Appetence

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/24970723.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom
Riddle | Voldemort
Character: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Voldemort (Harry
Potter), Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape, Albus Dumbledore, Narcissa
Black Malfoy, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger, Ron
Weasley, Sirius Black, Bartemius Crouch Jr., Remus Lupin
Additional Tags: Female Harry Potter, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to
Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Mildly
Dubious Consent, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Possessive
Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Good Severus Snape, Other
Additional Tags to Be Added, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Alternate
Universe - Voldemort Wins, One-Sided Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Slow
Romance, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Dark Harry Potter, Magically
Powerful Harry Potter, Power Play, Power Dynamics, Eventual Sex,
Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, voldemort - Freeform, Parselmouth
Harry Potter, Parselmouths, Minor Character Death, Biting, Blood Kink,
Creature Inheritance, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Girl-Who-Lived
(Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Collections: Dark Liege Potter, Potter and Riddle, Voldemort beside a Female
Potter, read and reread again, Extraordinary Harry Potter FanFics
Stats: Published: 2020-06-29 Updated: 2021-01-20 Chapters: 59/? Words:
323976

Appetence
by elysian_drops

Summary

Appetence-- defined as an attraction, a natural affinity, or an instinctive desire. 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 all those years ago in the
graveyard, a festering sort of obsession begins. His horcrux. A part of his split 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 he wants
her back.
 Irony is Harri Potter's Best Friend
Chapter 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 ever 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!

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

Ironic in the way a fire station is burnt to the ground or 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 companion. The ever-present theme to all of her experiences-- a perfect six-letter
epithet made solely just for her. It was a seemingly private joke she was not privy to
understanding, a cruelty that Fate had so lovingly imparted to make her life just a touch more
tiresome, a tad bit more strained. And even now, huddled behind a crumbling gravestone and dirt-
caked fingers trembling stubbornly about her wand, she could find it reflected within her current
situation. After all, Hogwarts, widely deemed to be the safest place in the world for young witches
and wizards, chose to host a competition designed to torture and maim its competitors-- its very
own students. Voldemort, a man who sought to evade death at every turn, chose for his rebirth to
take place on its very own front doorstep-- a graveyard. And Harri, the naive girl she was who
fondly wished for just one peaceful, uneventful school year, had found herself breaking the solemn
promise made to Hermione and Ron at the beginning of term--- “Nothing will go wrong this year, I
feel it.”

Though, considering her past track record, she did wonder how she had even been capable of such
hope-- or why, for a different matter, had she foolishly expressed such a desire aloud? Because in
all actuality, she had more than likely jinxed her 5th year in the process rather than blessing it. ‘It’s
truly laughable, really,’ a passing thought as she glanced down towards the jagged fingernails, each
one broken and dirty from scrabbling in the mud. Instead of being in her beloved common room
and in front of a blazing fire, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and wiggling her toes in garishly
coloured wool socks, she was here. Hidden behind someone’s decaying tombstone, their memory
as faded as the name engraved into the stone, crouching in the damp earth and shivering from the
cold as the Dark Lord was brought into existence once more.

"Wormtail. The girl."

The words were hissed, a drawn-out whisper that caused her skin to crawl in turn. Tension drew
shoulders upwards, nerves licking up past the knobs of her spine-- the reality of the situation had
yanked her from the safety of her introspection, breaths quickening.

While Pettigrew had been busy marvelling at the frothing cauldron, engrossed with the resurrection
of his Lord, she had managed to slip his flimsy bonds-- had unashamedly taken full advantage of
his enamoured daze to chance a daring flight of escape. It had been a talent acutely honed over the
years, a skill derived out of necessity, to learn to make herself small. Insignificant. Unnoticeable. In
a household where too-loud steps were readily punished and the motto “children should be seen,
not heard” was taken to a literal degree, Harri had discovered the importance of not drawing
attention. How to slip under the radar and to avoid heavy hands, to seek out the best of hiding spots
to wait out the passing storm. Admittedly, such a skill was especially handy during bouts of her
dear cousin’s favourite pastime “Harri-Hunting”-- a game that had marked her childhood and left
several lingering scars as a result. And truly, how vindictive was she in her glee when the boy
would spend hours searching for her to no avail, colouring purple with his frustrations before
eventually giving up.

‘But Dudley’s just a muggle,’ a grim thought, sobering in its implications. 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 truly, his antics were all pale in comparison to her current situation.
Mere child’s play. Fingers flexed about the wand as the girl cradled it to her chest, the press of
warming holly against the dulling beat of her heart. An inward drawn breath was held, refusing to
be let go, to give any possible indication as to where she might be hidden away-- a cry of thinly-
veiled horror resounded from between the scattered stones. Her absence, it would seem, was
finally noted.

“M-my Lord, she’s g-gone,” the man had stuttered, the choking sounds betraying his anxious
discomposure.

A beat of silence ensued. The dampness of the spring night air clung to her exposed arms as though
it were a second skin, a fine mist that refused to part. Her ears strained to make out what was
happening, the scattered sounds of crickets, a relentless chirping floating from somewhere beyond
the iron fence, mistakenly occupying her attention. The lethargic pulse had given rise to a
quickening cadence, adrenaline spiking as her heart strained against the confines of its cage-- too
much pressure attempting to pass through too thin veins. ‘This is it.' Green eyes screwed
themselves closed as 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 was
already on his way over to-- reedy screams fractured the quiet.

She blinked in startled alarm at the gurgling sounds--- the grating wails of a man in pain as his
body was forced to contort in ways it naturally shouldn't. Instinctively, Harri shrank back further
against the rough stone, ignoring the way it bit into her bare shoulders and scraped the pale skin
raw. The girl couldn’t bring herself to dare to look over the gravestone’s edge, unable to gather the
bravery required to witness the horror of another being tortured. She figured that her mind was
plenty imaginative enough to make up for it, however, images floating to the forefront that made
her want to retch. It was a mercy when the screams had finally ceased.

“It’s no matter. She’s here somewhere, I can feel it. Your arm, Wormtail.”

And there it was again-- the chill ghosting through her, goosebumps prickling over clammy skin.
Now more than ever she was certain that voice belonged to Voldemort. Even without having to
look, she just knew, deep down, that it did. For the oddest of reasons, Harri also knew that she
would have been able to recognise it anywhere-- could pick it blindly out from a crowd if asked to
do so. That it only needed to be heard once before it was forever imprinted, seared, onto her long-
term memory. And it wasn’t for the distinct sibilance it possessed, the way the vowels were carried
with an irrefutable authourity. But it was more so that there was an unmistakable familiarity to it, a
quality that resonated deep within her core. However, the girl wasn’t entirely sure as to why that
would have been the case either, considering all previous interactions had been limited to a face on
Quirrell’s head or as an afterimage of Tom Riddle. And in both of those times, they were only
shells, poor imitations, of the creature standing in the dew ladened grass.

‘A devil among mortals’, she thought solemnly, green eyes squinting into the darkness in search of
another exit.

Much to her never-ending dismay, there appeared to be only one-- and it was clear across the
expanse of the cemetery, a good several yards 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 upcoming matches, Harri doubted she could have been quick enough to
make it unnoticed. Her gaze narrowed a fraction, a futile attempt to reconfirm the distance to the
wrought-iron gate-- only to groan when she had arrived to the same conclusion it was rather far.
‘Impossible.’ Slumping down against the grave’s marker, an auburn crown bumped
absentmindedly against its carved back-- a desperate attempt to spark some ideas through the
rhythmic motion. Options raced by at a dizzying speed, bitterness bright on her tongue when the
best plan, the only plan, she had come up with was to catch Voldemort by surprise.

‘Merlin, help me,’ she moaned inwardly at how reckless the idea was, far surpassing even her
usual standards. But she would be damned if she was going 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 tightening, preparations being made to bolt. A stupefy had already formed upon the
tip of her tongue, jaw ticked in determination.

“Stupefy, then run. Stupefy. Run. Stupefy. Run,” she chanted under her breath, a holy mantra to
keep her focus-- the wand was clamped between her teeth as numbed fingers double-knotted the
laces of the worn sneakers.

Drawing in a shaky breath, the girl searched to find her center, 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 burst out in a blaze of glory, several rather distinctive pops forced her to
pause. An unusual sound, one that had defiled the quiet of the cemetery and interrupted the
melodic symphony of the crickets. Brows knitted together and locked knees went lax-- already the
mind had forgotten the simple two-point instruction, occupied with puzzling out what those cracks
could have meant. And for the first time all night, Harri had chanced a glimpse over the edge of the
worn tombstone.

What greeted her was a perturbing sight-- several wizards, outfitted in austerely cut robes and
silver masks, were loitering about. A moment passed and the pieces fell into place, a dawning
revelation as to what had just transpired-- ‘He summoned the bloody Death Eaters.’ The slew of
inward curses were unable to be helped, the floodgates opened as the heels of dirty palms pressed
unkindly into her eyes. There was the mounting swell of frustration as the one plan she had been
banking on fell apart, disintegrating into ruin before it could even come to fruition. That the one
golden window of opportunity had passed before she could stop it, an embittered understanding
that she was now, undeniably, stranded.

“Shit,” a frustrated hiss, the holly wand tossed forcefully to the ground in a show of defeat.

Maybe if it was just the Dark Lord and herself, she might have had a fighting chance-- but even her
luck was bound to run out when faced with 6, maybe 7, fully capable and grown wizards.
Especially so considering that she had yet to even complete her own schooling, most of her grades
passable at the very best of times. It was moments like these when Harri couldn't help but wonder
what Hermione would do if dropped unexpectedly into a similar situation. And not for the first
time in her life, she found herself desperately wishing that she possessed the girl’s brilliant brain
and quick wit.

“That damn cup,”’ her attention slid upwards to the night sky, gaze holding no small amount of
contempt as it fixed mutinously upon the flickering northern star, “If I hadn’t bloody touched it in
the first place.”

A delayed reaction of a slow blink, followed by another, fingers twitching. Her mouth, the bottom
lip split from a rather nasty run-in during the maze, parted in shock, silently berating herself for not
seeing it sooner-- for not possibly understanding the extent of the magic behind the goblet’s
existence. Distantly, a chiding voice was looping in her mind, the clipped pronunciation of an
Oxford accent eerily similar to that of her best friend-- it was encouraging her to use her brain more
often, pointing out rather snidely that head on her shoulders was there for a reason.

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

The girl spared a second to peer around the stone, eyes casting wildly about the mayhem of grown-
over graves in search of the illuminated 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, a few feet from the cathedral arched gate. The flush of triumph, warm and pleasant,
filled her to the brim and, were it not for the fact that there were a number of questionably dark
wizards now occupying the cemetery, she might have cried out in relief.

Mouthing a rushed out ‘thank you’ towards the heavens, finding herself somewhat apologetic
towards the star, she snatched the discarded wand up from the mud.

A deep breath, her mind recalling the motions for the summoning spell, green eyes fixed
determinedly on the distant blue light, “Accio cup!”

Nothing happened. The trophy remained in it’s casted off position, unbothered and unheeding the
insistent call. When a second attempt had yielded the same result, she swore under her breath at the
conclusion that it was too great of a distance.
“Things can never be easy, can they?” the complaint was laced with spite, head snapping to the
side and ears straining to listen in on Voldemort’s continuing speech.

‘What a narcissist.’ He was droning on about his inevitable triumph over death, about his prowess
and might-- the resulting scoff was unbidden. In a way, Harri was reminded of a poorly written
Bond villain, one obsessed with the deliverance of his monologue to even notice his greatest
nemesis was slipping past. The sort that Dudley was enamoured with, glued to the television set on
Saturday nights while the channels looped black and white reruns. Reaching back to tighten the
fraying ponytail, auburn hair matted with dirt and sweat, shoulders rolled in a conscious attempt to
loosen the tension being held in them. ‘You got this.’ A shakily drawn in 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 grave, heart set into a punishing tempo and hammering wildly, the girl
paused for a passing moment to see if anyone had noticed her. One. Two. Three seconds had
passed-- yet 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 10. Her
mouth moved soundlessly as she did so, muscles taut in anticipation-- ‘Now!’

Scurrying onto the next, attention set resolutely on the distant cup, it had taken her by surprise
when the headstone to her left erupted without warning. The deafening crack of stone splitting, a
stray piece clipping her calf-- a cry of shocked pain as she dove the last few inches to safety.

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

A shaky moan bubbled up from her throat as she chanced a glimpse down to the acute throbbing in
her leg-- it was an active battle to ward off the threat of fainting. There was a considerable gash in
the muscle, the wound deeply set and glistening under the moonlight. A sourness rose, the taste of
bile dancing brightly upon her tongue that she strived to ignore. In an endeavour to keep her wits,
Harri tried to take stock of her overall condition, hand spasming and sending up shooting pain
along her right side. In the haste to find cover, the cut from Wormtail’s blade had cracked back
open-- a profuse well of scarlet leaking out from the jagged line. Well, shit.’ The sting radiating
from the flayed skin had made it difficult to properly grasp the holly wand, fingers going lax about
the wood as the girl gingerly cradled the injury to her chest. Once again, it would appear that her
luck was running out just when it was most direly needed.

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

That was all the warning she received before the tombstone opposite to her shattered.

Instinctively, she flinched away from the abrupt display of violence-- at the thunderous sound of
stone shattering and the resulting quake that rippled through the earth. Even now, there were spots
of yellowed light flickering behind her lids, superimposed as afterimages of his spell. The
realisation of what he was doing, what he was trying to achieve by destroying any further potential
hiding spots, caused her blood to run cold. ‘He’s flushing me out.’ Teeth sank into her lower lip,
worrying it absentmindedly until a metallic tang overpowered all other senses. She needed a plan
now, a way out-- yet her mind was content on remaining disparagingly quiet.

On her periphery, the goblet was flickering-- a beacon of hope drawing her, an unspoken promise
of freedom. It was so close. Just a little further and she could reach it. With a resolute nod for her
own benefit, trying to convince herself it was a solid enough strategy, Harri tentatively stood on
shaking legs. Blood began to flow in earnest from her calf, weeping in protest at being disturbed.
“Well, don’t you know how rude it is to ruin someone’s tombstone? Honestly, have some respect
for the dead," she sniped back, squaring her shoulders in what she hoped had looked like a brave
gesture.

A minute had passed where all they did was stare at one another. A suspended moment of quiet, of
weighted appraisal. Harri studied the pale monster before her. His robes, loosely tailored and cut
from the void, were seemingly animated with a mind of their own, curling and kissing his feet in
reverence. And there was an odd stillness to him, the silhouette rigid as the barest signs of life
came in the way of his magic-- it rolled off of him, so dark, so twisted that it was practically
palpable. The skin, she noted with revulsion, was stretched too far over the skeletal frame,
revealing every blue vein, every filament, and sinew that composed his newly-constructed body.
And rather than having a nose, the detail sacrificed in the process of resurrection, he had two
snake-like slits to serve as an indication of where it once had been.

‘And sweet Merlin, he’s tall’, a numb horror as her eyes raked over the Dark Lord’s towering form,
how the wizards nearest to him were diminished and dwarfed in comparison. But the most striking
feature were those glowing eyes-- as red as the blood trickling down her leg, slitted pupils
punctuating the crimson background. A testament to his lost humanity, of the brimstone and
hellfire that he was, most certainly, crafted from. This Voldemort was nothing like the 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 had
once possessed a waned juxtaposition to the one standing a few feet away. And Harri tried her best
to suppress the shiver when that burning gaze trained itself upon her, the look unreadable.
Calculating, assessing. 'A monster from a nightmare', she thought grimly, uneasily shifting the
weight off her injured leg.

Meanwhile, Voldemort took in the battered girl before him, an odd sight to behold. She was
smaller than he had expected, her frame a touch too slight, too delicate even for a 15-year old.
From the few sparse spots where mud hadn’t collected, or where bruises weren’t blooming in
sickly shades of purple, he noticed that she was quite fair-- almost cream-colored in complexion. It
was a truthful sentiment when he considered that she might be viewed as conventionally attractive
when the filth was wiped away-- or when the worn and tattered muggle clothes were replaced with
proper finery. Her features were refined, pointed and elegant-- undeniable evidence of the
purposeful breeding her lineage had sown. And the auburn hair, a few shades darker than her
mother’s he recalled, was wild and coming out frayed from the ponytail atop her crown. Yet,
strangely enough, it suited the girl-- utterly defiant even down to the fiery strands.

But it was her eyes that ultimately drew him to her in the end--an unearthly shade of green. Those
eyes were what startled him, as ethereal and vivid as his own, a rebellious glint in their depths that
lent them a radiance 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 a mere child. Unwittingly,
they conjured up images from the night that he had been reduced to a wraith, had lost everything he
had worked for and built up throughout the decades.

The Dark Lord continued to study the trembling girl 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.

 The Cup Finally Listened
Chapter Notes

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

Enjoy

The warning came as a blur of movement and the streak of a bone-white wand cutting through the
night’s air. Voldemort’s wrist snapped forward--- a wordless spell of electrifying purple. Harri had
barely managed to avoid it, diving out of the 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 her marrow, the girl forced
herself to roll up onto her right side. And not for the first time did she bless the existence of
quidditch, for the seeker-honed instincts and reaction times that derived from the gruelling sport. A
silent vow was made, as she chanced a glimpse over her shoulder, to never complain about their
practice drills ever again.

The spot where she had been standing prior was now charred and sizzling violently against the
dew. A distinct burning smell lingered--- an acrid scent that made one’s eyes water. Though she
had no clue as to what the spell might have been, the incantation lacking that should have allowed
her to guess, she could just as easily hazard that it was not light in nature-- and was, most certainly,
meant to cause a good deal of suffering.

