should I not be?”

Through their bond, it was difficult to miss the flash of irritation spilling from him, sour tasting and acrid—it was as though he was offended by her surprise. But he hadn't left as she originally thought and how it made something in her very nearly sing with contentment.

"No!" she rushed out. "No, of course you can be. I, uhm, well. You're just usually gone by now, that's all."

Voldemort studied her for a moment, noting the relief in her voice and the way she had visibly straightened upon seeing him— how she had looked down to his bare chest before averting her gaze to stare resolutely over his shoulder instead.

He had been privy to his horcruxes’ conversation, of course— had listened in with rapt interest, had felt the spike of jealousy from her as real as his own. That, especially, had been a peculiar reaction— it could only mean one thing. She was interested in him in more ways than one. And the fact she was inquiring about his past relationships? Well, it was an encouraging sign. 

A hopeful one. 

A pleasing one. 

It meant she was finally, finally seeing a future where they were together. That earlier sourness had no choice but to fade in the wake of such.   

Pushing off the door's frame, attention fixed on the girl gripping black sheets to her chest and looking perfectly at home in his bed, he tossed the towel down onto the armchair. The sight of her, he readily admitted, made a tempting vision, his interest piqued. Crimson eyes dipped down with a will of their own, pride coursing through him as they took in the discolourations painted across her neck, her shoulders. 

An entirely too self-satisfied smirk curled on his mouth, the corners only lifting higher when the colour dusting her cheeks had darkened at his open appraisal.

Long strides carried him to the mattress's edge. He paused, a hand reaching out to brush a stray, auburn strand off her shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Harri's frazzled mind tried to play catch up, to deal with an overload of unexpected information—that he had been involved with Bellatrix, that he had the cheek to show up half-naked, that he was still here and had postponed going to work in favour of staying with her.

But how quickly were her thoughts derailed by the sharpness in that gaze that flitted across her face. It was as though he was searching for any outward sign something was amiss, was trying to ascertain if anything had changed within her. And though she tried, truly she did, to keep her eyes from wandering anywhere but the spot between his brows, it was a losing battle— they glanced down to his chest. 

Her pulse quickened. An onslaught of indecent memories, unwanted and unsummoned visitors. It was an oddly surreal experience to reflect back on, part of her still not quite believing she had slept with him— or, perhaps more damning, she would so readily do it again. 

And rather than focusing on his supposedly sordid affair with Bellatrix, rather than attempting to lay down some ground rules, her mind seemed intent on thoroughly reliving last night. Phantom sensations, her fingers twitching— the barest glimmer of a desire to grab him, to pull him down to her—

“Harri?”

She blinked, her sight coming back into focus with startling clarity. That hand of his had moved up from her shoulder to lightly grasp her chin, tilting her face up— an idle brush of a thumb against her bottom lip. The edge of his scrutiny refused to be dulled as he studied her, a degree of faint amusement found in the arch of his brow.

Harri swallowed dryly and tried to recall the original question. "Hm? O-oh. Fine. I'm fine. A bit sore but that's it."

That smirk only grew in the wake of her answer. His thumb traced the outline of her mouth— a pressured drag down, the seal of her lips parting. A lazy, unhurried motion that Harri let happen, entranced and already distantly anticipating what was to come. 

Green eyes left red ones to boldly dart down to his own mouth, a flutter in her chest.

But then a surprising coolness brushed against her calf and the moment was ruined; she was jolted back to the reality that Nagini was present. 

Harri shied away from him, cursing under her breath as embarrassment became an ugly twin to desire. When she looked back up, it was to see crimson eyes holding a knowing glint, his delight and smugness practically palpable. She had no doubt he knew, exactly, what she had been thinking, what she had been wanting— a warning glare dared him to comment on it.

Such a reaction, however, only added to his delight, his hands burrowing into the pockets of his grey lounge pants.

"Well, such a thing is to be expected. If the discomfort becomes too much, do let me know. I can always have Severus brew something to help manage it," he said, laughing when she flushed darkly at the suggestion.

"You wouldn't!"

Voldemort had already turned on his heels, neither confirming nor denying it. "Come and eat."

Harri was about to demand he answer her but the words had died on her tongue instead, her mouth dropping into a surprised 'oh' at the sight of his back. Claw marks decorated it, angry and raised, vicious tracks carved into otherwise unblemished skin— a faint memory of digging her nails into him, of feeling the tackiness of blood well up under her touch. It was, frankly speaking, quite startling to behold and she couldn't help but worry whether it was painful or not. And why hadn't he healed himself if it was? He was more than capable— she had been subjected to his care more times than she could count, after all. Had witnessed him seamlessly heal her to the point scars never even formed.

At the mention of food, however, her attention was completely diverted.

Looking away from the gruesome display and past his shoulder, she noticed, for the first time, a house-elf had stopped by. In lieu of where the coffee table typically was, a rounded dining table had been constructed. It sported a feast far suited to more than two people, her interest captured by the promise of tea and scones.

With some difficulty, Harri swung aching legs over the bed. Protectively wrapping the silken sheet about herself in a makeshift dress, much to the grumblings of Nagini, she gingerly shifted her weight to her feet. 

A sharp hiss of a breath at the soreness in her abdomen, the twinge amplified by the movement.

Her head snapped towards him when she felt the flux of triumph in their shared mindscape.

Smugness coloured his expression, a hand held out to her in a silent invitation. Harri lifted her chin, fingers tightening in their grip as she ignored both him and her shaky legs. 

The sheet fell from the bed in a gliding whisper to drag behind her in a mock train as she picked her way through the maze of discarded clothes from last night. Another reminder of what had happened between them— another thing to blush at. She fought it down, eyes glued to the table instead. 

Sinking down into a chair, he followed her lead a moment later, that smirk never once faltering. 'Git,' she thought, having no qualms in projecting it through their bond— it earned a soft chuckle from him. 

While he set to pouring tea into their cups, fragrant curls of bergamot steaming up from the fine china, Harri surveyed the assortment of pastries and fruits with an indecisive hunger. Reaching for a sun-ripened blackberry, she popped it into her mouth and nearly moaned at the sweetness of it. She would wager a fair amount it had come from the Malfoys' personal gardens, the taste incomparable to the bland ones her aunt had always purchased from the supermarket in plastic containers. 

She placed a handful on her plate and reached for a pastry with cherry filling, taking a bite and humming appreciatively when she caught him staring in open fascination. 

"What?" Harri demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.

He merely shook his head, mouth twisting into a half-smile as he took a sip from his cup. "Nothing."

Harri spared him one last, long look before letting her attention drift towards the open balcony doors. She had been right in guessing it was a fine day, the sky a stretch of cloudless blue beyond the veranda's polished balustrade— an endless horizon only punctuated by the treeline in the distance.  

Here, at the villa, the height of summer was so unlike the ones she experienced in Little Whinging— everything was so vivid, so bright, so carefree. The grounds were lush compared to the drought Surrey endured, a sea of emerald grass and a kaleidoscopic array of brilliant colours that were unreal to the browns and faded yellows of suburbia. A luxury in its own right.

Songbirds were chirping somewhere in the distance— finding their homes no doubt within the inner-brambles of the manicured hedges— their lilting melodies carried on by the breeze. But yet, apart from that, it was quiet. 

Serene.

No cars. No screaming children. No distant shouts or the slamming of lace-curtained windows and screened porches— blissfully silent. 

It was like Malfoy Manor existed within its own bubble, removed from the realities of the world and carrying on without any consideration to it. She could understand why one might love the summer if they grew up here.

And yet, that lull, as tranquil as it was, also invited intrusive thoughts to reign.

Tearing off a corner of the pastry, Harri chewed it carefully. In truth, part of her was rearing to ask him about Bellatrix, to demand to know what that was all about— the woman was married, after all.

But then another part protested against the idea, questioning if she ever wanted to know. Nagini had said it was in the past and, in her experience, sometimes it was best to let things remain there. Plus, what was she even going to do with that information? Bellatrix was, as it currently stood, the Head of her House and knowing the particulars of whatever had happened between her and the Dark Lord seemed, well, invasive. And what if demanding to know made her come across as childish in his eyes?

Jealous and pettish? 

Insecure?

Harri took a sip of her tea, thoughts distracted to the extent of barely noticing he had already put cream and sugar into the cup.

Thankfully, he saw fit to talk first.

"I should warn you," he said, setting down his saucer. "It would be best if you refrained from using your magic for the next week or so."

"There's an adjustment period as the core settles and, for some, it can cause one's magic to become a bit unmanageable," Voldemort explained, watching her shrewdly. "Even with a proper wand as a conduit, considering your past record, your magic will most likely fall into the category of being unstable. And I am sure Narcissa would be forever grateful if you refrain from reducing the mansion to rubble."

Harri blinked— a rush of elation at the recollection she had gotten her wand back last night. Between the party and the events of the library, it had slipped her mind entirely— but oh, how her fingers itched to hold it now. Green eyes bounced about the room.

"I put your wand in the study," he said, already guessing where her thoughts were.

A long leg crossed over another as Voldemort leaned back in the chair, fingers drumming on the table. "And then there is the matter that you will be experiencing other changes during the next few days as well."

She swallowed her tea with some difficulty, intently watching as a sparrow flitted past the French doors to land on the stone railing— it hopped once, twice, before flying off with a trill. Some of that earlier elation deflated in the wake of what he was implying, a stone falling to her stomach.

"Admittedly," Voldemort continued, something bitter underlying his words, "I am not quite sure what to expect. The last female parselmouth was my mother and those deranged fools never saw fit to record what happened to her. Not to mention, from what I have read in Salazar’s journals, you should have changed already."

Harri laughed weakly, angling for a cheeky tone— and yet, it fell short. Hollow. "Well, what can I say? I like to defy expectations."

He scoffed. "That's one way to put it. You are also going to want to limit your time around those who elicit strong emotions. Like the Weasley girl, for instance.”

Brows knitted together and her fingers tensed around the teacup. She tried to focus on the feel of its scalloped edges, the delicate curve of its body, the scrolls of its handle. “Why?”

“Well. You might find that your irritability, among other things, will increase. Naturally, it's easy to do things you may later regret under such influence. Of course, those emotions should become easier to handle once you settle a bit. But until then, it would be wise if you remain close and not go venturing off.”

Regret things— like hurting someone without meaning to. Like hurting Ginny. It was easy enough to guess that’s what he had been implying through his suggestion that she stay away from her. A sourness curdled her stomach, failing to be chased off by the deep sip from her cup.

"Then there's the matter of the hallucinations," Voldemort muttered as he thought back to his own transformation, fingers drumming against the table. "You may begin to experience them when the fever starts to set in as you get closer to the final change."

A tensed quiet fell between them, the sharp rhythm of his tapping muffled by the folded newspaper. Red eyes fixed on the girl across from him, noting the way she had resorted to crumbling the pastry rather than eating it. 'She's nervous.' And, oh, how he could curse himself because of course she was— why shouldn't she be considering all he'd done so far was paint a rather bleak picture of what awaited her?

Clearing his throat, he slowly uncrossed his legs and stilled his restless fingers. "All things considered though, at least you have already mastered the language. I believe yesterday proved that rather well."

Harri frowned as she stared down at the pile of what once was a danish on her plate. "I'm sorry?"

He waved his hand airily and attempted to hide the lifting corners of his mouth behind the teacup’s rim. "I must admit, I was worried for a moment that you had altogether lost your ability to speak English. You seemed rather insistent on speaking, through perhaps cursing is the more appropriate description, only in parseltongue last night. It was an interesting experience, to say the least— especially getting to hear my name being said so enthusiastically."

Green eyes, wide with a mortified sort of horror, snapped up to the man as he hummed and unfolded the paper as though he hadn’t said what he just did. And oh, how she was praying, wishing, for the ground under her feet to crack open and swallow her whole.

"Oh, come now. There is nothing to be ashamed of, Harri," he said, turning the page offhandedly. "That and the way you kept clinging to me, it was all very endearing. You also seem to quite favour the word 'fuck', particularly when I—"

Harri interrupted him with a groan, hands scrubbing over her face. "Can you please just shut up?"

There was an ensuing beat of silence. 

When her hands dropped away, it was to see him with a wide smile, teeth flashing and eyes bright in amusement. 

A sour look was tossed his way and that grin only grew.

He retreated back behind the paper and, rather than encouraging his antics further, Harri held her tongue. Instead, she took to studying the headlines on the front page, a spark of curiosity at the news— he usually read the morning’s Prophet at his office and it seemed that it was an unspoken rule that the house-elves weren’t allowed to give her a copy. She tried of course, once upon a time, but the poor thing had started to wail profusely at the inability to fulfil her request. It had taken fifteen minutes to calm the elf down. After that, Harri decidedly avoided asking again.

One of the bigger headlines was in bold, difficult to miss: Muggleborn Academy To Open. The Public Divided in Opinion. It was one she expected, one that didn’t surprise her a great deal— there were bound to be people, after all, ready to protest such a thing. That’s why she was getting involved, why he was banking on her public support— for her to shoulder this campaign of his.  

The other article, however, tucked away into the bottom half, caused a twist of dread. Unrest Grows Across Europe. Rumours Abound of Grindelwald Involvement it read, her stomach lurching. However, before she could question it, demand to hear from him what it meant, he had taken out the middle insert and set aside the front page.

Her eyes were glued to the newspaper as he did so, fingers itching to grab it, to devour it.

“Oh, look. You’ve made a 2-page spread in today’s Prophet,” he said.

Reluctantly, she tore her attention from the flashing headlines to him, dismay weighing heavily albeit for a different reason. In her experience, whenever she was mentioned in the media, it was usually either under false pretenses or in a negative light— morbid curiosity fueled her to know which one it would be this time. 

"Really?" she asked. 

"Indeed. They are calling it the 'Debut of the Century," Voldemort read aloud the caption below. "'Miss Harri Potter dazzles the wizarding world with her 17th debut. An image of poise and grace, we anxiously await to see what the future holds for the ‘Girl Who Lived’.”

Unable to help it, she snorted, her nose scrunching slightly in distaste. 'Image of poise and grace?' The concept was nearly laughable. She wondered if they would continue to say that if they could see her right now— naked and wrapped in a top sheet for modesty, her hair a tousled mess and a smattering of bruises across her skin. 

As it currently stood, she was the furthest thing from 'poise'.

However, it was difficult to completely stifle the interest as to what he meant by '2-page spread', his unforthcoming willingness to relinquish the paper a clear indication that he expected her to come to him. 

So she does.

Popping one last blackberry into her mouth and taking the last swig of her cream-and-sugar tea, Harri rose on stiff legs to round the table. Gripping the sheet when it threatened to come undone, the girl paused by his shoulder to peer down at the paper.

There are pictures of her everywhere. 

Moving photographs capturing a dress made of diamonds, solar flares as she twirls among the clouds on the dance floor, the cameras unable to withstand the radiance of such finery. In most of them, she's either laughing or smiling— wide, easy things on a painted face. In a way, Harri does consider this version of herself would suit their ideas of 'poise'— Narcissa had done an impeccable job after all in making her play the part.

The dominating image at the top, taking up most of the header space, is of her and Voldemort's opening dance. Or, more specifically, the turn in which he swept her off the ground, his hands on her waist as her own clutched at broad shoulders. That she remembers vividly— remembers being caught off guard by his deviation from what should have been a standard, easy routine. Remembers how it had made the breath leave her lungs in a whoosh and her heart to skip for most of the night. 

Now such a memory is immortalised for all to see.

And the strangest thought occurred to her, as she watched him lift her over and over and over again, is how good they look together. 

How perfect.

Head tilted in contemplation, Harri found herself pursuing the idea further. They did make a wonderful contrast in the photograph— she was light where he was dark, twin looks on their captured faces of what, to a naive bystander, might appear as simple, utter, innocent adoration. And a part of her is well aware that after this, continuing any pretense of her being just his 'ward' is impossible. 

There is one subheading in bold that briefly manages to catch her eye: Potter Signs Sacred 28 Compendium Under Black Name. Her blood goes cold for a second, a distant thought wondering if Sirius has already seen it wherever he was— if he would be hurt or be furious by the news. ‘Perhaps both’. That seemed the more logical route considering who the man was. 

She had to force herself to move on, to not dwell too much on it— the choice was made and it was her choice alone. Her name was etched in blood. She couldn't take it back nor did she really want to— and if Sirius had an issue with it, that was his own personal baggage he would have to work out. 

Ultimately, it's the section in the lower right hand corner that captured her full and undivided attention— and she is not the only one. Voldemort had stiffened, apparently not minding when her hand crept forward on the table so she could lean in to get a better look at the fine print:

 

Throughout the evening, Miss Potter was seen in the company of some rather fine gentlemen, displaying an affability with them that leads this authour to question the precise nature of their relationships. As we all know, the debut of a witch into high society represents a transition into adulthood— and, my dear readers, we also know what that entails: courting. Certainly, it has been a question circulating in our minds for quite some time, a curiosity we all share when it comes to the Girl Who Lived: who will be the lucky one to catch her eye?

Unfortunately, compared to countless other celebrities, Miss Potter has managed to remain relatively unscathed by any scandal concerning her romantic life. Left with just mere speculations, this reporter can only humbly suggest a few contenders based upon the events of last night.

On one hand, it is undeniable that she and His Royal Majesty make a handsome sight together. Any who bore witness to their dance could attest to that and, dare I say, their underlying chemistry? However, some may equally baulk at the idea seeing as Miss Potter was, earlier this year, formally announced as his ward. There is also the question of the age difference between them— a cause for concern? Perhaps. Indeed, this match might be viewed as highly improper and highly unsuitable by the more reserved and genteel among us. If this is to be the case, I can only warn Miss Potter to indeed tread carefully.

We also have His Royal Highness, Laurent Valois, who visited our soil explicitly for Miss Potter's birthday celebration— a wildly romantic gesture, I must admit. While it is unclear whether the two have been exchanging correspondences prior, there was an uncontested air of camaraderie between them. Throughout the evening, he had garnered Miss Potter's coveted approval several times, being graced constantly with her laughter and bright smiles.

However, my dear readers, my money would rest with one Mr. Draco Malfoy. Descending from a Sacred 28 lineage and whose father was briefly Interim Minister, Mr. Malfoy would certainly be the most popular candidate if not simply for his established ties to the Isles. Of course, I do not say these things lightly. Out of everyone present, Miss Potter allocated two dances with the Malfoy heir and the pair were seen in close quarters throughout the evening in a rather amicable, and one might venture to say flirtatious, mood. Fleeting touches and coy looks were abundant between them which has led this reporter to believe there is something more happening behind the scenes.

Questioning their peers in attendance, it was slipped that the young Draco Malfoy and Harri Potter were rather close at school to the extent some believe they were actually engaging in a secret relationship. Perhaps this explains Miss Potter's past nervous tendencies to discuss any potential romances? In any case, this reporter was determined to uncover the truth! Having secured exclusives from Madam Malkin and several of their classmates, next week’s issue will feature in-depth interviews with those who claim to have further information—

Harri frowned, withdrawing her hand from the table and straightening back up. There was a picture next to the article of her and Draco leaning against the wall, laughing and their shoulders pressed together— to her, however, it appeared as though they were simply two friends who were enjoying a party and the free-flowing champagne. How it could be misconstrued as anything else was baffling, unthinkable. ‘Draco and I? Together together?’

"What a load of rubbish," she muttered.

Reaching for the paper, she barely noticed how rigid Voldemort had become— how silent, how deathly still. She scanned the other photos and rolled her shoulders experimentally— there was a stiffness in them that caused her to wince. 

A detached thought formed on how lovely a warm shower sounded right now.

Another blackberry was popped into her mouth. 

A thoughtful chew— an acidic tartness, bright and refreshing, burst across her tongue.

'Exclusives? What 'exclusives'?' The article was practically declaring she and Draco were romantically involved— and if it didn't carry such condemning implications, she might have laughed at how people were attempting to justify something that didn't even exist. However, any amusement was overshadowed by her concern for how the boy would react to the rumour. Would he be offended? 'I'll have to apologise next time I see him.' Though, logically speaking, Harri considered she should have seen it coming— anyone even remotely close to her was bound to pop up in the tabloids at some point as a controversial topic of gossip. That was the curse of fame, she supposed, the blight of being a public figure. 

Privacy was not something she was afforded.

The paper was tossed forcefully back down to the table. "Seriously, people will believe anything. You kiss him once and suddenly you're in a 'secret relationship'? Bloody ridiculous. They need to get a life."

She stretched, a symphony of cracks along her spine. "I'm going to hop in the shower."

Those words washed over him cooly.

His jaw unwittingly clenched at the admission. And how he tried to keep it from showing, tried to keep that spite and jealousy contained the best he could. It was a mercy when she had left, his lip curling into a sneer as he glared down at the picture of Draco standing far, far, far too close to her.

When the soft click signalled the bathroom door had closed, crimson eyes slid over to it, a bitterness only flourishing in her absence. His mind had seen fit to betray him by conjuring up a peculiar memory from months ago— a fleeting moment when he had borne witness to her joy, her drunkenness, her desire. She had been with Draco during that time. 

And though he fully understood that it had been a kiss— she just said so herself— that he had no right to begrudge her the experience— especially considering he was doing far worse at her age— it was just the knowledge of who had been on the receiving end that he despised.

After all, he wasn't blind. 

He knew how the boy watched her, what he dared to feel for her. It ate away at him every time he caught them sharing in sidelong glances and relaying private jokes with only a single look— ones that he wasn't privy to understanding. And he had seen how they danced together at the party, had heard how their grating laughter reached even his ears from atop the dais.

It was a festering toxin that made him itch, to squirm, to pace— that moved him to see red.

She was meant to be his— only his. 

That’s how this was supposed to go. 

That’s how the Fates had planned it for them when they made that damned prophecy and guided his soul to her that pivotal night— even as mistaken, prophetic enemies, Harri Potter was always his. 

Everyone else would fade with time but she would remain with him, steadfast and unchanged. They were recorded down together in history, after all— irrefutably intertwined and synonymous with the other. It was an idea, a concept, he had long since reconciled with— that he eventually found a comfort and solace in.  

Yet was she truly his and his alone?

And, as much as he loathed to even entertain the idea, that question remained and persisted and buzzed. She had given herself to him last night, sure— but did it mean anything for her? Did it mean the same to her as it did for him? Did it carry the same weight, the same connotations? 

Tap. 

Tap. 

Tap.

Fingers drummed pointedly on the article— a deliberate rhythm as the words replayed and processed in a desperate bid for a distraction. 'Skeeter certainly is bold to publish such drivel,' a passing thought as he noted the name of the reporter under the subheading, tongue tracing over his canines. There was a pressure behind them, a threat to elongate, a need to find a suitable target and just bury them into their throat. 

‘Unsuitable match’ was what the article had declared them to be and oh, how he was rearing to prove them all wrong, the ignorant sheep they were. To make them absolutely regret ever voicing such opinions. 

Rita seemed like the absolute perfect place to start. 

The woman was mentally added to an ongoing list of problems to 'handle'— right alongside a boy with blond hair and pointed features. And in the backdrop of his rifling thoughts, past the ones picturing bleeding out the sources of his irritations, plans and strategies were turning over, forming and shaping on how to do damage control before things could spin further out of hand.

Flames abruptly sprouted in the center of the photograph, embers sparking from the middle of Draco's chest to consume the moving image. The tendrils spread outwards, fire licking and curling and blackening until only ash and a pockmarked stain remained.

Voldemort rose from the chair, feet instinctively carrying him to the bathroom.

Notes:

As always, feel free to contact me with any comments, questions, etc:

@ elysian-drops

Chapter 63: Jealousy Has Thorns (pt. 2)

Notes:

Hello everyone! It has been a while but I appreciate everyone who has been patient with me up until this point 💕

I just have something I really wanted to quickly address here: please do not take this story and repost it anywhere. I'm sad this has to be said but especially do not take this story and repost it, or even translate or write something inspired by this, without credit to myself. This fic has been a labour of love and seeing people take this without permission, or without even my knowledge, and claim it as their own is so incredibly disheartening. If you would like to write a spin-off or translate Appetence, please just reach out to me first (or, at the very least, cite credit). That's all I'm asking honestly— especially since this has been a product of blood, sweat, and tears. I have my Tumblr linked to the bottom of every chapter now so feel free to reach out to me there if you want to do anything with what I’ve written; generally speaking, I’ll almost always say yes and be excited!

On a lighter note, I’m really happy to get this chapter up for you guys and have a more regular updating schedule now that my life is calming down a bit 💕

I hope you guys enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The quiet of the bathroom was occupied by the pelting swell of the shower— a steady drumming of droplets against glass panes. The water carried an echo with it, ricocheting noisily off the vaulted ceiling and ivory walls as though a petulant child seeking out her attention. 

Yet, despite such enthusiastic efforts, the shower went mostly forgotten. Entirely pushed out of her mind, the earlier desire for it had been curbed by an alternating tide of panic and morbid fascination.

"Well. Shit."

A low sound, caught somewhere between a groan and a sigh, snagged in her throat. Fingers went lax and the makeshift sheet-gown crumpled onto the marble tile— a pool of wrinkled silk collecting about bare feet. She didn't even bother to try to catch it.

Even with the heated steam fogging the vanity’s mirror, blurring and hazing the twin of herself with each second, it wasn't enough to hide the evidence. The damning, damning evidence. Harri could see it all. 

Every bruise. 

Every mark. 

Every discolouration.

Tentative fingers gingerly traced the ones littering her chest— a few darker from the faint impressions of teeth— before trailing up to those haloing her throat. They were faintly reminiscent of scattered petals, haphazardly placed without any rhyme or reason; it was as though someone had tossed up a fist full and allowed the wind to decide wherever they may fall. 

Petals: a faint memory flashed in her mind’s eye as a swirl of baby pinks and sunset oranges and deep, ruby reds.

When she had been younger, her greatest fixation was with Petunia's prized tea roses. In fact, most of her time had been spent in shelter from the sweltering summer under their thorny brambles. Plentiful on their vines, they always were so delicate, so dainty and soft, between her fingers. Beautiful— lovely, truly lovely. And though most enjoyed looking upon them— to admire their spots of vibrancy in an otherwise drab, suburban existence— she personally loved to crush them. It was a sick obsession to watch the roses discolour under pressure, to witness their pastel petals darkening into something muted, lifeless. 

A childhood passed by with stained fingers, cloying pulps, and bright, bloodied dyes.

In hindsight, it did seem like the ultimate, karmic justice that she had taken their place now. That she had become exactly like those flowers she often tormented in her youth— that she bruised just as easily. Oh, the irony was abundant.

Green eyes drifted and curious hands followed suit. Fingers brushed over the few dotting her ribs, her stomach, before resting at her hip. The outline of a hand, large and fanned, had been impressed right into the bone— angry looking, vibrant and stark against her complexion. Alarming. When she idly prodded it, it was to find a surprising tenderness and instant regret; an acute pang that earned a flinch. 

It was his twisted form of repayment, she was well aware— a petty revenge for when her nails had drawn his blood. And yet, the longer she stared, the quicker her pulse became: unfolding chaos held within her chest. 

The yellowed, curling edges and the deep sickly-purples crowning its centre brought about a confusing reaction— a barrage of memories. Skin against skin, quiet gasps, the sensation of being too full, too much, too—

A harsh breath was sucked between clenched teeth.

Her hands had found the vanity's edge, grip tightening and knuckles bleeding white. She had to force herself to look away from the scandalous image in the mirror— to look anywhere but at that handprint or the unwanted blush that started to darken her cheeks. The porcelain bowl of the sink was, arguably, the safest option. She stared down into it, refusing to blink until her eyes watered— until they stung and everything went out of focus and doubles of the drain’s cap danced before her. 

When the exhale finally came, it was long, stilted.

This was bad. Sweet Merlin, she knew it was. And Harri figured she should be upset that he marked her to this degree— that he had glaringly advertised something she would have preferred to keep private.

But then some darker part of herself didn't mind it in the slightest. 

It was the side that exulted in each single bruise— the side that was proud to bear the proof someone had desired her in such a primal, carnal way. It was the very same that was advocating to waltz back into the bedroom and drag a certain Dark Lord into bed. To bare her neck for him and have him show her everything she had been missing, the soreness between her legs be damned. 

"You're a masochist, Harri," she muttered with a derisive snort. "A bloody masochist."

Pushing off the sink with a huff, she stalked towards the walk-in shower. 'This is brilliant. Just absolutely brilliant. You’re supposed to have a public appearance this week. Not to mention Narcissa is going to freak out.’

And— shit — that was an alarming thought in of itself: how was she going to explain this to Narcissa? Narcissa, whose sister had been in a sordid affair with the Dark Lord for who even knew how long. Whose sister also evidently held such genuine feelings for the man that they could justify being unfaithful to her husband. 

Without even testing the temperature first, Harri rounded the half-glass wall— a drawn-out hiss when the water scalded her skin. And yet, despite how the heat toed the line between pleasure and pain, she found herself not entirely disliking it. In a way, it was grounding, comforting. 

Distracting.

Face tilted up, droplets rolling down in scorching tracks, the sharp pitter-patter against the doors. She let herself simply get lost in the monotonous sanctity of the moment; to have the shower work its magic. 

A merciful interlude from the hectic world beyond the bathroom’s walls.

Any person with half a brain could tell her that this— whatever this was— that had started between her and Voldemort wasn't going to end well. Their dynamics were already skewed because of who they were— of what they represented to the public. Not to mention their complex history together. Plus, the Prophet had already forewarned an opposition to the idea, albeit for very different reasons. But it was a worrying opposition, nonetheless, and one that would most likely manifest in those closest to her. How would Narcissa react? Snape? Sirius and Remus? Her mind saw fit to supply the details: Hermione's lecture on why this was a terrible idea, Ron's vehement protests, Ginny's look of unbridled horror.

But she wanted him: that was the real crux of the issue. She wanted him in a way she knew wasn’t wise— in a way she shouldn’t. But the line between them had been crossed and any dormant feelings were now exposed like nerve-endings— raw, stinging, unable to be ignored despite how desperately one may try.

Harri slicked back drenched hair from her face, hands interlaced behind her neck to massage into the sore muscle. 'But do their opinions matter? ' The voice was back.  'Why should they even have a say? '

Green eyes cracked open, fanned lashes fluttering against the water as it pelted her cheeks. 'No, I suppose they shouldn't.' 

Her weight shifted from one side to the other, the growing puddles burning the soles of her feet, her toes. She didn’t even need to look to know they were probably red.

'They wouldn’t understand— they never will.'

Well, it had a point. A valid one.

Harri turned from the spray with a muffled groan. The tiled wall of the shower was steadying as her forehead fell against it, the chilled stone a blessing on overheated skin. ‘No, they wouldn't.' None of them could understand what she felt for him— it was impossible to explain really, to put into words. But people were so eager to condemn whatever they couldn’t comprehend.

How many times had he warned her of it too? She just had never given it much thought until now— until she had been confronted with the reality and was pushed off the cliff-face into the sea below.

Into that raging, damning sea.

And try as did to figure out what she could label their relationship as, it eluded her entirely— it wasn't exactly love. No, Harri knew it wasn't that.

'Love' was— too shallow of a word. 

Too empty.

Too common.

Too easily thrown around to possibly describe what they had. 

When girls her age liked to whisper of it— usually well into the late-night hours when the stars turned them into hopeless romantics and the solemn promise of a future ladened with it shone so brightly in their eyes— 'love' was fickle. A different recipient to suit a different mood. Those types of girls, with their honey smiles and rose-tinted passions, would have many chances to experience it throughout their young lives. But it wasn’t like that for herself— no, their ideas of what ‘love’ entailed simply wasn’t applicable to her situation. Last night, he forced her to see it, had shown her the extent to which they were transcendent of the term. He had given her a glimpse of the life they could have together and Merlin only knew how badly she wanted it— how she ached for it. 

Fingers raked agitatedly through wet hair, green eyes bouncing about the shower in a bid for a diversion— for something, anything, to stop the spiral she was heading down.

Set into the furthest wall, a recessed shelf previously unnoticed caught her eye. Cut glass jars were housed in the cubby, shimmering liquids held in them that swirled and coruscated under the bathroom's skylight. Harri curiously padded over to it, feet tracking through the puddles and limbs leaving a dripping trail.

Like everything else that constituted his private space, the jars were neatly lined up and organised by height— completely meticulous. Not even thinking twice, she picked one up with a hum and uncorked it. 

The crisp notes of mint, clean and refreshing, were intermixed with something spicier— an element that was difficult to pinpoint. However, it was entirely unmistakable. Her mouth twitched into a smile— another inhale. Oh yes, she knew this scent: after all, she had spent countless nights falling asleep in sheets saturated with it and catching the barest traces whenever he got too close.

She replaced the stopper; idle thumbs ran over the contours of the bottle. And in the back of her mind, the nagging sensation only grew that their situation was becoming strangely domestic. Hell, she was now recognising his body wash of all things. ‘Is this something people—’

Hands were suddenly encircling her waist— an unexpected, cooling weight.

The bottle slipped— a flare of panic. The image of shards flashed in her mind, a million splinters on the shower's floor and a grating, ear-splitting echo of glass fracturing. She waited for it to happen, tensed and expecting— it never did.

Rather, the jar hovered a mere inch from the ground, cushioned by a pocket of air and held aloft by an invisible force. Harri blinked down at it and it took her a moment to realise she had been the one to stop its fall. That smile slid into a perplexed frown. Typically speaking, to use wandless magic took a great deal of concentration— and even after months of practice, it still remained a toss-up whether or not it would work. But yet, without even having a spell in mind, it did: her magic had intuitively responded.

She might have thought more on it if the hands about her waist hadn't flexed. 

Harri half-twisted around. "What the hell are you doing in here!?"

Red eyes were fixed on the hovering bottle, his fine brows pulled together. A look shadowed his face that, much like the scent of his soap, she was too all familiar with: he was contemplating, his mind rifling through too many thoughts to be humanly possible.

"Showering," he responded off-handedly.

 The jar was magically returned to its rightful place on the shelf.

"But you already showered."

“Did I?" he asked, burning eyes cutting back to her. In their depths, there was something flinty, something sharp reflecting back. “I can't seem to recall."

Broad shoulders blocked the water and a shiver crawled through her as the heat leached away. He had taken to looking back towards the shelf and her own gaze shifted down to his neck. The beginning tracks of the inflamed claw marks were just ever-so visible there— tendrils of creeping red. Her frown only deepened as she recalled the state of the shredded skin; with how hot the shower was, it couldn't possibly feel pleasant.

However, if it was painful, he didn't indicate it— didn’t so much as flinch. She peeked up through fanned lashes, a sense of disquiet with how his face remained carefully blank. Passive. A mask. 'Something's bothering him.'

When he looked back to her, that cool pretense slipped for a second— just a second— as scarlet eyes dipped down. But it was only a glimpse, a momentary lapse, before they flickered back up to her face— he smiled. To anyone else, it might have appeared as a slow, congenial thing: to her, however, it was out of place. Wrong. Unnerving.

Harri blinked.

Before she had a chance to decipher it, the Dark Lord already stepped away. He moved towards the jars and the water fell back on her, steadily rewarming chilled limbs. For the most part, he was silent while he worked soap into a washcloth, the only noise being a hum of approval when a healthy lather frothed on the cotton rag.

For the life of her, Harri couldn't quite figure out when he had managed to come in. There hadn't been any indication of his arrival that she could recall— no creaking door, no footsteps, no crack of apparition. Her head tilted to the left in contemplation, eyes narrowed as they travelled past his shoulders, his clawed back, down to his— he was naked. 

The realisation hit her in full force: he was naked

Very much so naked.

She choked and hastily spun around. Arms crossed protectively over her chest as her gaze snapped to the ceiling, the heat on her cheeks spreading. 'Of course, he's naked, Harri. It's a shower— it would be weirder if he wasn't'. Plus you've done far worse together at this point so what's the big deal?' And yet, despite the justification, it was difficult to remain completely unaffected considering he stood a mere few feet away, exposed and on display without even a second thought. If she just so happened to look, if she dared, she'd see—  ‘Bloody hell, stop it.' The inappropriate thoughts from earlier were back with a vengeance. 

"W-well,”' Harri cleared her throat. "I'm done so I'll just, erm, leave you—"

"Come here."

“To it— what?!” 

Dumbstruck by the request, she craned her neck to look back at him.

That forced smile had become a smirk, the left corner lifted higher than the right. In fact, Voldemort looked downright amused— she could curse him for how comfortable, how at ease, he seemingly appeared. 

"Come here," he repeated, chin tilted towards the lathered washcloth. "Really, Harri, there is no need to be shy. I’ve already seen it all."

Her mouth worked uselessly at such a blasé response, the tips of her ears burning. Yes, he had seen her naked but that was in the dark—and this was a decidedly different situation. Very different. And while he may not have any qualms when it came to openly flaunting his nudity, she most certainly did.

But yet, even those reservations still weren't enough to quell the sliver of herself that was undeniably intrigued by the prospect of what he wanted. 'Is he always this involved?' Even last night, Voldemort had been insistent on going through the pains of undressing her, of undoing her braids and even removing her shoes— now he wanted to wash her back? It threw her for a loop. Considering who he was, she expected him to be more aloof, more distant. 

Admittedly, there was a thrill in this unknown side of his personality.

Teeth worried her bottom lip as she debated whether to leave or abide by the request. When she had yet to budge, he arched a brow. 

Soap started to slip down the corded muscle of his forearm and green eyes snagged on it— a dry swallow. Apparently, that was all it took for her mind to make a decision.

Arms still latched about her chest, toes waded through the sporadic puddles scattered about wet tiles. Harri watched him while she approached, an understanding dawning as she noticed all of those little tells that relayed he wasn't as put together as he might like her to think. The way his shoulders straightened, the way his jaw worked minutely, the way his eyes had darkened— all signs carefully concealed behind the bravado of that smirk. A startling conclusion to arrive at: she had an effect on him.  

Apprehensive steps stopped only when their feet almost touched. And then slowly, so slowly, she turned her back to him. 

The washcloth was a gentle slip across scalded skin, the minty-spicy scent— his scent— only amplified by the shower's humidity. It was strangely comforting, a familiarity that sunk into every crevice, every dip, every pore— relaxing. He worked quietly, mindful to not go lower than her shoulders. A mercy, Harri figured, as she tried to not hyper-fixate on the solid chest slotted against her back, the rise and fall of it with each breath— how the muscles flexed and the bones shifted every time he moved. 

The honeycomb tiles became her new point of obsession as she counted how many composed the wall. Their porcelain had been polished to an obnoxious degree— enough so that their surfaces reflected back a warped mirage. A shock of red set against white and a hazy outline behind it— a shadowy, larger figure that stirred languidly, leisurely.

'18, 19, 20.’'

"I have already ordered Lucius to pull the article," he said, finally breaking the silence and her concentration. "As well as next week's issue."

She jumped at the unexpected sound of his voice. "O-oh? Good. Yeah, uhm, perfect. Thanks."

He moved on from scrubbing her shoulders to her mid-back— a drag down along her spine. When knuckles purposely bumped along each knob, a shiver followed in their wake. The number of tiles had been completely lost as her focus shifted, once more, back to him.

"Though, I must admit," he said, "I am rather curious as to what those 'exclusives' might entail. Rita seemed to think they were of some importance.”

"Well, you know Skeeter. She lives to gossip and blow things out of proportion."

Harri could have sworn she heard him scoff under his breath. 

"Indeed," was his clipped response.

Those warning bells were back; a deafening clamour as they were rung with fervour. Voldemort had fallen silent again, an alarming oddity considering how engaging he normally was in their conversations. 'He's pissed,' she realised, toying and twisting the wet ends of her hair. And yet, despite the signs that pointed to such, his touch remained ever-so-gentle, ever-so-tender— the exact opposite of anything being amiss.

She gnawed at her inner-cheek until the taste of copper, metallic and sickly-sweet, coated her tongue. The washcloth had been replaced by hands, fingers fanned just so: a stark handprint flashed in her thoughts.

They rested upon her shoulders, thumbs smoothing into the juncture of her neck— small, pressured circles that elicited a sigh of relief. On instinct, Harri found herself leaning into the touch, thankful that the stress, the tension, was being eased from sore muscles— a stifled groan when a knot came undone. It was almost enough to make her forget his foul mood entirely.

"I mean, I can't even imagine what Skeeter would say," she said. Her head tilted forward to give him better access. "Sure, Malkin was there when Draco walked in on me changing but that was an accident. How could that possibly be used as proof there's anything going on between us?”

"Oh? Did he now?"

"Yeah, but it was an honest mistake.”  

“I see.”

Her brows drew together as she tried to puzzle out the curtness behind his answers— was he truly concerned with the possible content of the interviews? That it might, somehow, reflect poorly on him if they were released? She supposed it made sense: they were tied together socially speaking and his image was one he had carefully cultivated from the get-go. And to have that be impacted by foundless rumours certainly wouldn't be ideal.

But what dirt could Rita have even dug up? Was there any? Or was it all a bluff— a fabrication to provoke her?

"I suppose the Hufflepuff party would be her best chance at proving something," Harri muttered. "But we were drunk so it didn't mean anything— Draco even agreed. And I guess if someone saw us at the lake— but we were only talking then. And it's not like it's uncommon for a girl to have a guy as a friend, right?"

He went rigid but she barely noticed.

"Let’s see, so far we have him walking in on you in a state of undress, a drunken affair, and these mysterious lakeside trysts. Tell me, Harri, am I missing anything?" he asked quietly. The question was cutting.

“I’m sorry?”

Despite those hands stilling, they refused to drop away. Rather, they were seemingly content to hold her— to root her into place with an iron, steadfast grip. Heated water pelted down her arms, her legs, the steam rising up in whorls and spirals and wisps about them— it did little to ward off the chill brought about by the change in his tone.

He pressed his lips against her shoulder blade. "You claim there is nothing going on between you two yet everyone seems to think otherwise. I'm just curious if there are any more of these little incidents I should be enlightened about. Rest assured that you have my full attention if so."

The venom, the bitterness, rolling off him was entirely blindsiding. It was almost like—

"You're jealous of Draco," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Hands snaked their way past her shoulders in a wandering claim. One had come to rest on the crossed arms shielding her chest— the other chose to lightly encircle her throat, fingers digging in slightly to feel her pulse. Harri half-expected him to deny it, to be outraged and assert such a thing was far from possible— to prove her wrong. But yet the greed behind his touch, his possessiveness in pulling her closer, wasn't exactly inspiring confidence.

"What if I am?" he mouthed the question against the curve of her jaw.

Despite the confession having been whispered, he might as well have yelled it. 

A delayed blink and then she was spinning out of the caging hold. Green eyes roamed over his face— over his dripping hair and the droplets clinging like pale gems to alabaster skin and long lashes— for any sign it was possible he was teasing her. What she found, however, relayed the opposite. His jaw was tensed, the muscle in it jumping, his chin lifted in a silent challenge— a thunderous expression that assured her he was far, far from joking.

Harri gaped at him. "You can't be."

He only arched a brow in response.

"No," she repeated. "You can't be serious."

Those burning eyes narrowed a fraction. And Harri did consider she probably should take this more seriously— that she probably shouldn't have laughed— but the concept was so thoroughly amusing she couldn't resist. The Dark Lord, of all people, was jealous of a schoolboy and an imagined, fictitious relationship. 

"Harri," he warned.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Voldemort stepped closer, irritation mounting at her flippant attitude. "Oh, spare me the patronising act. I have seen it— your secret little looks when you think no one is watching. Those idiotic jokes you two share. How you always cling to each other the second you have the chance. Do you honestly expect me to believe the two of you are 'just friends'?"

Harri sobered when the dark swirl of him coloured their bond— when she saw the way his eyes flashed and how he had drawn himself up to his full height. And though his nudity should have made such intimidation appear ridiculous, he looked near ineffable, divine. Godlike — power contained in sculpted bone and flesh and sinew. Suddenly, she could quite understand the Greek obsession with portraying their gods without clothes on.

"Actually, I do,” she said flatly. “After all, you don't see me accusing you of having secret relationships. I mean, I didn't even press you about whatever stunt you were pulling with Bellatrix. So the very least you could do is show me the same courtesy."

A switch was flipped.

The lines of his body went taut and a cool glint hardened that red gaze. And there it was: that frigid anger he always took on whenever confronted by things he didn't want to discuss. Admittedly, fighting would be easiest— to trade barbed insults and point out his own hypocrisy, to rile him up and leave on a bitter note. ‘Easiest but not wisest.’ Another valid point. Plus, if jealousy was truly at the heart of the issue, it would be best to disabuse him of it— if not for their own peace of mind, then at least for the sake of everyone else in the manor. 

Harri mirrored him with a step forward. Her hands sought out his cheeks, desperate to cradle them, to force him to look at her and only her. 

"Look, if we want this to work— us to work— this needs to stop," she reasoned. "We have to trust each other. You can't be jealous of every guy or girl I kissed once upon a time. And I can't be jealous of everyone you've—”

She quickly changed the subject, her thumbs smoothing over the angular cut of his cheekbones. "There is nothing going on with Draco, I swear. And even if something did happen, it's in the past. He is my friend. That’s all. I have never wanted him in any other way.”

Green eyes flickered down to his mouth, heart in her throat. "I only want you."

Carried on by emboldened nerves, her lips slotted over his.

For the briefest second, there was nothing: no outburst, no movement, no reaction.  Rather, it was as though a trance had befallen the Dark Lord, seemingly robbing him of his agency and will— a statue rendered frozen by her mere touch. Harri counted the lengthening seconds, confusion growing when she reached 'five' and he remained just as unnervingly still.

Apprehensively she withdrew, a souring taste of worry upon her tongue. Her hands drifted down to his jawline, reverential fingers ghosting, barely-there, over its defined curve. “Are you—”

He darted forward.

The mouth she found pressed against hers was quirked by the barest hints of a smile— giddiness flourished. It was a rare thing to experience with him; a gift peerless and above all else. Not a sneer, not a smirk. Not that mocking half-curl he usually reserved for the flocking sycophants but a genuine smile. It was heady to know she had been able to elicit it, draw it out— a treasure so easily worth a king's ransom. 

And it was hers.

An eager clumsiness— it dominated the moment. He had allowed her the concession, hands at his sides: a temporary deferment of control, most certainly. And yes, Harri was painfully aware it was a far cry from the artful way he kissed— but Merlin, she didn’t care. Didn’t care she couldn’t settle on a rhythm or that their teeth had accidentally clicked more than once. No, rather she kissed as though there was something to prove: she did want him. 

Only him.

Up onto toes, a shaking in her tendons, she leaned into him— a flower unfurling and straining towards the sacred sun. Around them, the drumming water had faded into white noise, the glow of their bond muting all else in turn. And now more than ever, this, oh Harri was quite certain, this would be the vice to earn her a spot in Hell: the velvet of his mouth, the hard angles under her thumbs, the sharp pants of shared breath.

An entirely condemning, incriminating addiction.

Electricity danced its way up her spine; a staccato thrumming in her ears. In fact, it only half-registered that lifted heels were struggling to maintain their balance— the precarious wobble might as well have been an omen. 

She tumbled forward.

He was already there to catch her— easily, readily, refusing to allow her knees to glance the tiles underfoot and gain a bruise not of his own design.

That confession kept looping in his mind, a vulture circling: I only want you. Such a simple phrase and yet it managed to spark smouldering embers to life— a tiding warmth that settled low in his stomach. And for that fleeting moment, everything felt completely, utterly right. Perfect. The weight of her in his arms was grounding, every cursed instinct baulking at the idea of ever letting her leave. He knew she felt it too— one and the same. After all, it was that heartbeat that confirmed her feelings on the matter. Its tempo was a fluttering cadence that beckoned— a siren's song no man held a safeguard against.

Thump. Thumpthump. Thump.

A hasty glance down.

The acute gnaw of desire.

Her bare chest was pressed firmly into him, its gentle curve littered with evidence of his claim— a currency between them of affections traded under the veil of consecrated starlight. With every breath, her bust rose slightly, her lungs expanding and collapsing in time to match his own. But what was truly captivating was the water steadily beading off cream-coloured skin.

The droplets ebbed into a languid stream, coalescing and slipping down through the valley of her cleavage. A man possessed, he found himself tracking its course— down past her chest, her stomach, her hips until it brazenly crept between her thighs. 

The capacity for thought was dulled.

Draco. The article. Bellatrix. All of those once-annoyances seemed so distant now, so muddled. Inconsequential. Then again, his little horcrux had a penchant for doing that, didn't she? So effortlessly could she siphon his attention and tunnel his world— make it so only she mattered. And, had he been in a clearer state of mind, perhaps it might have worried him that she held such power— a warranted cause for concern, most would agree. But, oh, how hard was it to be when all he could feel was the ache in his teeth and that intrusive edge of pure, unadulterated want.

‘I only want you.’ 

Boldly, without shame, he chased after the water on her skin— a heated stripe of a tongue from her navel up to her sternum. The audible hitch in her breath was his reward, the hands planted on his shoulders twitching. And, ah— there it was, right on cue: that sense of self-satisfaction and its ever-present accompaniment of greed. 

Of craving more

Always more.

He stepped forward, splayed palms caging her hips as a guiding pressure. There was a stifled groan, one barely contained behind pursed lips, when he skirted over the tender bruise— a sadistic urge demanded that she do it again. To hear the cries, the whimpers, the moans; to have them serenade him as a worshipper might with a psalm— fire in his veins at the very thought.

When she stumbled back into the shower's wall, that groan was quick to become a hiss; low, deep laughter in his chest at such a reaction. Before she had the opportunity to even entertain moving, a leg slipped between hers. 

Lightning flashed across emerald eyes at the development; a dark storm brewing on the horizon. Oh yes, he definitely knew that look. It was the very same that always brought with it a pettish temper and spiteful protests— undoubtedly the stirrings of such were already waiting to be spewed.

He closed the gap between them, swallowing down any objections before they might be voiced.

Unlike her earlier keenness— that hasty kiss that had been, strangely enough, endearing— this one was a sharp contrast: slow, purposeful. Coaxing. A sensual slide of lips that drew out a quiet sigh and had her practically melting into him— triumph. It sang in him when her arms loosely slung themselves over his shoulders and when her mouth pressed harder against his. 

Without even missing a beat, a hand, restless and impatient, released her hip to drag, featherlight, up her side instead. It traced along the natural contours of her body, following the dips and curves, until it had reached her breast. He palmed it experimentally, a pleased hum when it was as soft as he remembered, her reaction equally gratifying: a shudder and a twitch that only added kindling to a barely-contained fire. 

And, just like that, the edge of desire turned knife-sharp. 

Teeth sunk into her bottom lip, snagging and pulling. Mindful to not outright draw blood, there was just enough pressure to bring about the thrill— to bruise and make that rosebud mouth of hers ache.

A quiet moan, her lips parting ever-so at the demanding swipe of his tongue— her unspoken consent that was readily taken advantage of. 

And truly, how sweet does this girl, his girl, taste: an ambrosia that could cloud even the clearest of minds. It's with a bone-deep certainty he knows it will eventually spell his undoing— that, one day, she’d develop venom and he would be the fool to gladly choke on it. 

He leaned closer to deepen the kiss, undeniably pleased when she let him. And what he would give to make this moment last forever— to make the world go on pause and let him enjoy what had been denied to him for seventeen long years already. But of course, certain nuisances always had to pop up— like breathing. 

Lightheadedness swept through him, the ground swaying precariously; instincts of self-preservation demanded to be obeyed when the acute burn in his chest turned perilous. 

A moment later found them breaking apart, sharp pants pulling air into lungs long-since deprived of it. The pull of their bond was bright, arresting— a glowing solar flare in their shared mindscapes. It existed as a lulling tide between them, a swirl of want and yearning and burning hunger that was hard to fully separate out: a melding impossible to determine where he started and she ended. 'Just as it always should be.'

Refusing to grant her even a moment to recover, he dipped his head— a kiss to the curve of her breast. 

Then another. 

And another. 

A puff of air, a cooling exhale, teased a hardened nipple— a light graze of teeth, the pull of a flattened tongue close behind. Her shiver was more violent this time and he watched, through lowered lashes and a smirk pressed into damp skin, as that bruised mouth slackened into a mute 'oh'.

Truly this was the part he loved more than anything else: the teasing, the tempting, the seducing. It was an art form to make someone come undone with a few strategic touches: the ultimate form of control as he influenced the narrative, the speed, the pace. And wherever his horcrux was concerned, a new layer— a new meaning— was only added to the game.

His attention shifted to her other breast— another gentle nip— as his hand fell back to her hip. Thumbs traced over the slant of them: a juxtaposition between silky skin, soft and malleable, and jutted bone, firm and unyielding.  Distantly, it registered that her own palms were smoothing over his shoulders and down to his chest as though she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them— a charming quality in the sheer innocence of it. And he knew, oh he knew, she was getting worked up. Flustered

Worshipful kisses revisited each bruise, each mark; a cutting path as those purple blooms were made to further unfurl. Pressured pulls darkened the few that dared to already fade, rich colour rising back to their surface— a teasing drag of canines against her pulse. And despite that sharp gasp being lost amid the pelting drum of the shower, he was, nonetheless, aware of it. How taut she had gone, how her hands had stilled, how her head tilted back as though in a silent invitation.

I only want you.’

The bruising wake of his lips trailed up the column of her throat— higher and higher— until he found the spot behind her ear that made her cling to him with a bitten-off sigh. 

He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, eyes slipping closed— a deep inhale. Immense contentment. It radiated throughout him, blazing and bright, at the fact the muted scent of his body-wash was still noticeable on her; an entirely unexpected realisation he rather liked it. Another inhale and a twitch in the corners of his mouth; the threat of a half-smile.

 Caught up in the moment, in the light kisses and the heady scent of mint and cloves, he moved even closer— pain.

Without the earlier bitterness to blind him, he had become exceedingly cognisant that the scalding water was pelting his back— that it stung. Logic advocated to move and avoid irritating the inflamed scratches: a chiding that if he healed them to begin with, this wouldn’t have happened. 

There was a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when the pain flared to the point that not even the fingers threaded through his hair could detract from. Teeth sunk into her neck without thinking— admittedly far rougher than intended— her reaction immediate: a violent arch into him, blunt nails a dull burn on his scalp. That sigh had unravelled into a shaky moan, high and needy, an unintelligible word carried with it. 

Clarity came back in a flood: he froze.

That sound— that lovely, lovely sound— had brought about an awareness of molten blood rushing down, too-much passing through too-thin veins. He didn’t even need to look to know he was hard. 

“Oh, for the love of—,” he muttered; a huff of disbelieving laughter.