A languid path of warming heat was dripping down the length of her forearm, a steady and
trickling sensation that registered on the boundaries of her conscious. Uneasily, green eyes drifted
down to take in the jagged cut, the gore bright against the smattering of mud--- it looked even more
ghastly than before. Having been jostled in the attempt to dodge the spellfire, the skin, stretched
too tightly, split further--- a gaping gash that the flayed edges did little to keep close. Teeth nearly
cracked in a reflexive attempt to ignore the acute sting, the way the cool breeze served to only
agitate it. But it was best to feel pain, she figured--- it meant that she was still alive and that had to
count for something.

Harri twisted on the ground, her own counterspell aimless and wild in its trajectory,
"Expelliarmus!"

The jet of brilliant light had overshot its target, disintegrating without much fanfare against a
gravestone instead. He hadn’t countered right away--- an unspoken ceasefire to allow her to gather
her bearings. Scrambling to stand back up, the hurried action caused the ground to tilt uneasily, a
hiss escaping from between pressed lips. The injured calf was all but crying in protest--- the girl
gingerly shifted the weight off it, taking the proffered second of respite to study the Dark Lord.

In the ensuing silence, several abrupt realisations had finally begun to process through the queue of
her delayed thoughts--- she hadn’t even seen his hand move nor had heard his lips utter a single,
damnable whisper. It was a startling conclusion to arrive at, one that made her feel nauseous in turn
and that healthily nursed an uncertainty in her own abilities. Wordless casting was usually reserved
for their 7th, 6th if you were lucky enough to be advanced, year, the common consensus holding
that it was rather difficult to do--- nevermind being able to perform it with regularity. Yet, here she
was. Duelling a wizard that had done so just as naturally as breathing, one who hadn’t even blinked
or given it a second thought. Meanwhile, she could barely direct a proper disarming spell his way.
‘Merlin, help me’.

He seemed entirely too calm, too relaxed, skeletal fingers twirling and twisting the yew in his
grasp absentmindedly. There was a look of assessment in that glowing gaze, one that relayed a
disappointment at her feeble attempts to fend him off. And even Harri had to admit that it hadn’t
been her finest moment, her movements limited and hindered by the distracting agony in her arm.
The blood was beginning to drip down into her palm, the fingers slickened and making it a struggle
to keep a decent hold upon the holly. However, the girl was never one to waste a moment, the
temporary standstill a perfect chance to try again. To show her mettle, her tenacity--- to perhaps
earn her freedom in kind.

Gritting her teeth to block out the pain, she thrust her wand forward, “Expelliarmus!”

Satisfaction, bright and welcomed, was the perfect distraction as the spell was more direct this time
around, the aim better controlled standing versus being sprawled on the ground. The corkscrew of
light was barrelling towards the center of his sternum, an inevitable collision at a blurring speed.
But then that pride, the triumph, vanished seeing how easily he had batted it away, a disdainful
smile stretching thin lips--- a row of sharpened teeth befitting a predator.

“Oh, come now, Harri. I know you can do better than this. Or, tell me, has Hogwarts suffered to
such a degree under Dumbledore that you can not manage anything more than a simple disarming
spell?”

There was a belittling deprecation to his words, a purposeful goading that made her temper flare.
While there was a small voice encouraging her to ignore it, to understand that he was attempting to
rile her up 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. It was a tempting enough idea despite him,
undoubtedly, having 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.

Around them, the scattered Death Eaters let out their jeers of support in a cacophony of voices. So
focused was she on Voldemort that Harri had, somehow, forgotten their presences entirely--
spectators bearing witness to their Lord’s one-sided battle. Some were agreeing with Dumbledore’s
insufficiencies, others cried out for her suffering, for their master to end the existence of the ‘Girl
Who Lived’--- and a few were content to comment on her incapabilities, deeming her unworthy of
a wand and proclaiming her a disappointment. Green eyes darted about their silver masks, the fine
scrolls and details that concealed their identities, and how she wished to unveil each one--- to point
out that a courtesy was owed to not hide themselves when mocking her. A mortified flush heated
her skin, an outrage at some of the more colourful suggestions that were being offered up.
Bitterness coated her tongue and it was only the flickering glow on her periphery, the alluring call
of the Triwizard Cup, that prevented her from lashing out. It was enough to let their spite and
provocations fall away into mindless chatter. ‘Freedom.’

‘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. The girl took a few paces back, favouring the left leg to keep a
majority of the weight off the injury, a ringing in her ears. Voldemort mimicked the movement, a
step forward to match a step back in a striving effort to close the gap between their bodies. He
seemed unaware that she was leading them in a dance across the cemetery, positioning herself to an
advantage closer to the trophy. Crimson eyes were glinting in their delight, a thrill held in them at
her nonverbal agreement that their armistice was finally over.

A tongue darted across chapped lips, her mind distant and turning over rapidly in an attempt to
recall the appropriate spell, “Confringo!”

Flames, blinding and passionate, shot forth from her wand’s tip, consuming the expanse of grass
that lay between them. The heat was welcomed, crackling in its anger and unspoken mission to
protect its caster. A thick veil of smoke had begun to settle, concealing plumes that drifted upwards
to the night sky. It was all the opportunity she needed. Victory surged and granted tired legs the
newfound ability to pump harder, to block out the pain in order to carry herself to safety. Harri
ignored the steady path trickling down the calf and soaking her socks, her shoes--- in fact, it barely
registered that the blood was flowing more freely. Rather, all attention was consumed by the soft
blue light in the distance. With some difficulty, the girl had managed to dodge between
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 had been blessed by Hermes himself, and for her chest to flutter.
The discarded cup neared, fingers spread wide and outreaching. It was so close, ready for the
taking.

And then the winged statue guarding it was suddenly prompted into action, a grinding screech as
stone was animated. The reaper had used the handle of its scythe to catch her about the waist,
pulling the girl towards itself with a crushing force and caging her in. Her vision dimmed, a
creeping blackness that eclipsed all else, while she struggled to replace the breath that had been
robbed from her lungs. Already, the lower set of ribs were smarting, a telling sign of an ugly bruise
that was, undoubtedly, forming. It took a few seconds for Harri to overcome the daze, to blink back
the stupor and to regain her wits.

Then she was struggling in earnest, doubling the efforts to break free of the stone prison she had
found herself in--- the statue tightened the embrace, refusing to relinquish its prize before its master
arrived. A frustrated scream when her arms were pinned down, battered legs flailing and kicking at
the empty air. It was a futile endeavour, however, as the guardian made no indication of easing up.
And all the while, the cup lay at her side, a mocking glint that seemed to taunt with how close she
had been.

“Better, Harri. Much better,” Voldemort mused from beyond the curtain of smoke, 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--
- trembling and willingly submitting to a greater power, “But not quite enough.”

Following the Dark Lord through the dying fire was the fluid form of a snake--- one far longer than
any of those Harri had observed in the glass cages of the zoo or at pet stores. Its triangular head
was flat and the golden eyes, keen in their shine, pierced through the darkness to fixate on her.
Seeing the unexpected creature was enough to make her stomach lurch, to renew the efforts to flee.
Broken fingernails scrabbled along the scythe’s handle, desperately trying to pry it away--- all
doomed attempts. Ever since the chamber incident, the girl 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. It was only natural to avoid wanting to incite any future scenarios of a similar nature.

Amidst the commotion, the holly wand had clattered uselessly to the ground, dropped in surprise
by the unanticipated capture. Harri spared a glance down towards it, brows drawn together in
desperation and silently begging 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 against
the uninjured leg, the snake languidly beginning to wind its way about her thrashing body. The
urge to faint was mounting and the efforts to kick it off were feeble--- the weight of the beast was
making it nearly impossible to move. ‘Oh, sweet Merlin,’ a horrified thought crossed her mind
seeing it twist past her hips, those yellow eyes practically shining in the moonlight and never once
leaving her own.

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

He stalked closer to the redhead’s prone form, the robes curling about his bare feet in a whispered
fluidity to seemingly kiss the ground he walked upon. Scarlet eyes flitted across the waned face,
searching for what, exactly, he did not know. Then they landed on the infamous lightning scar
peeking out between auburn strands. The tip of the yew wand raised to gently, almost lovingly, part
the hair to reveal the curse mark--- the very reason for his defeat, for his supposed death. Even
among the dirt, the mud and sweat, it was still visible against her skin. Raised and never fully
healed over, a constant reminder of that night, of 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--- was it anger? Or despair? Perhaps even both? The hitch of a
breath broke his contemplative reverie and Voldemort allowed his attention to drift. Her chest was
rapidly rising and falling--- an uneven tempo marked by shallow inhales. It would appear that the
girl was hyperventilating, 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. And how
it filled every inch, every crevice of his being with accomplishment--- a vindictive pleasure that
derived from seeing the famed ‘Chosen One’ reduced to such a state.

“I remember when you were just a babe. Oh, how very brave Lily Potter was, standing in front of
your crib and pleading with me to take her life,” the look in his eyes had hardened, a critical glance
raking over her bruised body.

“To spare yours in turn,” something unsettling and dark was unfurling as he recollected the very
minutes leading up to his downfall.

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 2 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.”

Harri shuddered at the confession, trying to puzzle out where he was possibly going with the thread
of conversation--- 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 get this all over with--- to stop dragging it out needlessly
with details of an event she barely possessed an awareness of. And then an unwilling whimper
tumbled past parted lips, distracted from those burning eyes when the snake had curiously flicked
its forked tongue against her thigh. It was no small relief when the creature finally unwound itself
from her legs and torso, apparently having discovered something else of immense interest.

“Massster,” Nagini hissed out, curling at the base of the tomb and trying to refocus the Dark
Lord’s attention back to the present.
The girl looked on in bewilderment. It was so jarring to hear a snake speak after having spent the
past 3 years purposefully avoiding their company. Despite the preference and wish to do so, it
would appear that her ability to understand them hadn’t quite disappeared--- a curse disguised as a
blessing, she figured. It was just as slippery as she remembered, as smooth and quiet in its volume.
Completely different than when she spoke it herself, her tongue far too accustomed to English to
possibly sound like a native speaker. And there was the oddest sense, a curious desire Harri
couldn’t quite understand, to try to mimic the snake’s exact inflections--- 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 had ignored his familiar.
Instead, the Dark Lord deemed it appropriate to lean in even closer. At this distance, all of the
gruesome details that had gone unnoticed before were revealed, the little traces that betrayed the
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 round
them out and rather accentuated the sloped lines with their hollowness. And his teeth were
impossibly white, razorlike and set against pale gums.

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

A fervid look, one that relayed how many thoughts were rifling over in 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 eternally capture her moving photograph in his mind’s eye. To savour and record this moment to
relive at a later date--- his ultimate triumph. The seconds leading up to her final demise, the day in
which he had vanquished the Girl Who Lived and proved to all she was nothing more than a mere
teenager--- a simple child, a mortal unworthy of being recorded down in history.

Harri shrank back against the stone, the rough texture scraping the skin raw and its gravel finding
purchase in the soft planes of her shoulders. However, she would endure the burns, the bleeding,
the stinging any day--- so long as it meant earning some distance between their bodies and from the
Devil before her. He was truly horrifying up close, a monster by all rights, and the look in his eyes
didn’t help to inspire a sense of ease. They were scorching in their heat, the worshipful kind that
caused them to glaze over in an unfocused manner. Helplessly, she tore her attention from him to
stare longingly at the cup, desperately praying that it would fly into her hands and whisk her away.
To allow her another chance to live. To, 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 determine that this was all an elaborate figment of an overactive imagination. ‘Please, please
please.’ The chant was endless, an inward monologue 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 those around her deemed
it to be idiotically reckless. That had to count for something, right?

“How things have changed since that Hallow’s Eve. In fact, dare I say that I can even touch you
now,” depraved glee entered his voice, gaze blown wide in rapture as a skeletal finger extended to
hover over the mark just above her brow.

And, 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 to remain eye-level.

‘Please please please,’ she begged every deity, every god she knew of, to listen--- to heed her
prayers, and send her the portkey. To help her escape. To understand that 15 years was not nearly
long enough--- that it was far too short and too cruel to end a life that had barely just 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.

The world about her suddenly exploded in agony as he pressed down onto the scar, the pressure
unyielding and penalizing. White-hot, searing, blinding--- she was unable to focus on anything else
other than the neon-coloured bursts erupting behind closed lids. A scream, too raw and real in its
suffering, tore from her throat, the taste of copper slipping down to settle 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 and to make it all end. It was pointless. Of its own
accord, her spine had arched away from the statue, thrashing and inflicting further damage onto an
already abused ribcage. But she couldn’t fully 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 a searing ordeal. The girl had thought that she knew what true pain was
before this moment--- that it was her most intimate companion, a friend that shadowed 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 wave of agony refused to abate. Fingernails splintered and peeled as they
tried to sink into the stone to ground herself.

Dimly, she could register the peals of laughter coming from Voldemort as he reveled in the
suffering he had sown--- at the sensation of touch finally being restored after drifting in the void as
a wraith for far too long. It was cut short. The sound had been clipped in half, his mouth closing
with an audible snap as he withdrew the touch, rearing back and cradling the hand to his chest as
though it had 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--- it made
his blood run cold and for the heart to momentarily seize. ‘Impossible.’

Harri slumped in relief at the broken contact, energy drained as a spasm convulsed through tired
muscles--- they jumped sporadically, a minute twitch as they sought to process what she had been
put through. Some part was morbidly curious as to what he had done, why he had stopped when
nothing was apparently holding him back, and to understand the strange magic he apparently held
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 in a bid to clear it away. ‘My scar,’ a belated realisation that
the mark was weeping in the wake of his contact, angry and disturbed. When her vision was mostly
restored, it was to see the stormy countenance of the Dark Lord hovering mere inches away, eyes
narrowed in outrage--- and almost fear?

“You--,” he hissed out, a dawning revelation overcoming him.

Voldemort had tentatively taken a step back from the restrained girl to silently observe, a rigidity
entering the lines of his body. ‘This is impossible.’ A new gleam, one of contemplation, lit up
crimson eyes from within, the slitted nostrils flaring ever so slightly as though he were breathing in
her scent.

And 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 one might 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.
“Masster, I tried to tell you. Ssshe’ss familiar,” the snake had supplied reproachfully from the base
of the statue, 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 Harri to register through the ringing in her
ears, that pulsating drum that made the world sound 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, the sweet breath stolen from her lungs as delayed sensations were finally
catching up. Emerald eyes glanced towards the goblet again, tears clinging stubbornly to fanned
lashes from the residual pain and frustration--- her helplessness. ‘Please, please, please.’

A scream of vexation had resounded from the Dark Lord without warning, a tomb nearby
shattering in the face of his anger. The magic rolling off of him was heady and twisted, coating
Harri’s tongue and settling over her like a second skin--- a clinging, insistent sort of weight that
refused to part. And how that only served to petrify her further. Whatever he had found was
apparently fit enough to encourage a more extreme display of his displeasure, an uninhibited kind
of wrath. Nagini dropped from the platform, muscular body barely skimming the girl’s ankles in
the process. The snake wound her way up to his shoulders, a susurrating whisper for him to calm
down before he could cause irrevocable damage. It seemed to have worked for Voldemort paused,
the crook of an index finger reaching up to trail down his familiar’s scaled back. And then he spun
on his heels, chest heaving with effort and burning gaze darting rapidly over her suspended form.

“It can not be,” his tone was uncharacteristically emotional, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how
to process the information, “It is impossible.”

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, it should have been unfeasible--- a living human as a horcrux? One who already
possessed its own soul, its own personality--- who had developed their own life as an animated
being, forced to house another’s soul? It was paradoxical in all sense of the word, 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 was a sliver of himself. His own horcrux.

Her attention fixed resolutely on the cup, ignoring when he had turned from her once more in a
flurry of rushed whispers. The Dark Lord was having a conversation with his companion, heads
bowed together in their plotting that she wasn’t privy to entirely comprehending. It didn’t matter.
Not now. Harri’s entire world had tunneled down to just herself and the trophy, begging silently for
it to move or to heed her call. She considered it owed her that at the very least, seeing how she had
been put through hell and back for its damn competition. Brows knitted together, mind consumed
by projecting her will outwards. And 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 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 marginally 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 impending freedom. A sheen of
cold sweat across her back, mouth parched, the tempo of her pulse a punishing speed.

“Please!” she whispered more so to herself, voice coloured with urgency.

The cup, having had enough of her begging, 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 rising even above the crash of thunder. His face,
illuminated by a flash of lightning, was one that had been marked by horror, a skeletal hand darting
forward to grasp at empty air. The graveyard bled from her view in a whirl of dizzying colour.

A soft groan slipped out as Harri landed unkindly back into the recessed stadium, a swell of jovial
music greeting her arrival. Feet swayed unsteadily, split lips quirking into a smile upon seeing the
school’s castle hovering in the background. It was as beautiful as always, her home. Blinking
against the twinkling lights, resigning herself to the safety its halls could provide, the girl only half
heard the cheers morphing into screams as her vision dimmed--- an encroaching darkness and a
sweeping tide of dizziness before she fell.
 Sugar Quills and Red Eyes
Chapter Notes

Hey guys! Thank you for all of the comments, kudos and bookmarks so far! It means
alot to me!

For this chapter, there's some things I've changed around:

- Cedric isn't dead in this version
- Harri was declared the winner of the Triwizard Tournament

Also, just a warning in case anyone has a fear of sleep paralysis-- that's mentioned in
minor detail in this chapter. It's towards the end when Tom Riddle appears, starting at
"When she jolted-" and ending at "Harri's eyes-" if you want to skip that bit.

**edited 08/03/2020**

When Harri had finally reopened her eyes, it was to see a place dreadfully familiar-—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 held the history of her detentions,
every school year earning at least separate three visits with the stern Madam Pomfrey. However, 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.