In retrospect, this wasn't supposed to be happening. When he followed her into the shower, it had been with the understanding she needed to rest first and the steadfast resolution to not go this far. A few touches, he reasoned, a few touches and some answers and that would be enough. Not to mention he had already taken care of himself earlier— a necessity considering the dire, albeit tempting, situation he’d awoken to.

By all accounts, he should have been fine. After all, he wasn’t some inexperienced teenager who got riled up over the smallest of things. He had control, restraint (or so he thought). But try as he did to focus on the scratches, on the tedious tasks the day was filled with, none of it helped. 

There was an internal debate to leave— the safest option, surely— when a daring hand found the one gripping her hip. It was insistently dragged back to her chest, what she was wanting clear enough when her fingers tightened over his. He barely had time to react to the unanticipated boldness, however, before a different sensation demanded his full attention.

Scarlet eyes flickered down to where his leg was wedged between hers— any coherent thought was promptly lost.

Hips were a stilted roll down against his thigh, her breaths reduced to shudders as she chased after friction. The movement was, admittedly, graceless, unskilled— one done purely out of instinct. It shouldn't have turned him on, it shouldn’t. And yet, for some unholy reason, it did.

Warning bells, a myriad of them, were going off. No, this most definitely shouldn’t be happening— not when she was supposed to be recovering. And if not physically, then at least emotionally. He wasn’t ignorant, after all. He knew the baggage, the implications, sex could carry, especially when the concept of ‘first times’ were involved, and she needed to process it before they could move forward.

Truly, this was a disaster in the making. 

He had to stop this before it escalated— he had to. But when she shifted closer, the cage of her ribs digging into him and the softness of her stomach trapping his erection between their bodies, he could only hiss. The urgency in which she moved, the slide of damp skin against damp skin, was blindsiding, his pulse thrumming too quickly, too hotly, to be normal. 

His forehead fell against hers, eyes screwing shut against the pleasure. It felt like his heart was going to rupture any second, the speed in which it was contracting, beating, too damn loud in his ears.

Under most ordinary circumstances, he was not one to curse. In fact, he was of the firm opinion it was a foul habit and a crutch for lesser minds. Yet when one of her hands crept down to curl shaking fingers around him, a jolt of electricity at the touch, he was entirely unable to help it.

The groan that came out was rough, raw. “Fuck—”

Without warning, the fingers still threaded through his hair constricted— a wholly different kind of pain when his head was forcefully wrenched back. 

The fire at his roots, across his scalp, was only tempered by the sensation of lips trailing up his throat, petal-soft and inviting— an unwelcomed thought of where he would prefer them instead, the accompanying image of her on her knees intrusive. An inward curse when he felt himself twitch in her hand at the mere prospect— tension.  It coursed in him when he realised she was lingering on the vulnerable cleft housing his jugular, every instinct going haywire on how wrong, how dangerous it was. His shoulders flexed, an internal battle to fight down the urge to bare his fangs and break free. 

A pressured drag along his length was all it took to derail such ideas, the feelings of arousal, of carnal desire, far outweighing any sense of unease or wounded pride. Neon bursts flickered in abstract shapes behind closed lids— a whiteout when her thumb swiped over his head to smear the bead of fluid caught there. 

That mouth had eventually moved up to his jaw, lips tracing its curve with sweet, sweet kisses. He might have been inclined to claim it was chaste, pure almost, if it weren’t for that hand doing unspeakable things or the way she was currently riding his thigh. 

Another drag up. 

Another drag down.

The pace had quickened as that searing palm worked him without shame. His throat was too parched, each swallow harder than the last— a buoyancy of pleasure. It was all he could focus on as something in him coiled tighter and tighter, those lips ghosting his with every stilted gasp only heightening the sensation.

It took every ounce of his will to grip her wrist and force her to stop. 

Harri,” he warned softly, voice strained.

Scarlet eyes screwed shut even tighter. A laboured inhale— a controlled exhale. Fingers flexed about that thin wrist, the cords of his patience threadbare and frayed.

Please,” she begged, the words nearly drowned out by the shower. “We don’t have to stop.”

His brows drew together in concentration— and damn it, if she only knew the effect such pleading had on him. A slew of silent curses when he felt himself twitch again, his heart a deafening roar in his ears. "Harri, you don't under—"

"I can handle it."

Her insistence was confusing, to say the least. Considering her condition, one would reasonably think she wouldn’t be so keen— yet here they were. Another stifled hiss when she rocked against him demandingly, purposefully. And oh, how he was regretting everything right now: waking up, coming into the shower, kissing her. 

"I can handle it," she repeated.

He slowly opened his eyes, a withering look— oh

Well, that was certainly— new.

Wet hair pushed back had left a heart-shaped face on open display: the blush on her cheeks, her ears, the slight tremble in her chin, the red in that gaze at half-mast. Surprise filled him and, for a second, he was rendered speechless. 

Normally green eyes, so vibrant and lush and rich, were speckled with crimson— a fanning starburst haloing the iris. Deadly. Toxic. Beautiful.

A prodigious revelation; memories of his youth before the change and how every little feeling, every sensation, was seemingly amplified tenfold. That cursed feeling of skin stretched too tightly, of something clawing your insides raw and trying to burst free— of looking for an out, for relief, of being willing to do anything to curb it. 

Everything suddenly clicked into place.

"So don't stop," she muttered the words into the spot right above his heart, heated eyes flickering up to his. "Please, Tom."

Those cords of control snapped clean in half. One syllable, three letters, and he knew he never stood a chance.

In spite of what probably would be his better judgement, palms skirted down the length of her body until they found the curve of her thighs. Grip constricting, he lifted them in a silent instruction— she played her part readily, long legs wrapping loosely around his torso. Hips slanted to pin her weight against the shower wall; a strangled noise when she felt his arousal pressing against her.

She darted forward, mouth reclaiming his and muffling the cry— a noise caught somewhere between pain and pleasure— when he reached down to ease himself into her. 

This girl, truly, was going to be the death of them both.



Thanks to the moment of lucidity afforded by hindsight, Harri knew she should have listened to her body. The signs had been there that it was far from ready for such intimacy so soon; that it was tired and battered and going back to sleep sounded like the most appealing thing in the world. Oh yes, the signs had been there— and yet, for whatever inexplicable reason, she had ignored them all.

Well, some part of her had.

She reached for the plush bathrobe laid over the towel rack, the fabric already warmed and inviting. Unsurprisingly, it was her size, no doubt retrieved from her bedroom— or, at least, what was formally known as ‘her bedroom’. Truth be told, the nights she had spent there were too few and too sparse to even count the chambers as hers— not that she actually minded, per se. It was far more comfortable sharing a room; a survival, she figured, from years spent in the dorms.  

Tightening the waist tie, Harri stepped out of the shower— a low groan at the twinge in her abdomen. The blissful glow of her post-orgasm high was wearing off, her body burning its way too quickly through the lingering, syrupy feeling; a sharp craving for more. And wasn’t that greed just concerning? 

See, for the life of her, she couldn't quite figure out what exactly had happened. One minute, she had been in total control and then the next— nothing. A switch had been flipped; a hazy recollection of being so attuned to him, to the weight of his touch and his kisses and just feeling like she would burn alive if he stopped. It was an insatiable itch behind her breastbone— the kind that one may feel when they wanted something so badly that it became a full-body experience; a thrumming anticipation that morphed a want into a need

Hell, she was pretty sure she even begged.

A fanned palm came to rest on her stomach, the soreness tenfold from when she first woke up. Even now, she could still feel him: a phantom sensation of being stretched, the not-quite-painful burn when he started to move. The odd, thrilling feeling of being filled when he came— the unexpected rush of heat that made her knees weak and the trickle of it slipping down her thigh. 

An exasperated huff. Harri snatched the white towel hanging on the hook, the pressed cotton wrinkling in a tight fist. 'Well, at least he's gone now,' she thought as she wrung out her dripping hair. The Dark Lord had left, perhaps in a bit of a too-good mood, after cleaning her up and the traces of his spent release— a blessing in disguise they would have the day apart. After all, look what happened whenever they were alone. Was this going to be their new reality? If so, she couldn't say whether she anticipated or dreaded it— maybe both. The man's stamina had to be on a supernatural level; it had to be. Never once could she recall Lavender— her point of reference for all things intimate and, admittedly, her only one— mentioning sex lasting that long or happening that frequently. And though she felt bloody exhausted, Voldemort had appeared quite the opposite. 

"Supernatural," she concluded, tossing the damp towel onto the counter. This was going to be the literal ruin of her, she just knew it. 

Fingers carded through damp hair to break up the clumps, diligently working at the tangles and knots. If only her roommates could see her now— even after all this time, the same old habits refused to die. She could almost hear Hermione's chiding about a brush being better and Lavender's insistence on using her namesake’s oil to rein in flyways— loss

An overwhelming feeling of loss. It slammed into her unexpectedly; a constriction in her throat. 

And though she knew it wasn’t wise, Harri found herself entertaining an alternate kind of reality all the same. In a different world, had Voldemort been an ordinary boy and she an ordinary girl, perhaps all three of them— maybe even four with Ginny— would be huddled on her bed by now and discussing what had happened last night (and this morning). Maybe they’d be listening as she confessed it all— the joy, the confusion, the wariness such a relationship garnered— or be offering their advice on how to proceed. Had this been any other life, had things been normal, uncomplicated, maybe she would be the one to finally regale the group with a recount of an experience that would have left even Lavender in scandalised delight. A swarm of girlish giggles and teasing jests and blushing faces.

But this was not that sort of life. And oh how that loneliness cut into her— a wretched feeling that made her chest and lungs ache. 

Hands scrubbed over her face, eyes screwing shut against the familiar, tell-tale pricking. Who could she turn to? To disclose this idea of being 'mates', of being together with someone, with him, was both downright terrifying and exciting? Who could she talk to here?

Barty? They were far from being close enough to freely discuss such things.

Draco? She couldn't risk incriminating him— not when she just managed to placate Voldemort. And besides, he probably wouldn't understand. 

Snape? Well, she would rather swallow her own tongue than admit to being intimate with the Dark Lord in the man’s presence.

Ginny? Ginny would probably panic and claim something outlandish like the involvement of Amortentia. Not to mention her stay here was temporary— their agreement to trade information for her release was coming to an end as it was. Plus, she couldn't involve the girl any further than necessary.

Narcissa? She was the most viable option but the idea alone made it hard to breathe.

What if the woman hated her for what she had done? After all, it was her sister that had been involved with Voldemort long before her arrival. Or worse— what if the woman was disappointed? And Harri couldn't even fathom how she was going to explain it; how to explain the marks, the bruises, the, well, everything. 'What if she's disgusted?' The thought only made her nerves twist— an uncomfortable pocket of air impossible to swallow around. 

'Stop it.' She refused to cry— oh, she'd be damned if she did. Not over this; not over something so trivial in the grand scheme of things. 

Wisps of steam, the faint hints of mint carried with it, were pulled into smarting lungs— it was held until her throat relaxed and those tears became less of a threat. 'This isn't the time to be emotional,' she reprimanded, the back of her hand swiping across her eyes. Reluctant feet moved towards the vanity, the need to put herself together before Narcissa arrived pressing; a welcomed distraction. 

A cloth-covered arm cut through the condensation on the mirror— a streak that reflected her with a greater degree of clarity. Harri leaned across the sink, gaze critical. Save for a few more marks, she was relieved to find herself mostly unchanged— though what was she expecting, honestly? A giant stamp on her forehead declaring 'Just Slept With Lord Voldemort'?

Harri gathered damp hair over her shoulders, her tongue clicking with approval when they hid some of the marks. The same green eyes, the same face, the same— she blinked. 'What?’

The neckline of the bathrobe was yanked down— a noise of shock. And there, decorating the boney curve of her shoulder, were what, dare she say, almost appeared to be scales? Her head snapped to the side, eyes wide in mute horror. They were barely-there, hardly a shade lighter than her complexion, but they caught the light— a shimmering glint faintly reminiscent of an opal.

'Well that's— different,' an unhelpful voice supplied.

'Yeah. No shit.'

A curious finger prodded at them, the logical side of herself wondering if she was possibly hallucinating. Their texture was cool and smooth to the touch, smoother than the rest of her skin, and, oh— 

She lunged forward. 

The vanity creaked in protest as it supported her weight, her feet ghosting the tiled ground. Lips pulled back, mouth falling open as she poked at her canines to test their sharpness. But no, they were, thankfully, still relatively flat— human. 'Well, at least there's that—'

A creak of a door opening in the distance interrupted her momentary relief. 

'Shit shit shit shit,' a mantra in her head as she slid off the sink. One last look was tossed towards the mirror, hands anxiously smoothing down her hair. The collar was righted, the waist tie re-tightened— a pounding in her head.

Hesitant feet crept, stealthily and quietly, towards the bathroom door.

Narcissa was in the bedroom and mechanically picking her way through the labyrinth of discarded clothing strewn about the floor— remnants from last night. Harri watched through the cracked door as a frown twisted carmine-painted lips and those pale brows lowered. The woman had the satin heels tucked under one arm and the diamond gown slung over the other. Its copious amount of glittering fabric dragged on the ground behind her, a gliding whisper against slate grey flooring: the only sound to be had in the otherwise quiet space.

And though Harri did try to muster up the courage to go out and face the woman, such bravery, however, saw fit to elude her. Fingers ended up gripping the bathrobe’s cuffs to fidget, nervously, with the seam's edge.

'It will be fine, Harri,' she reasoned. ‘What’s the worst that can happen, realistically speaking?’ But just when she had decided to finally do it, had finally found the courage, Narcissa paused near the foot of the bed. 

Her slender silhouette was tensed, impossibly still.

There was the noise of heels falling to the ground— a dull clatter. The dress soon followed, a muffled thud as the gown folded in on itself.

She bent down ever so slowly, ever so hesitantly— and then Harri saw what was held between manicured nails. 

Her underwear.

Or, well, more specifically the shredded remains of what used to be her underwear. And there’s a resurfacing memory of a ripping sound, of the lacy pair being torn in the moment and thrown impatiently somewhere into the darkness. ‘Oh. Sweet Merlin—’

Harri bolted from the bathroom, scrambling and tripping over her own feet to snatch them back before Narcissa had the chance to realise what they were— though, judging by her stricken look, she's already more than aware. It doesn't prevent her anyway from grabbing the two halves nor from hastily stuffing them under the still-disturbed blankets on the bed. 

"N-Narcissa!" A flinch when a fresh wave of discomfort twinged between her legs. "Good morning."

And, just like that, any and all efforts to be casual fall apart when the pureblood turns around. Admittedly, Narcissa had done an impeccable job at keeping a congenial look frozen on her face; polite and reserved and seemingly unaffected by the entire situation. But Harri knows it's a lie — can see it in how those pale eyes are brighter than usual.

"Good morning, Harri." Her voice was kept light even as she stared, fixed, on the purpling marks adorning her throat in unabashed pride.

Without even missing a beat, she leaned forward to pluck at an invisible thread on the shoulder's seam, her words a whisper and mouth barely moving. "Are you alright, child?"

"He's not here," Harri said when the woman had looked uneasily past her shoulder. "Neither is Nagini, in case you’re wondering."

The tension deflated from the woman almost immediately— not that she can blame her, of course. After all, for his followers, the Dark Lord does cut a very different figure. And with that tension also went the mask, the pureblood’s true feelings showing now that there wasn't an audience to act blasé for. A hand uncurled from her shoulder to gently nudge the collar down further. Guilt, so much guilt at that quiet gasp— if she only knew the full extent of it.

Harri quickly stepped back before Narcissa had the opportunity to see the scales— and oh, that flicker of hurt in that concerned gaze only made things worse. But, well, that bit was harder to explain than the bruises and, frankly, the woman was shocked enough as it was— never mind suddenly bringing up the added complication that she was apparently going through parselmouth puberty. ‘One thing at a time.’

In the end, it was herself who made the first move to break the suspended awkwardness. She meandered slowly towards the chaise lounge, thankful to finally sit down and rest her weakened legs. Narcissa soon followed. And as the woman arranged herself on her left, all Harri could focus on is the disquiet energy radiating out from the older woman. It was acidic, tart— a peculiar thing to be able to taste but she’s rather certain her mind wasn’t imagining it. 

For the next ensuing few minutes, all the woman did was wordlessly smooth out the pleats in her skirt. But Harri knew from that line, that deep crease between shapely brows, she was simply trying to find the right words. It was a look she first learned to read in her son— a surprise to discover they both shared it. Though, then again, Draco did have far more of his mother in him than his father.

A palm coming to rest atop her own broke such introspection. The other had chosen to cup her cheek, the slightest tickling of rounded nail tips on the delicate skin below her eye. Another surprise: the woman's hand was warm— warm in a way one might not expect a Malfoy to be.

"I understand you may not want to, that it may be painful to talk about," Narcissa started, "but I need to know. Did he—?"

The implication was clear. Harri reared back in surprise and that manicured hand dropped away. "What? Oh, no. No, Narcissa! It was nothing like that— I. It was, uhm, completely consensual, I promise."

The sigh was one of relief and Narcissa could have sworn she felt a weight lifted. It had kept her awake all night, hours spent long into the morning jumping to the worst conclusions after the girl had been spirited away from the party (the plight of being a mother, most certainly). But at least she hadn’t been coerced into anything untoward— after all, who knew what sort of proclivities a Dark Lord may have. Though judging by how many marks the girl bore, the obvious discomfort she was in by merely sitting, it had been a passionate night— and that alone worried her for a multitude of reasons.  

Narcissa studied Harri; a discerning once-over. More than most, she was aware how easily it was to be swept along by good looks and grand gestures in the throes of youth— undoubtedly the Dark Lord knew it as well. Though he did have the grace to wait, he also made a move the very instant she turned seventeen— and that spoke volumes. The photos in the paper, the public way he staked his affection, the elaborate party— even Skeeter, whose tact and social graces were lacking, understood the implication. A claim. And she would be damned if she let a girl she, unwittingly perhaps but still had all the same, come to think of as a daughter be taken advantage of. 

But this required tact, careful consideration to address.

"I see. Well, I am relieved to know that isn't the case." Narcissa patted her hand and forced a smile. "Though, I do have to ask, you and my son?"

"Oh. That. No, that article was just," Harri started, teeth worrying her bottom lip. It ached— a reminder of the shower that had her working hard to not blush. "Draco and I aren't involved like that. He, uhm, he's great and all, truly, but—"

"But he's too young? Inexperienced, unlike older men?”

Narcissa hummed at the lack of response and the way green eyes refused to meet hers. She leaned forward to tuck a strand of damp hair behind the girl's ear. "I can not claim to be privy to the matters of your heart, Harri, but you are family now. As such, I hope you will not think it overstepping if I offer you some advice?"

It was startling how formal Narcissa was being— how reserved. Yet that look in those blue eyes existed as a direct conflict with her tone. Motherly concern, shining and fierce— warming. Harri found herself leaning into the hand tucking her hair, head slightly nodding. 

"This relationship, I must admit, is one I do not readily approve of. The Dark Lord, he," Narcissa searched for the right words— a soft click of her tongue. "Well, he is not a good man. An accomplished one? Certainly. A capable one? Undoubtedly. But a good one? No. I just want you to be careful and consider your options before freely giving your heart.”

All she managed was a tight smile. In many ways, Narcissa was absolutely right: he wasn't a good man. Far from it, actually. He twisted and manipulated the truth as naturally as breathing.

He used others like pawns, discarding them as easily as he gained them.

He sought vengeance rather than forgiveness and harboured wicked thoughts that a mercurial temper often gave life to.

He pulled all those around him into his orbit, damning them alongside himself— a chaotic, corrupting force determined to reshape the world in his own image. 

Yet she was guilty of those exact same crimes, was she not? And so, by that very definition, she isn’t a good person either.

Notes:

As always, feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr!

Tumblr: elysian-drops

Chapter 64: The Moirai Are Spinning (pt. 1)

Notes:

Hello everyone!

It's been a while, hasn't it? I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has been patient with me while my hand healed and to everyone who reached out during my hiatus— I seriously can't express how much gratitude I have towards you all 💕 You are all amazing and I feel so incredibly lucky to have such readers like you all along for the ride!

I hope you guys enjoy— I can promise that fun times are certainly ahead 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The first morning of August was marked by a gentle, albeit persisting, rain throughout the English countryside.

Petrichor clung thickly to the air— humid and heated from the dwindling height of summer— its perfume heady and its fine mist slickening. Overhead, greying clouds clustered together to block out the rising sun, long since casting the world into a cool reprieve from the heat they’d all become accustomed to. It was a cause for celebration, most certainly, as the tidings of better days loomed out on the horizon— fall was ever-nearing, ever-creeping, ever-approaching. Even the hills appeared to be rejoicing in the fact, their rolling knolls a cheery verdant. 

It was almost enough to make Remus smile. Almost

And despite the chill of the day and the weather one might say was best enjoyed from afar, he found himself with no urge to flee inside. Sheltered out on the back porch— raindrops steadily beading off age-worn shoes that peeked out from the overhang— he was more than content to remain right where he was. To take a few, precious seconds to revel in the aloneness of the now— to breathe in the comfort of his cigarette, the damp earth, the faint sweetness of the honeysuckle interwoven throughout the hedgerows. To have a moment of solitude, an opportunity so seldom afforded to anyone as of late, and to feel the wind, the rain, the meek sunshine on his face. A blessed, warped, twisted sense of peace.

Inside that damned house, however, would be a completely different story. 

It crowded at his back, a dark blot against the clouded sky— an uninvited, intrusive presence that demanded the ultimate sacrifice: his freedom

He inhaled a careful drag— embers lit up the foggy haze, sparks eating away at the filter in a slow crawl. Nicotine expanded in emptied lungs, souring and polluting and calming. It was held there for a beat, a second, until the sensation was edged by the familiar burn of not-enough and instinct took over— a controlled exhale through pursed lips. 

Smoke danced skyward in a thin, wavering plume; a wisp curling away into the ether. 

Insignificant. 

Insubstantial.

Oh yes, under the cottage's slanted roof, those faded bricks, and its picturesque, ivy-laced siding, chaos reigned steadfast and true. As such, there was no doubt in his mind, whatsoever, that the serene magic of the overcast morning would be ruined the very second he left the porch. 

He knew it

The minute the screened door closed behind him, trapping him in, the weight of lives would be, once again, thrust upon his shoulders— an Atlas carrying the world. And back within those mouldering walls and cramped halls, there was only one route for him to take— a vicious cycle of routine and planning and failure. Who could blame him for not being so keen to return to that?

A stray droplet fell from the gutter and right onto his cheek. It barely registered. Not when it slipped down his jaw and another followed in fast pursuit— nor when the misting became a drizzle that splattered the gravel walk in haphazard blooms or when thunder rumbled in the thicket above. Rather, the world gave way to silence— nothingness— as amber eyes fixed unseeingly out into the distance.

If he was being upfront with himself, this wasn't what he had envisioned for his life. A foot-soldier turned general, there was no possible way he could have foreseen this would be the outcome— that he would be swept into another war so soon. That it would be the same enemy, the same chessboard, the same circumstance. And, truly, the only standing difference was that, the first time around, he had the bravado of youth to bolster for strength. He had the fire, the passion, belonging to a so-called freedom fighter— that he entered into battle with the backing of his friends and the starry-eyed naiveté they could change the world. 

The idea was nearly laughable now.

But what other option did he have?

‘You could always run,' a small voice whispered traitorously. 'You could run and not look back.' 

And that was the most damning thing— he could.

He could get up right now and leave it all behind before anyone noticed. Leave before this all escalated past the point of no return and could blow up in their faces. He could cut his losses, recognise the situation for what it was and hightail it for the woods. Hell, he might even be able to convince Sirius to come along and— no.

No, that was a pipedream of a solution. Deaths were already on his hands, bloodsoaked deep into his nail beds— ghosts nipping at his heels that would surely haunt him, torment him, for such cowardice. And it wasn't as though his conscience would allow for it. Not with the incriminating turn of events that had been heralded in by the newspaper trapped under his thigh— not with his best friends' daughter still caught in the crosshairs. Plus, there happened to be the hiccup of their plan. That painstakingly reckless plan that seemed near damn foolish to believe in.

A sigh, heavy and resigned, escaped him as he tapped off the mounting ash. There was no other choice but to see this through, pray it would work, and then—  

And then

Well. 

What would happen after wasn’t something he had given much thought to. Such a luxury, after all, was reserved for the victors. The winners. Those who made it out on the other side and could live to tell the tales of their conquests. But the “after” would eventually fall to Harri, he supposed, and whatever choice she ultimately made. Fight, flee, rally, the torch would be hers to carry in the end— their very own Nike. 

Of course, getting her back was the first order of business— but that just became exponentially more complicated.

Remus shifted to retrieve the paper out from underneath himself, the scrape of the porch’s stone rough, cold against his jeans. One hand straightened out the article with a clean snap while the other returned the cigarette to his mouth. Brows furrowed— a considering inhale, gaze flickering from one caption to the other. And, by Merlin, how this wasn’t any better upon a third read. 

That headline. 

Those photos. 

Her smiling face.   

While it might be said that the trend of the Daily Prophet was that it never brought good news, this one was an entirely different matter. This one brought a bloody disaster. 

Sirius was going to lose it.

Absolutely— thoroughly— going to lose it.

The worn sole of his loafer bounced agitatedly against the cracked concrete, mind turning over. Scenarios rifled by— a dizzying pace as they were briefly entertained before being altogether discarded— as to the best way to approach the topic. To, hopefully, ensure their headquarters remained standing and everyone walked away with their heads on their shoulders— but how did one go about breaking such news? Simply coming out and saying it was catastrophic— yet dancing around it was even worse. And never mind not telling him. No, that definitely wasn’t a viable possibility. 

With a groan, he crudely rolled the newspaper up and stuffed it into his back pocket. Either way, no matter what he did or how he said it, things weren’t going to end well. It was an inevitability he had been preparing himself to face, had been painfully aware of— oh, was he ever —  since arriving at the cottage over an hour ago. And if someone were to say he was stalling by remaining on the porch? Well, they wouldn’t be wrong. ‘Just until someone else gets up,’ he kept justifying. ‘I’ll only stay out here until then.’ 

As though sensing his trepidation, the drizzle chose that moment to evolve into a downpour— a mournful commiseration that left his shoes utterly soaked. And no sooner had it done so could the sounds of someone rummaging about the kitchen be heard. 

Floating past the splintered windows were the high, aimless notes of a ditty and the clatter of pots, pans— Fate’s design set into motion.

It was time.

He took one last pull from the cigarette— a pity considering there was more than half left— before stubbing it out onto the concrete. The ensuing fizzle was a protest on wet stone, the ugly pockmark the only evidence of his secret vice.

Wincing, joints popping in quick succession, Remus hauled himself off the step.

The half-smoked cigarette was flicked into the unruly flowerbed, narrowed eyes scanning the grey horizon one last time. Unwittingly, the ocean materialised in his thoughts, the knowledge its craggy shoreline and white-crested caps were only a few yards away his very own apple— a temptation that proved to be more appealing than what he was about to return to. And it was with that image in mind he slowly, so slowly and with no small amount of reluctance, turned to face the porch’s door. 

Revulsion. It was a cold, creeping thing— an odd sense of disparaging resignation— when confronted with reality. That bloated door before him, warped on the hinges and its white paint peeling down in ribbons, represented just about everything wrong. Wrong in his life. Wrong with the Order— wrong in how everything had managed to unravel so quickly. That damned door, faded, worn down, on the verge of collapsing sparked a kinship— it was like looking into a bloody mirror. 

The voice advocating to run returned, his fingers stiff in their unwillingness to grasp the brass handle. About him, the wind gusted, the ocean’s salty spray promising a freedom if he only heeded it— invisible hands that pawed at his limbs, his coat, his drenched shoes and dripping hair. 

A shaky inhale, an equally shaky exhale. Nerves steeled, neglected flowers swaying listlessly on his periphery— the door was pushed in. 

Heat seized him. 

The hovel of the kitchen was blazing, the warmth from the cast iron oven a sharp contrast to the chill outside. Condensation had gathered as a thick layer on the windows that never quite fully opened— of course, not for an effort of trying because they most certainly had— thick tracks of it sweating off. On the stove, a stockpot of porridge bubbled away without a care— an oddly comforting sort of sound backed by the homely scent of cinnamon and brown sugar. And there, a wooden spoon brandished in one hand and a wand tucked into her apron’s pocket, was a shock of familiar, ginger hair. 

The tune of her humming changed as she removed the kettle from the burner, the high notes of her song melding with the hissing steam curling out of the spout. Evidently, the woman was in a good mood— how that was possible, however, he didn’t quite know.

“Morning,” he greeted from the doorway, fingers twitching when it closed with a click.

“Remus! Get caught out in the rain, did you, dear?” Mrs. Weasley twisted around, a frazzled air about her as she eyed his dripping frame and the puddle collecting about his feet. 

He could only send her a sheepish nod, unwilling to explain that it had been by his choice— that, if he had his way, he still would be out there, the morning’s storm be damned. Yet, she seemed to mistake his silence as something to pity— a sympathetic click of her tongue, a wide arc of her wand, and a rush of warm air enveloped him. The water was wicked from his clothes, his socks, his hair, nature’s claim on him erased— a pang of loss that he covered with a strained smile.

“Thank you, Molly.”

“Of course, dear,” she said, rushing past him to the cupboard. “Though you’re a wee bit early for breakfast, I’m afraid. Won’t be ready for another half hour, at least.”

He hummed, eyes drifting over to the soupy concoction with half-hearted interest. “Oh. No, no that’s quite alright. I’m actually looking for Sirius, if you’ve seen him around?”

“Sirius?” Molly echoed as she pulled down a mismatched set of mugs. “He should be in the back with Gregor—”

Her explanation, however, was cut short when two, bedraggled men shambled into the kitchen. A ragtag pair, thick stubble ghosted their square jaws, their sandy hair stringy, unkempt, and matching blue eyes flint-like— hardened. One of them had wordlessly snatched a mug from the counter, the other yawning and scratching at the scruff of his beard— a taunting flash of silver. Against the tanned skin of his wrist, a triangle, a circle, and a neatly bisecting line had been branded over the fork of his veins: the Deathly Hallows. 

Neither saw fit to greet them— to acknowledge, even in passing, their presence or give well-wishes for the morning ahead. Rather, it was as though they were two unwanted, ill-mannered spectres passing through; one minute, they were there and then, the next, they simply weren’t. Such an attitude left behind a sour taste.

Curious to see if Molly felt the same, amber eyes flickered over to gauge her reaction. It was impossible to miss. Her thin lips pursed as the lines across her forehead creased into valleys and her brows furrowed ever-so. Evidently, she wasn’t a fan of Grindelwald’s men and the feeling was wholly reciprocated. 

In truth, the animosity between their two groups made for an uneasy truce within the house— a tentative pact barely held together by the threads of desperation and the ability to fulfil the needs of the other. One side required their numbers, their resources whereas the other sought the figurative keys to Nurmengard. To this day, Remus still hadn’t quite figured out how Gregorovitch discovered Dumbledore entrusted the Order to also serve as the Fallen Dark Lord’s keepers. Nonetheless, it played to their advantage— an advantage they desperately needed to get Harri back.

“Right. I see,” he finally muttered, eyeing the door the men had slipped through. “Thanks.”

But as he made move to leave, Mrs. Weasley cut him off. Calloused hands reached up to gently tap his scarred cheek— an echo of a mother’s touch— brown eyes warm yet stern. It was as though she saw something in him she didn’t fully agree with— something in him that was a cause for concern. Yet, he saw the same in her. Because it was there, as plain as day if one really looked; in that strained, watery-thin smile and the crinkled corners of her eyes, sleepless nights lurked. Pain and desperation and ache— fear. A not-so-subtle reminder of his own responsibility, his vow, to get her daughter back. To do whatever he could, he might, to spare her other children from the brunt of the looming war— to make it so she didn’t have to sacrifice any more than she already had with her brothers. 

More weight only added to Atlas’s burden.

Wordlessly, a pair of warmed mugs were eased into his hands before he knew what was happening. The scent of over-steeped tea wafting up was bitter, earthy, grounding

Two mugs. 

Not three. 

“For you and Sirius, dear. Once you finish up your chat, make sure to come back and eat something. You’re looking a bit peaky.” With a final pat to his cheek, Molly resumed her post over the porridge.

Well, he was certain “peaky” would be putting it kindly: if he looked anything as near as he felt, ragged would have been more appropriate. 

Not saying another word, he left the humid heat of the kitchen in search of Sirius. Surely, if he was meeting with Gregorovitch this early, it couldn’t mean anything good was happening— and, ideally, he would prefer to do damage control first before detonating the other bomb the Daily Prophet so lovingly carried.  

Doors were left open in his wake as he breezed through empty room after empty room— a mockery of a breadcrumb trail should he have to turn around. Plainly speaking, it was needed— a well-deserved precaution on his end as the deeper one ventured into the house, the more hectic it became. A byproduct of one-too-many unsophisticated expanding charms— a discombobulated mess of tacked-on rooms, elongated hallways, and stacked ceilings— it was a nightmare of a labyrinth to navigate. 

A dark, dim, disorganised labyrinth.

And, by the heavens, how he thoroughly hated it. Hated going into the heart of the cottage, hated going all the way to the meeting room, hated trying to find anything or anyone in this mess. But mostly, he hated the hallways. This far back, this removed, the windows became few and dwindling until they were simply no longer. No more glimpses of the outside. 

No more reassurances it was still daytime. 

No more escape.

No, all he had were the flickering, fluorescent lights to guide the way and their low humming assault on his eardrums for companionship. 

Steps quickened, the sense of claustrophobia looming in his shadow. Dust was a scratchy film each time he breathed in, his shoulders nearly brushing either wall— closing in. Muffled voices from somewhere else in the house rose to match the soft clicking of his shoes, the sounds slipping past the drafty rafters and cracks in the plaster. And there, at the end of the narrow hall stood an equally narrow door— utter mayhem

Disorderly shouts resounded from behind it, barbed things being lobbed back and forth.

"For the last time, Gregorovitch, we are not discussing this!"

Remus blinked at the vehemence in Sirius's voice, halting midstep. 

"But we need to be doing more—" Ah, there was Gregorovitch. That accent was entirely unmistakable. 

“We are doing plenty!" 

"Oh yes, because handing out gossip magazines and hosting back alley rallies is plenty!

He warily inched closer to the door, fingers curling tighter about the steaming mugs’ handles as he reflected upon the nature of the conversation. Admittedly, there was some merit to the wandmaker’s words. In fact, it was an opinion secretly shared among many of them, himself included— not that anyone would ever dare say it aloud. Or, at the very least, not around Sirius. See, their appointed leader, his dearest friend, for all of his good qualities and generally affable nature, never was one to take criticism well— and, most certainly, not when it was backed by the insinuation of failure. It was just easier to keep quiet about such matters and to avoid making things needlessly complicated. Yet still, that never really stopped the question from being entertained long into the night, and within the privacy of his own mind, as to what else they could be doing? Their progress made thus far was demoralising at best— and their situation wasn’t getting any better. They were akin to a ship caught in a doldrum, toeing the line between floating and sinking. Stagnant

Quiet stretched on following Gregorovitch’s assertion— a painful, drawn-out thing that had his ears popping in the stillness. And try as he did to listen for any tells, any signs that Sirius was going to respond, there weren’t any.

He wanted to curse his very luck. 

Oh yes, he knew what that silence meant— could so clearly picture Sirius’s expression right now. That vein above his brow was most likely bulging, his jaw cocked to the left and unevenly clenched. And if it was something unfortunate enough to really set him off, there’d be a flush creeping up his chest— a splotchy, red trail that bespoke of being pushed too far. He could only hope Gregorovitch hadn’t— their morning, otherwise, was about to take a turn for the worse.

"If my Lord were here, we would have already—"

"Well, considering how it went for him last time,” Sirius snapped, “I'd say it's a damn good thing he isn't!"

There was a flat sound— hands being slammed down onto a table if he had to guess— and an ensuing slew of curses in a foreign tongue. The men were bickering as though they were a mere second away from hexing each other, rabid dogs lunging at the other’s throat. And part of him wondered how long they had been like this. How long had they been fighting, circling around the same topic over and over again? Probably hours. 

‘Just perfect.’ This was the last thing he needed to deal with today— preserving the already fragile relationship they had with their supposed ‘ally’ and arms dealer— but, as per usual, someone needed to act as the peacekeeper. A role that, unfortunately, always defaulted to him. The calm one. The rational one. The patient one— his token persona that had been integral to his identity ever since the gravitational well of James Potter and Sirius Black and their hot-headed, troublesome antics sucked him in.

With a sigh, he forced an easy smile and shoved down the mounting headache. Mugs still in either hand, he used his elbow to depress the door handle—  instantaneous regret. 

The hostility saturating the study was as nearly thick as the dust swirling in the air. Choking and stifling, acidic and volatile— tinder eagerly waiting for a stray spark. Curse his luck, indeed.

“Morning, gentlemen,” Remus greeted in a poor attempt to diffuse the situation. “So what are we discussing?”

Both men were locked in a standoff. Neither deigned to acknowledge his question nor spare him a glance upon entry. It was only Sirius that seemed to give any indication he heard him in the first place, the twitch of his hand nearly imperceptible.

"This is war, Black, and you're already losing it before it's begun," Gregorovitch said, unkempt brows lowering to a scowl.

"So tell me what would you have me do?" Sirius leaned forward on the age-worn desk, splayed palms supporting his weight. A sneer twisted his mouth, his knuckles whitening and straining under taut skin. "Storm his Citadel?!"

“Precisely! We shouldn't be hiding here like gutter rats." Gregorovitch gestured wildly about the room. "We should be attacking, for Merlin's sake!"

Remus edged further into the study and set the mugs down onto the desk, mulling over the wandmaker’s words. That was the right idea, of course: they needed to go on the offence if they had any hopes of actually winning. Or, at the very least, make some considerable headway to allow for Harri’s transition to power to be a smooth one. But, then again, such a move required meticulous planning. Months of foresight. The correct time and place, inside resources— all critical things they were notably still lacking. And even with Percy occasionally feeding them information, it wouldn’t be enough to plan a full-scale attack. No, not nearly enough.

In the background, the rain pattered relentlessly against the thin panes of the windows, its sharp staccato occupying the spaces where no one dared to speak. It was colder here than in the kitchen, he unexpectedly realised, the mourning whispers of wind more easily creeping in— an uninvited guest that leached away any traces of summer. Through the moth-eaten curtains and frayed upholstery, through the mildew-infested books and the worn carpet underfoot, the draft spread— searching tendrils determined to seize upon them. Remus shivered against it, arms folding across his chest as he considered what to possibly add to the conversation. 

In the end, it was Sirius who broke the lull. His question came out flat, deadpanned, an eyebrow arched incredulously. "And with what forces, exactly? It'd be a suicide mission. We all know it.”

"It doesn't have to be," Gregorovitch argued. "We could use the Inferi."

And oh, how that chill only grew.

Remus looked to Sirius in alarm. The man’s waned skin paled even further, his shock a heavy veil across his face— an opinion clearly shared between them by the mere suggestion.

"I know where Grindelwald stored them. I could wake them and—" the wandmaker continued.

"Bloody hell, you have to be joking," Sirius choked out. “Are you mad?!”

“How about we all just take a deep—,” Remus tried to interject only to be promptly cut off.

"We can use them to storm that usurper's Citadel. He’d be overwhelmed in minutes!” Gregorovitch took a step closer, voice fevered, excited. “You wouldn't even have to do anything. You could keep your hands clean and I’ll—"

"That's not the issue here!"

“It would work, Black!" Gregorovitch protested, murky eyes flashing. "If you could just listen for once, maybe we would actually get somewhere."

"Damn it!" Sirius slammed his hands down onto the table harder than before. The mugs perched on the edge rattled precariously, lukewarm tea sloshing dangerously up their sides and just cresting their rims. "We are not using them! I’m not having us stoop to his level and rely on something so—so vile— to gain an upper hand, do you hear me!?”

“And that is precisely why we are losing! You’re too hung up on morals and what’s ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ to make any real progress!”

“Do I need to remind you who’s in charge here, Gregorovitch?! It’s me, in case you’ve forgotten. That means my word goes— and I say no! If you don’t like it then you can get the hell out!”

Remus looked anxiously between the two men, mind racing on how to mitigate the situation. Both of them were scarlet from their exertions in shouting, twin looks of contempt, of frustration screwing up their faces.

The wind howled in earnest, the crudely-crafted windows shaking under the torrential downpour's might— chaos outside, chaos inside. 

“Fine,” Gregorovitch said, the word spat as though foul-tasting. “Have it your way.”

The wandmaker snatched up one of the cups, pale gaze sliding over to Remus. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him. Merlin knows he refuses to listen to anyone else!”

He blinked, startled at suddenly being addressed, when Gregorovitch stormed out of the room. The door askew on dull hinges was violently yanked open— snippets of muffled conversations and flashes of silver tattoos hovering on the other side— before being slammed shut again. ‘Well. If people weren’t up before,’ he thought with a grimace as the force shook the wall’s foundation. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, headache worsening, he turned from the door with a reprimand at the ready. Those sharp words, however, were quick to die, to trail off into nothingness, upon seeing Sirius. 

It was as though the man had finally released a breath he’d been holding— a visible deflation as shoulders slumped and the tension held in his jaw was let go. Sirius was leaning heavily to one side, fingers gingerly massaging into the opposite leg’s thigh— a concession only ever allowed when it was just the two of them. At one point, he had thought it would be a good idea to gently suggest a cane to ease some of the pain, the inconvenience of his limp. A suggestion that, consequently, earned him a week of incensed silence and sour glares. 

He learned in the end, rather quickly and rather wisely, not to broach the topic again.

“Damn weather,” Sirius muttered before sinking down into the armchair— it groaned loudly under his weight. “Always makes it act up.”

Remus only hummed at the shallow excuse: it wasn’t the weather, they both knew it, but he wasn’t keen on starting up that conversation. Not today. Not now. 

The room lapsed back into quiet and he found himself, almost out of instinct, studying the man before him. More specifically, Remus found himself studying those new lines that had appeared on his friend’s forehead, in the corners of those usually warm, grey eyes. How there were a few more white strands streaking shaggy, dark hair and how that bruising gauntness to his cheeks seemed to now be a permanent fixture. Despite it only having been a few months, time had not been kind. The stress of a failing rebellion served to only exacerbate the toll unfair years in Azkaban had already taken— a pitiful youth unjustly eaten away. In truth, Sirius Black looked far less like a man in his mid-30s and on the precipice of an actualised adulthood. 

No, time had not been kind at all. To either of them, really. 

“How was your change?” Sirius finally asked, brows pinched together.

“Fine.” Remus slid the lukewarm mug across the desk— a whispered, grinding sound of ceramic dragging against wood. “Fine as it can be, anyway.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you. It’s just with Gregorovitch—”

“I understand.” He offered Sirius a shadow of a half-smile. This was something, after all, they had already discussed in depth. “One of us needs to always be in the house. That was the rule we agreed upon. I can handle it.”

Thunder cracked somewhere out in the distance, a bolt of lightning soon following in pursuit— a dazzling flash that brightly lit up the spartan room. The creaking floorboards overhead indicated people were finally rousing to the gloomy morning, the commotion of life lethargic, unhurried— drained.

“Okay. Come out with it already,” Sirius said. “You’re making that face again.” 

“What face?”

“The face you make when you disagree but don’t want to say it.” Sirius lifted the mug’s rim to his lips and took a slow sip, the bitterness of over-steeped tea earning a grimace. “Hell. Molly could kill a man with this.”

“I don’t make a face,” Remus protested. 

“You sure about that?” The question was backed by a roguish grin and another pointed sip. “Because, from where I’m sitting, you are one-hundred-per-cent making a face. You can’t bluff for shit, Moony— didn’t James and I always say that? There’s a reason why we did the talking.”

“If by ‘talking’ you mean ‘lying’, then yes, I suppose you two always did so. Though, some might say the inability to lie is an admirable quality to have,” Remus sniped back, corners of his mouth lifting ever-so.

“And how many times did our ‘lying’ save us from detention, hm? Because, if I recall correctly, it was quite often. And some people might be thankful that we did so we wouldn’t have to spend Saturday scrubbing cauldrons.”

“Fine. Fine. Yes, okay. Thank you so much for lying to get us out of the detentions we most definitely deserved,” he scoffed, voice holding a good-natured bite. But those congenial, sociable feelings were quick to run dry when he considered the original demand. He ran his hands through his hair, tongue pressing into his cheek as though testing the weight, the taste, of his words before saying them. “But you know, Sirius, perhaps Gregorovitch has a point?”

A sound of spluttering filled the study as Sirius choked on his tea. It took a few seconds of wet coughing, his fist pounding against his chest to clear it, before he managed to speak again. “Don’t tell me you actually want to use those creatures?! Remus, we can't— they were people once, for Merlin’s sake! People like you and me that Grindelwald—”

“I’m not saying we use them,” Remus argued, “but I do agree we need to do more. And riling Gregorovitch up like that won’t help anyone. The house is already tense as it is.”

“We use the Inferi and we damn ourselves, mark my words! There are lines we can't cross and this? This is one of them.” Sirius shook his head adamantly. “Plus, I refuse to do anything that might provoke that red-eyed bastard too much. Not when he still has our people— Molly's kid. Harri. We don't need to give him a reason to take it out on them until we get some leverage against him first."

Remus spared a glance up to the exposed rafters when they creaked in warning. Invisible footsteps shuffled about the room above them, dust showering down in a trickle. Of course, he was well aware that it was a fair argument— Harri and Ginny shouldn’t have to suffer just because they, he, wanted to have something, anything, tangible to show what they had worked for. Sacrificed. For some tiny shred of proof this was all worth it. 

“So, honestly, screw Gregorovitch,” Sirius bit out. 

“Sirius!”

“No. Screw him! After everything we've done for him, he still has the nerve to criticise us! He should be thankful that we’re letting his messages pass through as it is, the ungrateful git.”

He couldn’t find it within himself to respond— he just couldn’t. Not with the way guilt was churning his stomach, the merciless thing it was, or when the souring taste of ‘wrongness’ sat so heavily on his tongue. That was another stipulation to their deal that he refused to make peace with, no matter how he may try: in exchange for Gregorovitch’s services, he was allowed open communication with his old Lord. In exchange for the wands, the resources, the number of able-bodies, they were to turn a blind eye to the messenger moths slipping in and out of the hole they had created in Nurmengard’s wards. It was a small concession in the grand scheme of things— especially considering Grindelwald was unable to go anywhere— but still a concession nonetheless. 

Heavens only knew what Dumbledore would have to say about this.

Amber eyes eventually flickered back down to Sirius, another exhausted admonishment at the ready— and that’s when he noticed it. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. All of the signs were there that the man was anxious, on edge, those grey eyes as muddled as the weeping sky. 

"There's something else, isn't there?" Remus asked softly, snagging on the way a muscle in Sirius’s jaw jumped. "Gregorovitch isn't the only thing that's gotten you this wound up. What happened while I was gone?"

There was a moment’s pause— a second of consideration— before a crumpled letter was fished out of the desk’s drawer. The once crisp parchment was torn at the corners and horribly wrinkled from abuse— a sign that it contained nothing good. With no other forthcoming explanation, it was tossed carelessly to the centre of the table. 

“It was delivered this morning. I've been requested to appear at an 'Asset Allocation' at the bank,” Sirius explained. “For the newest member of the Black family, apparently."

He snatched the letter up, frowning as he smoothed out the creases the best he could. "‘Newest member’? Who's that? I thought you said Bellatrix couldn’t have children? Is Narcissa pregnant again?”

“Oh, it isn’t Bellatrix’s or Narcissa's kid. It’s Harri.”

This time, it was his turn to choke in surprise.

A strangled noise in the back of his throat, Remus scanned the letter once, twice, before looking up to meet Sirius’s pinched expression. The man appeared as though he wanted nothing more than a stiff drink— and, for once, he wholeheartedly agreed. “What? How is that even possible? Did you know?!" 

"Of course not!" Sirius scoffed. Fingers drummed against the table, the sound in tandem with the pelting rain. "According to them, Dorea had a kid in secret— kept it that way too, seeing as he never showed up on that damned tapestry— and she's supposedly Harri's great-great-grandmother. Hell, if I’d known, don't you think I would've fought harder with Dumbledore for guardianship rights?”

Remus shifted his weight, gaze darting down to the gold foil of the official Gringotts seal. “Do you think James knew? About Dorea?"

"I suspect so." Sirius reached up to rub at the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes drifting over to the fogged window. "Suppose it was a family secret of sorts. Explains why he never told us— after all, the Blacks aren’t exactly the most welcoming bunch. It also makes sense why he kept pressing me to be Harri's godparent when we both know you were the better option. We're blood, supposedly. However far back that may be.”

The letter was carefully returned to the desk, the edges a touch more crumpled than before. "Tell me you're not considering going."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"It could be a trap! For all we know, they're lying—" A bitter chuckle, the sound as black as his friend’s last name, interrupted him. 

Sirius leaned back in the chair and intently watched as a raindrop sped down the glass pane. "Oh no, they definitely aren't lying. You're forgetting these are my cousins— and if anyone knows those conniving harpies, it's me. They're gloating. It's not even necessary for me to be there but they want me to know they've got their claws in Harri. They even got her to sign that bloody book. Bet that was Narcissa's doing too, the coldhearted bitch. She always liked fucking with people's minds."

“Plus,” Sirius mused, half-distracted, “if this idiotic plan falls through and I go, at least we'll have another chance to get Harri back. Who knows what the hell they are doing to her now. Probably trying to get her hitched to some god awful pureblood with a ten-foot pole stuck up his arse."

‘Probably trying to get her hitched’— the newspaper. Remus was suddenly reminded that he had the copy of the Daily Prophet still tucked away into his back pocket.

The Prophet with those damning, damning photos.

Shit.

For the briefest second, part of him debated not even showing it to Sirius. Perhaps that was the kinder thing to do? Kinder to spare the man who was already nearing the end of his rope from the same, sickening doubts he had? That, perhaps, it might be easier this way— more peaceful for everyone involved. 

Then again, wouldn’t it be too cruel not to? ‘He has every right to know.' After all, between the two of them, it was Sirius who had been charged with her safekeeping. Sirius who had been the most devastated upon learning she’d been taken— who had seen it as his own personal failure. Sirius who, evidently, also shared blood with her.

With a heavy swallow, he reached for the newspaper. “I need you to promise me to remain calm.”

Grey eyes snapped back into focus. They slid over to him questioningly. “What?”

“Just,” Remus said, words faltering, “promise me not to overreact.”

“Oh please, when have I ever overreacted?”

“Well, I can think of a few instances—”

“Remus, I swear if you don’t tell me what’s happening—”

The demand was clipped in half.

Words trailed off into the stale air of the study, lingering for a second before curling away. The cause? He had hesitantly, slowly, placed the Prophet down next to the letter. 

Black and white images flashed by, vignettes captured of a larger moment; pieces and shards that only garnered more questions than answers. Hands caging a small waist, thumbs smoothing over slanted hips. A flare as a diamond dress cut through the light— solar spots as they waltzed in time across the clouds. A look of pure bliss plastered on a painted face when feet left the ground and she took flight: a star momentarily hung in the heavens before gravity brought her tumbling down. The scene looped over and over, far too intimate to possibly be in a newspaper, of all things.

And, oh, how the implications were devastating.

He dared to look up after a beat; an echo of pity when he noticed how that stubbled jaw worked and clenched and tensed. “Sirius—” 

“What the hell!?” 

The chair clattered to the ground, the mug upset and falling over. A dark river of long-since cold tea splashed onto the threadbare carpet— another stain added that would be impossible to remove. Sirius shot up without any regard to his leg, grip curling about the paper's edge and squeezing. The images distorted, wrinkled, but that smile— that flash of too-white teeth and a knowing curl— remained whole to mock them. 

His smile

“Padfoot,” Remus angled, voice soothing, quiet— a pitiful attempt to calm him through a decades-old nickname. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. 

The windows rattled, the thunder crashed. Mother Nature was rioting in time with the man who held a storm in his eyes— as angry and tempestuous and unhinged as though he were born from her and not from human flesh, blood, bone.

Sirius whipped the newspaper around, a finger jabbing accusingly right into the centre of the Dark Lord’s chest. “What the actual fuck is this, Remus!? Why is he dancing with her!?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted softly.

“No. No, no, no, no,” Sirius chanted under his breath.

That already pale face became a sickly shade when Sirius spied the article below. And for a moment, Remus was concerned the man's heart had stopped altogether— he didn't seem to be breathing, moving, blinking. Save for the tremble in his hands, he was impossibly still. Frozen.

“Sirius?”

And then he thawed— a flurry of violence. 

The inkwell, unfortunate enough to be within reach, was hurled at the wall— an alarming sound as it exploded into glittering fragments and blackened tears that streamed down the peeling paint— a rush of colourful curses accompanying it. Remus flinched, mouth opening when Sirius shoved past him, clipping his shoulder in the process. 

With an unwholly unexpected speed, the man stormed towards the door, the limp in his left side barely a deterrent. And, oh, he recognised that look: it was one of determination. Of a set fixation. Of a one-track mind tunnelling and narrowing. 

It was a look that relayed there was going to be hell to pay.

Remus whirled on the spot, already hot on his friend’s heels. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

“Change of plans,” Sirius gritted out, hobbling across the length of the study. “We can’t wait any longer.”

Alarmed by the declaration, his hand darted out to grasp the man’s wrist just as it reached for the door handle. “What do you mean?! We have a plan, Sirius— one that we can’t just throw away!"  

“Fuck the plan! I will not stand by while that bastard puts his hands all over her like that! You read what they’re saying— she’s my goddaughter, for fuck’s sake!”

Wisely, he held his tongue at the instinct to correct him— it would only add dry kindling to a fire that was already dangerously close to being uncontained. And the wildness, the desperation, in those flashing grey eyes only served to confirm how close the man was to coming undone. "Padfoot, we can't. Five days, remember? We have to wait until then or we'll blow any chance we have."

"I don’t like it any more than you do but he won’t hurt her," he argued when Sirius tried to wrench himself free. "Not with those photos just being released and the spotlight on her. It’s only five more days. Please. Harri can handle that. What she can’t, however, is you getting yourself killed because you became reckless.”

And for a moment, Remus feared he wasn’t going to listen— was going to ignore reason, his pleading, and just Apparate directly into the Dark Lord’s office without a care. That he was long gone and willing to go out in a blaze, consequences or not. 