All the same, the small smile couldn't quite be helped, nor the burst of warming contentment, as
she wriggled further into the mattress--- the nest of pillows and the way the plushness 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, she felt
that the cloudlike pillows and the moment of respite were all well-earned. 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. And what she would give to stay in the
hospital wing forever—in the peaceful quiet afforded to the space, surrounded by luxuriously
smooth sheets, and the soft chirps of birdsong for background noise. ‘I can’t though. Not when-,’
her stomach lurched, a sense of dread surging as flashes of the graveyard replayed at a dizzying
speed. The sibilant voice, the towering frame, the pale skin stretched too tightly— hellish eyes
glowing, alight with fury, with desperation, bewilderment. Her entirely helpless, pressed
mercilessly against the stone, searing agony, raw-throated screams piercing the night air.

Harri sat up abruptly, plagued by the vaguest urge to retch, and heart set into a punishing tempo as
it all came back. Voldemort was alive. Brought forth from the void by her very own blood, 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 all her fault. And now, he was roaming
around Merlin only knew where, sowing destruction and death in his wake. A boy emerged from a
diary, a seraphic beauty that belonged in the Heavens and one not made for mortal eyes to gaze
upon, the ominous warning: ‘Lord Voldemort will return very much alive’. Her head swam, the
blood turning cold in the forks of her veins, thoughts sluggish, scattered, chaotic. She needed to
warn someone. Perhaps she could tell Dumbledore? Or the Minister? To alert them, anyone, to the
danger that was wandering freely about their world. 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, incited a pause. Slumped over the mattress, near the foot of the
bed, was a mass of brunette curls rising and falling with each relaxed breath— an image the girl
was entirely too familiar with, one that she had spent the past 5 years watching.

Warmth blossomed, overwhelming relief that seemed to quell the strung nerves just slightly, to
lessen their bite and quiet the internal panic. The other Gryffindor had apparently fallen asleep in
the infirmary, the rosy light of dawn leaking through the sheer drapes indicating that the witch had
arrived sometime late in the night. It was a touching show of loyalty, of care, of love. Harri reached
down, displacing the duvet from her lap as thin fingers gave a slight squeeze to the sleeping girl’s
hand, attempting to plaster on her best 'I’m-fine-even-though-I-may-not-look-it' smile.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” a soft whisper, tone even in an attempt to not alarm her friend into a startled
waking.

A fondness danced in a vivid green gaze as they considered the minute movements-- a telling sign
she was stirring. And then Hermione had regained consciousness, blinking back sleep with a look
of confusion so clearly etched onto the softness of her features. It took a second for those richly
coloured eyes to hold clarity, to understand her surroundings. And then brows furrowed, the witch
launching herself across the bed with a spray of wild curls. Harri winced slightly at the tightness of
the embrace, at its desperation, but she accepted it nonetheless with all the grace she knew how.

“Harri James 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 1 year without attempting to get
yourself killed!?”

Hermione fumed, stubborn tears collecting on the corners of her dark lashes, “I swear! I’ve never
met anyone more prone to life-threatening idiocy! When you showed up looking like that--.”

The bushy-haired girl trailed off as she wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, trying to
regain her calm, her composure. But how else was she to react upon seeing her best friend suddenly
reappear in the stadium bruised, battered, and bloodied? She swore her heart had stopped when she
witnessed the slight frame of the redhead collapse, crumpling down in a lifeless heap--- so still, so
small, so unmoving. It was moments like those that always lent a disturbing reminder, an
uncomfortable revelation, that, while Harri Potter was brash and brave, her friend talented and
overflowing in her magic’s core, she was still human— that she could die just as easily as any of
them. That, despite the feats she had accomplished in the past, extraordinary things that most other
15-year-olds could never do, she was still vulnerable.

Harri frowned as a bubbling sensation of guilt replaced the warmth, unnerved that she had reduced
her friend to sobbing. Reaching forward, she pulled the sniffling girl back into open arms, an
awkward attempt at comfort, “But hey, I survived right? Still got the ‘Potter luck’ on my side.
Please ‘Mione, don’t worry about me.”

Before Hermione could find it in her to reprimand her roommate, to claim she would always worry
about the reckless girl, the heavy oak doors swung open--- a pasty boy with carrot toned hair and a
smattering of freckles was revealed. His arms were stuffed full of various sweets and his posture
sheepish as he shuffled into the room, a disquieting sense that he was encroaching on a heartfelt
moment between the two girls.
“They said you were awake. I wanted to come earlier but I got, ya know, held up,” he 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 Madam Pomfrey’s only letting 2 in at a time.”

Emerald eyes lit up as she marveled at the mountain of gifts, unable to contain how touched she felt
at her friends’ generosity, an effervescent spark of joy. With a free hand, the other still wrapped
around the curly-haired girl’s shoulders, she motioned for Ron to come over. Awkwardly trying to
maneuver without letting go of Hermione, the ginger boy leant down into the crook of her free
arm--- a fleeting moment of a side hug.

“It’s okay. Tell them I said thank you,” she mumbled as he withdrew, wincing at the soreness in
her shoulders from the added weight of her friends. Hermione reared back in apology, brows still
knitted in worry but the tears finally dried.

The trio sat in silence for a second, idly shuffling 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 across the sweets. It
hadn’t escaped her notice that Hermione had sharply nudged the boy in his ribcage with her elbow,
a sharp look directed his way and mouth pulled into an exasperated frown. Putting aside the red
sugar quills she had been admiring, green eyes drifted down to marvel at the newly fixed
fingernails, their jagged tears 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
Wormtail’s cut completely gone, the bruises and scratches having long since vanished. Any
evidence of the man forcefully stealing her blood to resurrect the one intent on murdering her was
gone. Healed and 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, the girl could still hear his voice if she tried, the hissing a
persistent pressure popping in her ears. She could still see the glow of crimson pinpoints
superimposed behind closed lids and viscerally feel the frigid traces of a lingering touch upon her
warmed skin.

“He’s back,” she stated bluntly, not in the mood to talk about it when she, herself, was still trying to
come to terms with it-- there was a pleading note in her tone for them to drop it.

Truthfully, the girl didn’t want to reflect on any of it. Not what caused him to be so upset and
perplexed, 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 make her nightmares a reality.

Having sensed her reluctance, Ron settled for a soft “oh” sound while picking through a stack of
Bernie Botts. After a few beats of lapsed silence, he was back to grinning, vainly attempting to
liven up the mood, “Well, on the bright side, you made history. Again.”

Harri tore her eyes from studying her now unblemished arms to share a look of confusion with
Hermione, waiting for Ron to elaborate.

“You won the Triwizard Tournament. Like, legit won! Blimey Harri, and you’re only 15 too. The
only one to ever actually enter and win,” the ginger 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, his excitement, his awe. And then she sent him a bashful
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 birds had trailed off into silence. It was a blessed distraction, a sense of normalcy
that she so desperately needed and craved. In their company, it was almost enough to make her
forget about the Dark Lord. To ignore his inevitable plans of seeking her out in order to vanquish
his greatest foe, the looming countdown hanging above her head. 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 looking forward to getting 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 regain back the usual routine and bury the memories
of the graveyard. But, instead, Madam Pomfrey had managed to sink her claws into Harri, refusing
to let the poor girl go until the following morning.

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

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

With an unfocused gaze turned towards the ceiling, 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 3 days,’ the thought was laced with numb confusion, nervously picking at her fingernails, ‘3
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. 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, one that made her shudder. She couldn’t even fathom what
he was planning, feeling too lost, too adrift, to even hazard a guess.

And she couldn’t help the frown tugging the corners of her downwards as she recalled the
encounter with the professors--- how greedily Mad-eye had watched her, soaking in every possible
detail she could remember about Voldemort. How Dumbledore’s eyes held a critical glint, his
posture relaying how apprehensive he was, how on guard. There was no doubt in her mind that the
two would have questioned her further, would have continued to press mercilessly for information
were it not for Pomfrey’s hawk-like staring and constant hovering. Not for the first time, Harri
found herself grateful and indebted to the healer when she finally ushered the two adults out, much
to their verbal disgruntlement.

As the sun had set and the moon climbed ever higher into the night sky, sleep had decided to evade
her, to taunt and jeer by remaining just out of reach. Which was entirely fine by her as the girl had
spent the next few hours in unproductive attempts to come up with a reason as to why Voldemort
had yet to make a move--- to make his resurrection public, to stake his claim and title as Dark Lord
once more. After all, it only made sense that he would. A hand strayed to gingerly touch the scar
above her brow, frustrated when no logical 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
the thought process had been, Harri pulled the duvet over her head in a foul mood. Rolling over
onto her side, she peered into the filtered darkness under the covers.
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she thought groggily, suppressing a yawn in an attempt to fight off the
pulls of sleep, ‘that he stays 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 prepared for, their bringer of peace, of light-- 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
managed to trap her. ‘I still managed to escape though,’ a small voice supplied, a bitter smile
sliding the corners of her mouth upwards as her eyes slipped closed.

It was well past midnight, the silence of the castle almost palpable, when she had been jolted
awake. The windows in 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 company of light, heavy darkness also thrived, stretches of long and dancing shadows.
Dread, overwhelming and foreboding, had been the culprit to wake her up--- a sense of being
watched, of being studied, buzzing relentlessly in the back of her mind.

As Harri squinted into the stretches of shadow, she couldn’t help but puzzle over as to why the
room had suddenly felt so sinister. While during the day it had been welcoming enough, the
infirmary now seemed hostile, off almost. Blinking in a vain attempt to better her night vision, the
redheaded girl gazed determinedly into the corner where the medicine cabinet rested, gaze
bouncing about wildly. Something had tugged her from the peaceful dreamscape, a presence of
some sort that robbed her breath and incited a chill to clam over her skin. Uneasily glancing
towards the door and seeing it was still firmly shut, Harri propped herself up onto her elbows.
‘There’s nothing here, you scaredy-cat. Go back to bed,’ her mind rationalised as it struggled to
regain the sleep it had lost, a begging to heed the exhaustion of her body. But as the girl was about
to listen to her own sensible advice, she saw them. There, in the darkness, blood-red and glinting
brightly in the slivers of moonlight, narrowed and watching in contemplation. Those eyes were
ones she would know from anywhere, their colour, their intensity, everything about them betraying
a lack of humanity— they were his.

She attempted to jump out of the bed, ready to scream, to warn the others that he was here in the
castle, to grab her wand in hopes of a defense. But her legs wouldn’t cooperate-- they were
seemingly glued down to the bed, arms a heavy weight pinned to her sides. Panic welled up, a
mute scream clawing up her throat in a horror unable to be voiced. The girl could only watch,
paralyzed and in thinly-veiled fear, as those eyes moved from the shadows and into the light.

It was an instinctual reaction of terror, hammering heart nearly stopping, a twisting pit in her
stomach. Warning bells were going off in rapid succession as the shadows dripped like liquid from
his form, slowly materializing into something more solid. More real. ‘Tom Riddle,’ the only
coherent thought, 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 the bright spots of light puncturing
his body. The same aristocratic jawline, the porcelain skin, the perfectly kempt hair, and an air of
casual grace clinging to the lines of his body. ‘But I killed you,’ she thought hysterically, heart
abruptly jumpstarting again to pound in an erratic manner as he stalked closer. There was an almost
predatory gleam to that burning gaze of his, movements unhurried, languid almost in nature.

A smirk lifted his plush lips to one side, the left corner slightly higher than the right, almost as
though he could hear her alarmed inner monologue. He cocked his head to one side, amusement
dancing brightly across his countenance as he dissected the girl on the bed, studying, observing.
The way she was attempting to struggle, to fight off the stone weight pressing down her limbs, the
flighty pulse so loud that it was practically audible--- the rapid expansion and collapse of her
ribcage as she struggled to breathe properly. It was just the reaction he had been looking for.

“Oh, but you didn’t,” a simple response, the rich baritone of his voice lilting with delight at her
obvious disbelief and stupor. Harri willed her legs to work, for her arms to move, for someone to
come bursting in to release her from whatever spell he put her under.

He had paused at the edge of the mattress to gaze down at her, eyes flickering over her face, her
body, drinking her in. There was something unreadable in them, something entirely too ravenous
lighting up their glow from within. And at this distance, Harri could make out all of the individual
details that might have gone unnoticed from afar. How, for example, his dark lashes fanned over
those high cheekbones or how his skin was so smooth that it appeared to be cut from marble. The
perfect shape of a cupid’s bow on a sultry mouth, the almond shape of his eyes, a straight nose that
spoke to the purposeful breeding in his lineage. ‘Merlin, it’s not fair,’ an unhelpful thought
supplied, a momentary distraction from the fear. Emerald eyes darted desperately across his face to
discern as to why he was possibly here, a ghost coming back to haunt her, to taunt-- a stress dream,
perhaps, brought on by Voldemort’s unexpected rise.

A low chuckle, breathy and deep, escaped from his throat, as though finding her discomfort to be
quite entertaining. Then he suddenly bent a knee, lowering himself closer, an elegantly shaped
hand reaching out for her forearm. The girl noticed, belatedly, that it was the same one that
Wormtail had cut a few days prior for the resurrection, the one from which blood had been
forcefully drawn. It was a mesmerizing sight, one that she knew she should have been unsettled by,
to watch how easily those fingers had wrapped around the entirety of her arm--- at how large his
hands were in comparison to her own. And then he pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist, right
over the pulse point of the blue fork in the veins, hellfire eyes holding nothing short of a fierce
promise.

His voice was a soft whisper, a foreboding one that spoke of what was to come, a vow made with
only the moon bearing witness, “Soon, Harri. Be ready.”

Her eyes flew open as the girl gasped herself awake, gaze casting wildly about the room for any
evidence, any trace, that it had been more than just a dream. Tentatively moving her legs, content
with the fact that she could, a shaking hand was placed over her frantically thumping heart in an
attempt to calm it.

“He’s not here, he’s not here,” she chanted under her breath, trying to silence the drumming pulse
ringing in her ears with a pressure that made everything else sound too distant--- too far, too murky
and muddled. Part of her regretted having turned down Pomfrey’s suggestion for a dreamless sleep
potion, her head burying itself in trembling hands as she tried to find her center and calm.

After a few moments, she blew out an uneven sigh as the rational side to her conscious attributed
the manifestation to a stress dream--- a hallucination, one brought on by nerves and an overactive
imagination. However, as hard as she tried to ignore it, she could still feel the warmth on her arm
where his fingers had gripped her, had curled possessively into the flesh. The lingering press of a
velvet-soft kiss, the way his mouth had moved against her skin with his spoken promise, the
burning look housed in a crimson stare that made her stomach clench uncomfortably. Harri
stubbornly screwed her lids closed in an attempt to banish all thoughts of the man from the diary, to
find solace in the notion that it hadn’t been real--- to comfort herself that it had just been a ghost
and nothing more.

She had been mostly successful until one traitorous thought whispered in the back of her thoughts,
a betrayal as it pointed out a rather plain truth— ‘Tom never had red eyes.’
 All She Wanted Was A Bath
Chapter Notes

I just wanted to say thank you to everyone that has commented and left a kudos so far!
It means so much to me that you guys are liking my story this much <3

Also, I have the next chapter finished, I just need to edit it and it will be up later
tonight!

**edited 08/07/2020**

Once Harri was finally released from the infirmary, much to Pomfrey’s reluctance, the remainder
of the school year went by in a dizzying kaleidoscope of a blur. The witch had spent the last 3
weeks in a dazed 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 from history’s youngest Triwizard Champion. Why they were even still allowed
in the castle was beyond her comprehension, the relentless flash of their cameras only serving to
induce a headache and inspire her irritation. And she had been quite resolute in refusing to read
whatever drivel they were spouting in the papers, knowing all too well they would twist whatever
she said to suit their own narratives. ‘Absolute pests,’ was her sour assessment, finding herself on
more than one occasion wishing to hex the reporters in a bid for some peace.

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, the
redhead found herself eagerly anticipating the bliss summer would provide, the respite that would
give her a chance 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 a strategy to overthrow a rising Dark Lord. Truthfully though, ever since
the afterimage of Tom Riddle had appeared in the hospital wing, a promise whispered into her
skin, he had been suspiciously quiet in all regards. No further apparitions, no public appearances,
no ensuing battles— not that she entirely minded, of course. Nightmares were her constant
companion now of these days and if she could find some reprieve in her waking life, something her
dreams wouldn’t provide, then Harri would gladly take the win.

When the blessed day of her final exam came and went, the witch felt as though she had just waged
a decades-long war— one that, there was a nagging feeling, she had been on the losing side of.
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. The
corridors were emptied, shadows cast long by the flickering flames on the walls’ sconces, and as
sluggishly 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,
grimacing at the truth in the statement. Somehow, she could already vividly picture the blazing
caramel eyes, the Oxford accent pitched in dismay as it delved into a lecture on how important it
was to eat balanced meals.
The softest groan spilled from her lips as pale hands reached up to, absentmindedly, twist the
auburn strands into a bun, the replacement wand sliding through its center to firmly hold it in place.
Truly, 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 few hours. 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 imparted onto her from the
vapors of time passed over a bubbling cauldron. ‘No wonder Snape’s hair always looks like that,’
she thought with blatant disgust, ‘Officially noted to cross ‘Potions Master’ off as a potential career
path.’ At that very notion, however, she couldn’t quite help but chuckle to herself, twisting her
spine as a symphony of pleasant cracks chased away lingering discomfort. Potions, certainly,
wasn’t her strongest suit, and judging by the way Snape had always looked constipated whenever
she turned in her “masterpieces”, he would be quick to agree.

Lighthearted chatter floated from the cracked doors of the Great Hall and, despite the exhaustion,
Harri felt her spirits lift at the sound of it. Everyone was equally relieved the year, and most
importantly the exams, had finally ended, the lazy stretch of summer vacation laying before them
as 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,
with vitriol, that soured her mood as she plopped down onto the bench with an agitated huff. All
she could summon forth was a mumbled ‘Ello’, ignoring the cautious greetings in reply as she
spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate, the sound a disheartening plop.

Hermione frowned as the redheaded girl slid into the spot next to her, the air of her distemper and
clinging dark thoughts 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 a smudge of charcoal from
the girl’s cheek.