The wand tucked into the opposite pocket of his trousers became a heavyweight, Petrificus Totalus held at a ready should it be required. 

But then that hand eventually, begrudgingly, released the door handle.

A sigh of relief, he took it as a surrender and uncurled his own fingers from Sirius’s wrist. Amber eyes apprehensively tracked the man as he stalked back to the desk with a bitten-off growl of frustration, the wand never straying too far from his thoughts. 

The newspaper was slammed down to the table— a sleek silhouette as Sirius's head bowed, shoulders taut, palms splayed on either side of the Prophet. He was searching for answers, Remus knew, was considering every little detail, every little movement— was trying to find fault, reason, a sign, something to explain the unexpected turn this had all taken. 

“Why does she look so happy?” The question was barely voiced, muffled and quiet amid the drumming rain. It was heard all the same.

He shifted his weight, fingers carding through his hair and down to the base of his skull. And, by Merlin, how he didn't want to say it— had been dreading this part in particular all morning— but one of them had to. One of them needed to be rational and consider all logical possibilities, however unpleasant, condemning they may be.

"It could be polyjuice. A body double?" he offered— the excuse, however, fell flat. No, the look on her face, the adoration in her eyes, it was too convincing, too real, to possibly be fake. No one was that good of an actor. 

“And if it isn't?"

"Then maybe the Imperius? But Padfoot, I do think we have to consider that, perhaps, Harri might not be the same when she comes back," Remus said slowly, ignoring the way his friend had looked sharply over his shoulder and pinned him with a glare. "If it's not polyjuice or the Imperius, then it might be—”

“Don't you dare,” Sirius seethed in warning. "Don't you dare fucking say it."

“Amortentia.” 

“I swear to—”

“Look at her, Sirius!” For the first time since entering the study, his voice rose to a shout. It pitched in his desperation, the threads of control fraying, his hand pointing accusingly towards that looping photograph of Voldemort lifting her off the ground. “Just really look — she’s smitten! She adores him— him! What other explanation is there!? He’s drugged her out of her goddamn mind!”

That’s all it took for an oppressive silence to settle back between them, loaded and coiled like a rusted spring ready to snap. Amber eyes locked with grey ones, looks traded that belied the nerves, the fear, the anger— one willing to confront the truth and the other looking to flee from it.

Another crack of thunder, another bout of lighting. Haggard features long-since eaten away by stress and sleepless nights were thrown into sharp relief— a stark juxtaposition between youth and decrepitude.

That spring twisted further. Twisted, twisted, twisted— it broke.

It was a sigh, a whisper, a ghost of a breath that sapped away the energy required to continue their standoff. Sirius's face crumpled, despair turned anew— and Remus could already guess where his thoughts were. Personal guilt, personal failure— the world getting heavier and heavier and heavier upon their backs. Crushing.

"We can reverse it," he whispered gently. That bone-deep weariness seemed all-encompassing now, a shackle and chain that he couldn't quite shake. "It'll take some time but we can reverse the effects. It’s been done before. There are potions, rehab. Just five days and we'll get her back, alright? I promise."

I promise. Two little words had never felt more dangerous, more charged than in this moment.

“Right. Five days,” Sirius mumbled stiffly, gaze bouncing despondently back down to the photograph. He had the mounting urge to set the damn thing on fire. “Just five more days and she’ll be home.”

Notes:

As always, feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr!

Tumblr: elysian-drops

Chapter 65: The Moirai Are Spinning (pt. 2)

Notes:

Hello everyone!

Yes, hi, I am still alive 😅 It's been a while, hasn't it? Truly, I didn't expect there to be such a long gap between this update and the last one— school has started back up and uni is really kicking my butt this term lol. So to my readers who are also in school at the moment, you have my condolences. We will get through it together! 💕

On a different note, thank you to everyone who has been so patient with me and understanding 💕 You guys are amazing and I feel so grateful to have readers like you along for the ride! I'm really excited about moving forward with Appetence because I have some good things planned (that, hopefully, you all will enjoy the twists of) that can get going now that we're tying up some loose ends!

As a little shoutout here though. I was challenged by my dearest friend @stargirltakingflight to write something relatively fluffy/sweet (I say relative because this is still me here 😅)— hence the last few scenes in this chapter. If it's not great, please don't come for my head lol. But for my dearest Star, consider the gauntlet thrown 😂 (I love you though, and am patiently waiting for you to hold up your end of the deal 😏😂💕)

Anyways, thank you so much!! I hope you all enjoy 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



The Three Broomsticks wasn’t, by any means, glamorous. 

It was a touch too old and a touch too shabby, the mattresses a tad too lumpy and the ale too stale. The paint had a horrendous habit of not sticking to the walls and the floors were in desperate need of a repolishing. And never mind the smell. The pub, even in the earliest of hours, seemed to always be crowded with a rather questionable clientele who, frankly speaking, required a reminder as to what ‘good hygiene’ entailed. 

But yet, after weeks spent slogging through the furthest corners of Europe— weeks with only Fenrir and his unsavoury pack for company, nonetheless— Bartemius Crouch Jr. was more than elated to be here. 

For once, he couldn’t bring himself to mind the dinginess— couldn’t be annoyed with the dull roar of overlapping conversations or be repulsed by the burnt bacon fat wafting from the kitchens. Hell, not even the humid heat of packed-together bodies was enough to dampen his spirit. In fact, he could nearly kiss the grimy floors. Could nearly, that is.

See, he couldn’t be upset with any of it because at least the Three Broomsticks was in the Isles. Home. It had been a sort of miracle— a cause for relief— when their Lord had instructed them to head to the inn. And, by Merlin, he wasn’t above admitting that he almost sobbed in gratitude at the fact. All morning, he had preoccupied himself with a list of everything to do upon returning. A shower, for one, was high in priority. And not just cleaning charms to sluice off the topmost layer of filth but an actual, hot, glorious shower. By the heavens, he would have a decent meal too; something warm and that, preferably, hadn’t been hunted down in the woods just minutes prior.

It was the simple things that had been enough to wean off his impatience, to distract himself— to be an escape from the noise of the pub and the rowdiness of his forced company. However, as the sun slowly crept closer to the horizon, the novelty of such ideas was quick to wear off. The matter still remained that, before any of those fantasies could come true, they needed to capture Gregorovitch first. 

He hummed, attention bouncing from one crowded table to the next. The edge of frustration unfurled; an itch in his chest. Where was he? Shouldn’t he have been here by now? What if their intel had been wrong? Blunt nails, trimmed down to their quicks, picked at a notch in the table— the surface sticky with what, he didn’t want to know— the layer of stain flaking off into his nailbeds. They’d been here nearly all day, yet there still wasn’t any sign of the wandmaker.

Not a peep.

Not a sniff.

Nothing

Brown eyes eventually shifted down to the tabloid before him, flickering from one caption to the next. It was nearly painful to look at; an eyesore of flashing headlines, pastel colours, and mismatched fonts. The Quibbler. A paper that, according to the subheading’s statement, ‘sought to expose corruption and unveil the greater truth.’ Rubbish. Slander. Though they tried to hide it behind pretty words, it was the Order’s very own propaganda wrapped up in a neat, noxious, affronting little package. Originally, he’d found it outside of the Three Broomsticks— in a cardboard box, of all things—looking every inch as illegitimate and unfounded as it was. Morbid curiosity urged him to take a copy along for entertainment— a mistake, through and through. Rather, it was, in fact, anything but entertaining. Perhaps infuriating would be more appropriate? 

This particular issue was keen on discussing the soon-to-open academy for muggleborns— or, more specifically, condemning it. Within every paragraph, nestled into every line, every word, every bloody syllable, there was outrage to be found. Outrage that the academy was the so-called product of the ‘segregation agenda’ espoused by purebloods— outrage that it had been passed into law so easily. Outrage that it was ‘cradle-robbing’— that, apparently, the school represented a violation of human agency. It was enough to make him scoff. The Quibbler was up in arms against the natural order of things and he couldn’t understand it. Why shouldn’t they, though muggleborn they may be, live with their own kind? It only seemed right. Necessary, even, to protect them— everyone. Hell, he remembered what it had been like taking Harri to her muggle relatives— how quick they were to attempt to turn her out onto the streets. To scorn her. How many more children were in a similar situation? How many more would be in the future? 

However, the bigger offense, the one that he took issue with, rested in the unnamed authour of the article. Oh yes, he’d read enough of her essays to recognise her prose: Hermione Granger. How had such a smart girl gotten entangled in this mess? How could she willingly feed into this disillusionment? Not see the logic? And, for the briefest second, he found himself thinking back to their most recent encounter. When he’d last seen Granger in Diagon Alley, she had been carrying a stack of pamphlets close to her heart and a skittishness in her eyes. It was a waste of her talent, her mind, to expend it on such a misplaced doctrine. 

A prodigious waste. 

“Well, well. Ain’t this a pretty picture?”

He flipped over The Quibbler, brows pinched as he glanced up. Fenrir was seated across from him at the round table, his lumbering frame barely contained by the pub chair. “What?”

“This.” Fenrir flashed him the photograph in the Prophet. “Pretty picture, ain’t it? The Chosen One dancing with the Dark Lord. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Barty sighed, already regretting his decision to ask. “Wonder what?”

“Whether he’s fucked her or not. Considering how much money he blew on that damn party, he’s had to, right?” Fenrir shrugged and shifted to rest an ankle upon his knee. Grey eyes squinted down at the photo, his tongue clicking thoughtfully. “Must have been pretty good, if that necklace she’s wearin’ is anything to go by. Reckon she’s got some moves? I’m betting she does. Hell, look at those diamonds. You don’t get that sort of thing by being a shitty shag.”

His lip curled in distaste. “You're disgusting, Greyback.”

The werewolf looked up from the paper and arched a bushy brow. “Oh, come off it, Barty. She shakes her ass around you all day and you haven’t considered it? Not even once? Because I certainly have. It’s a nice ass too, even though I’m more of a—”

“No. I haven’t,” Barty bit out, reaching over to snatch the paper away from Fenrir. He rolled it up, brown eyes flashing. “And it would be wise to keep your mouth shut if all it can do is spew such vile things. That’s our Lord and his Lady you’re talking about—”

Fenrir snorted. “His Lady? That’s a fancy term for whore—”

“So show some respect. Then again, if you’re so curious, we can always ask him. I’m sure he would be interested to hear your thoughts on the matter.” He shoved the paper into his waistcoat. “What do you say? Should we call our Lord so he can weigh in on her moves?” 

Greyback paled just a touch. 

Barty sent him an outwardly congenial smile— one that revealed far too many teeth—and started to push up his sleeve. “I would be more than happy to do so, if you’re dying to know.”

“It was just a joke, Crouch,” Fenrir said defensively, staring at the beginning tail of the Dark Mark that peeked out from under Barty’s rolled up cuff. “That’s all. No need to be so serious.”

He paused, head tilting to one side. That smile pulled tighter, refusing to reach his eyes. “Right. Just a joke. Of course. However, if I were you, I would be careful about what sorts of ‘jokes I’m making and around whom. You never know when someone might take offense.”

Fenrir opened his mouth to retort, broad shoulders squared at the threat, only to be cut off by a slew of insults and a flash of tanned skin.

One of the men in their party had chosen that moment to launch himself across the table in a whirlwind of tattered robes and greasy hair and directly into another. From the garbled mess of accusations, Barty managed to make out that the latter had stolen some bacon from the former’s plate— a crime which, evidently, was deserving of a brawl. 

He barely had the foresight to lift his mug. 

The plates, the cutlery, rattled as the two werewolves rolled about in a litany of colourful swears and heated allegations. In the process, one clipped his shoulder on the table’s leg, causing an unattended pint to topple over. Ale splashed noisily onto the already grimy floor, sickly sweet and sloshing as its foam seeped into the cracks.

Of course, no one paid the fight any mind. The occurrence was a typical affair for the seedy patrons of the pub, the racket effortlessly blending into the background noise. Yet still, that didn’t stop dark eyes from shifting uneasily about the room— searching, looking, seeing if anyone lingered a moment too long on their group huddled in the shadows.

This was precisely why he hated working with the werewolves. Their inability to rein in their tempers had certainly cost them their cover more than once. Not to mention they were on a mission from their Lord. Would it be so terrible for them to have at least some sense of decorum? Composure? Hell, at this point, he almost preferred Bellatrix— and that was saying plenty. 

Barty took a swig of the watery ale— a poor attempt to soothe the throbbing at his temples. He cut a sharp look to Greyback, grip tightening on the mug’s handle. “Do you mind?”

Fenrir looked away from the fight, the amused smile sliding right off his face. They stared each other down until Barty lifted his chin and glanced down to his forearm where the Dark Mark rested— a silent reminder of who had been put in control of their mission. 

Eventually, the werewolf conceded.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Fenrir nodded towards the empty chairs. The effect was instantaneous. Snapped out of their stupor, the two men obediently returned to their spots, albeit with some grumbling. 

“Thank you,” Barty mumbled pointedly into his half-empty pint. “I swear I’m nothing more than a glorified babysitter. Can’t get through one damn night without you mutts trying to tear each other apart.”

The offended huff from Fenrir mostly went unheeded because, in that moment, as brown eyes lifted on an off chance, he saw him. There— picking his way through the thicket of the crowd was a shock of grey hair and a matching, trimmed beard. Even from a distance, Barty could tell his face was deeply lined, his shoulders hunched from decades spent at his craft: Mykew Gregorovitch.

Finally.

“You’re not a fucking ray of sunshine either, Crouch—”

A swift kick was delivered under the table to Greyback’s shin when the wandmaker disappeared into the back room— just as Harri said he would. “Oh, shut up, will you? He’s here.”

Not even deigning to finish the pint, or to see if the werewolves were following, he took off after the man. 

Threading through the maze of drunk patrons and avoiding sprawled limbs, stretched out feet, he edged towards the furthest door and threw it open. It creaked on the hinges, the light from the tavern bright shafts that cut through the room’s dimness. All in all, it was sparse, spartan— barely lived in. 

A mattress with unkempt, untucked sheets was shoved against one wall, a desk pushed against the other. On the table, a singular, lone candle sputtered plumes of black smoke, its yellowed wax spilling down onto the wood grain. A trunk, half-opened, rested in the corner, all sorts of materials glinting in the low light: feathers, scales, long strips of wood, leather cordings, whittling knives. It would appear Harri’s intel was, once again, correct: Gregorovitch was using this room as a front to run his business. 

And there, right by the cracked window and whispering to a moth on his finger, was none other than their target.

“You know, Mykew,” Barty hummed as he stepped into the bedroom, “you’re a tough man to find.” 

Gregorovitch whirled around as the moth slipped out of the window and into the rain. Murky eyes first landed on his waistcoat— a flash of greed upon seeing the golden chain of a pocket watch— before bouncing up to his face. “Who the hell are you? And what do you want?”

Barty casually glanced about, lip curling at a plate of a half-eaten meal long forgotten. Flies gathered, buzzed, on the carcass of what, he assumed, was once a roasted chicken. ‘Lovely.’ “Oh, it doesn’t matter what I want.” 

He pulled out the writing desk’s chair— a grinding screech of wood against wood— before sitting down, hands anchored on his knees. “And you don’t need to know my name. No, all you need to know is that my Lord would very much like a word with you. Now.”

“Your Lord, eh?” There was a delayed glint of recognition in Gregorovitch’s eyes. His tongue darted skittishly over pale, chapped lips. “What for? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

Three extra shadows suddenly stretched into the room, long and distorted and warped across the plank flooring. Barty didn’t even bother to look behind him— there was no need. No, the energy in the air, the fear that flashed across the older man’s heavily-lined face, was enough to tell him that Fenrir and his pack had finally caught up. And, oh, how that sharp click of the door closing was absolutely deafening

“Right. Well, if you don’t count illegally selling your wands, then yes. I suppose you haven’t done anything wrong,” Barty said, voice entirely too cheery, too light-hearted, for the nature of their conversation. White teeth flashed in the candlelight as he smiled, his gaze shifting pointedly over to the trunk. “I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding.”

 “I—”

“Then again, how could it be?” That smile stretched, grew. “See, Mykew, when my Lord paid you to go into retirement, it was with the understanding you would cease any and all business— wand-making included. A generous offer, no? So you can imagine his surprise, not to mention upset, when he discovered you went back on that deal.” 

Barty rose from the chair and reached into his suit jacket’s pocket. A wand, its handle ribbed, was retrieved, the elm resting lovingly in his palm. Dark eyes met pale ones— the smile slipped from his face. “And started selling again, nonetheless, to those who oppose him.”

If the atmosphere had been strained before, it was utterly smothering now. Seconds ticked on dutifully as the bedroom’s occupants were held in suspension; gazes flickered, stances shifted, but none saw fit to speak. The tension was weighty as it settled across their skins— shrouds of time’s own making— as, slipping into the spaces wormed out by the quiet, were the noises from the pub. They floated in through the crack under the door; muffled, indistinct voices bolstered by free-flowing alcohol and like-minded company. And there was the briefest thought that, perhaps, they should have set up silencing wards. Who knew if the wandmaker was going to make a commotion?

But, then again, who would come to his aid if he did happen to yell? 

Among the drunkards and the numbed barkeeps that turned a blind eye to the unsavouriness that frequented the establishment, who would be willing to help a stranger out? 

No one.

Gregorovitch seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. That murky gaze shifted to the werewolves safeguarding the door, a muscle feathering in his cheek. But there— a bead of sweat gathered on his brow. It rolled down the side of his face; the ultimate betrayal of his nerves.

Barty latched onto the sweat drop, tracking its winding path— and, oh, how it inspired a twisted sort of thrill, his own nerves strung in turn, albeit for different reasons. And though he, originally, had hoped to get this over with quickly— to return home and resume the busy routines that dictated everyday life— now he was wishing for the opposite: he prayed the wandmaker would run. 

Struggle.

Fight.

Do something that would warrant violence

“You have to understand, Mykew, my Lord is many things. But forgiving?” A dark chuckle spilled out into the silence, his grip tightening on the elm wand. “Oh, most definitely not.”

The stillness shattered.

It happened so quickly— a blur of movement near impossible to track. 

Gregorovitch managed to summon a wand, his voice rasping out ‘Lumos Solem’ in time with Barty's own Incarcerous— a crack in the air, energy and atoms splitting and colliding and ricocheting as one spell overwhelmed the other. 

White-hot light flooded the dim bedroom, encompassing them all in its haze. Blinded, Barty could only hiss at the onslaught, his hands flying up to shield his eyes a second too late. And as the flash eventually died down, it was with a certainty, bone-deep and honed by excitement, that he just knew his spell hadn’t landed. 

Gregorovitch was gone. 

Instead, the space where the man once stood was empty and the once-cracked window now fully opened. Rain seeped past the dirty panes and onto the windowsill, the sounds of life on the streets muffled by its drumming. It would appear he would have his wish after all.

Fingers rubbed callously into his eyes to clear the neon sunbursts. “I do love it when they run, don’t you, Greyback?”

All the response he received was a grunt. 

Barty twisted to look past his shoulder, frowning when none of the grumbling werewolves had moved from the wall. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Fenrir snapped.

“Go after him! Damn it, put your muscles to use for once!” he ordered, exasperation clear in his voice. They couldn’t return without Mykew in hand— that much the Dark Lord had been explicit about— and they were losing the trail with each second. 

Without waiting for Greyback or his men, he apparated out onto the abandoned side-street, wand out and the pelting rain slicking off his robes. 

He would have the wandmaker in custody before the night was over, fates be damned. 



A kingdom of ice; a canvas painted solely in whites and greys.

A stretch of desolation; the sky and earth blended, indistinguishable.

A despondency carried on by the gusts of arctic air; choking, breath-stealing.  

This far out, thousands of miles across the ocean and deep within the heart of the Alps, civilization fell to an alien world— inhospitable. It was here that a glacial coldness reigned, steadfast and true; the very sort that taunted mankind’s attempts to subvert it, endure. And yet, against all odds, it did. By some miracle, it remained tall and unyielding; a proud rebellion against nature.  

Hidden away and jaggedly splitting the monotonous terrain, a tower reached the sky— a monolithic ruin of a once-mighty power dismantled. A miasma clung to its stark silhouette, warding off any that may dare to approach. Not that such a thing was needed, per se. No, even the dementors, bound forever to be the dutiful jailors, could sense the impurity laid deep into the stone— the darkest of magics that had constructed it, mortar to brick. They hovered low, circling and swooping but never daring to get too close for the fear of its pollution— or for the greater fear of accidentally catching his eye. 

At one point, the blackened walls played host to many. Prisoners of war. Enemies. Traitors. But now, those were merely ghosts resigned to the past. Time marched on without a care, the knowledge and awareness of that dark era slipping a bit more— healing— with each dying breath of an aged generation. Most would eventually move on, forget— most, save for him. He was the only prisoner who now remained here; a poetic justice seeing as he was the very same that had designed it to begin with. 

The very same that had been betrayed by a former comrade— a former lover. 

The very same that had been once rumoured to be a god, only to be reduced to an Icarus— a reckless youth who had nearly conquered the sun; the briefest taste of greatness before the ineluctable plummet.

Forsaken. 

Exiled. 

Condemned

Nurmengard is what he had christened the stronghold: to keep, to guard, to hold. Certainly, the irony was not lost upon those who knew his tale; the final wrench of a knife lodged into a festering wound. He’d been left here— a mercy , they said it was— to have his remaining years marked by weather-beaten stone, the sting of frost, and the hollow ache in his stomach. 

Utterly alone.

And yet, in the foreground, a whisper of wings stood out.

Against the pitched howling of the wind, there was the hushed, frantic beating of a moth— a suicide mission. Straying so far from the sun’s reach meant certain death for any living thing— nature a vicious force when denied her pound of flesh— but the creature pressed on, battling the elements to slip through a hole punctured into the pulsating wards. It would know no rest until the message carried upon its back was delivered— news and whispers and snippets from the outside world, its intended recipient found pacing in the topmost cell. 

Always pacing. 

Restlessly, agitatedly; a beast confined to a too-small cage.

Every few minutes, mismatched eyes would dart to the window carved into the spire. It was barely large enough to fit his hand, the glass missing that would have prevented the bluster of snow from seeping in. And though such a thing was meant to be an added dimension to his torment— a taunting in the lack of bars— it now represented something else entirely: hope. Ever since the latest message had arrived weeks ago, he’d taken to watching that little window with obsessive intrigue. 

This was how his day-to-day was spent: waiting, wondering. Tracing the length of his prison, worrying and pondering and counting down until another moth would appear. And so it had— the cycle reset. 

With the heating charm failing on its frail body, the moth slipped into the room and into a greedy, outstretched palm. Driven by the tides of fate, the gears turned— a rippling effect felt across time and space with every lethargic flutter of snow-bitten wings.

Images flooded his mind’s eye, a torrent pouring in:

A moth, transfigured as a flighty sparrow, rested on the same balustrade a girl leaned against. Fair-skinned, hair set aflame by the setting sun, a shadow hovered at her back— light contrasted with darkness. Draped across her, his hands caging, holding, his mouth pressed against the curve of a neck suited for a cameo— calculated affections bestowed one after the other. In the backdrop, poured tea went neglected, the afternoon spread altogether forgotten as the man sought to sate a different hunger in a different way. Crimson eyes lifted, pupils an eclipse— a glint of triumph when the girl's sour expression eased.

The same girl, spun from starlight and the nebulous fires at their core, held in the arms of a monster veiled as a man. Reaching hands, possessive and greedy, drew her closer when the cosmos started to dance above their heads; dazzling, kaleidoscopic colours that refracted off a diamond dress, soaking into shimmering skin and beheld in widened eyes. They stood among swirling clouds as the heavens rejoiced, teasing wisps at their ankles; a romantic scene of two young gods joining together. His head dipped and she swayed; an innocence offset by the hitch in her chest and the exhale that left painted, parted lips. An unknown entreaty whispered into her ear, a dazed nod her agreement— a flash of blue-tinged light and they were gone. 

A final scene, briefer than the rest— one made in passing; an intrusion to the domesticity accidentally captured. Both of them were seated at a table, a silken sheet wrapped tightly about her slight frame— the evidence of what had transpired so apparent, so clear. Irrefutable. That starstruck look in those too-green eyes, the bruises adorning a once-unblemished neck; the heated way he kept looking towards them, snagging on each one— a spark that he tried to hide behind a newspaper and the crossing, uncrossing of his legs. Expectations went unspoken, something raw thrumming in the longing glances traded when the other wasn’t looking— a shift set into motion.

Everything went dark.

The moth shuddered in the cradle between his life and heart line. There was a twitch of its antenna, a final flap of its wings, before the cold finally seized it: another specimen added to Mother Nature’s macabre collection. He watched on with a detached sense of wonder as the creature’s small body gradually stiffened. And despite how small and insignificant the poor thing was— a blip, truly, in the grand scheme of it all— it had managed to relay something of such profound importance: a revelation. A blindsiding one; a jolting shock that, perhaps, they had been approaching this all wrong.

After all, he knew that look on Voldemort’s face— oh, he knew. He knew what it meant to be completely besotted. 

What love looked like. 

And, out of everyone, he understood too well the dangers and weaknesses such feelings exposed; a chip in the armour to exploit. Oh yes, he knew— look where daring to give into such feeling had gotten him, after all. And hadn’t he warned him of it, too? All those years ago when the mighty Lord Voldemort paid him a visit— and then another and another— hadn’t he cautioned that it was in their natures to be drawn to the forbidden? To things they could never comprehend? That it was a cruel, bitter cycle of Dark seeking out Light— eternally yearning for balance? That, if he didn’t tread carefully— so very carefully— it would be his downfall, just as it had been his own? 

But, oh, how that man with those hellfire eyes and sharpened fangs sneered, scoffed— laughed even— that he was above such trivialities. That he would never succumb the way he had, would never fall. Unravel.

The corners of chapped lips lifted; a cutting smile whetted by the ghosts of the past and the bitterness that accompanied them. ‘Such a fool.’ 

Crossing over to the window, footfalls echoing against the flagstone, he eased his hand out past the ledge. A tilt of his palm and the moth was freed. 

Plunging down to the snowy ground, to the sheets of ice and the sea of white, he tracked its fall for as long as he could. But yet, all too soon, it disappeared. Blurring away into obsolescence, it was as though the poor creature had never existed to begin with.

He lingered there for a second, mismatched eyes— one a striking blue and the other as deep as a starless night— squinting out into the endless horizon. There hadn’t been an accompanying moth this time, no way to send his reply. But, then again, he figured it wasn’t needed. No, Mykew would know exactly what to do with this information. 

Thoughts turned over, his mind mulling as those captured memories went on in an infernal loop. The girl was someone he could vaguely place: Harri Potter. She was past his time, of course, but he’d heard enough— gathered little bits and pieces from Voldemort’s visits, from those moths and the reports slipped to him— to understand who she was. Albus’s little protégé. His champion — an irony that knew no bounds that his ex-lover’s little bird had escaped her cage and flown right into the arms of her supposed enemy. Oh yes, this was a tale he was particularly well-acquainted with— knew the outcome of like the back of his hand. Truly, wasn’t fate just a twisted, sadistic bitch?

‘Going about this all wrong, indeed.’ With a scoff, Grindelwald retreated back into the heart of his cell, hands lacing behind his back as he resumed his pacing.

The Moirai wound their threads tighter. 



He awoke to a stir in the air.