“Honestly,” the brown-haired witch started, fretting over the disarray of her friend’s appearance,
the obvious weariness, “I don’t understand why they couldn’t give you an extension for your
OWLS. Especially considering what has all happened this year—I mean, look at you!”

Ron finally glanced up from his chewing, brows knitting together as he observed the bruising
circles under his friend’s eyes, the way her auburn hair seemed to be a bit on the wild side and
frizzy. 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 over to Hermione in a show of ‘I-
agree-with-you’.

At the fretting of her friends, Harri couldn’t quite help but roll her eyes. She knew, of course, their
intentions were good, that their hearts were in the right place. But, at the moment, she didn’t really
care for sympathy or platitudes. The girl just wanted a bath and one night’s worth of sleep without
nightmares, without having to relive the graveyard or awake in a cold sweat because she had
imagined crimson eyes peering out from the shadows. And, 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 windows
and sliding bolts on the door. ‘Don’t begrudge them. They don’t understand,’ rationality reasoned,
morose that her own mind was fighting against her emotions and was, unfortunately, winning.

Stubbornly pushing peas around her plate, Harri muttered out in a sarcastic tone, the words lacking
the bite she was aiming for, “Geez, thanks Ron, that’s exactly what a girl wants to hear.”

Just as the ginger boy was about to defend himself, to argue that he hadn’t meant anything bad by
it, a piercing noise, a shrill note held for a few seconds too long, flooded the space of the Great
Hall. The students around her abruptly dropped their forks, their glasses of pumpkin juice spilling
over and napkins fluttering to the ground, in attempts to cover their ears--- startled yells manifested
in pockets about the room. The professors seated along the long stretch of the head table scanned
the crowd in confusion, in alarm, vain attempts 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 settling 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. The lights had
begun to flicker ominously, a unified movement as several heads shifted upwards towards 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 pulsating stars, was now a swirl of mist. Darkness, tumultuous
clouds swirling in a vortex, the previously comforting glow now obscured and eclipsed.

A static noise 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 specter, an omniscient god. The redheaded witch stilled in her seat, the blood draining
out of her limbs the very second she had recognised who it belonged to—how could she not? After
all, it was one she had been hearing in her dreams, the one from the chamber, from the impromptu
hospital visit. There was a richness to it, a smoothness, the clipped and perfectly posh British
accent that commanded attention without being outright forceful. It was the kind that reminded her
of a siren’s song, one that just begged to be listened to, obeyed. ‘It’s him,’ her thoughts were
alarmed, green eyes darting around wildly to her classmates. All of them remained blissfully
ignorant as to who was addressing them, who had managed to slip past their wards-- who could
already be well hidden somewhere in the castle.

Harri spared a quick glance to Dumbledore seated at the center of the platform, blue eyes glinting
with apprehension from behind half-moon glasses and lips pressed into a thin line. ‘So he knows
who it is.’ It was somewhat reassuring to understand that she wasn’t the only one-- nor that, for
once, she wasn’t left in the dark. Uneasily, her attention drifted down the line of the other
professors, the silhouettes of their bodies tense, rigid. McGonagall appeared to have aged 50 years
in a split second, shock written so clearly on her lined face, whereas Snape sported a pinch
expression that made it appear as though he had smelled something unpleasant. Mad-eye was
bordering on a demented excitement, vaguely looking like he was rearing to fight, to leap from his
seat as the magical eye whirled in the socket at an alarming speed. The girl shuddered at his
peculiar expression, the way his tongue darted to the corners of his mouth.

With reluctance, her gaze fell from them and back up to the ceiling’s portrayal of a night’s storm,
watching the flashing lights with 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 it scared her beyond all reason— because that meant he got in. Somehow, he had invaded her
safe space, her home, and was proving that even the mighty Hogwarts wasn’t spared from his
influence, his power, or reach.

“For far too long has our world been left to go stagnant,” the voice began, the source originating
from thin air, “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, 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 process what was being implied. Hermione chanced a side-longed 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 and giving a reassuring
quick squeeze. Harri barely noticed it, however, 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,” 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, a place secured
within our new world order. Fail to do these things and you will find no mercy.”

At this point, some of the students at the end of the table, the clumps of first years, had begun to
openly sob in their delayed horror. 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, could relate to it. But it was difficult
to do so as she numbly observed McGonagall rising from her seat in a hurry to provide comfort.
There was a bitterness blooming in her heart, something dark writhing around the beating 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 a man by simply touching him. 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 get to have that privilege. ‘So why should they?’

Harri blinked once, then twice, shaking her head in a vain attempt to drive away the needlessly
hateful thoughts. It wasn’t fair to make that assessment of the children, to expect them not to cry--
to not show that they were unsettled and scared. Not everyone had to be saddled with the same
burdens she did. Jaw clenching, attention drifted from them to look back to the ceiling, trying to
forget their presence, their existence, 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 grip to drum in a nervous tic against the
wood grain. ‘Maybe that’s it?’

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

It felt as though her soul had left her body, powerless to stop the uncontrollable shudder that racked
her slight frame, throat suddenly becoming too dry, too parched. ‘He said those exact words to me,’
her thoughts were ladened with dread, with guilt, eyes frantically scanning over the professors’
table. ‘A month ago, he said those exact words.’ Students around her began to scrabble in panic,
unsure how to process the information, how to properly react. It was understandable, of course, as
a mysterious voice had all but declared 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.’
Instead, she had kept quiet and all but practically invited the monster into their home.

It was a dreadful feeling— she should have warned more people of his return, people who could
have actually done something about it. Not just 2 teenagers and a pair of teachers who, probably,
hadn’t even fully believed her words. A bitter laugh almost escaped her, a dawning revelation as to
why Voldemort had yet to make a public move—he wanted it to be a surprise. To make it so no
one would believe her even if she tried to prematurely alert them to his rebirth. ‘And even now,’ a
resentful assessment as she took in the chaos around her, ‘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
considered to be unreliable in a court of law due to their flighty, impressionable, and flexible
nature.

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

“Silence!”

Harri flinched in her seat as Dumbledore used a sonorous charm to project his voice over the hectic
din of the hall. A blanketing hush ensued as the students looked to their headmaster for guidance,
their faces holding nervous hope, 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, landing firmly upon Harri-- the slightest
tilt of his head the only indication that she was meant to come along as well. Untangling herself
from Hermione’s side, much to the curly-haired girl’s protests, Harri mouthed a quick ‘I’ll explain
later’ before darting off-- 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. Of her peers’ suspicious glances 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 glory-- apparently
unsatisfied with her current fame as the Girl-Who-Lived. As such, it was understandable that the
display room wasn’t exactly a place that had inspired the fondest of memories— in fact, she had
desperately hoped to avoid it altogether.

Tentatively stepping down the dimly-lit stairs into the cellar below, quarreling snippets floated
upwards, their tones pinched with tension and blatant nerves. Pausing at the bottom, rather unsure
of herself, the girl awkwardly cleared her throat as seven pairs of eyes simultaneously snapped to
her slight form, as though mildly taken back by her sudden appearance. Out of everyone in the
gathered half-circle, Dumbledore had been the first to recover, plastering on a smile that didn’t
quite reach his eyes.

“Harri, my dear girl. Please, sit,” he motioned in an invitation towards an empty chair across from
his, the barely-hidden pessimism in his voice doing little to bolster confidence.

The redhead spared a glance over her shoulder towards the stairs, a small part 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, to know
what was going on. 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 down against one another at their misplaced sympathies. ‘At
least Snape’s in character’, the errant thought had lessened the spiteful wariness just slightly, the
potions master resolutely tossing her a sneer before turning his head away.

“These are grave times, I am afraid,” 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 manifested. She swallowed down the retaliation, resigning herself to a
simple and curt nod instead. As much as she would have loved to throw a tantrum, to act
irritatingly pettish, to accuse Dumbledore of his missteps, the girl had enough social intelligence 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 after a lapse of quiet, fingers
steepled in front of him as he leaned forward in the chair.

The way his eyes sparkled made Harri’s hackles rise, jaw ticking with just a touch more pressure
than previously before. 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 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 otherwise.
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? Squaring thin shoulders,
attempting to keep her voice as level as she could, Harri lifted her gaze to meet the headmaster's
evenly with an arch of a single brow.

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

The girl refused to show Dumbledore how much it had rattled her having heard that voice outside
of her head for once, to know that it wasn’t just in her imagination. That it was entirely too real, too
sentient, too animated to be a hallucination. From somewhere behind her, several professors drew
in their breaths, sharp gasps to relay their shocked disapproval at the casual usage of his name. But
she considered that, out of everyone, she had the most right to it-- 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. So the Dark Lord would have to forgive her if she refused to
use the ridiculous euphemism of ‘You-Know-Who’ after being privy 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
the conversation had taken. 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,’
a distant thought as she regarded the silver container held in his warped fingers.

“Unfortunately, you would be correct, my dear,” the slightest twinge of disappointment in his
voice confirmed her suspicions that he had, initially, wanted to take her by surprise.

The witch 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 got word on what happened,” the older man responded almost
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 as she snorted, flexing for him and exaggerating his wince when she had playfully
socked him in his bicep.

“If you two are finished,” a monotone voice abruptly drawled from the corner, breaking their
reverie and glee as Snape stepped into the light. Disdain was painfully evident on his face at the
unexpected appearance of the man and the ensuing rowdiness that was occurring between the pair.

The professor had wrapped the black cloak tighter around his wiry frame, disapproval pinching his
features in a clear tell of where his thoughts were heading— ‘Why does he have to be here?’
practically written across his heavily lined forehead. Coal eyes danced in the residual glow of the
radiant fire, pinpoints of unearthly green flashing in their depths, and Harri couldn’t help but be
faintly reminded of a bat-like demon.

“We were just discussing the urgent matter of the Dark Lord’s return,” a clipped drawl
accompanied an arched brow, "So if you wouldn't 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-- but he bit his tongue instead when he
caught the warning look his goddaughter was shooting his way. Shrugging off the leather jacket,
the disheveled man slumped down into an 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 it seems. The slimy git,” he reported dully,
eyes glazing over for the briefest of a second as though his mind had turned distant, consumed by
wandering thoughts, “It’s a complete mess out there.”

At the news that the school hadn’t been the only placed to be affected, the quarreling amongst the
professors resumed again in earnest—save for Snape whose hawk-like gaze was trained solely on
Mad-eye, lips pressed into a grim line. 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,” he
leveled 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, dear girl, but I believe it’s prudent for
you to leave as soon as possible.”

At this, she blinked owlishly, trying to process what he was implying. ‘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 see who would
come to bring her to the Burrow during the latter half of the holidays.

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

And then the strangest idea overcame her, a notion of hope as a green-eyed gaze slid over to her
godfather, warmth blossoming between her ribs. ‘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 bars on the window that made it next to impossible to open. Judging by
the man's expression, he seemed to be just as optimistic, as eager and all too ready to say ‘yes’ the
second Dumbledore would ask. 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 hopes 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.”

Silence followed the proclamation and then arguing erupted, a cacophony of voices overlapping
with one another. However, the loudest of the bunch 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 with fury as the 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 at 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, the girl still found herself
shrinking further back into the safety of the armchair all the same. In her years spent in the
professor’s 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 the woman 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, 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,” he stated calmly, empathy colouring his voice, “I understand your concern but Harri
will be far safer behind the wards than she will be here.”

Then he suddenly spared a glance over to Sirius, head dipping apologetically at the crestfallen
expression, “Or at Grimmauld Place.”
An awkward silence stretched between the occupants littering about the trophy room, their minds
distant as though they were trying to figure out their own plans, attempting to come to terms with
what was being agreed upon-- to figure out what to tell their own students. The girl let her attention
shift downwards in the lull of conversation, her fingers interlaced as a thumb rubbed pressured
circles on the opposite's palm. A nervous habit, a show of unease 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 had 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, “should I leave?”

The headmaster’s eyes twinkled 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’s 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 go with her.”

Moody suddenly moved from hovering near the perimeter to the center of the room. A tongue
darted to the corners of his chapped lips, the magical eye spinning in a dizzying circle as he
responded gruffly, “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
inherently 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 in a
physical tell of unspoken anxiety.

“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 actually 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,” he
punctuated the last portion of the sentence, sending a meaningful glance over at the scarred wizard
by his side that Harri hungrily clung to, desperately trying to decipher what it could have 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, seemingly oblivious to the entire weighted interaction between the two, picked a
stray thread off of his buttercream yellow robes before clapping his hands in finality, “It’s decided
then. Harri, my dear girl, run along and pack your things if you would please.”
 He Always Has To Ruin Things, Doesn't He?
Chapter 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 his POV to come along 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 divergent 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!

**edited 08/07/2020**

Harri had left the trophy room in a foul mood, intent on making someone feel just as terribly as she
did-- to let the entire world know of her frustrations, her never-ending 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, was forcing her to go back to the one place that she had constantly
begged to be spared. Plus, it was difficult to see the sense in condemning her to a purgatory where
she couldn't even rely on magic should something 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, and
busied in the exchange of low, contemplative whispers. When the portrait door swung open, they
had glanced up in alarm to see the thunderous expression on their friend's face, her burning gaze
fixed unseeingly ahead.

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

"Harri?!"

When she still hadn't responded to the second call, they uneasily lept from their spots to trail after
her cautiously. A nervous look was shared between them when she had yanked the bedroom door
open with more force than necessary-- the hinges creaked when 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 hovering in the threshold, all too ready to hastily 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, she was entirely too self-aware that
her temper could be a wretched ordeal, a bestial thing that was difficult to tame once uncaged. And
a part of her considered that they were blessed souls for even wanting to provide comfort
and help 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
with how they consciously lingered back— always looking for the nearest fire exit, and treating her
as though she were a ticking bomb laid at their feet.

The trio ended up in a prolonged silence, a suspended quiet 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
sheepishly tracked her disorderly movements about the room.

Harri paused midstep, opening her mouth to respond but closing it with an audible click when she
felt tears stinging the back of her throat. The concerned faces of her two best friends started to
warp, to obscure and melt away. ‘It isn’t fair,’ a sullen thought materialised. 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, her very own limbo until the next school year could begin. It was more so the fact
that her freedom was being snatched away so quickly, smoke curling 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 of prolonging her inevitable
torture.

“Oh,” he muttered, glancing over at Hermione in uncertainty, the brown-haired witch equally
adrift.

At a loss for words, he could only watch as the redhead closed her trunk with a final snap, the
pointed features of 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, Ron promising 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, nonexistent, far too slim to even count
on. And mostly, she recalled clinging to Sirius, refusing to let go of him. Harri obsessively replayed
her godfather’s vow over in her head that he would visit her, her lifevest amidst a tumultuous
storm, the barest flicker of hope— ‘Dark Lords be damned.’

And yet, as she stood shivering from the misty night air on the Dursley’s front doorstep, Snape
hovering insistently behind her shoulder, it all seemed like a lie. ‘Because 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 in exile-- a life spent in endless servitude and suffering until it was deemed she
had attained enough atonement to account for her sins.

Vernon Dursley had opened 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. 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 in concern, thin brows drawn together with a silent question.

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. 'Wonderful.'

“What is the meaning of this?!” she hissed out, wiry fingers reaching up to clutch at the door and
pushing it slightly inwards to limit their view into the pastel pink living room.

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

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

Harri twisted around to fix the potions professor with a murderous 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 back in, then 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 the redheaded girl 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, idly tracing 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!”

There it was— the outright denial and venom. Her face heated up of its own accord in the wake of
his adamant refusal, 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 distemper. Of course, it was right. After all, speaking out against
the Dursleys, her uncle in particular, always led to 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 arguing in front of
guests, complete strangers, about how much they seemed to despise their adoptive 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, 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 while the magical eye whirred with a grating sound. In spite of
being as stooped as he was, the defense professor still towered over her uncle, the grisly sight of his
scarred face making the muggle man waned. Harri couldn’t actually ever recall seeing him so pale,
the usual blotchiness drained from his fattened cheeks and beady eyes wide with blatant terror.

“I’d suggest, Mr. Dursley, for your own wellbeing, that you let Miss Potter into the house,” his
usually gruff Scottish accent had begun to bleed away into resembling 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— a jarring thought crossing her mind that Alastor Moody was the exact
opposite to the woman in that regard.

Green eyes couldn’t help but marvel at the auror, at his fearlessness, his recklessness in so
boldly brandishing his wand. And a sliver of her was jealous that he felt comfortable enough to do
so, was able to without facing any repercussions. At this thought, Harri couldn’t help but peek over
at Snape. The man was blissfully ignoring the entire interaction in favour of eyeing her aunt’s
honeysuckle, lips pursed in deliberation. Apparently, he was more than content to do nothing,
choosing to instead 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 her uncle, an electric blue eye sent her a quick wink and a rueful smile.

If asked about it later, the girl 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, as engraved
into the freckled skin. But as he took a hurried nip from his 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 Harri was being ushered inside, past her quivering uncle and petrified aunt, sparing a
dumbstruck glance over her shoulder just in time to see the two wizards apparate away from Privet
Drive.

She stood there for a second, hovering in the foyer, a longing, a yearning, gnawing the inside of her
chest raw. How badly she wanted to scream into the night air 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 already far too gone, their bodies melted away and becoming
one with the encroaching mist.

Dejectedly closing the front door, the redhead watched impassively as her relatives tottered off
down the narrow hall, still not quite recovered from the sudden threats.

She blinked once, an agitated sigh, before setting 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, scanning critically at 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 here,’ 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 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, had been at
Hogwarts just a few hours ago. And 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 bars, she noted bitterly, 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
any cross breezes. 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.”

She didn’t quite hear the words so much as she felt them. The way they seemed to be whispered
directly into her mind to interrupt the swirl of venom, the dissatisfied thoughts.