It was only a subtle shift; an understanding sparking in the back of his consciousness that something was wrong. Amiss. An uncanny change in how the late-night breeze presented itself and how the whispers of the curtains, the grass and the trees, seemed to discuss something he wasn’t privy to knowing. And yet, as red eyes slid open to peer into the sheer canopy above, there wasn’t anything noticeably wrong. 

Voldemort turned his head towards the shadows clinging to the bedroom’s corners, eyes narrowing as though the threat might lurk there. He watched them, uneasy and distrusting, willing whatever it was to step out into the light. A beat, then two, then three— seconds stretched on, punctuated by the dull beating of his heart. 

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump.

He eventually huffed, jaw clicking when nothing lept out and he was forced to come to terms with the fact that the bedroom was as undisturbed as usual. So why was that nagging feeling of wrongness refusing to abate? It wasn’t as though this was the first time either— the first time he thought he could feel the faint signature of someone’s magic where it didn’t belong. 

Then again, perhaps this was just a symptom of an overburdened mind? 

Even he couldn’t deny the stress he had been under as of late was copious— taxing. Between running the country, contending with the reporters, and trying to hunt down the Order while simultaneously juggling damage control from their little newspaper, he now also had an added complication: Harri

Well, in truth, she wasn’t so much a complication as a distraction— one that he, admittedly, had been overindulging in. 

A sigh, quiet and shallow, slipped out of him. His hand scrubbed down his face, rubbing tiredly at his jaw and the slightest hint of stubble growing there. 

This was uncharted territory— for both of them, really— this new relationship of theirs strangely tenuous and yet, somehow, equally unassailable. Compared to his previous liaisons, those casual dalliances where the only currency that mattered was that of flesh and carnal satisfaction, this was different. Unlike those other women, he was finding himself more and more invested. Invested in watching as she went about her daily routines; in contemplating the figure she cut on her broom as she flew about the manor’s grounds; in noting how lovingly she interacted with that noisy, bloody owl. In figuring out the little things that shouldn't matter but did. How she slept best, how warm she liked her baths. What would make her laugh to the point her eyes crinkled, or what look could make her pulse flutter, her cheeks darken.

And while he might have attributed this interest to her being his horcrux— that such curiosity was only natural, expected even, when it came to his split soul— he wasn’t even entirely sure if he could anymore. Not when he kept looking for differences between them rather than only similarities. And that was the most concerning thing: she was, quickly and alarmingly, becoming something else. An anomaly; an entity part of him, yet also bewilderingly separate. After all, she existed in a time apart from him— lived a life he had no recollection of, possessed memories and relationships that weren't his own: she'd been breathing, growing, experiencing all while he had been a mere wraith, unable to even comprehend touch or sensation. His horcrux had been— is— a person.

A person with a personality— opinions— that he sometimes recognised as his own, and sometimes saw as incongruent in equal turn. And admittedly, it was a struggle for him to reconcile that— a temperamental pendulum in him that swung violently between 'differences were to embraced' and 'differences were to be erased.' 

She was, by all accounts and by all means of the word, confounding

His hand dropped away as he lifted his head from the pillow to look down at the girl in question.

Harri was draped across his naked chest; a picture of innocence curled oh-so-sweetly into him. One of her hands was splayed on his stomach, fingers twitching sporadically in her sleep, the other hidden somewhere in the sheets below. The braid she’d gone to bed with had come undone at some point— a halo of red that fanned across his sternum, streaks and veins mapping out the arteries beneath his skin. It tickled slightly, the rose scent of her shampoo mild but noticeable. A curious sniff; the floral perfume filled his lungs. Merlin, he loved it whenever she used it. He could always smell it too, even hours after waking— a phantom of her that persisted throughout the day, sometimes blindsiding him as he went about his paperwork or smiled for the cameras. 

Her breathing changed for a second, a deeper inhale, and his attention snagged on the movement. The delicate curve of her shoulder lifted as she did so, stark in the silvery shadows, and the scales there— opalescent and barely noticeable unless the light hit them a certain way, as it did now— glimmered to catch his eye. He considered their sheen obsessively, stifling the urge to press his mouth against them and worship them as he often did— to speak of their beauty where she saw none. She feared their presence made her a monster— less instead of more— but to him? To him, they made her holy

Red eyes flickered away from the scales when her chest expanded against him— pressed firmly, softly, into his own— before deflating on a gentle exhale. So much bare skin laid before him, all silken and waiting for his touch. His mark. Underneath the silken top-sheet, the outlined dip of her waist, the rounded silhouette of her hips presented a temptation— the feel of their legs entangled together a downright sinful reminder of what had transpired that evening. Would she be upset if he woke her again?

It was certainly an enticing idea, his mind drifting farther from sleep and quickly latching onto one thing in particular. And yes, he was painfully aware this couldn’t be healthy— that this particular attachment style was wildly irresponsible towards her— but how could one be rational, logical, when she presented such an image? When the moonlight seemingly bent around her, the stars draping her in a consecrated glow— perfection

Heart-wrenching, arresting, dangerous perfection. 

He reached down, an idle hand with a mind of its own, to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. She shifted closer in her sleep, leaning subconsciously into the touch— a magnet pulled inevitably to its true pair. There was the softest sound that fell from her lips, tumbling out in a wordless invitation.

Beguiling

The hand at her ear boldly strayed to cup her jaw as an equally bold thumb swept across her bottom lip, petal-soft and pliable and so yielding . The lightest pressure was all it took for her to seemingly bloom, blossom, for him — his very own little flower. Their legs twined further, her chest pressing in deeper, melding and merging; a heartbeat second to his, lethargic in the throes of sleep but increasingly steady in the upticks. She was slipping from her dreams— and he had the devious thought to wake her with a kiss. The rush of memories certainly didn’t help to dissuade him from the notion. How, just a few hours ago, that rosebud mouth had formed around choked, quiet gasps— how freely those lips had roamed over his skin, thrilling and demanding. 

How readily she begged in a language only the two of them knew. 

He groaned, throat constricting at the ghostly touches his mind was keen on remembering. And, Merlin, he could feel it— that growing warmth. That slowly tightening coil low in his stomach, the flint of desire sparking on steel wool. Would that feeling ever go away? Ever be sated? It was nearly embarrassing at this point— especially considering all she did was sigh, exist, and that was enough.

Truly, this girl was going to be his ruin.

He debated for a moment, mesmerised by the wet sheen of her mouth and the heat as his thumb dragged from her cupid’s bow to her chin. It was all too easy to give in. Frighteningly so. Lightly grasping her chin, he tilted that heart-shaped face up, greedily studying her relaxed, serene expression. With an elbow bent to prop himself, he leant forward, a mischievous curl on his mouth— he froze.   

That feeling of wrongness came flooding back in. 

Except this time, it wasn’t a buzz, a slight tug— it was a corrosive force. One that ate away at his slowly building desire; an unexpected douse of iced water. Red eyes cut through the murky shadows to the open balcony doors, that playful smile slipping. ‘There,’ his instincts whispered, canines itching in a threat to elongate. It couldn’t be his imagination, he was certain of it— not with the way tension licked up his spine or electricity crackled between his ribs.

Magic, faint and unfamiliar, was an unwelcome tang in his mouth; a vile sourness that rushed in as he scented the air. It was all he could taste, smell, the pleasant perfume from Harri overwhelmed by its unwanted presence. His lips peeled back into a sneer.

Someone was intruding.

Gently, carefully— a sharp contrast to the acrimonious violence pulling his skin too taut— he removed his horcrux from his chest and untangled their legs. The quiet murmur of discontent was the only sign she even processed him getting up. ‘Good.’ He prayed she’d stay asleep a little longer; it would be easier that way, the bleeding heart she was. After all, he really couldn’t be held accountable for his actions, depending on who was encroaching on his— their— room.

Throwing back the covers, he rose from the bed without a second thought given to his nudity. Chin lifted, eyes narrowed, long strides carried him out into the night.

The gossamer curtains stilled on a deadened breeze; a breath held as though nature was too aware of the calamity about to be unleashed. By now, the earlier rain had ceased, leaving the sky to be pockmarked with a few lingering, stubborn clouds. The waxing moon peeked out between them, long shafts of light casting a severe juxtaposition. An aureole illuminated the cloud’s tops, whitening them and ensuring the storm had run its due course, while casting shadows everywhere else— an ominous portrait in the heavens. A few sporadic puddles glinted like mirrors on the balcony— pools of quicksilver scattered about the limestone tile— the air crisp, fresh. And as the Earth slept, so did the usual creatures that haunted these hours. A thick silence blanketed the manicured acres of Malfoy Manor, not a sound or peep to be heard. Disturbingly quiet. 

Bare feet hardly registered the chill as he marched onto the veranda, red eyes a cutting sweep. And yet, despite his surety that someone was here, that his instincts weren’t wrong— they rarely were— there was nothing

No assassin. 

No wand pointed at him.

No immediate threat to his safety or, more importantly, Harri’s.

Rather, the night only held emptiness. Save for the moth that had taken off from its perch on the balustrade, there was nothing.

It took a few seconds for the tension to loosen— for the tightness in his jaw to ease and for the adrenaline to settle. He breathed tersely through his nose, eyes glued sightlessly onto that moth growing more and more distant. 

Despite his brain trying to rationalise it, trying to make himself see reason that everything was fine, it was harder to get his instincts on board with the idea. It was an internal battle of logic versus intuition— one of which was winning by a landslide. He scented the air again, attempting to find stronger traces of that earlier magic—and failing. All that he was picking up on were traces of rain— of the petrichor that curbed the usual scents of summer.

There wasn’t anything pointing to the fact someone had been here, except for his own insistence otherwise. 

He scoffed.

A minute was spent in forced meditation, observing the passing clouds until he could breathe evenly again. Everything was seemingly right— yet also seemingly wrong. 

So wrong. 

A hand curled around the rough grit of the veranda’s railing, the other coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Was he really this paranoid? Or just stressed? In truth, he liked to consider himself of logical mind and wit, never the type to lend much weight to his imagination— so why now? Though, he considered it could have something to do with the upcoming academy’s inauguration— and the fact that Harri was involved. 

The girl had a tendency, after all, to do the most unexpected of things. And he had seventeen years worth of evidence to corroborate that fact. Even though he gave her a speech to rehearse, it would remain to be seen if she could remember it. Or, Merlin forbid, if she decided to add her own flair by going off-script. It was a gamble, through and through— and things needed to go perfectly. There was no room, no question, no permittance for failure. He wouldn’t have even involved her to this degree, if not for the fact Lucius did have a point: who better to champion this, to truly sway the public's favour, than their Chosen One? Their Saviour? Plus, he figured she needed this. That, considering her childhood, the damned way her Hogwarts letter had been addressed, she needed a way for reconciliation— to make peace with her past, as he once had. 

He tensely rolled his shoulders. Yes, that had to be it: he was too on edge to sleep so his mind was looking to play off pent-up nerves. 

And yet, that still didn’t stop him from scanning the expansive, starlit lawn. From suspiciously peering into the trees in the distance, their trunks blurring and their presence foreboding guardsmen. From scouring the balcony or from pacing its length to ascertain no one was crouching in wait behind the pillars.  

It was only when he realised how utterly ridiculous he must look—naked and wandless and stalking about— that he forced himself to stop. 

With a derisive scoff, he halted mid-step and turned on his heel to march right into his study. It was apparent he wasn’t going to get any more rest tonight and, if he was so insistent on battling imaginary assailants, he might as well get a head-start on some much neglected paperwork.  

“Tom?” A voice, mellowed by sleep and ladened with confusion, floated out from the bedroom. 

His head snapped towards the glass doors. 

A stillness overcame him, the study completely cleared from his mind by one single word. She called his name as though it were a prayer, a supplication— the sweetest plea. And, oh, how he was weak in the face of it. 

Despite how far they’d come, despite the shaky foundation and semblance of trust they’d managed to sow, she still remained stubborn in using his name. 

His real name.

In fact, it only ever came out in the midst of passion— a barely-heard exhalation in the seconds she came undone— or in the late hours when her mind was hazed and her inhibitions were loosened. In either case, ‘Tom’ was never used casually in the daytime. Simply put, he had no place, no right to be there. In her mind, he supposed that name was a taboo that could never be spoken aloud where another might overhear— where it might take on a new meaning. New life. She had her reasons, he knew, even if he wasn’t privy to understanding them— ones that, he suspected, had less to do with the current version of himself but plenty to do with a certain destroyed diary. However, she made it clear he wasn’t at liberty to question her on the matter. Oh, Merlin, did she ever. Once, when he’d ventured to ask in the glow of the fire and with too much whiskey in their systems, all he received was a mullish attitude and a hissed warning she didn’t want to discuss it. Ever

But even then, even with the comfort that it wasn’t present-him who was at fault, it didn’t change the fact he liked hearing his name from her. That it affected him— that he craved it. Of course, he’d be damned if he ever admitted to it— if he ever let it slip how much it bothered him she still carried her reluctance forward. Or how much he truly despised it when others’ names came out with such warm affection. Severus. Narcissa. Draco

That one, especially chafed. 

It was a chafe, a sting, only honed by the fact Draco had once been ‘Malfoy’ to her; that, somehow, the boy managed to cross an invisible boundary that he, for the life of him, couldn’t quite circumvent. What had the little whelp done to deserve such forgiveness? It almost felt as though he were being punished— though for which crimes, he couldn’t say; Merlin knew they were plentiful—  while Draco bloody Malfoy had been pardoned. 

And that brought him back to the point of what the hell had Harri done to him? He had never cared for his name before— had been all too eager to shuck it off and fashion himself a new one— so why did it matter whether or not she used it?

He was going insane.

A scowl twisted his features— bitterness on his tongue.

“Tom?” She called out again and he could hear her slowly stirring. The rustle of sheets shifting. The whisper of auburn hair spilling across her shoulder. The enticing murmur of her heart picking up at his absence. "Where did you go?"

And just like that, the bitterness was swept away— honey

It was all he could taste at her reaction. The confusion, the alarm undercut by sleep— the need thrumming freely between them and brought on by separation. A fist he hadn't even realized he made uncurled, his expression smoothening. 

Well, if this was her form of punishment, then, perhaps, it wasn't so difficult to bear.

"It's alright, Harri," he said, glancing one last time over his shoulder at the manor’s grounds before ducking inside. "I'm here."

She was sitting up, creased pillows strewn about her naked form and looking every inch the work of art he thought her to be. And by the heavens, what a gorgeous picture she made— ethereal. Black silk pooled in her lap, hiding everything below her waist— she hadn’t even bothered pulling it up to hide her chest. Rather, and thankfully for his own sanity, her hair did that in its stead. Auburn strands hung heavily, almost tastefully so— a painting rendered to life— to cover her breasts, save for the glimpse of her nipples peeking through. Colours so so vivid, bright; a rosiness in her cheeks, a flush from sleep, a glassiness in those too-green eyes. Fanned lashes wetted by the tears of a yawn— and, as if on cue, another clawed up her throat. 

Her mouth rounded into an ‘o’ and he found himself latching onto it. Quite suddenly, he remembered what, exactly, he had been doing before the earlier interruption; a heavy swallow on his end. That warmth, the prelude to the spark— to that fire— settled back into place as though it had never even left to begin with. 

She rubbed at her eyes, back arching as she stretched. "What were you doing outside?"

He hummed, noting the way her chest was pushed forward as she did so, her hair slipping to reveal more of her skin. ‘My ruin, indeed.’ A half-smile was sent her way, attention finally drifting back up to her face. “Nothing. I simply couldn’t sleep. You, on the other hand, definitely should.”

The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled up to her, the sleepiness in those green eyes edged away by a sheen of interest. She watched him with a quiet sort of expectation, doing nothing— saying nothing— when he paused in front of her, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of her thighs. Even at half his height, he towered in comparison— a fact that never failed to inspire a thrill for him.  

Silently, he reached out to cradle her jaw. Thumbs traced lovingly over the planes of her cheekbones, the corners of his mouth tilting up when he shifted forward to slant their lips together.

He kissed her slowly, lazily, the only true way befitting kisses reserved for the cusp between the early morning and late night hours. It was an unhurried thing, as soft and as warm as the glow sunspotting their bond— a kiss that held no promises, no angling for more, but one simply done because it could be. Because he’d been thinking about it ever since waking up.

Because he had been thinking about having her mouth on his again, about the feel, the taste of her— his very own ambrosia. 

She leaned up into him, her hand straying as fine fingers curled about his wrist to bracket him in place. Not that he had any intention of leaving quite yet. Nonetheless, it was her boldness, her eagerness to reciprocate, that had his smile unfurling even more. In all of his experience, in all of his time spent with other women, he had found there was no truer fact in this world: kissing Harri Potter was unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Even these sorts of moments, gentle and quiet as they were, held a rush— a buoyancy that he gladly let untether and sweep him along. It was, for a lack of a better word, perfect

Easy.

Uncomplicated. 

Their rhythm was one that always fell naturally into place— an unconscious thing where he deepened the kiss and she followed suit. A pleased hum vibrated in his chest as he drew the breath from her lungs into his own; a sacrifice made in complete, utter devotion. Truly, who needed a name when he could have this

The moon suddenly ducked behind a cloud, cloaking the bedroom in darkness; a veil of privacy given to the rendezvousing lovers kept under her watch. His teeth dragged against her bottom lip; a warning when her free hand had ventured too low and the heat in his veins flared in the wake of her touch, the light drag of her nails. And it was only when that spark became dangerous, when that slip of fire threatened to outmatch and outburn the glow, did he pull away.

She sighed that pretty sigh of hers, the flush in her cheeks granted a new dimension by what they’d done. And though it was clear sleep still had its claws in her— that it was trying to lure her back— he knew, from one look, she’d ignore it all in favour of him. Him. She would be willing to defy nature, her own needs, if only it meant prolonging their moment.

It was almost enough to make him reconsider everything.

“It's still early." He darted forward to place a fleeting peck to her mouth. "Go back to sleep."

Those fingers curled about his wrist tightened. "Will you stay?"

Red eyes flickered across her shadowed features. Even in the dimness, he could see the panic that she often tried to keep hidden— a desperation made apparent by the very idea of their separation. It was a vulnerability he only ever truly knew in moments like this, the nighttime holding something in it that always made her more honest; something that always cracked her open and left her raw. Unguarded. A certain kind of near kinship that he all too-readily understood— and how difficult was it to deny her when she became like this. 

"Of course," he muttered, placing another swift kiss to her mouth and trying to ignore how smug he felt at her visible relief.

Harri expectantly lifted the corner of the blanket; it had barely taken any effort to rearrange their positions. His forearm banded across her midsection, her head carving out a space against his chest— she always did this. Every single night, a routine of hers: the wriggling and fidgeting as she sought out the spot where his heart was the loudest— and when she found it, she would press her ear against the curve of bone, the plane of his sternum, to listen for that lethargic beat as though it was her own lullaby. 

He huffed at the entire ritual of it.

More specifically, he huffed at the prospect they even had a ritual— that it, strangely enough, stirred something in him that he couldn't quite place. 

Fingers traced over her bare back, bumping along each knob in her spine. And just as she listened for his heartbeat, he listened for her breathing. Waited and waited until it would even out and her body would go lax— always waiting . He promised that, once it did, he would leave to go do the work he needed to do— to address all of the responsibilities that came with the crown he fought tooth and nail for. The second she fell asleep, he would. 

He would

Yet, the truth remained that he never left. 

No matter how many times he told himself he would, had promised that he wouldn’t waste several hours watching her, it never came to fruition. Apparently, he never openly lied to her— but to himself? Oh, he did that plenty. Then again, who could blame him when there was a quality to her that silenced his mind? Hell, he’d even mostly forgotten the nagging feelings that roused him in the first place. All of it became too difficult to ponder, to consider, when the girl held in his arms soaked up every last ounce of his attention. 

Once again, his point was proven tenfold: Harri Potter was a distraction. 

A terrible, inconvenient, beautiful distraction that warmed him for reasons entirely inexplicable. 

And though he had no idea what these feelings might be, what this all would mean in the grander scope of things— what would await them and what paths may diverge without the expectation for them to— he knew one thing was absolute: he would never willingly give this up. 

Notes:

As always, feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr!

Tumblr: elysian-drops

Chapter 66: A Hypocrite's Duel

Notes:

*rises from the grave* I live!!

Hi everyone! It’s been a really long time, hasn’t it? 😅 As some of you know, I’ve recently had to take a step back from writing to deal with some ongoing health + mental issues, and, unfortunately, that meant Appetence was put on hiatus. During the months I was gone though, I never really stopped thinking about this story, and always had the urge to come back to it. As such, it was really heart-warming to see how many of you were letting me know that you felt similarly, and that you kept doing re-reads— truly, you guys are the sweetest (and, frankly, a huge part of why I came back 🥺💕). So thank you from the bottom of my heart 💕😭

Originally, I wanted to post this in time for my birthday, but a day late is better than never, right? 😅 Also, sort of as an explanation/late-night ramble here, I’ve actually been sitting on this chapter for a while now (like a solid couple of months 😅) because I kept going back and forth on whether or not to post it. As those who follow my Tumblr know, I originally had a different version of Chapter 66 posted. But ultimately I felt that, in the long run, there needed to be more development for Voldemort and Harri to make a bigger impact for what I have planned down the road. So I sort of had to backtrack and think hard about what has been missing from/required development in both of their personalities that would make that specific impact— hence this chapter was born. Of course, I imagine there’ll be a fair bit of discourse in the comments— but I’m really hoping that, after the next chapter is posted— (which, I will say, might be my favorite one yet and this is not me trying to bias you guys at all 😂)— and things are explained/ the development becomes apparent (especially in terms of Voldemort) that it’ll make up for this one. Because yes, this did even pain me a bit to write.

Also, just a really gentle reminder to mind the tags— and to keep in mind that this is not really meant to be a wholesome story 😅 It’s messy, it’s toxic, it’s not a green flag by any means— but hey, we love it.

Anyways, enough with my rambling. Once again, thank you to everyone who is either new to this story and has decided to pick it up or to all of those lovely people who are coming back after what seems like forever 💕 You guys are amazing!

Enjoy everyone! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



“On your left.” That was the only warning Harri was given (not that it did her a tremendous amount of good). With Voldemort’s magic stirring the deadened air, coaxing forth a gale, she hardly could blink— let alone act— before those conjured winds came barrelling into her. 

Mayhem

Sucked into the whirlwind, all around her was mayhem. Pawing at her limbs, her clothes— thrashing through her hair and slipping the loosened strands across her eyes, tinting the world red— unseen hands had commandeered her body. Without care or concern, they tossed her about; a ragdoll to be positioned to their liking. And yet, in spite of that, she didn’t resist. Didn’t once try to break free. Even with the dizzying violence engulfing her— raging in her ears, drowning out all other sound— Harri hadn't made any serious moves to escape. 

Then again, why would she when she was, strangely enough, enjoying this? 

Perhaps a bit foolhardy, a bit irrational, but some part of her simply relished in the power saturating the air— drew upon it to fuel her gleeful shrieks and the delightful flips in her stomach. And when she was lifted upwards, her toes skimming the dirt-packed floor— a thrill skittering along her spine— she only laughed louder. 

She couldn’t help it. 

Similar to those daring times when her broom looped over and over in the endless sky, his magic, too, had this uncanny ability to electrify her every nerve and fibre, leaving her helpless but to chase the feeling. While some may think it was Voldemort’s capacity for destruction that was his most devastating talent, Harri knew otherwise: it was this. The way he managed to create an addict out of her, somehow narrowing down the world until it felt as though it consisted solely of him and her, her and him. 

Just like it was right now.

Across the arena, the Dark Lord was nothing more than a fixed blur coming ever so often into view— peeking through the red and disappearing again just as quickly— but the awareness of him was enough. More than enough, really, to tunnel her vision and make her heart beat a touch faster. Devastating

Her heels bumped against the ground when she was brought back down; a temporary respite before being swept along again. But even then, Harri was fighting to crane her neck, seeking him out. Was he feeling this too, she wondered. This happiness? Her joy? Through their bond, was he perhaps experiencing her untethered emotions as if they were his own? She hoped so: he needed it more than her, after all. Especially today.

“Harri,” Voldemort projected his voice over the winds, her name coming as a reprimand. “Focus.” 

Well, so much for that. But he was right— this was a test she was supposed to be passing. She needed to focus.

Refusing to be deterred by his sharpness, Harri planted her feet, standing firm. Making a poor show of sobering up, her mouth clamped shut— each wild shriek tapering off into a trapped giggle instead—  as she flicked her right hand outwards. Intention taking precedence, her counter was nonverbal; a simple redirection. 

The pressure in her eardrums lessened when the gale obeyed— a soft whoosh as it collided with the furthest wall, air no match for stone. 

“Good. Very good,” Voldemort praised from across the arena. His voice, however, lacked its usual warmth. “Though I do suspect you’re not taking this as seriously as you should be.” 

Harri giddily spun around, tossing him a dazed grin. She pushed her wind-swept hair out of her face. “Me? Not being serious?” she asked, slightly breathless with the remnants of laughter. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Well, for starters.” Red eyes flickered to her right thigh. “You haven’t touched your wand.”

She looked down to where the holster was strapped to her leg— a nonchalant shrug when she slid the wand out and palmed it. “Yeah, but have you considered that maybe I don’t need it? Maybe I’m just that skilled?” Her grin grew. “I mean, I am the Chosen One.”

Contrary to herself, the Dark Lord appeared entirely unamused. Mouth pressed into a flat line, one brow arched, impatience was practically written across his face.  “If you’re going to continue to be flippant—”

“Fine! Merlin, I was just joking.” Unable to fully smother her smile, she crossed the arena to where he stood. Flipping the holly wand around so the handle faced him, she gave it a little expectant wave. “If you want to be serious, then at least let me put my hair up.” 

“Ah. Yes. Because in real duels, your opponent will always wait for you to deal with your hair first,” Voldemort said blandly. Nevertheless, he took her wand all the same.

“Well they should. It’s common courtesy.”

Ignoring his scoff, Harri reached up to sweep her tousled hair back. Nose scrunched in concentration, it took some effort to gather it all in one hand. Ever since coming to the manor, its length had grown a fair bit— certainly far longer now than she ever dared in the past. Of course, the decision to keep it shorter had mostly been due to Petunia’s insistence anything below chest-level was untidy (and the threat her aunt would take the kitchen scissors to it if she didn’t deal with it on her own)— but still. It was an odd thing, being able to have it however long she wished. Odd, but nice. 

Lifting her wrist to her mouth, she was about to use her teeth to loosen the ribbon tied there when he stopped her. His fingers bracketing her forearm, he pulled her wrist towards his chest.

“Honestly. I will never understand your feral need to use your teeth for everything when you have magic. Or, at the very least, when you could ask for assistance,” Voldemort chastised. Both of their wands bobbed in the air next to them as he worked to undo the knot. “Here.” 

She was half-tempted to point out that he didn’t seem to always mind her ‘feral need’— that the faint impression on his shoulder told a different story, in fact— but kept quiet instead. Not entirely out of a conscious choice to, admittedly, but more so because her attention snagged elsewhere.

“Oh. Uhm, yeah. Thanks,” Harri mumbled, looking intently at where his fingers rested on her skin. Such an innocent gesture, but it unfailingly made her heart skip—difficult to ignore. Almost as difficult as the ensuing disappointment she felt when he eventually released her arm, snatching their suspended wands and corralling them both to one hand. 