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 to mime 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, whirling on the spot out of some irrational fear that he had managed to slip
past the wards. When an empty space had 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. ‘What did you
expect? You've barely been sleeping and your poor mind is probably exhausted,’ there it was
again, the chastising inner monologue that suspiciously sounded quite a bit like Hermione.

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

Slumping down onto the bed, a creak of springs groaning under an unexpected weight, she warily
watched the bedroom’s door until her pulse finally settled into a more comfortable rhythm. ‘Of
course, he’s not here. That’s the whole point of the blood wards.’ The pull of sleep was becoming
insistent, difficult to ignore as she finally had a chance to sit down-- to have a moment of quiet to
herself and to relax a little bit. 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 into an uneasy sleep, were the pair of crimson eyes
flickering in the mirror perched haphazardly on the desk.

Hundreds of miles away, on the other end of Britain, sat a wraith of a man in a candle-lit study, the
dancing shadows and crackling fire his only companions. Before him on the oak desk lay an
assortment of rather peculiar-looking objects, lined up in a symmetrical row, that may have been
mistaken for family heirlooms upon a first glance. A gold ring with a curiously carved black
diamond at its center, an odd symbol engraved into the heart of the gem. A locket inlaid with an
impressive amount of emeralds, 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 resting in the
middle. Crimson eyes obsessively scanned the row, the feeling of hunger, of unwavering greed, a
constant motif whenever he gazed 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. Voldemort reached for the ring, twirling and twisting it between nimble fingers as he
contemplated his current predicament, slitted eyes glazing over in thought.

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 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 his attention 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,
distracting eruptions on the borders of his consciousness that, sometimes, caught him off guard in
their intensity.

“She’s certainly a loud little thing,” he mused to himself, having felt her earlier ire, her 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 pondered, would hopefully 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, of the way it had
been, somehow, just as bright under the moonlight. And the more he reflected on it, the more
aware he was that he held an aesthetic attraction towards her. Swirling the glass in his hand in
contemplation, he summoned her to appear in his mind’s eye. Pale skin, 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 seemed most suited to 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 his glass, finding no shame in his 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 she was 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 crystalware onto the desk, sliding the ring onto his finger idly. 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 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 erroring 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 enough to remain a monster
amongst 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 his younger self, unable to stop herself
from succumbing to the allure of his old appearance.

The door suddenly creaked open, drawing him from his introspection as his familiar slithered in,
the flat triangular head lifting as she flicked her tongue out curiously.

“What are you thinking about?” she inquired, winding her way up the back of his chair, his
troubled concern turning the air sharp, acidic.

He reached back to absentmindedly stroke the smoothness of her head, 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,
his head tilting towards the door, “Come, Nagini. There are preparations to be made before the
night is up.”
 Back From The Dead
Chapter Notes

I hope you guys can bear with me a tad longer-- I had the wand scene come to me in a
dream 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
makes my day seeing them when I log on <3

*edited 08/09/2020*

Time stretched on slowly, languid from the stifling humidity of the mainland’s summer, and as the
5th week of her vacation approached, Harri wondered if it would ever end. She was currently
sprawled out on the backyard’s lawn, the grass finally blunt with new growth from being mowed a
few days prior, sheltered in the waning shade of the lone walnut tree. It had become a habit of hers
to seek refuge in the outdoors when her thoughts were heavy, troubled, and, with the chirps of
cicadas in the foreground providing a lulling hum, ‘The Girl Who Lived’ contemplated 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 away 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 think about, could focus on. Obsessively, Harri replayed over her last interactions
with her comrades, desperate to find any warning signs of their commitment to her 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, still assured her that her place was at
the Burrow. There was no 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 had
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 if there was any truth in
Vernon’s statement when he warned her that he would know if she had touched it. ‘At least they’re
gone,’ a small smile bloomed on her face at the thought, finding solace in that little win. Ever since
Mad-eye had threatened them, the muggles were, blessedly, absent from the 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 the redheaded girl 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 away, it was as perfect as any chance to get a jumpstart on next year’s
material. Though she may not have loved learning and reading as much as Hermione did, even she
could appreciate putting some downtime to use every now and again, to be productive when one
had nothing else to do. And it had been all too easy to find out 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. Though, of course, hiding her wand wouldn’t
prevent her from accessing her powers— but the explanation on the differences between
‘accidental’ and ‘purposeful’ magic had gone entirely over their heads. Their firm position was that
any and all usage was sinful, immoral, and inherently wrong. Absentmindedly humming, a tuneless
sort of song, she thumbed through her defence textbook resting on her lap.

“Ex-pul-so,” Harri muttered, eyes scanning over the page as she intently studied the diagram,
decidedly ignoring the section where it labelled the spell as a curse. After all, how bad could it be
if it was in a school regulated manual?

“Doesn’t seem too difficult,” she murmured softly, already contemplating the spell’s uses. Who
knew when she might have to explode something next?

Reaching for her wand, the witch went through the wrist movements without actually speaking
aloud the incantation. ‘As long as I don’t actually do magic, the ministry can't complain,’ voiced
her bitter thoughts, entirely displeased at having been restricted from using her powers for an entire
summer. After all, why was she supposed to ignore her birthright? Underage wizards in magical
environments were allowed to cast spells so it seemed a tad unfair that she wasn’t afforded the
same privilege. Of course, she knew, deep down, that it made sense— after all, using their wands
at the Burrow would be normal. Brandishing one here, nonetheless actually producing something,
might induce some of her aunt’s more religious and conservative neighbours to have a heart attack.
‘And wouldn’t that just be grand,’ a snort accompanied the thought, 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, doing very little to quell her nerves. Harri redirected her
attention to the textbook to chase away the grim thoughts.

A few moments had passed before a groan of frustration interrupted the hum of the cicadas, the
wrist movement not as fluid as she’d like. Glaring at the wand, a sense of resentment and longing
thrived fiercely in her chest as she tossed it in the grass. Her original one had been lost in the
graveyard, forgotten in her attempts to break free from the statue’s hold, and the girl had been
trying to make do with this replacement. ‘But,’ she frowned as she critically eyed it, the wood
resting innocently in the grass, ‘it’s all wrong.’

It was too light, the weight distributed far too much on the tip and not in the handle. She recalled
Ollivander’s keen assessment as he found her a match that he felt was most suitable. Walnut, 10
inches with a dragon heartstring core—even so, despite the wandmaker’s expertise, she felt empty,
dull, as though it were an ordinary stick and nothing more. A curse green gaze drifted upwards to
stare at a passing cloud, trying absentmindedly to make a shape out of its blurred edges. Her
thoughts were consumed in a distant wonder of where her true match had gotten off to, if someone
had picked it up or if it was left to rot among the tombstones.

Fate was a fickle thing and tended to have a rather interesting, or sick depending on who you
asked, sense of humour. As it so happened, the wand in question was currently in the possession of
a certain Dark Lord, having been picked up in the graveyard several months ago. A physical
reminder, an assurance, that the girl was real, that she 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 an
attempt to reclaim it. And when his little horcrux finally would reappear, Voldemort had no
intention of relinquishing her, of letting her slip through his hold once again. After all, she was
safest by his side 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,
maim and grind her into dust.

His crimson stare 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 undoubtedly. Not just for the fact that she had dropped it but for the
fact he could feel it. The thrum of magic, her signature like his own, as wild as she was,
unrestrained and existing as bright spots of light in his mind’s periphery. It felt like an old friend in
his grip, greeting him as though he were a 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
nearly laugh at the absurdity of it, of 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 as well in addition to magic. She was
truly, undeniably, irrefutably his— irrevocably tied to him. An idle thought crossed his mind
pondering, once again, how much of the girl was his versus how much she was entirely her own.
Where did his influence, his soul, end within her? How much of who she was originated from a
source outside of himself?

A grating moan interrupted his musings, gaze reluctantly drifting to the body lying prone at his
bare feet. At some point, the man had bitten his tongue while under the cruciatus curse, the froth
spilling from his mouth tinged a brilliant scarlet hue.

“Ah, Scrimgeour, I must confess myself distracted. I had forgotten you were even here,”
Voldemort intoned as he rose from the carved throne, Harri’s wand still clutched in his grasp,
amusement colouring the soft whisper.

Stepping over a puddle of bile, the Dark Lord assessed the poor state the Minister was in. The
crossed lacerations were freely bleeding and wetting his torso in a dazzling shade of crimson, the
bloody fingernails worn down to stumps, torn and jagged, as he had clawed at his own skin, at the
marble floors, in purchase of relief from his suffering. Voldemort sneered disdainfully down at the
wizard, his spine weak and mind fractured— how quickly the man had fallen under torture, had
relinquished his position of power after not even six minutes of exposure to the agony. ‘Pathetic.’
For the most part, the parlour was still, quiet, a weighty hush punctuated by an errant groan every
now and then. Having long lost the ability to scream, to formulate a coherent sentence, only
Scrimgeour’s muted gasps relayed the pain he was in, his body minutely spasming from the
aftershocks.

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

In a mock show of sympathy, he clicked his tongue, a chiding quality to his voice, “What a shame,
Rufus, to only have lasted a term.”

Maddening laughter suddenly danced around the throne room at the comment and Voldemort
glanced up to take in Bellatrix’s disheveled appearance— he had forgotten about the witch being a
spectator. Two weeks prior had found her still rotting in Azkaban, an oversight he had been quick
to remedy. Truthfully, freedom has done wonders for the woman in such a short amount of time,
years of neglect easily reversing in the wake of regular baths and meals. Her frame, once reduced to
border on the skeletal, had begun to finally fill back out, shapely curves once lost making a
reappearance, the mass of dark curls regaining their lovely sheen. But what he enjoyed most about
loyal Bella, had been drawn to all those years ago when she courted to join his ranks, were her coal
eyes—the way they shone in admiration whenever they took in his magnificence or the perverse
satisfaction that sparked them to life when she performed an Unforgivable.

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

But he held a hand out, a nonverbal command for her to stay her course of action, “That’s enough,
Bella. I can not begrudge Nagini her meal any longer.”

A whimper, either out of being denied the pleasurable surge or at being reprimanded—or perhaps
both— tore from her throat, a pitiful sound. Crimson eyes slid over to her form, considering the
shaking in her shoulders, the quivering of her lower lip in a pout, a look that she was about to
protest. He understood— it was difficult to come back from the edge after free-falling into the
void, into the sea of pleasure from casting such spells. But regardless.

The slitted gaze narrowed just a fraction, a silent warning, a cautioning, of what would await her if
she didn’t obey and cede to his command. A blink, then two, apologetic shock colouring her
expression as she hastily dipped her head, hurrying back a few steps as a semblance of sense came
back into her.

Voldemort had been about to summon his own wand to end the Minister's life, to get rid of an
obstacle in his ultimate goal, when a depraved thought crossed his mind—an insistent yearning, a
desire, a compulsive wish. He glanced down at the holly wand still in his grasp, crimson eyes
darkening and swirling with contemplation. How innocent it was, how uncorrupted it felt between
his fingers. Never before had it known dark magic, had been tainted in the way he wished to do so
to her. It was a perverse thing, truly, to hold something so pure and knowing the power he held
over its fate. Most wizards would consider it damning, 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 in uncertainty, he
pointed the tip towards Scrimgeour’s minutely twitching body, a perverse feeling settling in his
chest at the way the wand had begun to hum pleasantly.

“Avada Kedavra,” a soft incantation, not surprised to feel some resistance in the wake of his
casting.

However, as the Dark Lord pushed his will, his intent, his magic, into the wand, he could feel that
initial opposition begin to crumble to his wishes, the fight ebbing away. Vivid green light abruptly
shot forth from the piece of wood, flooding the room with its sickening hue— the Minister of
Magic was no more.

His chest heaved in exertion for a moment, crimson eyes blown wide over the feat that he had just
accomplished. Her wand had listened to him, the warmth radiating from it a physical reminder it
hadn’t rejected him, hadn’t spurned him. ‘How interesting,’ all attention fixated in a stupor, in a
wonder, down at the heated holly in a cradle of long fingers. It was a moment of quiet, of
introspective respite, before he gathered his bearings and an awareness of his surroundings came
back. Voldemort schooled his features into a neutral expression, a carefully blank mask.

“Nagini, your feast awaits,” a sibilant hiss in the language the two shared, Bellatrix’s eyes
darkening with something a tad more than just admiration, than awe.
Eyes glinting, he watched passively as the serpent extended her jaws to begin the process of
swallowing the wizard, his heart still beating a pace too fast. Returning his horcrux’s wand back
into his sleeve, riding out his wave of triumph and success, he tilted his head towards Bellatrix
before starting for the door.

“Come, Bella,” the doors parted of their own accord as he approached them, “We have a new
world order to bring about.”

The sun was beginning to dip past the tree’s horizon and 4 Privet Drive still found a redheaded girl
in its backyard, attempting to get the new wand to cooperate with her. It was too light yet too heavy
in her hands, not as much snap as she would have liked in her wrist, not enough fluidity. As the
frustration continued to mount, a bubbling well of irritation, the movements became more erratic,
more aggressive.

“Stupid. Wand. Why. Won’t. You. Work!” she ground out, her ire causing magic to crackle
defensively against her skin.

The girl hurled the wooden stick into her aunt’s prized topiary, her auburn hair coming frayed out
of its hastily made bun. And though she knew, logically, it wasn’t the wand’s fault, that her
annoyance was stemming from something far more than just not being able to understand the spell,
she found herself not caring. It felt therapeutic to throw it, to have a physical outlet for her anger,
for the burning resentment.

“Now, Potter, that’s no way to treat a wand,” a stern voice reprimanded from behind her, the ever
so slightest lilt of a Scottish drawl.

Harri whirled on the spot, eager to tell whoever it was to shove off, when emerald green robes and
a pointed hat had greeted her.

“Professor McGonagall! I’m sorry, I just- wait, what are you doing here?” she bounded over to the
older witch, the woman 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, fiery strands falling to
her waist in a damp mess from the summer day’s humidity.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Or to eat?” she rambled, excited to have some form of company
from the wizarding world, someone to finally talk to that wasn’t her sour-faced aunt and uncle,
someone that wasn’t herself.

“No, no dear, that’s quite alright. I just felt it was prudent to check on you, considering-,”
McGonagall cut herself short, face pinching in a mixture of frustration, sorrow, and anger.

It was an immediate reaction of her heart sinking, the earlier bliss of seeing her favourite teacher
waning. 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 an expression, to have fear dance in those normally
bright eyes. And how it filled her with trepidation, with insurmountable dread.

“Professor? What’s happened?” she questioned, already fearing the worst.

The Gryffindor Head of House reached out to place a calming hand on her student’s shoulder,
forcing a smile even though her eyes were murky with troubled thoughts. It hadn’t escaped Harri’s
notice that those hands, frail with age, were trembling.

“Things are changing,” McGonagall began slowly, pushing her half-moon glasses further up her
nose as she avoided the girl’s prompting, “But everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

She trailed off, her expression shuttering, collapsing inwards, as though resolute not to let anything
slip. Harri had tried to decipher her 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 witch
and all she wanted was to help her work through it, to help the woman she had come to think of as
a mentor ease her anxieties— but how could she if she wasn’t even made aware of their nature,
their cause?

“Professor-,” the redheaded girl was cut off by McGonagall abruptly pulling her into a tight
embrace, her mind going blank for a moment.

‘She never hugs me,’ a confused thought, arms hesitantly going up to wrap around the other
witch’s thin frame. While it felt odd, she couldn’t say that she entirely minded it. Some part of her
always held onto the childish thought that the Gryffindor Head was the closest thing to a parent, a
privilege forever denied to her. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Harri allowed herself a
moment to indulge in the fantasy, in the comfort, by resting her head on a bony shoulder.

“It’ll be alright, dear. You’ll see,” the transfiguration professor muttered repeatedly into Harri’s
hair, her wrinkled hands shaking ever so slightly.

The Dark Lord stood in the centre of the antechamber beneath his study, waving his hand
absentmindedly as the sconces on the wall sprung to life. At his feet, a triangle drawn 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 consciousness, the one that he came to
recognise as her, had finally quieted. The entirety of his day had been spent waiting for her to fall
asleep, to cease the endless chatter, the 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, 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 scented the air, “musst you do thiss? You
have waited for sssoo long to have sseven, why desstroy three more?”

The Dark Lord began to shed his robes, letting the onyx material collect in a puddle at his feet as
the orange glow from the flames flickered across ghostly skin. He moved with grace towards the
middle of the triangle, a wraith-like body too tall and too fluid to be human, the yew wand at his
side, and incantation ready on his tongue.

“Things have been off, dear one,” he observed his skeletal hand, at the pale veins stretched too
thinly, brought too close to the surface. It was a horrifying sight, one of a monster that had been
summoned from death but lacking flesh, sinew, warmed blood in his veins.

“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 raw desire reflected in her eyes. Yes, she was attracted to his old form far more than his
current one and what did the muggles always say? ‘It’s easier to catch flies with honey than
vinegar,’ a passing thought, fixed in determination, 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 a prince rather than a villain.

Voldemort held his hand out, the tip of the bone white wand pressed firmly against its softness, a
calm intonation, “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, a warning of her displeasure that she was not in agreement with the plan.
Ignoring his familiar altogether, bare feet carried him to the goblet, the damp air of the earth 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, singed, destroyed. At this point,
what even was the difference between existing here or existing in the void that he had gotten to
know so intimately over the past 15 years? Holding the weeping palm over the chalice, three drops
of his life stained the golden surface.

“Ego antiquum spirituum invocabitis,” 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 tracing 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, of its animation.

Voldemort only paused at the Gaunt ring, feeling 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, destroyed, and rebuilt in his own image. The ring contained the
ghosts of his wretched family, those who had rejected him, 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
domination over those who had wronged him, of rising past them, of rendering their bodies to dust
and ash in the earth under his very feet.

But 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. Slitted eyes narrowed a fraction in resolute determination, fingers clenching into a fist
with more force than probably necessary, the blood flowing freely, more quickly, than previously
before.

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

Returning back to the middle of the triangle, an unbearable amount of heat rolled off of the
horcruxes, steam flooding the underground chamber as the searing warmth intermixed with the
cooling dampness. 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, a devil wandering the mortal plane.

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

In unison, the vibrating horcruxes had stilled, the lack of chaos feeling amiss, unsettling.
Voldemort’s eyes drifted over to Nagini, unsure 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 this regard, and, if he was 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’ material 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, 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 of agony. His vision began to
blur, darkening on the periphery as he helplessly sought out the form of Nagini, the snake coiling
and writhing in what looked like immense pain. 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
feeling it as well.

The seconds seemed endless, minutes felt as though they were bleeding into hours as the searing
refused to abate. Blinking through another wave of torment, a crescendo of anguish, he chanced a
glimpse down at 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 lifeforce, 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, a vain attempt of a
distraction—but he refused to give in to the pain. He had spent 15 years feeling nothing, should
relish in being able to even perceive his current suffering after that ghastly experience. And, as if
sensing his resolve that he wouldn’t be the first to break, to crumble and give in, the tendrils
dropped their burning contact.

His body collapsed to the ground in relief, shaking from the ordeal as he tried to regain clarity in
his sight, to find the energy to move. A beat of silence, and then two, before he finally rolled onto
his back. Fighting through the exhaustion, the dulling ache in the limbs, Voldemort lifted his head
and grimaced at the gore— lacerations marked the expanse of his chest, his front glinting wetly
with scarlet. And, for the first time since his rebirth, he felt drained, a wisp more than a man, as
though the slightest gust of wind could carry him away.

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

Reaching through their bond, a cool relief flooded him, a slight reprieve from the aftershocks
jumping through his muscles, at the flicker of her at the edges of his mind. ‘Our connection wasn’t
destroyed then,’, 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,
living proof to 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 enough that they managed to
survive the ritual intact.

Lying prone in the dirt, fingers twitching in a tell of his regaining strength, the Dark Lord finally
lifted his torso off the ground. With a wince, his core still raw, a mirror was conjured with a
passing wave. A light sheen of sweat had coated the naked body, attracting the quivering flames
and making it appear as though diamonds had been embedded into his skin. Staring back as a
reflection, eyes glinting with immense satisfaction, was the old face of his youth. The same high
cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, the defined jawline, the silky dark strands that curled slightly
around his ears. However— he had kept the red gaze. A frown tugged on the corners of his mouth
as he noted that the complexion was still a touch too pale as well. But all in all, it had been a
success. The plush 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, dug into with merciless talons, a dull resounding pain
that flared every time her heart beat. ‘What happened,’ a terrified thought, more than thankful that
the Dursleys had been gone— she could only imagine their displeasure, their alarm, at her
deafening wails. The throat was tender from her screams, the legs unstable and quaking, bright
bursts of agony that split her head. Green eyes squeezed closed, desperately wishing that Pomfrey
was by her side with one of her magical concoctions that could erase the pain, and could return her
to normal.

It was impossible to understand, to comprehend, what had just happened. But she was 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, had killed in a spray of black ink.
Tom Riddle had risen from the dead.
 Field Trip, Anyone?
Chapter Notes

Hey guys! As promised, here's chapter 7. Please don't hate me-- I promise the good
stuff is coming up here very soon <3

Also wow thank you every for the attention this fic has been receiving! It's crazy and I
love and appreciate you all for every comment, like and bookmark <3

*edited 08/09/2020*

After that night, Harri had spent nearly the rest of the week trying to regain enough strength to get
out of bed, her body still feeling too raw, too exposed, 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 had learned, rather quickly, to limit her physical activity to only when it was most
direly needed— to go to the bathroom or get a drink from the sink’s tap, mainly 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 if she laid a
certain way, had become her sole comfort as she fought off the chills, the shudders, the bone-deep
pangs.

Most of the time had been passed 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 during her second
year— and the monster that had emerged from the cauldron, demanding her blood and flesh. On
some nights, she found herself in a study, hovering over his shoulder as he scratched away at pieces
of parchment, observing the elegant lines of his hands with morbid curiosity. An apparition, a
specter, a phantom encroaching on his daily routines and trailing after him, hours spent merely
observing.

On other occasions, she would join him in the dining parlour, watching 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 broad shoulders. Rather quickly, however, she was starting
to hate the dreams that featured the snake— the creature always seemed to look directly at her, as
though aware of her ghostly presence. Then it would whisper something in the Dark Lord’s ear, too
quiet for her to hear, a passing conversation that would always result in one thing— him turning to
where she was apparently seated or standing, a look in hellish eyes she couldn’t fully understand, a
smirk dancing across his face.

Green eyes fixated numbly on the ceiling, the popcorn texture starting to peel off in some areas and
leaving behind bald spots among the plaster. These recent visions were troubling and it always
caused a frown and an unsettled weight in her chest whenever she attempted to decipher what her
subconscious was possibly suggesting. That, perhaps now that Voldemort had Tom’s face, she
didn’t mind him as much? That, somehow, she was projecting onto him a residual obsession, 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 considered 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, in having camaraderie
with someone so very similar to her— it was damning and made the eventual betrayal sting all the
more. It seemed easier, at the time, to just suppress it, deny it, to claim she initially never felt
anything towards the boy that had emerged from the diary. That her feelings were null, nonexistent
— but that was a lie and Harri Potter was never a convincing liar.

And seeing his face yet again brought those feelings back to the surface, complicated tugs on her
conscience that did terrible things to her morality, her ethics. He was Voldemort— had always
been, in fact. Glowing letters, an anagram, “I Am Lord Voldemort” flashed in her mind. But still,
despite all of that, the girl still found herself replaying every last interaction they had — the way
his mouth had been pressed into her skin, the look of hunger in his eyes 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 red. Admittedly, she had embarrassingly little history when it came to
boys her age, nevermind older men who undoubtedly had experiences she couldn’t even fathom.
But even her limited knowledge could understand this— none of his touches were offhand or
innocent. They were all done with a purpose, with intent.

‘Remember, though,’ logic cautioned, dragging her out of her reverie, ‘Tom wanted to kill you just
as much as Voldemort did.’ A chilled hand strayed to clutch at her right arm, remembering vividly
the phantom pain of a basilisk fang lodged deep within the muscle. And how that was a shock to
her system, a bitter reality. Yes, even if he was attractive, unfairly so, he was still a murderer, a
homicidal maniac, a Dark Lord. ‘Maybe it’s just stress dreams?’ The girl found herself desperately
clinging to that line of thinking, somehow the idea of her mind being fragile at the moment more
agreeable than trying to justify any fantasies she had about her greatest enemy. Either way, it had
become an unsettling fact that a certain red-eyed man seemed to always be the star player in her
dreams, unable to escape him even in her mind.

Harri shifted her head, auburn strands fanning across a ratty pillow, to look over at the calendar
hung askew above the desk. The days had been marked with a row of massive red Xs, boldly and
determinedly crossed out. It was the beginning of week 6 of the summer 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 before she could blink, that
it wasn’t such a long time, it still felt like an agony. Prolonged and never-ending punishment.

With a stifled groan, the witch hauled her stiff body off of the bed and glanced uneasily towards
the barred window. Thunder began to rumble in the distance. 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 and so 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 as they
protested the motion, the girl slipped on a pair of worn sneakers. Taking a 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 with blazing persistence, slipping out the front door and
into the humid summer’s day, ‘Then I’ll come to them.’

Sparing a wary glance to the darkening sky, the threat of a storm just about to break palpable by
the taste in the air, she shoved her replacement wand into the back pocket of her jean shorts and
took off towards the road that led out of Privet Drive. Standing at the edge of the sidewalk, wand
arm raised to the heavens, a victorious smile flourished on her face as a shining two-tiered bus
popped into existence. ‘Guess they all conveniently forgot that the Knight Bus exists.’ Gripping
the rail and climbing the steep steps, she deposited her fare into the box.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” she mumbled in confidence, pleased enough when the driver gave her a
quick nod, flooring the vehicle before the girl even had the chance to sit down.

On shaking legs, the witch 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. Brows furrowed in the wake of the heavy silence amongst the few scattered passengers,
the way no one seemed willing to speak. ‘Things are changing,’ the grim words of McGonagall
came to her mind unsummoned, inducing a shudder. It was an ominous warning, one that caused
her stomach to clench in a way that wasn’t entirely due to motion sickness.

‘The real question is, how much?’ Another distant rumble of thunder jerked her attention towards
the window, suddenly anxious as to how different the wizarding world would be when she had
finally returned.

A few hundred miles away, the Dark Lord found himself in a similar position to one Harri Potter—
staring 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 blonde wearing down his already thin patience. In hindsight, he
knew that he should listen more carefully, considering the pureblood was currently puppeteering
the ministry for him. But when he felt the bright flares of his horcrux’s annoyance, the singing
thrums of her victory, the bite of her anxiety, the senior Malfoy became maddeningly distant from
his thoughts.

Ever since he had gained his old form back, having assimilated the errant pieces of his soul, the
bond between himself and the girl had gotten more intense. She had recently developed a nasty
habit of randomly projecting her consciousness 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 see but could sense once made aware of it. It made
him wonder what she was seeing, what she was thinking, during these 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, pride colouring his voice at the victory he was about to
report.

However, he stopped short, heart rate spiking, as his Lord suddenly rose from the table, eyes dark
with contemplation. A beat of silence followed, a moment of inaction as the rain had begun to pelt
the windows in an intense rhythm. Sharp sounds against glass in an ornate frame, a lulling yet
simultaneously jarring sound.

“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 reverence.
“How do you feel about a quick excursion?” the Dark Lord questioned, mind turning over and the
quirk of an amused smile on his lips.

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

As Harri stepped down from the bus, nearly having to hop the distance of the last step to the
ground, the rain had just started to dot the pavement in large blooms. Nodding to the driver in a
show of thanks, the witch 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, was
hushed, subdued.

Much like the Knight Bus, the few patrons scattered amongst the tables seemed to only converse in
hushed tones. Only a handful had looked up at her, the lack of attention something she would have
once been grateful for—but now it unnerved her seeing how many wanted to avoid eye contact
with a stranger. She glanced towards the counter for Tom, desperate to see the always merry
barkeep, but felt a tad crestfallen when he was nowhere to be found. Slipping into the back
courtyard, eager to escape the depressing atmosphere of the pub, Harri removed her pocketed wand
to tap on the worn bricks— three up, two across. The wall gave way and she shivered at the
whisper of magic settling over her skin, a long lost friend she never knew how much she missed
until they were finally reunited.

The Alley was, surprisingly, busy given the grave and somber atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron.
Harri wasn’t entirely sure what her plan 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 to them, 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, pressure him into telling her why he had broken his promise to visit? But as
Harri took a step, and then another, into the vibrant crowd, her thoughts and anger seemed to ebb
away into pure joy. This was her home, the world she belonged to.

She reveled 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 ambiance of her journey to
get here, Diagon was untouched by such darkness— and it provided her some comfort to know it
remained unchanged. Drifting over, the witch went to join the circle of kids crowded in front of the
quidditch store window, marveling alongside them at the newest Nimbus model. A sense of
longing for her own broom, a distant thought to buy this one, before she was pushed along by the
crowd. Readily allowing herself to be swept away, it was the most unburdened that she had felt in a
long time, the sharp pains and aches of her body long forgotten.

When the sign for Magical Menagerie came into view, the owls outside hooting noisily in their
cages, her heart gave a sharp tug. The witch had left her familiar, Hedwig, in Hagrid’s care over
the summer, not wanting to risk it after Vernon’s 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 during the fall, ‘only one of us has to suffer.’

The drumming sound of rain made green eyes glance upwards, the droplets hitting 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. For some reason, it
caused a delighted smile to thrive, a sense of elation airy in her chest, driving away the sour
thoughts. ‘I bloody love magic.’ It was the simple things that made her realise just how much she
cherished this other side of her life, that the wizarding world was where she belonged.
Rejoining the main crowd, the redheaded witch spent a while wandering down the bustling streets
until a newspaper stand caught her eye, the papers decorated with numerous flashing photographs.
Harri slid a knut into the dispenser, grabbing it with the same eagerness she had grasped at her
Hogwarts letter— this was her one chance to understand as to what McGonagall had been referring
to, what had shaken her so terribly. Tucking into an alcove, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach,
blood turning chilled 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 on 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 immersed 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 tightly, and crinkling it in the process: LUCIUS MALFOY NAMED INTERIM
MINISTER OF MAGIC, SCRIMGEOUR MISSING.

“Things are changing indeed,” she mumbled, a sour taste coating her tongue as she folded the
newspaper in her irritation.

Her eyes darted about the pleasant crowd wildly, trying to see if anyone else was having a similar
reaction, or was feeling the same things 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 injustices that were
currently going on, a blind eye 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.’

Suddenly, Diagon Alley didn’t seem as pleasant, as joyful 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
forwards.

Just as the girl had rejoined the throng, threading and weaving her way through the masses, she had
heard it. A soft whisper, a light tap on her shoulder, “Harri.”

Alarmed, she craned her neck but only saw an elderly couple behind her, clearly enamoured with
one another and thoroughly occupied in conversation. Her heart had begun to pound in the spaces
between her ribs, an unrelenting tempo that made the world around her spin, to distort. Tugging her
cap down further over the scar, the girl ducked her head and stuffed her hands into the short’s front
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 in her ear, a tug
on her elbow.

This time, the witch had whirled around in agitation, ready to yell at someone to shove off, the
couple reeling back in surprise at her sudden temper. And there, a few feet further down the strip, a
man stood tall. The crowd had parted around him, subconsciously giving him space, not daring to
come any closer. It was as though they had recognised his magic, a subtle underlying current that
triggered instinctual flags to stay away, to not encroach on him. The wizard had been dressed in a
black linen shirt, four buttons left undone to reveal the hollow divet of his collarbones, hands
stuffed casually into 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 curl defiantly finding
purchase above a shapely brow, the angled cheekbones, the confident smirk.

But most jarringly were the red eyes watching her in fascination, a darkness in them that, even from
this distance, she could recognise as the shadows of hunger. ‘Tom bloody Riddle.’

Recovering from the shock, fear was the first emotion to sweep through her, mouth closing with an
audible click. And then it was followed shortly by embarrassment, being caught off guard by his
appearance and the casual way he had been dressed, how perfectly it had suited him. Then, finally,
anger, hot and blazing.

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 Dursleys, 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 dancing across his mouth 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 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 ever even moving.

Narrowing her gaze, Harri watched as he sauntered down into a side-alley and distantly reflected
on what spell he had possibly used to project his voice, his lips not even parting. The girl began to
thread her way through the crowd, muttering out rushed apologies as she fought through the steady
mass of bodies. It was disconcerting to see him amongst so many pedestrians, wearing the face of
a man who looked barely older than she was, dressed in such muggle clothing to top it all 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 the wizards gathered here as hostages, as leverage. Her eyes 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 battle and duel until only one of them remained standing.

And maybe it wasn’t exactly the wisest idea to go after a Dark Lord down a secluded alley with a
wand that only half-listened to her, choosing to ignore its master more often than not. But Harri
Potter wasn’t exactly known for her ability to think things through properly, to listen to reason
when her heart told her otherwise. In fact, everything at the moment was encouraging her to punch
him right in his pretty face.

In the haste to catch up to the Dark Lord, the girl hadn’t been looking where she was going, eyes
glued to the shadowed entrance that he had slinked off to. And that’s how she 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 eyebrow.

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

“Professor Snape! I was just-,” Harri’s mind fumbled for a good excuse, to formulate one he would
buy, as she leaned to peer around the potion master’s lanky frame.

She couldn’t quite help herself from glaring at the alley where Voldemort was, undoubtedly, lying
in wait, delicate fingers tightening around her wand. 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 witch barely had time to get a word in otherwise before her upper arm was found in a
firm grip, the tug at her navel the only warning she received as Diagon Alley bled away in a whirl
of vivid colours.

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 attempting to play catch up after being forcefully pushed through a
vacuum. Snape towered over her slight frame, watching with a sneer as his student made a futile
attempt to gather her bearings, to steady herself.

“You stupid girl. What were you thinking, waltzing around Diagon Alley in broad daylight? The
arrogance you possess really knows no bounds, does it?” he seethed, dark eyes glimmering with
barely concealed rage.

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 disposition
towards authourity that profound that she was willing to risk her life?

It took Harri a moment to process what he was saying, her cheeks fanning in heat at his gall to
chastise her. He was treating her like a child, like she had been entirely unaware of the potential
risks. Of course, she had been— she just decided to ignore them, that’s all. Who would have
thought, anyhow, 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 go out to find my own information since
everyone’s content on keeping me in the dark!”

Snape stared mutinously at the riotous girl in front of him, wand already out and deftly casting
wards around the property line to prevent any future attempts of escape. He had no doubt in his
mind that, the second he had his back turned, she would attempt to go rushing back in some form
of Gryffindor idiocy.

The professor didn’t even pause in his incantations as he sniped back, “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 widened in shock, stunned into
momentary silence. Dumbledore had deemed that it was wise to keep her unaware of the politics
that were shaping the world, figuring that it would have been too much for her teenage mind to
process. And seeing 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, amazed at the potion master’s audacity, “To fight him of course!
That’s what everyone is expecting me to do right? To rise up, fight against him?!”

Her voice pitched an octave higher, 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 of what was truly happening were already calling for the
Chosen One, looking to a girl not even quite 16 years old to lead them into another war. To be their
mantel, their saviour, their figurehead that would bring them salvation. A dark gaze flitted over to
the erratic strobing of the lights before landing back on her face, noting the clenched jaw, the
twitch in her brow. He had decided that it was best to act upon his usual method, the one that he
always resorted to in the face of emotional conflicts-- running away.