Hastily glancing down to her dragonhide boots, she focused on fastening the ribbon in two tight loops. Though inevitably, like always, she was drawn back to him in the end. 

Harri discretely studied the Dark Lord through her lashes. While he, thankfully, seemed less agitated now compared to earlier— arriving directly from the Citadel at that, impinging on her afternoon studies and stealing her away, much to Narcissa’s disapproval— she could tell there was something eating at him. Gnawing at him. What had caused it, she didn’t ask— felt that she could not, what with his continuing, unapproachable silence— nor did he offer up an explanation either. But it had to be substantial, considering his mood. Hell, he hadn’t even smiled at her once so far (a squirm in her chest, restless at the thought). Not to mention he’d left his office midday— an occurrence so rare, she could count on a single hand all of the times he’d done so before. 

But yet, the strangest part was that, outwardly, he appeared normal. Business as usual, down to the black suit and matching tie. With the outer-jacket discarded, the sleeves of his collared shirt rolled to his elbows— the Gaunt ring gleaming on his right fourth finger— Voldemort looked so put together.

So unaffected.

The stillness of a lake that, somehow, managed to deceive with its surface-level calmness, despite the undertows that coursed, hidden below. But she supposed that’s what set her apart from everyone else: she knew. Oh yes, though he may try to maintain that illusion, she was all too intimate— too comfortable— with those mercurial currents to be fooled. It was difficult to be, after all, when she constantly felt them— felt them lapping at the edges of her own consciousness, insistent in their desire to drag her under. 

To pull her into the unpredictable tides of his mind, and ensnare her in its violent ebb and flow until she couldn’t break free.

Until she drowned in him. 

Mercifully, these months, if anything, had taught her to be a strong swimmer. 

Yes, something was undeniably amiss with Voldemort today, even if she didn’t quite know the exact details. But it’d been that knowledge, that understanding, that made her agree to his suggestion they do something together. Blow off some steam. He sorely needed a distraction, and she was more than happy to provide one. 

Of course, there was no feasible way of guessing he’d ask to duel. Maybe if there was, perhaps she would’ve reconsidered— or, at the very least, tried to present an alternative that didn’t have the potential to end up in a bloody disaster. But no. No, she’d agreed too quickly—  and the next thing she knew, she was in the Malfoys’ private arena again, caught somewhere between her nerves and excitement.

Satisfied her ponytail was securely fastened— a tug to make certain— Harri glanced over to their wands in his hand. Voldemort had decided to use his old one today— apparently even with the fracture cleaving its middle, it remained more or less functional. His yew, bone-white and viciously curved at the handle; her holly, the stark opposite with its dark wood and straight lines. Who would have ever guessed that, at their core, they were twins? But all the same, it was the sight of them together that jarred her— made jitters erupt in her stomach. 

In truth, it wasn’t necessarily the idea of duelling him that was the source of her apprehension (well, perhaps a little— though given their history, she figured some caution was absolutely healthy). And maybe in the past, she would’ve been terrified at the prospect— would have never dreamed of doing so willingly— but she found it was hard to muster the same old fear of him she once possessed. Time, after all, had a funny way of tempering and taming terror— of dulling its bite until it was rendered docile, meek. 

No, what made her nervous now was this

Her wand.

When Voldemort offered it up, Harri forced herself to take it— and there it was again. That strange sensation. Her mouth twitched. While she hadn’t told him yet— couldn’t really find the right words to explain it— there was a persisting sense of ‘offness’ that came with using it. Which was strange because the wand was most certainly hers, down to the notches and nicks adorning the handle. But nonetheless, it was akin to how a foreign name sits stiffly on an unpractised tongue: unfamiliar, unwieldy. And even as her fingers slipped into the grooves worn throughout the years, that sensation refused to abate— burrowed deep like a thorn into her side. She wondered what the reason could be. Was it that they’d been separated for too long? Or had they become incompatible? Then again, could that even happen with their true match? 

The sudden ghosting of fingers up her spine startled her out of her thoughts. Tracing purposefully, slowly, over each knobbed ridge, Harri was keenly aware of their weight when they came to rest at her nape. Not holding, per se, not caging— just resting.

“Are you alright?” Voldemort asked, his dark frame towering in her periphery. “You look troubled.”

Tilting her head back, she frowned at the question. His expression. That earlier sharpness of his had been somewhat softened now by a mixture of curiosity and concern. Etched into the space between his brows, Harri had the urge to reach up and smooth away the faint line that’d settled there— to turn his own question against him. 

Instead though, she reached for his hand, dragging it down to her mouth— the gentle press of her lips against his palm, his heartline— before releasing it. 

“I’m fine,” she lied. Though she knew it was probably wise to tell him about the wand at some point, she figured it wouldn’t be fair now. Not when he was obviously troubled by other matters. “Just thinking about how I’m going to wipe the floor with you.” 

“Oh?” His concern quickly bled into interest. Voldemort swept into a deep bow, the yew wand held over his heart, before straightening back up. “Then, by all means, you can have the first spell.”

Concern and now interest? Well, it was a marked improvement in his mood, she supposed. And who knows, perhaps duelling was exactly what he needed right now— that maybe doing something physical would be enough to drag him out of his head and whatever brooding thoughts were crowding there.

“Oh and Harri? Remember the rules. No wandless or nonverbal magic—”

“Yeah, yeah. Got it, ” she muttered, crossing over to the opposite casting circle drawn in the dirt. 

Returning his bow, it took hardly five full seconds before the arena shimmered with magic and for the outlines of their circles to flare golden. It was a sort of temporary binding contract, as he’d explained to her; a method to ensure the duel was kept fair by tying each opponent to their respective casting areas. Of course, it also meant that neither of them would be able to leave until a victor was declared, whether that be by winning or by conceding. A true, proper duel, just like he wanted.

Faced with little other choice, Harri took a steady breath— ‘Please cooperate,’ a silent plea, her fingers tightening around her wand— before snapping her wrist forward with practised ease. “Expelliarmus!”

The crimson corkscrew sailed across the room, straight and true in its path— only to be deflected with little fanfare. All it took was a mere swish of his wand to unravel the spell; a cascade of sparks winking out.

Exasperated red eyes cut over to her. “Opening with a disarming charm? Really? Is this supposed to be reassuring me of your seriousness?” Voldemort clicked his tongue. “I confess, I expected more. In fact, if this is how you intend on going forward, perhaps it's wiser I spare us both the disappointment and go seek a different partner.”

It was an effort to not openly show her glee. For all that Voldemort liked to call her predictable, it was astonishing how much the man was equally so. Never one to resist the chance to criticise, or to let his opinion go unheard, he played right into her expectations— the perfect opportunity unknowingly handed to her. 

Before he could catch on, Harri rushed to spell Avis, weaving in a hardening charm for good measure. With a yellow flash, a flurry of paper birds erupted out from her wand. 

Arching towards the concave ceiling, the flock circled high in the air, their silver little bodies threading in and out of the shadows cast by the torches. She thought they made a pretty enough sight, gleaming the way they were— and perhaps she would’ve taken more enjoyment from them if it weren’t for their noise. Merlin. She’d forgotten how damn loud this spell was. Between the frenetic beating of their plated wings and their squawking that bounced off the stone walls, Harri could practically feel the racket down to her teeth. In hindsight, she probably should have also cast a silencing charm for her own sanity. Too late now though— the birds already moved into position. 

Having completed two full turns above her circle, the leader banked hard, leaving the rest to follow. Wings flattened against their sides, the air whistled as they sliced through it, dive-bombing the Dark Lord at an alarming speed. 

For a moment, Voldemort simply stood there, bewilderment stamped onto his face—satisfaction. Harri felt it to a surprising degree; a revelation of how good it felt to catch him off-guard for once; a thought that, perhaps, she ought to try more often. 

At the last second, he countered with a Protego. In comparison to the room’s dimness, the wall of summoned light was stark, severe— enough so that it forced Harri to squint against it to keep watching. Lord, it was a trainwreck. A massacre. Unable to alter their course, her flock hammered uselessly against his shield, the magic holding them together failing. One by one, each bird reverted back to a sheet of creased paper, their flattened forms gathering in Voldemort’s casting circle. Save for one, that was. 

Slightly bigger than the rest, the leader miraculously held its shape. Wings scrunched, it twitched erratically across the floor as though pitifully attempting to take flight again. Red eyes narrowed in on the movement— a deliberate step forward, heel to toe. 

Pinned under his shoe, the bird let loose a distressed screech, its flapping turning more frantic. More urgent.

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, the Dark Lord shifted his weight forward— the crinkle of paper being crushed, a screech cut off midway.

Silence.

“That was incredibly cheeky of you, Harri,” Voldemort said. “Clever. But cheeky.”

She blinked, looking away from his shoes and back up to his face. “Well, I’d hate for you to be disappointed.”

Even with the physical distance separating them, it was near impossible to miss how the hint of a smile curved his mouth. It was only a glimpse— faint, hardly there— but it felt like a triumph all the same. A hard-won victory. Such feelings, however, were short-lived as Voldemort resumed their duel. 

There’d only been a pause— just long enough to clear the arena, really— before he was moving. “Ventus,” he spelled, his magic stirring the air and causing the flames from the mounted torches to quiver. 

Another summoned whirlwind tore through the room, kicking up the dirt and sand from the floor and hazing the air. Unlike earlier though, this one wasn’t curving— a split decision made to dodge rather than counter. 

Leaping to the very edges of her circle, Harri sought to take advantage of the limited visibility. “Incarcerous!”

Unfortunately, Voldemort seemed to have a similar idea, casting his own spell just a mere few seconds after her. “Ligo.”

Quicker than she could possibly react, glowing ribbons lashed through the dust storm, twining about her wrists and torso— a choked noise. Constricting, squeezing with a mind of their own, the restraints tightened until her fingers reflexively twitched, uncurling from the holly wand. Bouncing once, twice, it settled in the dirt at her feet. 

 “Damn it,” Harri cursed when her circle’s outline turned white and the binding magic lifted in accordance to his win. 

Eventually, the air cleared enough to see across the arena again, revealing a rather smug-looking Voldemort. That’s when it hit her: he copied her. He’d done the exact same thing she did— opened with a distraction while reserving his real move— and she fell for it. She couldn’t believe it. But when the dust dissipated fully and she saw the gleam in his eyes— so gloating— she knew he’d done it on purpose. ‘Son of a—’

“Well, I would say the winner of this round is apparent, wouldn’t you?” Voldemort asked, nodding towards her ropes crumpled on the outskirts of his circle— an added insult to injury when he chuckled— before glancing over to her fallen wand. “Though, I’m surprised our duel didn’t last longer. What happened, Chosen One? Are you out of practice?” 

“Oh. Just wait,” Harri vowed, pulling against the bindings. When force failed to loosen them, she attempted a common release spell, but the ribbons only tightened in response. “Really?” She winced when they pulled taut under her ribs. “What did you make these out of?”

Rather than respond, Voldemort continued to stand there, watching her squirm. Then again, he didn’t need to— speak, that is— for her to know exactly what was going on in his mind. Oh no, it was glaringly obvious that, in addition to his smugness, he was enjoying this. Enjoying her attempts to break free and her growing frustrations when she couldn’t. It was their bond that ultimately betrayed him, after all— that amusement that was trickling over; a sunspot that flared brighter as the seconds ticked on.  

Harri fixed him with a flat look. “Alright, you sadist. You’ve had your fun. Now can you release me? I’m starting to lose feeling in my hands.”

The Dark Lord tilted his head as though contemplating her request— only to arrive at an answer that made her want to groan. It first came as a smirk; a slow, unfurling thing that lifted the left corner of his mouth higher than the right. 

“I don’t know, Harri,” Voldemort said, his voice taking on a downright sinful quality. “You do look rather lovely all tied up.” 

It took her a minute. 

“Oh, for the love of– no!” she protested, trying to fight down the blush making its way to her cheeks. “Are you kidding me? You were the one who wanted to duel, in case you forgot!”

“So I was,” he mused. Those burning eyes took their time raking over her, darkening when they landed— lingered— on her bound wrists. “Of course, you are presenting a rather tempting alternative.”

Her mouth snapped shut. By now, one would think that she would’ve become somewhat immune to his constant, incessant flirting— or, at the very least, that it would have lost some of its charm. But it hadn’t. Unfairly so. Instead, somehow Voldemort still managed to fluster her with only a comment or two— leave her blushing like a damn schoolgirl. Then again, she wondered if she should be grateful: flirting was, after all, quite the drastic turn from his earlier mood. Drastic, but preferable. Plus, if he wanted to forget all of this duelling nonsense? Well, she wasn't exactly opposed—

“Alright then. How about this? Since I’m sure you want a chance at redemption,” he said, his smirk growing when she rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you the counter-spell— if you tell me who taught you that little trick.” 

She frowned. “What trick?”

“Your opening sequence. The one where you wove a hardening charm into your Avis. Unless you’re starting to enjoy being restrained? In which case, believe me, I’m more than happy to oblige as well.”

“What makes you think I learned it from someone? Couldn’t I just have invented it myself?” 

 “Well. For all your lovely qualities, Harri, deception is not your strong suit.” A knowing glint entered Voldemort’s eyes; a challenge to prove him otherwise. “Not to mention Charm Weaving isn’t part of Hogwarts’ curriculum until seventh year. Advanced Charms, if I remember correctly. And, forgive me for saying so, your grades in the subject did leave something to be desired. As such, it stands to reason someone taught you how to do it. I’m merely curious as to who.”

“Maybe they reworked the curriculum since you were at school? It’s been a long time. Things change.” she countered. “Also, for your information, I was doing perfectly okay in Charms! Not everyone can be a prodigy.” 

He arched a brow. 

“Oh, honestly, you’re insufferable, you know that?” Harri groaned. “Fine. If you must know, Ginny learned it from her brother Bill, and then she taught me. Happy? Now what’s the counter spell?” 

There was a pause that followed. Drawn out, it bordered on being nearly socially unacceptable until Voldemort stiffly said, “Libero.”

Libero. So she had been right: an ordinary release charm wasn’t enough. ‘Lib-er-o,’ Harri mouthed it, trying to get used to the incantation. It was a new one, probably difficult to accomplish without her wand, but she was determined to at least try. However, so lost was she in her concentration, in testing the restraints’ strength and visualising them breaking apart, that she altogether missed the exact moment the Dark Lord retreated from their bond, his smirk slipping and his burning gaze losing its playful glint. That the mood abruptly shifted, turned.

Became volatile

“Libero,” she spelled. At first, there’d been nothing— but then, there was a gentle warmth. Encircling her wrists, her torso, that warmth seeped into the glowing ropes, causing them to burn brighter. Brighter, brighter— until, at last, they shattered completely with a spark and a flash. Grinning to herself, Harri rolled her newly freed wrists. “Aha!”

“Upon further reflection,” Voldemort said, drawing green eyes back to him. “I suppose I must give Miss Weasley credit for that sequence. It was creative, though quite underhanded. Which is why I’m surprised you used it.”

Harri blinked. “Underhanded? Well, that’s a bit harsh. I mean it’s just a prank, really.”

“A prank?” he echoed. 

“Yeah. You know, a prank? A joke?” she tried to explain, fumbling when she was levelled with his unimpressed stare. 

“Merlin, you would hate Sirius,” Harri muttered. “I mean, Sirius would hate you too, but like—” There was a flash in those red eyes; a quick sharp thing that made her hurriedly shift topics. “What I mean to say is that it’s just a bit of harmless magic. Don’t take it so seriously.”

“Harmless. Indeed,” he hummed. “However, it does make me wonder what other questionable things Miss Weasley is teaching you.” 

She leaned down to retrieve her wand. “Oh? Why do you want to know?” she asked, teasingly tacking on, “worried we’re conspiring against you?”

“Do I have reason to be?”

Straightening up, Harri spared him a quick glance, confused by the question. Voldemort remained in the middle of his casting circle, twirling the yew wand idly between his hands. What struck her as peculiar, however, was his expression— impassive. Unfortunately, a questioning probe in their bond revealed as much as his face did: nothing. ‘Weird.’

“Oh, please. Hardly,” Harri scoffed. “That being said, as much as I'd love to tell you, I already promised Ginny I’d keep her ‘tricks’ to myself. Trademark Weasley secrets and all that. Plus, she’d probably never forgive me if she found out I was running around, telling anyone who asked. Least of all you.” She shook her head. “Hell, especially you.”

When he didn’t say anything, she angled to be more lighthearted. “Come on. Don’t be like that. A girl’s entitled to a few secrets, you know. Plus, where’s the fun if I revealed everything?”

“Quite.” There was a twitch in the corners of his mouth— a smile or a frown though, she couldn’t quite tell. “Oh, I understand fully, Harri. After all, one’s loyalty and trust should not be so easily put aside.” 

The yew wand came to a standstill.

“Well then. Now that we’ve had a warm up.” Voldemort gestured to the space between their circles. “Shall we?”

In and of itself, the question was innocent. But the way it had been spoken— so monotonous, so flat—didn’t quite sit right with her.

“Uhm, yeah. Sure,” Harri muttered. “You can have the first spell this time, if you want?”

All Voldemort did was nod, bow, and she did the same, despite the unease that’d steadily stolen into her. The beginnings of a whispered word formed in her mind; the hushed tones of a warning. Instinct. ‘Leave,’ it said. Leave before it was— too late. Their circles flickered as the binding magic settled back into place. 

He didn’t waste any time after that. 

In fact, Harri barely adjusted her stance before the wide arc of a bone-white wand slashed through the air, and— wait. Wasn’t it against the rules to open a formal duel nonverbally? Surely he, of all people, knew that— had to, considering he’d explicitly told her such.

Gaze flickering between him and his wand— awaiting an explanation but receiving none— Harri could feel herself falter. However, before she could deign to ask what he’d done, the room’s temperature plummeted. 

In spite of it being a sunny August day in the world above, an unnatural cold seized the underground cavern. A bitter cold. Steadily leaching warmth, it hadn’t taken long for her breaths to begin crystallising— short, icy little puffs as the heat of her mingled with the chill— or for the shivers to set in. And there it was: the tang of magic, as sharp and crisp as the air that froze in her lungs. 

A minute passed where she simply assessed the situation. Green eyes shifted about, looking for any subtle changes that might tell her what to expect from the unnamed spell he’d cast— but yet there was nothing outwardly different about the room. The more she waited, the more that became evident: apart from the coldness, he didn’t seem to have done much. Was this it, then? The extent of his opening move? If so, it was a bit, well, lacklustre. 

Trying to rub warmth back into her arms, she eventually decided she’d waited long enough. Raising her wand, Harri readied herself to counter— only to pause when there was a drawn-out, mournful sounding groan. It’d come from above, high overhead in the darkness that clung to the ceiling. Belatedly, she realised Voldemort was looking up

She craned her neck back.

Her mouth fell open.

Lacklustre— she took it back. Oh, did she ever. 

Across the rocky stone face, fanning tendrils of frost were spreading, sporadically coalescing into icicles. Creaking, forming as long spires, an unwitting thought crossed her mind that they resembled fangs— curved, pointed fangs— that pierced through the shadows. 

Against her better judgement, Harri found herself altogether forgetting about the cold, his odd behaviour, as she marvelled up at the masterpiece he’d created. Intricate patterns were interlaid into the frost, twisting out into whorls and spiderweb veins and delicate lacework designs that overtook the jagged ceiling. And even in the low light, those crowning spires glistened. Gleamed. They shone with a brilliance, their glass-like surfaces refracting the limited colours of their world: oranges, reds, blues, whites— a winking mirage that enchanted if looked upon for too long. 

It was, admittedly, a wondrous piece of magic.

“Woah,” she breathed out, twisting to get a better view.

Out of her periphery, sudden movement drew her attention away from the ceiling; another slash of the yew wand. Just like that, the spell-binding reverie she’d been under was ruined— ruined with the almost-too-late observation that his circle was rapidly becoming the only ice-free space in the arena. 

Climbing up the walls, stretching across the floor and overtaking the sconces’ metal cages, threatening to snuff out the flames— even creeping over the toes of her boots— his frost was spreading everywhere.

It all came rushing back: the bite of the cold, the chatter in her teeth. The stiffness claiming her hands; the urgent voice demanding she move lest she froze too.

Wriggling her toes— a soft crackle as the gathering ice was disturbed— she tried to recall if an ordinary fire spell was enough to counteract spell-made ice. Or did it require a special kind? Merlin, she should’ve paid more attention in class. It didn’t help either that she was pretty sure Barty had an entire lecture on this at one point: the whole fundamental distinction between natural versus charmed elements. ‘Screw it.’

Harri was about to try— what was the worst that could happen, really?— when Voldemort suddenly pointed his wand towards the ceiling. It’d been a lightless spell, but she could see how the air bent and shimmered around his magic as it shot up— a ripple when it connected; a reverberation.

A dreadful cracking sound. 

Her head whipped back— a fracture. He’d created a damn fracture. Erratically winding its way through the thick ice coating the ceiling, it was splintering with increasing speed— and right towards one of the icicles. 

The one directly above her.

Part of her was half-tempted to call his bluff right then and there. Because, surely, he wasn’t serious? Right? She couldn’t even dodge it if she wanted to, its circumference alone the size of her casting ring— and she was doubtful any shield she conjured would be enough to support its weight. Should she try to blast it now? Or— another startling creak.

Another splinter, another groan.

The icicle snapped free before she could decide what to do. 

‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit shit.’ With a strangled yelp, Harri’s wand arm extended to cast a levitation spell. 

Against her palm, the holly wand jolted when her magic rushed through it— a lag. It was just a beat of a delay, barely noticeable, but she felt it all the same— felt it in the way her spell hadn’t reacted fast enough, only snatching the icicle midway through its plunge and slowing it until it bobbed a mere few inches above her head. Too close to be comfortable. Way too close. 

For a minute, all she could do was gape up at the floating chunk of ice. What was he thinking?! There was, after all, a pretty significant difference between some paper birds and something that could skewer a person. And to do so nonverbally? What if she had blanked because of that? Or, heaven forbid, her wand had failed? Not to mention what he’d done disregarded the order of a formal duel. He had the opening spell, and she was supposed to be given the chance to counter before he cast anything else (of course, she technically had done the same earlier with her birds— but he’d already made them even in that regard).

‘Remember the rules, my ass,’ Harri thought sourly, her attention shifting to Voldemort. Still, he offered no explanation for his actions. ‘Fine then. Be that way.’

Flicking her wrist, she sent the suspended icicle sailing in his direction— a wide enough berth that it wouldn’t hit him, but close enough to express her displeasure. However, she must have put too much force behind the motion for it collided violently with the wall— a thunderous explosion. It shattered apart, leaving a sizable crater in the stone work. Bits of mortar flaked off, spilling out onto the ground. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Narcissa was not going to be happy about that. 

Turning her scowl on him, Harri called out, “Hey! What gives?! You didn’t even give me a proper chance to respond!” 

Red eyes met green ones— an odd flip in her stomach. Something about them startled her all of the sudden; a look reflected there that she didn’t quite know how to name, but one that nonetheless made her take an uneasy half-step back. And that was when she noticed it: that thrumming sound. 

It’d taken root in the back of her mind, insidious with how it’d crept in unannounced, unnoticed. Unwanted. And as though a living thing, it seemed to possess a heartbeat of its own— complemented the very same pulsating in her ears, slipping into the space of every downbeat and composing an ancient rhythm: a song of power. Strangely enough, she was reminded of Privet Drive— those times when a summer storm was about to break over the sleepy street, its arrival heralded only by the crackle of energy that caught on the dry, dusty air and those unnerving few seconds of charged silence. The way she always knew it was coming before anyone else ever did; could feel it build upon itself, destructive and potent and formidable in the way cosmic forces often were. Except, this time, such wasn’t coming from Nature herself.

It was coming from him.

Oh yes, she recognised it as his magic, vibrating at such a frequency that it spoke instinctively to her soul. But it was different than before, concentrated in greater amounts— familiar and yet not at the same time. Darker. It created a vacuum of pressure in the room, around her, twinging in her chest— her scar— until it became difficult to even breathe through it. 

In the recesses of her mind, the horcrux stirred, awakened by the understanding that things were wrong. Suddenly, inexplicably wrong. 

‘What have you done?’ it demanded.

‘Nothing!’ she protested. ‘He just suddenly—’ She was distracted by a stronger pulse of his magic. That buzzing grew louder, louder and louder still— until, abruptly, it shifted in tone. Changed. 

Dulled into a whisper— a susurration

Harri glanced around wildly for the source, but it wasn’t until something shifted beneath the leather soles of her boots that she looked down. As though the tide pulled to the open ocean, so too was all of the frost and the ice being drawn back to him. It was the shards, she realised, that were making the sound, whispering as they glided over the dirt and sand. Green eyes tracked their movement, noted the undulating patterns they drew into the ground— impressions akin to lapping waves against the malleable shoreline— until they eventually reached Voldemort. 

She didn’t quite know what to make of it. The Dark Lord appeared to be conducting a phantom orchestra, the sweet refrain of music heard by his ears and his ears alone. Wand movements preternaturally fluid, his free hand shaped the air as though trying to pull something out of it— entirely bewitching to watch. 

Bewitching in the way his face was impassively smooth, not a hint of tension to be found, and the way his shoulders looked so strong in juxtaposition to his otherwise fluidity.

The way he appeared so tall.

So immovable

She blinked, snapping out of her admiration and refocusing on the more pressing issue at hand: the ice.

What originally started as a few errant bits had grown formidable. Fusing together, they formed a wall around the outer-bounds of his casting circle— melding, elongating, building up in height.

“What are you doing?” Harri asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

He hadn’t acknowledged her— hadn’t even bothered to look her way, really— more preoccupied with his creation. The ice mounted until it towered over him; a faithful sentry protecting its king. And then she saw it. 

Finalising its shape, the impression of scales rippling across its surface, she finally understood what he made: a snake.

A massive snake made entirely of ice. 

Nearly transparent, the golem’s glassy body glinted wetly in the torchlight as it moved to encircle the Dark Lord. Certainly, it was an advanced piece of transfiguration— the kind that even McGonagall would have been begrudgingly impressed by, but the sort that was decidedly out of place for a friendly, low-stakes duel. 

Oh yes, that much Harri understood: a line was being crossed.

A minute passed as she warily studied the beast. Though not quite as big as the basilisk, it was almost comparable in size. And what struck her the most was how damn life-like he managed to make it. Down to the intricacy of its overlapping scales and the third eyelid that shuttered when it blinked, she might have otherwise been impressed if it were not for her shock. Even when its flattened head swung in her direction, hissing nonsensically, Harri remained puzzlingly numb. Of course, she knew she probably should have felt something seeing its fangs— fear, at the very least, or horror, perhaps— but she didn’t. Instead, all she really felt was this unnerving sense of déjà vu. 

The snake. 

Being underground. 

Him— down to that blank mask he was wearing; the one where she couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. 

All that was missing was the dripping water, the stale smell of the Chamber, and Ginny— Ginny, pale-faced and prone at his feet.

Green eyes shifted from the golem to Voldemort. “What are you doing?” she repeated, the question coming flat, hollow.

Finally looking at her, his head cocked to the left. This time though, the action wasn’t endearing like it’d been earlier: this time, it was predatory. “Duelling, of course.”

Duelling.

His answer echoed in her ears. ‘Duelling, of course.’  So nonchalant, so unbothered— as if this was a game to him. 

A game.