Turning on his heels and waving open the front door, the black-cloaked wizard marched into the
pouring rain with every intent to disappear 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, 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 river of blood.
Curse green eyes blinked rapidly, trying to clear the steady stream of water from her vision, chest
rising and falling in the exertion of anger. He spun slowly, an assessing light entering his gaze as
he studied her, the wisp of a girl shivering a few feet away.

For a brief, painful second, it was as though Lily was the one to stand 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. Agonizing recollections of his friend’s fits of anger, of how,
even in the darkest moments of her rage, the woman had still been kind, soft, never daring to push
things too far. His heart squeezed uncomfortably, the oxygen being stolen from his lungs, gaze
ghosting over as he remembered a fiery redhead long gone.

“Foolish child,” 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 steady drumming of water on the sidewalk, collecting in pools
about their feet in the soggy grass. The delicate face crumpled inwards 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 his childhood love, of being the one to cause her distress. Part of
him wondered if it would have been easier to reprimand Harri, to not become so attached, to not
fear as much, if his lost schoolmate had a son rather than a girl, if her child didn’t look so much
like her. But he considered that no— it would have been the same either way. The very idea of
losing his last connection, the last piece and remnant of his precious Lily, terrified him more than
he would ever readily admit.

For a brief moment, 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. As much as others may believe she could do it, could defeat Voldemort, they were all
fools. He had spent too many years in the service of his 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
her vivid eyes, of such a young life ending before it even truly began, made him want to retch.

Severus finally turned away before she could see his eyebrows knit together in defeat, the way his
own face had shuttered at the reality. ‘Why,’ he begged to some unknown deity, apparating away
from Privet Drive and leaving a too-thin, too-small girl in the rain, ‘did it have to be her?’
 Happy Birthday, Harri
Chapter Notes

Hello again everyone! First off, as always, thank you so so so much for every
comment, every like and every bookmark! It makes me so happy to see you guys
loving the story and has been my greatest motivator to sit down and write <3

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

Thank you everyone, you're all amazing! <3

* edited 08/10/2020*

If someone had asked Severus Snape what he had 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 across the globe, 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 out in
unforeseen ways that have consequences. And so, the Half-blood Prince had resigned his wishes of
a peaceful existence to a simple, distant dream.

Instead, he had found himself pacing in the floo parlour of Malfoy Manor, the white marble of the
mantle possessing an obnoxious gleam that suited the flamboyant owners of the house. The mark
on his forearm had been stinging for the past 10 minutes, as though it had been splattered with hot
oil— an endless sizzling that made him wonder if it would blister in the end. The potions master
had been occupied with perfecting a bone-growing concoction, a request on Pomfrey’s end that he
was all too happy to entertain, when he had been interrupted. Having been summoned from the
stone dungeons, surrounded by the comfort of acrid fumes, Severus attempted to calm his elevated
heart rate. It was already 9 pm in the evening, a foreboding indication of what was possibly
awaiting him— after all, in his past experiences, very few good things occurred during the late-
night hours. Not to mention, the vexation, the ire, coming from the Dark Lord was practically
tangible, the ever-present and unrelenting burn a testament to his foul mood.

As the grand doors abruptly parted of their own accord, the professor attempted to smoothen his
expression into a neutral mask, desperately clearing his thoughts of a redheaded girl left out in the
rain. With all the grace he knew how, the wizard swept into the room, coal gaze darting warily to
land on each person seated at the long table--- Bellatrix, hooded eyes shining with a vindictiveness
that set him on edge, Lucius and Narcissa, 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, the devil himself. Having regained a more human
appearance as of late, even Snape had found it within himself to admit that his Lord’s pedigree had
done a rather extraordinary 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
rendered even the most reserved of people under his spell. ‘If Lucifer existed,’ Snape figured, ‘he
would have the face of the Dark Lord.’

But yet, in spite of his normal, albeit alluring, looks, he had kept the crimson stare, the slightly too
pale complexion. And, in Severus’s humble opinion, they betrayed his lack of humanity. Some part
of the professor would have almost preferred the serpentine monster, the one that had no qualms
over his appearance and outwardly expressing a lack of mortality, over the one that was playing
pretend at being human. It was discomforting, all too easy to be caught off guard around this
version.

“Ah, Severus,” Voldemort’s face was pleasant enough, the plush mouth relaxed into a slight,
almost congenial, smile, eyes gleaming with contemplation.

It was all a lie. The potion master’s mark was still burning and he had an irrational fear that it was
going to char, 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, crimson
stare tracking as his follower moved further into the room.

There was a momentary hush, only punctuated by the clicks of his heels across the polished tile as
he swept closer to the table. After a quick shallow bow, a show of acquiescing reverence, Snape
slid into the proffered seat. Brushing out the long robes, tugging the sleeves sharply further 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. His ability to conceal his thoughts had become top-notch out of necessity,
the 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 failed attempt to cover a snort from Bellatrix confirmed Snape’s suspicions and he
was about to ask why he was summoned when he saw it. There, in the Dark Lord’s hand, his
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. The heart within the spaces of his
ribs began to hammer, a thin sheen of cold perspiration settling along his skin. ‘Does he have her,’
he thought wildly, the mental shields beginning to wear down dangerously so. But he just saw her,
a few hours prior. 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 would take the opportunity to slip into his mind, to 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 onyx eyes finally glanced upward, it was to see the Dark Lord considering him knowingly,
latching on to the momentary lapse in his follower’s indifferent facade once he had identified the
wand.

“Tell me, Severus,” his Lord questioned, a calmness, an evenness, to the words that rattled the
professor more than he would like 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 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 torment. The man had
fallen from his chair, his bones grating against each other in their sockets in a repulsive, snapping
sound. Distantly, he could register the alarming cracks as his spine arched in an unnatural degree,
the deranged laughter from Bellatrix, the jarring moans tearing from his throat that relayed his
agony. A metallic taste, sharp and unpleasant, flooded his mouth, only belatedly realising that his
teeth had bitten through the lower lip, the scarlet liquid running freely down his chin, his neck, in a
tacky warmth.

When the spell was finally lifted, a sweet blessed relief, a moment of reprieve, he rolled to his side
and up onto shaking arms. He had to spit the blood from his mouth in order to speak, too much of it
to possibly swallow.

“M-My Lo-lord?” a stutter was all he could manage, mind still reeling from the cruciatus, foggy
and incoherent from the torture.

“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 Alley today, as well, and so very close to
finally dealing with a certain persisting problem of mine. So you can imagine my surprise when she
was suddenly spirited away, somehow managing to slip out of my grasp yet again.”

In the wake of the Dark Lord’s words, another round of flaying pain wracked through him, Snape’s
eyes rolling into the back of his head as the nerve-endings were assaulted. He was convulsing on
the floor, fingers scrabbling along the slick flooring for purchase, desperately seeking a sensation
to ground himself, when his skull had met the marble with a repulsive thud. Mercifully, the curse
was lifted not soon afterwards and the man lay prone, bloodied with a heavy layer of sweat
covering his skin.

Coal eyes glanced wildly up at the crown molding on the vaulted ceilings, around the room, a
persistent ringing in his ears, and a sharp throb in his head. Then suddenly Voldemort filled his
swimming vision, hovering over the broken body of the wizard before him. An Oxford shoe
pressed down cruelly onto a bloodied cheek, a smear of gore bright across the waned skin.

“Do. Not,” Voldemort hissed in caution, eyes flashing in rage, in fury unleashed from the deepest
pits of hell, “Disappoint me again, Severus.”

And with that ominous warning, he had vanished, leaving the potions master bleeding and
sporadically twitching on the pristine white 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 as
karmic retribution or groan at the sudden 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 or a potions professor when she brought the cleaver down onto the
thick leaves.

Harri had had a good deal of time to think about Snape’s assessment of her abilities. 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 hauled, with some difficulty, 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. But no,’ she shook the oats, clinging stubbornly to the
bottom of the pot, forcibly into the tub, her frustration mounting, ‘He just has to be a complete
prick.’

She tossed the metal container on to the linoleum tile, her vision blurring and causing the floor’s
checkered panels to blend together in a mess of green and yellow. It was a startling truth, one that
had rattled her as someone finally acknowledged it aloud. 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—and to possibly die for them. A shudder passed through her of its own
accord, thin hands scrubbing over her face before running messily, wildly, through the auburn
strands.

Harri slid down the bathroom wall to sit huddled next to the vent, the chilled air blowing from the
grate a minor relief. She didn’t want to die, not yet, but there was no doubt that, if she had to face
Voldemort on the battlefield, she probably would. But that was her fate, her future, wasn’t it? The
reason she had been born, the reason her parents had to die? To sacrifice herself for the greater
good, to seek out justice?

Part of her considered it was unfair that she, at 15 years old, was already so clearly envisioning her
death. That her entire existence, her entire life, had been a sick joke, a personal punchline to an
ever-running jest of Fate, something to laugh at. An errant tear had escaped and the girl stubbornly
tried to wipe it away before any more could follow in pursuit.

The sound of someone shuffling past the open bathroom door, their feet frozen in midstep, made
her glance upwards. 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, for a moment that it had unnerved the older woman. She opened her mouth to
reprimand her niece, to tell her to get up and go do something so she wouldn’t have to see her mope
about, to be unfairly reminded of someone she’d rather wished to forget— but her jaw refused to
work, tongue too heavy. Sometimes, for the briefest moments, Petunia could swear that she saw
Lily rather than her niece, a phantom that refused to cease its haunting and to leave her in peace.
Especially so during moments like these. Quiet things, the whir of the air conditioner in the
background a lulling rhythm, one that invited an unhealthy amount of introspection, and unwanted
memories. She turned her head resolutely, determined to forget the ghost lingering on the
checkered floor as she trudged back to her bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her.

Two days later had found Harri more sullen than usual as she woke up to the date of July 31st.
While she 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 vacation had been spent with the Weasleys, her birthday a celebrated affair at
the Burrow. The girl missed Mrs. Weasley’s almost-too-tight hugs, the way the twins aimed to
include her in every prank or practical joke, the way 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 into 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, trying to banish the gaping maw of disappointment, the girl swung
herself out of bed, all too eager to get the day done and to be 1 step closer to returning home.

When she finally made her way downstairs, the house was suspiciously still, a post-it 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 present.”

Free from the Dursleys, yet again, and for an entire weekend at that. Maybe this year’s birthday
wouldn’t be all that terrible.

Though the sun had set hours ago, sleep was currently not her friend, refusing to answer her calls
and pleas. The girl lay atop the scratchy covers, the bedroom’s air stifling in spite of the cracked
window, the outside breeze stagnant and nonexistent. Though the witch 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 of the summer, desperately chasing after visions that refused to come to her.
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 down backwards from
500, her lids finally had begun to grow heavy. What had evaded her prior was now calling her
insistently, urgently, unable to wait a moment longer.

Where she had found herself, however, wasn’t in a dream of her choosing. Upon finally gaining
enough consciousness to comprehend where she was, a groan bubbled up from her chest. The study
materialising around her looked eerily familiar, one that the girl was becoming increasingly
intimate with. A man was seated at the oak desk, dark head bowed and brows furrowed in
concentration as he wrote in elegant scrawl on a piece of parchment.

“Of bloody course,” a soft disgruntled whisper to herself as disinclined feet took a step further,
cursing her brain for deciding to ruin the day just a touch further. They carried her past the velvet
chaise lounge, the couch angled towards the roaring fire, past the ornate Persian rug covering the
wood floor. They only saw fit to stop when she stood directly in front of the table, delicate hands
finding purchase amongst the scattered documents as her slight frame leaned forwards, eager to
read the scroll.

“Well, what's “His Royal Darkness” 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,
attempting to get an even better look.

A frown and a soft exhale of agitation, gaze narrowing critically, “Merlin, even his penmanship is
beautiful, the bloody git.”

The quill clutched between deft fingers suddenly stilled, a word half-finished, her frown only
deepening 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 mumbled, tilting her head as her upper body was
all but sprawled on the desk’s surface.

Harri moved her face closer to his, suspiciously watching for any signs that betrayed the fact that
he knew she was there. Curse green eyes flickered over his fanned lashes, the way a smirk pulled
the corners of his plush mouth higher up on the right than the left, the way the plume had been
placed down with a soft click. And she found that 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
across her skin.

Suddenly the Dark Lord raised his eyes from the report in front of him, his gaze a whirl of varying
shades of scarlets, the pupils a void amongst the vivid backdrop, “Hello, Harri.”

Silence followed for a beat of a second, shock registering as the lines of her body went taut. And
then she screamed.

Harri scrambled off the desk, bumping her shin in the process on the edge and letting out a sharp
hiss at the numbing pinpricks that quickly followed. It was a distracting sensation, one that
radiated throughout her leg, bone-deep in its ache.

‘These bloody dreams,’ she fumed in resentment, hurrying to put space between herself and the
Dark Lord, ‘need to chill out.’ Upon reaching the safety of the lounge, the girl eyed the man in
apprehension as he leisurely rose from the desk, gaze evenly meeting hers with no small amount of
amusement glinting in their depths. On instinct, thin fingers reached to grasp at a wand that wasn’t
there, mentally berating 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 hungrily tracked her movements, smug satisfaction causing his eyes to darken a
shade as he considered the revelation that she had lacked a wand. Stalking around the edges of the
table, he casually leaned against the solid piece of wood, arms crossing in observation at the array
of emotions dancing across her face. It was indeed a surprise, a pleasant and entirely unexpected
one, that the girl had appeared to him, that she was subconsciously connecting to 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 and utter
elation . Especially so after the disaster in Diagon Alley earlier in the week. The horcrux in her
quite obviously longed for him, 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-- the girl was still here all the same.

For the briefest moment, he had allowed himself the liberty of scrutinizing her body, at the pajama
shorts that exposed more of her legs than what was probably decent and the low dip of her shirt’s
collar. Though not entirely opposed to the sight, it was an interesting choice of attire and he
couldn’t help but wonder if she dressed like this with regularity— and a part of him sincerely
hoped so.

“I must confess, Harri,” he began as he forced himself to look back at her face, mildly astonished
by the amount of skin she was so shamelessly showing, “I’m surprised to see you here.
Considering, after all, this is my mindscape.”

His amusement grew tenfold at her dumbfounded expression, the way her brow had knitted
together in contemplation, the slight pout of her lower lip as the gears began to turn in her head.
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 cavity 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 slowly, moving to the
opposite side of the couch as he pushed off from the desk to stalk over towards her.

“That’s why you don't have a wand, because I don’t,” she attempted to rationalise it as her dream’s
way of leveling the playing field between the two. He mirrored her movements as she took a step
to the side when he drew closer, circling about the couch in an orbit.

After all, Merlin only knew she had been obsessing, during 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, was capable of feats that made her head swim. 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 shock of levity
had died down, the smirk deepened, gaze predatory as he watched the girl’s vulnerability, her
confusion, shine so brightly in those vivid green eyes. He reached down to grip the arm of the
chaise, opposite to her, fingers digging into the velvet fabric.

“Don’t you see?” he began sweetly, the tone in direct conflict with the look fixated 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 as it wrapped itself around the
entirety of her forearm, stabilizing the witch before she could fall. They both looked down for a
beat, ruby and emerald stares, at the pale hand clutching her arm, the way his elegant fingers had
curled possessively around it. A moment passed before he reluctantly let go, withdrawing his
contact and relinquishing the vice-like grip. The imprint of his hand lasted for a few seconds and
Voldemort eyed it, preoccupied and possessed as he watched it fade on her cream-coloured skin.

‘There was no pain,’ she thought in a delayed reaction when he finally 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 led to searing agony. Harri warily
regarded him as he retreated back to leaning against the desk, uncomfortable from the way crimson
eyes seemed content to watch her, to see right through her, to read her thoughts. She wondered,
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,’ a bitter passing thought as she edged away from the Dark Lord, the silence almost too
deafening, too sacred to break, ‘Freud would have a field day with me.’

In the lull of conversation, the girl had wandered over to the bookshelves, trying to distract herself
and pass the time until she woke up, scowling at the unfamiliar titles. She knew, for a fact, that she
had never once read a novel on ‘The Refined History of the Dark Arts’. But perhaps Hermione
once had, ages ago, and talked about it in passing? Maybe that’s why it had appeared here? A
single finger trailed over their spines, goosebumps ghosting over her skin as the weight of a leer
had settled on her. The endless staring, the never-moving ruby eyes persistently 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-center. ‘Why,’ she thought
spitefully, ‘does he get to have normal clothes and I’m stuck in my pjs?’ Just another item to add to
the endless list of the Mortifications of Harri Potter.

“Stop that,” she finally snapped, pausing mid-step at the third bookshelf and unable to stand his
keen studying any longer.
Voldemort arched a single eyebrow, a sense of mirth, of delight, blossomed in his chest as he took
in her flushed appearance, the way 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, drawling in the clipped posh accent with purposeful
taunting.

In his past experiences, women were keen to worship him, the lust in their eyes a pretty clear
indication of their interest. But she seemed bothered, discomposed, unsure and uncertain. ‘So,’ the
Dark Lord thought, hands reaching behind him to grip the desk’s corners, ‘she hates attention.’
And how he could almost laugh at that. 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,
every breath she took. Their darling Chosen One, their saviour, The Girl Who Lived. ‘Except,’ a
darkness suddenly appeared in his consciousness, venom on his tongue, ‘they conveniently forgot
one thing. She never belonged to them.’

“You- everything! The staring,” she explained, unnerved and voice pitching in her indignation.

Harri knew she fell for his antics by the amusement that lit up his face, knew that he was
purposefully baiting her to see a reaction. Apparently, her mind had felt the need to conjure up a
cheeky Voldemort and she wasn’t exactly too thrilled at the betrayal, at the traitorous mutiny.
There were so many questions she had wanted to ask him, to confront him, to demand to know why
he couldn’t have just stayed dead. But, considering that he was 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. ‘Plus,’ she thought, critically noting his relaxed stance, those scarlet eyes a tad
too shrewd, ‘I don’t really feel like turning this into a nightmare.’