That numbness, that coldness, that’d seized her erupted into fire.

The snake gave one final hiss before uncoiling and charging forward.

It may as well have been a script they were following; a faithful reenactment of what she considered to be her first true betrayal. And it made her wonder, as time seemed to slow and the beast advanced closer, did he know? Know what he was doing, acting this way? What he was making her relive by dredging up a hurt so, so old— a knife-tip tracing out a faded scar and bleeding it anew— did he know ? Of course, she’d never talked to him openly about the Chamber— but then again she figured she didn’t have to. 

Not with how often he was in her head, her memories, the shameless voyeur he was. 

Not when he took his pleasure in rooting out all that made her raw and vulnerable— all of those little wounds and pangs and hurts she carried with her day to day.

It would stand to reason that he would know.

Yet, he dared.

In her mind, she was aware of the horcrux pleading not to— not to react, do something she’d regret— but she didn’t listen. Refused to heed its caution when she raised the holly wand and bared her teeth, experiencing far more than the hurt and terror and betrayal her twelve year-old self had felt— fury

‘Incendio,’ she commanded non-verbally, channelling all of the barely contained fury in her into that one spell. Resistance rippled through the wand as though it didn’t understand her desire— her anger. Who she was in the moment. 

‘Incendio!’ she snarled again, pushing even more of her magic, her will, until the wand shuddered. Obeyed. 

Brilliant flames shot forth, unrestrained and hardly controlled. They erupted before her circle, catching on the ground to shield herself from him— a crackling veil of smoke and blazing orange. At this short of a distance, the intensity of the heat was unholy, licking across her skin, her cheeks— burning behind her eyes and enveloping her in a blistering embrace. Nearly unbearable. But she leaned into it all the same; allowed it to thaw the cold he’d spread and warm her inside to out.

The holly wand trembled when the snake met her inferno head on— an ear-splitting crack. The impact elicited a rush of heated wind and embers to blow in her direction, forcing her to duck her head to avoid the onslaught of sparks. Still though, the snake tried to stubbornly get through— shoving forward, making her dig her heels into the ground to stand firm until there was a sense of something giving. Collapsing. More so feeling than seeing it, Harri knew the very second his spell succumbed to hers; a rusted, tightly wound coil breaking under tension.

 The golem gave a shrill shriek as it writhed in the fire, its long body twisting and turning and thrashing before being consumed— melting.

It should have been a victory, by the very definition of the word. Hers a crude spell prevailing over his example of refined transfiguration— the sweetness of triumph. And yet, Harri only tasted bitter ash in her mouth.

By the time she cut off the power feeding the blaze, her wand might as well have caught flame alongside his snake. The holly wood was scorching, branding itself into the softness of her palm. Even so, Harri didn’t let it go— refused to. Rather, she used the discomfort to bolster herself.

Prying her eyes open, she took in the aftermath of her magic. The air had taken on a muggy quality, humid from the puddles dotting the floor— no doubt if she looked up, there would be a noticeable lack of icicles on the blackened ceiling— but it was the stretch between herself and Voldemort that had borne the brunt of it. The dirt was scorched, littered with red-hot coals that winked at her in the dimness— and there he was. Motionless, save for the yew wand twirling again between his hands.  

The quiet wore on as she waited. Waited in a simmering anger for him to apologise, her breaths coming uneven. For him to admit things had gotten out of hand— to concede by throwing down his wand and release her from this damn duelling circle because she sure as hell wasn’t going to. 

No such thing happened. 

Rather, Voldemort continued to study her with that assessing glint she knew too well. Under normal circumstances, that specific look would’ve made her squirm. Right now, however, it only served to infuriate. 

The hand not holding her burning wand curled in on itself, impressing deep half-moons into her flesh. The threat to draw blood; the acute sting of nails bearing down on tender skin. Why wasn’t he saying anything? With his side of the bond firmly shut, she couldn’t even fathom what he was thinking. Though, just because he was intent on keeping her out didn’t mean she was required to reciprocate. 

‘Please don’t agitate him anymore than he already is.’

‘Oh, fuck that.’

Harri let her anger, the snarled fanged thing it was, press against the wall he’d built between them. Pressing, pressing, pressing until his eyes narrowed just-so— the only indication he could feel her there, raging and demanding to be let in.

“Well? Is that it then?” she taunted. “I confess, I expected more.” 

A slow, humourless smile played at the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary. I was simply giving you a chance to catch your breath.”

His spell came flying at her without any preamble. Sickly-yellow in hue and faintly smelling of sulphur, she moved on instinct to deflect it; a sharp snap. He’d purposefully put too much power behind it, judging by how the pinpricks shot down her wand arm as though she’d physically batted it away. It was a dirty move, in her opinion— something more suited to a case of schoolyard bullying than the ‘proper duel’ he had insisted on. But fine. If that was how he wanted it to be, she had no qualms playing along. 

Gritting her teeth, Harri hurled an overpowered stunner in retaliation— only to have it collide with another one of his. At the halfway point between their circles, their magics clashed, connected— an unpleasant jolt that carried through their wands and up to their shoulders. And it was at the very centre where he and she melded together— their spellfire blurring in colour— that golden sparks erupted, fountaining out and violently sputtering in the damp air. 

Though she tried to end it, tried to jerk her wand away and break off the connection, the reaction of the phoenix feathers was too strong. Voldemort’s efforts yielded a similar result; a frustrated snarl from him that carried over the hissing pop of the sparks. Past the golden light, their gazes met briefly— a tugging sensation in the centre of her chest. 

The world fell away.

Pulled into his mind, gone was that stillness and the illusion of calm as churning waves, white-capped and froth, raged in its stead— a deluge of snippets that betrayed him:

The singed, blackened remnants of a pastel pink flyer; camera flashes, curling smoke plumes; microphones thrust forward, a barrage of indistinct, thunderous voices; the stretch of a smile hiding the threat of fangs; anger and outrage and paranoia, so overwhelming in the degree to which he felt—

She was expelled just as quickly as she’d been sucked in. 

Harri came to, gasping and bleary-eyed. Pain— it was the first sensation that trickled back in, arresting and alarming. There was an ache that radiated out from her knees, her shins, her palms; the peculiar gritty feeling of sand and dirt burrowed beneath her fingernails. It took a minute for her to understand that she was on the ground, propped up on all fours— another to realise she must’ve fallen at some point. 

‘Are you alright? What did you see? ’ the horcrux demanded.

‘I’m not sure.’

Blinking to refocus the world, she found that the golden light had disappeared, the only trace of it being the fact that her wand still buzzed dully in her hand. And across the arena, Voldemort likewise had been reduced to kneeling— no doubt the recipient of the same pain she currently felt. Unlike herself, however, he remained on one knee, a sway to his shoulders as though fighting subconsciously to stay upright— oh so proud even in the face of all that’d happened. She would have scoffed if she had the energy.

Still though, Harri had been about to call out— to make sure he was alright, even if he wasn’t entirely deserving of her concern at the moment— when she noticed the yew wand. Lax in his grip, it dangled there. An opportunity. Recognising that this, perhaps, might be her only chance, she fought past the ache in her legs and forced herself back to her feet. 

The Dark Lord’s head lifted, burning eyes unnervingly shrewd.

She allowed him the moment to stand as well, her grip tightening on her wand— used the chance to gather back that earlier fury until it stifled the pangs and that fire in her rekindled. Nowhere near the earlier inferno, it was a steady, smouldering flame— a want for retribution.

Voldemort came back to his full height, though something was different in how he held himself now. She knew immediately what it was: he was leaning . Leaning slightly to the right, shifting a subtle amount of weight off his left leg. To most, it would’ve been barely perceptible— but to her? To her, it was glaringly obvious. How could it not be when she’d spent the last few months studying him— memorising all of those little details in hopes of finding a weakness? He was a good actor, she’d give him that, his face annoyingly smooth and not relaying even an ounce of his discomfort, but he couldn’t hide it from her. 

This time, it was herself who resumed their duel. 

With more flourish than necessary, Harri thrust her wand forward. The glowing coals rose up from the ground, bobbing briefly before hurtling towards him— fiery little comets streaking in the darkness. At first, they were fixed on a straight path— until they curved to the right midway between their circles. Voldemort reacted accordingly, twisting on his good leg to face them. 

But then she flicked her left hand. 

Altering their course at the last second, they veered sharply to the left. It was a classic feint— one she’d executed plenty of times during her Quidditch matches and one that her opponents rarely saw coming. The Dark Lord was no exception. He’d been too busy paying attention to her wand, assuming she would continue to abide by the rules— a mistake. 

Voldemort spun to face them, unthinkingly pivoting on his left foot. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw as he’d done so— an obvious grimace that left her feeling a vindictive satisfaction. 

He redirected the embers in the end, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. 

She struck fast, riding high on adrenaline and outrage.

With his attention diverted, he hadn’t even seen the Relashio barrelling in his direction. A jet of orange light spiralled, blazing and bright. It connected with its intended target, striking his hand and magically forcing him to release the yew wand.

The sound of it falling might as well have been the loudest thing in the arena. 

For a heartbeat, neither of them really moved. Even when the magic binding them to their circles lifted and hers turned white with her win, they hadn’t even so much as twitched. Voldemort just kept staring at his wand thrown down into the dirt— the faintest line appearing between his brows as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened—and Harri held her breath in turn. It looked so— wrong, almost, seeing the yew wand splayed on the ground, cast off like some sullied thing. So stark against the scorched earth; a beacon that unwittingly held their full attention.

And then slowly, so very slowly, he leaned forward to pick it up. 

“You broke the rules,” he said, voice startlingly calm.

“I did,” she agreed. “But you broke them first.”

Voldemort hummed, his fingers tracing idly over his wand’s curved handle. “I presume that was another one of your taught tricks?” 

Realising she was still in her circle, Harri quickly side-stepped out of it before he could initiate another round. “No. Just mine.”

In truth, she didn’t quite know what to do now. He was eerily collected, given the fact she’d just bested him, and part of her was holding out— just waiting for, well, something more . A bigger reaction. Fury, maybe? A form of retaliation? Something that could match her own volatile emotions and give her a greater sense of accomplishment. Because, as it stood right now, it just felt meaningless.

He abruptly turned towards her, and she readied herself to fight again, rearing to—

“You tend to hold the same position when you cast. Do you know that?” he asked abruptly.

“What?”

“More specifically, you don’t cast with your whole body, but rather only with your wrist. It makes your spells not as effective as they could be. And your footwork needs improvement.” Those red eyes flickered down to her feet before shaking his head. “There’s much to be said about duelling competency, Harri. Unless, of course, you’re exhausted? In that case, I understand if you wish to resign.” 

Resign.

As if she hadn’t just won. 

As if she hadn’t just knocked his wand out of his hand.

She bristled. Of course, she knew she shouldn’t— it’s what he wanted, after all. To rile her, his tried and true method in getting whatever he wanted. It wasn’t like she wasn’t aware of it— aware that’s how it always went down between them. And, logically, she knew it was probably more effective to simply give up and walk away from their ‘friendly duel’— accept the fact he wasn’t going to acknowledge her win and just be done with it.

Harri knew all of this, and yet, the second he moved out of his circle, she followed along. Because that was the truth of it: as prideful as he was, so was she. 

Too prideful and too angry and too unsatisfied to walk away from a challenge.

They traced out an orbit opposite to the other, stalking and assessing. The more she moved, the more the ache in her legs gradually subsided; a mercy, were it not that it appeared to be the same for Voldemort. He was putting weight on his left foot again, she noted— gingerly at first but then more confidently. 

He shifted forward, left leg in front— the only indication to prepare herself. A white orb was flung from his wand, crackling angrily with electricity and magic. Surprisingly tame compared to his earlier spellwork, it was easy enough to avoid. 

Harri leapt to the side, eyeing his stance. Copying him, she focused on producing the same thing— focused on creating the light, energy, and trying to ignore the short-circuit quivering between her magic and wand. White sparks. They gathered at the tip of her wand, merging and shaping themselves into an identical orb. And just as he’d done, she leaned forward, stubbornly flicking her arm and using the entirety of her body to send it clear across the arena. 

Voldemort caught it, holding her spell in suspension. Head tilted, he appeared to study it from all angles— a quick look down to her feet, a click of his tongue— before feeding the orb more of his own power until it imploded. A shower of shimmering flakes hung uselessly in the air, twinkling until, one by one, they faded. 

“Better,” he mused. “Though still not perfect.”

‘Asshole,’ she thought spitefully just as he threw another one at her and she returned it in kind.

They’d continued that way a bit longer, trading spellfire and working endlessly around the imaginary circle they’d somehow dictated as their own contained universe. Neither of them really winning, but not losing either— just simply reacting to the other, no matter the cost. And as much as she hated to admit it, she found that it was strangely cathartic: the lack of conversation and the energy she could put behind each spell— a way to work through the anger that, as it currently stood, she knew wouldn’t let her speak in a productive manner. Plus, it was easier this way— letting him feel her upset through magic, each twitch in his brow a mean-spirited balm. 

Gradually though, anger slipped into concentration, and, eventually, frustration when the lag in her wand worsened. Faced with little choice, she abandoned it altogether. Pausing just long enough to tuck it into the holster strapped to her thigh, she ignored his questioning look— or the fact he’d chosen to do the same with his own—  and flexed her fingers before resuming pace. 

The improvement was noticeable. Her magic flowed more quickly without a conduit, forming to her intent almost as she willed it. But by the same token, it wasn’t sustainable. More effort was required to produce the results she wanted, and between her calves protesting, the ache in her knees, and her breaths that were beginning to grow laboured— an unwelcome reminder of how sedentary she’d become— Harri was acutely aware her stamina was dwindling. But, Merlin be damned, she refused to call it quits before he did. 

Biting back a grunt when a particularly forceful spell left her palm tingling, she took the chance to catch her breath and tighten her fraying ponytail.

“How are preparations going for tomorrow?” Voldemort asked suddenly. Unlike herself, however, he hadn’t stopped walking.

Eyeing the shortening distance between them, Harri forced herself to move again. “Oh, so now you want to talk?” 

“Humour me.”

“Okay, fine. Fine, I’ll ‘humour’ you,” she bit out, ducking low to avoid an incoming Incarcerous. “What the hell is your problem?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Bullshit.” Red eyes narrowed at her cursing. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re pissed about something, and, for whatever unfathomable reason, you’re taking it out on me. I think I deserve to know.”

“And who says I’m upset?”

Throwing a spell directly at his feet, she growled when he side-stepped it. “Right. Because setting a snake on someone is completely rational, non-pissy behaviour. My bad.” She shook out her hand, trying to expel some of the static building up in it. “I saw your memories,” Harri pointed out when he fixed her with a hard look, “so you can quit trying to deny it.”

“You weren’t meant to see those,” he said stiffly. 

“Is it Ginny?” Harri needled, recalling how things seemed to have turned shortly after the girl was brought up. “Is this what this is all about? Some inexplicable jealousy you have towards her?”

Silence.

Though he remained quiet, she knew, from a lack of a bigger reaction, that couldn’t be the reason. Or, at least, not fully. But then it hit her: the Quibbler. A distant memory, she remembered how, ages ago, Barty had barged into his office, carrying a stack in his arms. Back then, she really hadn’t thought much of it— after all, it’d been Luna’s and Ginny’s side-project during the school year to distribute it on Mr. Lovegood’s behalf— so why Voldemort was interested in it was beyond her. But then it appeared in his mind. Though blackened and burnt, she’d know that pastel pink just about anywhere. And then she wondered what if the Quibbler had been repurposed from circulating conspiracies to something else? It wasn’t entirely out of the question: the Lovegoods had always been open in their distaste against government institutions. No doubt, too, they were aware of who the man currently running their country was.

“If it’s not Ginny, then is it the Order? The Quibbler ?” Harri tried again.

He went rigid, the light forming in his hand flickering out. And there— a muscle jumped through his jaw, feathering up to the surface. Bingo. 

“It is, isn’t it! Wait. Please, tell me you’re not this worked up over a magazine?” Her mouth dropped when he didn’t outright deny it. “Are you kidding me?! No one even reads it!”

“You’d be surprised,” he muttered dryly. “Their readership has grown quite a bit.”

Voldemort began to walk again, taking up an increased pace. Long, purposeful strides ate up the distance between them until Harri was practically forced to jog to remain in step.

A magazine. She couldn’t believe it. He was this pissed over something someone had written about him— had acted this way over a piece of paper. She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the absurdity of it. 

“Well, out with it. What did they say? Didn’t like who you appointed to your council? Or, heaven forbid, a suit you wore?” she goaded.

One of his spells, neon blue and glowing, skimmed dangerously close to her, sizzling in the air and raising the hairs on her arms. 

“Make light of it all you want, but you don’t even know what they’ve done,” he snapped. 

“Please. I know it can’t be that serious if it was published in the fucking Quibbler!”

“And there you go,” Voldemort said. Heat had crept into his words, betraying his efforts to keep calm. “Defending them and taking their side.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake— I’m not taking anyone’s side! But if I’m being honest, you’re not doing yourself any favours with this tantrum you’re throwing!”

“Tantrum,” he echoed incredulously. “I have delegations coming tomorrow, you do realise? Ambassadors from France, Spain, Germany. The International Press and representatives from Illvermorny, Durmstrang, Castelobruxo, and god only knows where else. All of them interested in seeing if we fail, or succeed, in extending our Statute of Secrecy. Ready to praise if we do, condemn if we don’t. And do you know what your little friends have been doing all the while?”

He curled his lip at her, increasing both his pace and the frequency of his casting. Unable to run and conjure at the same time, she ended up relying mostly on dodging and her protesting legs to keep out of his reach.

“How can I when you don’t tell me anything?” Harri argued from between panting breaths. How he wasn’t even breaking a sweat, she didn’t know— but she hated it. 

“Calling for open protests,” he said, ignoring her. “Rallies.”

She stumbled. “What?”

“Oh yes,” he hissed. “They’re publicly calling arms against me. My reign. Against the future I’m— we’re— working towards securing. So yes, I am throwing a ‘tantrum’ because, rather than focusing on our accomplishments, I’ve instead been dealing with public inquiries demanding if it is safe to attend tomorrow.” Red eyes flashed, brilliant with their outrage. “Eight this morning alone.”

The mounted torches at her back quivered dangerously; a threat to plunge the arena into darkness. He’d finally slowed down, giving her a chance to process. Protests? Surely the Order wasn’t stupid enough to show up tomorrow, right? If they did, it’d be outright chaos. A slaughter

“What are you going to do?” she asked hesitantly.

A shiver gripped her out of the blue; a bead of sweat down her spine, unnaturally cool against her flushed skin. Whether it was from using more magic than she was used to, or from all of the running— or, hell, maybe it was from the idea that the Order had decided on the worst way to provoke the Dark Lord— Harri felt unusually sick right now.

“That’s a good question. It’s not as if I can go ahead and arrest everyone who comes bearing a wand tomorrow, can I?” 

No, no he couldn’t— not unless he wanted to come across as a tyrant to the other countries in attendance.

“However, what I do know is that I need everything to go perfectly tomorrow. For you to be perfect.” Crooking his index finger and slipping it past the collar of his pressed shirt, he tugged until the top two buttons came undone. It was his frustrations that coloured the air now; static, just waiting to catch on an electric current. “So tell me, should I be worried?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whether or not you’re up to the task. Because I admit, I have my reservations. Especially when, rather than using your time wisely and rehearsing, you seem to have dallied all morning, choosing instead to spend three hours with that girl and learning who bloody knows what from her.”

“Hold on. Is that why you’re mad at me? Because I’m not spending every damn second of my day memorising your stupid script?! Well, for your information, I’ve already— wait.” She blinked. “How did you—?”

It took her a moment. Out of everything he’d said to her thus far— the accusations, the severity of their situation— it was funny how her brain seemed to get hung up on just one minor detail amid the million. Yet, the question nagged: how had he known she visited Ginny this morning? And, moreover, how did he know the exact amount of time she’d spent in the dungeons? It wasn’t as if she told him.

“How did you know I visited Ginny today?” Harri repeated the question. But then the answer unexpectedly dawned on her. “Are you having me followed?”

He didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. 

“Narcissa merely reported back to me,” Voldemort explained it to her as though one might to a child— slowly, uninterested.

Her eyes widened. Of course, she knew that the bedroom ‘gifted’ to her was monitored— and, in the early days, she knew she was watched by just about everyone in the corridors. Hell, she even knew that the house-elves weren’t to be relied on to keep secrets. But that had been then and this was now. Was it so unreasonable to expect things might have changed a bit? That she earned some freedom in that regard? Trust? It wasn’t as if she ever ran— ever made an attempt to— went along with all of his plans with relatively little protest— and the fact that Narcissa—

Narcissa.

She choked down the hurt, the indignation— the tiredness stealthily settling in her bones— to throw a particularly nasty stinging hex at him. It connected with his shoulder, his hiss unable to be masked despite how he clenched his teeth.

“In the manor? Really,” Harri seethed, not even caring that she could sense his ire darkening their bond. “Well. I hope you enjoy reading the same bullshit over and over again. Seeing as I’m trapped here and all.”

“You make it sound as if you’re a prisoner.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Hardly. How many prisoners do you know get waited on, hand and foot? Have servants at their beck and call?” he scoffed. “Staying in the manor is simply for your own protection. To keep you safe—”

“Oh yeah, sure it is. My ‘protection’—”

“The grounds aren’t impenetrable, and the outside world isn’t safe,” he argued. “Your friends have already proven that—”

“— not like you enjoy keeping me locked up or anything—”

“— and then meeting with that Order spy on a regular basis—”

Spy?! Ginny, a spy?!” Harri laughed, the sound coming out sardonic, humourless. “How can she be a spy when she’s locked up in the dungeons? Do you even hear yourself right now? You sound delusional.

“Careful there Harri,” he warned, tone deceivingly soft. “You seem to be forgetting that Miss Weasley is currently the recipient of my good grace and will. Or that such is subject to change.”

She reared back. “Is that a threat?”

“A threat? No. No, my little horcrux, that was a fact.” Voldemort clicked his tongue. “A threat, on the other hand, would be that I should use her in the manner prisoners are meant to be used and make an example out of her. A deterrent, if you will.”

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Of course. I wouldn’t even entertain touching a single hair on her pretty little head.” He sneered, his expression twisting into something ugly, unkind. “Not when I’ve already given you my word to abide by your whims, as sentimental and misguided as they are.” 

“Right, since that’s such a burden for you, isn’t it? Basic human decency? Such a hardship to not ruin just one fucking thing,” she lobbied back, heated. “You didn’t have to take her prisoner, you know. Hell, you didn’t even have to keep her here! You could have simply let her go if my ‘sentimentality’ was such a problem!”

“And tell me, how would that have looked? Hm?” His voice had risen in volume by now, not quite shouting but bordering close to it. “Weak, Harri. Weak when we can’t afford to be such.”

Harri bared her teeth at him, unconsciously slipping into parseltongue, “Because you’re so damn strong now, aren’t you? The mighty Lord Voldemort, dictated by the so-called whims of a mere seventeen year-old and desperately clinging to power—”

Voldemort mirrored her, his own canines half-elongated. “Don’t—”

“— taking little girls hostage, and so bloody concerned with what others think, he can’t even—”

“Shield!”

That was the only warning she received before a stream of purple spellfire came hurtling her way.  

Harri hadn’t even seen his hand move— hadn’t even had the chance to react properly or summon a Protego (though at this point, she doubted she could even muster a decent enough one anyway). Rather, all she could do was leap backwards in a poor attempt to evade it— not fast enough. An ungodly crack rent the air, reverberating against the stone walls and through her limbs— her body, her canines— turning herself into a conduit for the current sparking in the ether.

Lightning struck the spot she’d been standing in prior, charring an angry veined mark onto the arena floor. And while the majority of the spell had missed her, it was the shockwaves of it that came piercing through her chest, punching the breath from her very lungs— a wheeze, a strangled gasp. 

She doubled over. Static in her head, at her temples, the world turned blurry— muddled and out of focus, that neon flash swimming as an afterimage that overtook all else.

Purple lightning.

Disbelief knotted her stomach in a way that not even the snake had been able to. Flashbacks, raw and fresh, crowded in; fleeting, rushed images of a decrepit graveyard, of a cold spring night and a thing not a man, no, far from a man— that defiled a space that should have been sanctified. Holy. Safe. A similar spell used against her; a spell intended to make one hurt

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Red

The sound reached her ears before her body could even process the sensation— the heated flare of pain. Large, fat blooms of crimson fell to the ground at her feet, puddling atop the sand and glinting wetly, starkly, in the feeble torchlight. It was the first thing that came back to her with startling clarity: so red

For a second, it seemed out of place— that is until her hand mechanically lifted and felt the tackiness gathering under her nose. The warmth. Red on her hands, beneath her nails— sticky, heated, copper bursting on her tongue and sliding down her throat when she tried to swallow. 

Harri.” Voldemort’s voice registered past the ringing. Was that a note of panic she heard? Impossible though— when had he ever been?

Dazedly, she eventually found the strength to unfurl, each inhale rattling in her chest. A woman possessed, for the life of her she couldn’t stop staring at her hand— couldn’t stop looking at the blood coating her fingers, so severe against her skin— or not focus on how that heat kept dripping down. Down, down, past her mouth, her chin, and right out onto the floor.

He did this. 

He made her bleed.

Harri,” her name was called again, snapping her out of her stupor.

Green eyes slammed shut in response, her shaking hands curling into fists— a pitiful attempt to hold herself together. “You,” the word came out unsteady, shaken by the spasm in her chest, “really are unbelievable.” 

For a beat, there was nothing but silence. A silence punctuated by a shift in their bond; a ripple as the barrier between him and her crumbled and all of that darkness that’d surged in him gave way to— what, exactly? It was a new emotion, one she didn’t know how to place a name to. But it ached in the exact same way her bruised knees did— just the same dulling pain that throbbed in time with every deep-felt pulse of her wounded heart.  

And it wasn’t until she managed to open her eyes again and found red ones helplessly staring at her, half-caught in the orange cast of the torches, that Harri recognised what this feeling was: remorse

In his own odd, twisted way, it was remorse.

He seemed to have the revelation at the same time she did; an acknowledgment sparking in the depths of his gaze that things had gone astray. And with it came the quiet edge of panic that he sought, struggled, to contain and hide— but she saw it, all the same. Saw all of that disquiet in him.

That fear

Harri,” he spoke again, her name becoming so much more than just that— a plea.

For the first time, he left the path they had traced out; one bold step that broke all of the arbitrary rules.

One step towards her, the next coming hesitant when it was met with her own backwards and the slight, warning shake of her head. 

“Harri, I—”  He was interrupted by an unexpected voice.

“My Lord, Crouch has returned.” Harri recognised who was speaking without even turning around: Lucius. “He’s requesting an immediate audience, and that I tell you he has brought the person you’ve been searching for?”

Briefly, those red eyes shifted to look over her shoulder— a momentary distraction, his mouth already opening to no doubt order the man away. 

He didn’t get that far.

Seeing the opportunity present itself, Harri spun on her heels and marched from the room.



 

Notes:

Now, would you guys still believe me if I said this has pretty significant pay-off in the next chapter? No? Yes? Okay 😂 Well, hopefully this didn’t piss too many of you off 😅

Also, just a quick shout out and kudos to people who really love writing duelling scenes because they are *hard*. My god, I am not looking forward to the next one.

As always, feel free to reach out to me on my Tumblr!

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