They lapsed back into silence as she completed her circle around the study, nose wrinkling at a
rather peculiar section of books on disemboweling, “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 nearly
sparkling in the firelight. There was only time for a slow blink and then he was there, crowding her
against the shelves. Voldemort had placed both arms on either side of her head, caging the girl in so
she couldn’t run, his eyes turning almost black in the shadows.

“Oh 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, to give in to the
base desires humming in the back of his mind.

“Perhaps,” he mused, watching the fear in her eyes war with the desire, the pupils minutely dilating
— an eclipse around a ring of curse green.

He bent his frame to rest next to her ear, savouring the blush creeping over her cheeks and taking
note of 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, pausing for a brief
second before, abruptly, biting down on the soft pulse point between 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,
incoherent, dazed, and confused. 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 suddenly descending into a nightmare.

At the present, however, it appeared that he had other plans as a breathy chuckle vibrated against
her skin. The redheaded girl couldn’t help but wince as the pain in the bite had 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 delayed thoughts were wild as she regained control of her arms,
pushing desperately against a broad chest in rebellion, in appalled revulsion. ‘The maniac actually
bit me!’

And then a shudder passed through her slight frame as a tongue, flat and insistent, laved over the
fresh mark in an attempt to chase the residual pain away. A long swipe of a heated pull that was
soothing to the sting. While part of her didn’t entirely hate the sensation, another part, the one she
would later claim to be the logical side, was scandalized. And of course, that rationality would be
the first to deny the fact that she had moaned softly at the warmth, the feeling of his tongue, at the
way it had lessened the agony through temporary 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 a vivid scarlet. The gore was bright across the column of her
pale throat, a jarring contrast that he found quite beautiful. A twisted thought considered how
ethereal she looked when she bled, his eyes ravenous as he drank in the sight, 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 wetly glinting lips, “Happy Birthday, Harri.”

The witch jolted awake, the fitful rhythm of her heartbeat causing her to gasp in the muggy night
air with desperation. Thin shoulders were quaking, body entirely too chilled as she tried to banish
the nightmare from her mind. But the persistent dull 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, she 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 going up to
gingerly prod at the bleeding mark above the hollow divet 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 of
their own accord, bracing herself on the sink as green eyes trained intently on the drops of blood,
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 throat as she sank down to the bathroom floor, trying to fully
comprehend what this meant for her. The dreams weren’t simply just visions— they were reality.
 It Was A Dog, I Swear
Chapter 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! I'm
trying my best to respond to every comment but I just wanted to let you know that
every single one is so appreciated! <3

*edited 08/12/2020*

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 consciousness, impatiently awaiting her return
with a smug platitude on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she waited for dawn, pressing a towel to the
stubbornly bleeding bite in a vain attempt to staunch its weeping. And if she was cursing the Dark
Lord with every insult she possibly knew of, who could blame her? A solemn vow was made to
hex him within an inch of his life the next time they met—or, at the very least, give him a rather
deserving kick to the shin.

Leaning across the desk, an incredulous gaze fixated on the gruesome sight reflected in the small
frameless mirror. ‘What kind of psycho,’ her thoughts were acidic, heart stuttering as green eyes
ran along the grisly line of teeth impressed into the skin, ‘bites someone as proof it’s not a dream?!
Whatever happened to pinching someone awake or drawing on their hand?’

She tried not to flinch as she gingerly swabbed antibiotic cream onto the worst of the divots,
attention trailing over desperately to the wand laying atop the mattress’s worn covers. The girl
debated using a spell to heal it, to ease the aching throb, and risk tripping the trace. After all, she
was 16 now and the Ministry was going to hell-- who was to say they were even monitoring
underage magic use anymore? A distant memory of a howler, heart shattering at its declaration of
an impending expulsion from Hogwarts, the smugly satisfied face of Vernon hovering in the
background. Harri shook her head, a spray of auburn hair, nimble fingers fumbling to open a box
of bandaids, and deciding it wasn’t worth risking it. Especially not if it gave Dumbledore a
potential reason to keep her stranded at the Dursley’s longer than necessary, already hearing his
chastising tone about her recklessness. It would just have to heal on its own in the traditional
muggle way— however long that may take.

Apparently—as Harri had come to learn over the next week, stuck wearing high collared shirts
much to the suspicious glares of the Dursley family— healing the muggle way took forever. It was
a painful, long arduous process, one in which the pain refused to abate. ‘Just another reason why
not having magic is bloody awful.’ She couldn’t quite help but resent the fact that she was being
cut off from her birthright, that it was deemed lawful to keep muggle-borns from their heritage
under the threats of expulsion. Or worse—having their wands snapped. And a part of her couldn’t
help but feel some form of spite towards whoever decided such a rule was even necessary. Why not
just have the students who were forced to return to the nonmagical world stay at the school over
the summer? It would certainly cut back on accidental magic usage and trace triggers. Or, even
better, get rid of the monitoring system altogether.

As the circled date on the calendar drew closer, the blessed day that would mark her return to
Hogwarts, the imprint had barely faded. While it was, mercifully, not oozing anymore, it still
remained inflamed. An angry shade of rosy red curling on its edges, ghastly and grim. The petite
girl stood on her toes to lean over the porcelain sink, carefully pulling down her shirt’s collar to
gape at it in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. Despite how much time had passed, it was still rather
horrifying to behold— to see the individual teeth marks, the deeper indentations where canines,
sharper than the rest, had sunk firmly, deeply, into the flesh. A ghost of a chill as an unsolicited
image of his face, stained with blood, floated to the forefront of her mind. The way he had
suggestively licked the scarlet off of his teeth, the usually kempt hair disheveled, the depraved look
in glowing eyes as he stared down at her shocked face, the way they had darkened with the
promise of more to come, how much he desired—

“Girl! The front door!” she nearly tumbled from the sink in surprise as the screeching of her aunt
broke the reverie, reality rudely coming back to her.

The witch had to blink twice at the reflected expression, the starstruck look shining so clearly in
the green gaze reminding her vaguely of a deer caught in headlights. A firm shake of her head in a
valiant attempt to banish the turn the thoughts had taken, to stop the flutters in her chest, the
clenching in her stomach. ‘Not the time, Harri,’ all reason reprimanded as she bounded down the
carpeted stairs, ‘not the time.’ Resolutely, any and all feelings regarding a certain Dark Lord were
filed away, determined to deal with them in the future. Far, far, far in the future, if at all possible.

“Got it, aunt Petunia,” she called over her shoulder, yanking the front door and almost groaning at
the sight that greeted her.

Darkening the front doorstep was, once again, the second greatest nemesis to her life-- Severus
Snape. A vindictive thought briefly crossed her mind to slam the door on him but, when she saw
Moody slowly trailing up the driveway, she thought better of it. After all, the defense professor,
albeit a bit intense at times, wasn’t the one that deserved to be on the receiving end of her temper,
her dislike. After all, the man did help her quite a fair amount during the tournament, choosing to
put his weight, his faith, in her rather than Diggory— a show of loyalty that earned him a few
brownie points in her book.

“Professors,” she muttered, apprehension causing her shoulders to tense, for her eyes to narrow a
fraction.

The last time they had both been at Privet Drive, she had been stranded in the middle of suburbia
under Dumbledore’s direct orders— and how it caused dread to flourish at what this particular visit
might entail. Reluctantly, the girl opened the door wider to let them in, thinking it was preferable
that the odd-looking men were inside rather than loitering on the front lawn for all the neighbours
to see. A jerky nod as an indication for the wizards to follow, and then she was leading them into
the yellow kitchen just in time for Petunia to drift out of the den.

Upon seeing the wizards crowd the narrow hallway, the older woman blinked once 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 practically screamed there were to be
consequences later, to expect a longer than usual list of chores, to be banished to a locked room for
the rest of the day.
And how that caused something dark to thrive in the young witch, a bitterness dancing across her
tongue, the urge to lash out rising in a wave. Of course, though, she would never act on such spite.
Couldn’t, in fact— at least, not until she turned 17 and found solace at Grimmauld Place or the
Burrow.

Petunia sniffed once at the defiance entering such unnaturally green eyes, shrieking up the stairs,
“Dudley! We’re going out!”

Harri awkwardly avoided looking at the two professors, gaze bouncing about the kitchen as they
waited in silence for the front door to close with a rather aggressive slam.

“Sorry about that. She’s um-,” she muttered, trailing off as Snape pulled a chair out from the
kitchen table, the feet squeaking against the linoleum.

Moody chose to lean against the far counter, looking rather preoccupied with Petunia’s prized
coffeemaker and fingers curiously trailing over the knobs. There was a soft exclamation of delight
when the machine suddenly whirred to life, electric blue eye dancing with entertainment, unbridled
glee.

“So,” Harri spared a glance to the auror in confusion as she took the seat opposite of Snape, trying
her best to temper her resentful glare.

“You will not be taking the train next week,” Severus explained as he considered the crestfallen
face of the girl in front of him, the way those vivid green eyes took on a desperate sheen.

A hand was held up before she could interrupt him, the oncoming protest evident in the drawn
corners of her mouth, “Dumbledore has deemed it wise if you were apparated directly to the school
instead.”

The potions master’s piercing gaze drifted over to Moody, the wizard ambling about the kitchen,
touching all manner of things in wonder and creating a racket as he opened every single drawer, “A
professor will be here this Friday evening to escort you to the castle.”

An unbidden sigh of relief escaped her as the building tension, the dread, deflated. She had been so
certain that the sour-faced man would have claimed that she wouldn’t be returning at all. That
Dumbledore saw fit to keep her behind the blood wards for another year as an added precaution. A
bright grin flourished, chest feeling airy and light. ‘This Friday,’ her thoughts buzzed in
anticipation, ‘and I’ll be home.’ She could already picture it. The soft four-postered bed, all the
treacle tart she could eat, the trips to Hogsmeade on the weekends, back to learning magic-

“Potter. What is that?” Snape redirected her attention back to him, the careful inflection on her last
name making her wince.

The professor had always used that tone whenever he was ready to reprimand her, about to insult
her naivety or to demand to know if the head on her shoulders was empty— it was a condition at
this point to expect the worst when that usually monotone voice bled away into a drawl. Green
eyes regarded him in confusion, trying to figure out what she could have done during the entirety of
the 15-minute conversation— one in which the girl had been a perfectly innocent participant in.
Then she noticed how his attention had honed in on her shirt’s neckline, the inflamed edges
peeking out. There was an alarmed curiosity bright in that coal gaze, a shrewd assessment.

Before she could tell him it was nothing— claim that it was a mosquito bite she had scratched at a
tad too hard or perhaps a burn from a hair straightener— a sallow hand had darted out. Yanking
aside the collar, his mouth thinned into a nonplussed line, dark eyes shining with livid outrage.
“You foolish girl,” he hissed, scanning scathingly over the tender redness of the mark, at the
infection already starting to settle in the worst of the divots.

“It’s nothing,” she retorted back, voice taking on a defensive edge that sounded, too much, too
fake.

A dusting of pink fanned across her cheeks as common sense floundered for an explanation,
mortification turning her mind hazy. It wasn’t like she could tell them the truth— it was entirely
too ridiculous and far-fetched to even be true. After all, how was she to explain that the Dark Lord
had appeared in her mindscape and, like a monster, had taken a bite out of her flesh? And that,
somehow, it translated over to real life? The girl figured she might as well just admit to the fact she
was crazy, her mind fragile and cracking under pressure— it sounded more plausible anyways.

“A dog bit me?” she stated slowly, mind scrambling to say something, anything, that might justify
the teeth impressions on her neck.

It wasn’t until after the words fell from her lips that she realised what had come out in a blinded
panic. Mentally berating herself with how dumb, how idiotic and false, the excuse was, the girl
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, to spin convincing stories on the spot, was practically nonexistent. Anyone with half a
brain could tell that, quite obviously, those were human teeth littering her skin. ‘Oh sweet Merlin,’
a miserable thought as the incensed rage in the professor’s eyes was replaced with disbelief and
wide-eyed astonishment, ‘just kill me now.’

“A. Dog?” the professor echoed, eyebrows raised in skepticism.

And it wasn’t even that he was appalled by the fact that his student was so blatantly trying to
deceive him— but more so that she had lied this terribly. The redheaded girl was a Gryffindor
through and through, unable to even think of a quick-witted excuse on the sly. And while there
was some charm in that honesty, in that purity of hers, it was completely and utterly baffling that a
human could fail this spectacularly in creating a convincing white lie.

Moody had chosen to wander over in the wake of the ruckus, drawn to whatever had set Severus on
edge. A quick glance at the, admittedly, rather vicious-looking bite on the witch’s neck, at Potter’s
humiliated face, the bright flares of pink on her cheeks— it was all too easy to guess what had
actually happened. A delighted smile as the magic eye stilled in its whirring path to fixate on her.

“Well now, that must ‘ave been some dog, eh Potter?” his voice was suggestive, a loud,
unrestrained laugh filling the silence of the kitchen as she sank further down into the chair, face
deepening to a darker scarlet. A grisly hand landed on a thin shoulder, a playful shake at the
expense of her embarrassment, his one good eye shining with immense glee.

“Maybe dear old Snapey here will heal it for you? I’d do it myself but I’ve never been much good
at healing,” he explained, falsely apologetic as he watched a stormy expression cross the potion
professor’s face, enjoying far too much in provoking the sour-faced man.

A mumble about hormonal teenagers, how he was nothing more than a glorified babysitter,
tumbled past thinned lips of Severus as he brandished his wand, motioning for Harri to lean over.
The girl held the collar down, the tip hovering on the edges of the mark, tone resentful, “Episkey.”

He frowned when nothing had happened, the wound choosing to stay as angry looking as before. It
was odd but he could have sworn he felt some resistance to his magic, a shimmer that had danced
over the wound in the face of the casting.
“Episkey,” he repeated with a tad more force, gaze narrowing a fraction at seeing the rippling
wave of light once more.

And yet, it wouldn’t heal. Had refused to knit back together under his administrations despite the
correct intonations, the force of his will. Whatever had happened to the girl wasn’t muggle by any
means— after all, if it were, even the simplest of a healing charm should have righted the skin,
should have cleared the infection and smoothed out into nothingness.

The man leaned back in his chair, eyes glittering in a calculating way, echoing Moody’s earlier
assessment, “Must have been some dog, indeed.”

After the professors had left, Snape doling out strict orders to continue to clean the deepest parts of
the impression and have Pomfrey look at it the second she arrived at Hogwarts, Harri could have
sworn she died several times from embarrassment. It took 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 lay on her bed, face buried in a ratty pillow with too little stuffing, screaming in
flustered rage, she desperately wished to see Voldemort— to punch him in his face, to retaliate, to
kick and scream for the shame he had indirectly caused her. Whatever he had done couldn’t be
healed by normal magic— and how unnerving that thought was. And it wasn’t as though her
professor’s abilities were anything to scoff at, his skills far exceeding her own. Yet, even herself, a
mere student, could easily have managed a simple healing charm— never mind a fully grown
wizard who was beyond proficient in utilizing such commonplace spells.

For the first time since his rebirth, since seeing him explode in a flare of light in the damp chamber
in the bowels of the school, Harri willingly concentrated on the image of his face, his voice, his
presence. The girl commanded, willed, her dreams to carry her to him, desperate to appear in that
damned study once again and to finally get some answers.

“Ah, Harri,” she spun on the spot to find him in an armchair, his left leg crossed over the right— a
book cradled in one hand while a glass of amber liquid dangled in the other.

The Dark Lord hadn’t even looked up as his eyes scanned the words before him, the book’s pages
turning of their own admission, “I was wondering when you would show up again.”

She stopped short. 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 a novel. How human he looked, how relaxed, how comfortable. It was jarring,
her stomach clenching painfully. 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.

Voldemort took a swig from his glass in an attempt to hide the growing smirk, her thoughts 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, contentedly,
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 certainly a flighty little thing,’ he mused,
gesturing with the glass to a second conjured armchair, identical to the one he was currently sitting
in.
He tried to hide how pleased he was when she warily took the offered seat, how satisfied that she
had listened, obeyed. And if someone were to say he was purposefully dragging the silence out,
thrilled by her watching him with barely concealed curiosity, the way he could feel her heartbeat a
second to his own, spiking in its rhythm as she dragged her eyes over his profile—well, who could
blame him? After a few moments, having decided that was enough of torturing the girl, he snapped
the book closed before waving it away. It floated past them on its own accord, slotting back into its
rightful place on the shelf.

The Dark Lord turned in his chair to evenly meet the green eyes of the witch sitting at his side,
crimson gaze flickering for a second as he drank in the slowly healing mark on her neck. Smug
pride settled warmly in the cavity of 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, it’s boldness, “did you do
to me? And don’t even think for a second about giving me some cryptic answer. I want a real one
for once.”

Harri fixed him in a stare that she hoped would portray how serious she was, how 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 look taller than she actually was.

Voldemort leaned back into the plush chair, eyes contemplative as he observed the girl in front of
him. ‘How endearing,’ a lazy passing thought as he studied the faux show of bravery, how she was
attempting to act stern and chastise him as though he were a misbehaving child. ‘She’s trying to
show her claws.’

A slow, foreboding smile, fingers steepled as he uncrossed his legs, “You needed proof that this
wasn’t a figment of your imagination and 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 excited him, thrilled him.

“Yes, I already know that!” her voice pitched in exasperation, left eye twitching minutely as she
tried to keep her composure, a shaky exhale betraying 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 the abrupt stormy expression darkening his elegant features.

However, she blinked and it was gone, schooled back into the mischievous mask he had been
wearing prior, one that portrayed a congenial mood. Harri faltered, suddenly uncertain, warning
bells going off in rapid succession. Every instinct was screaming for her to remember that this was
the Dark Lord, Voldemort, a man who had no qualms about attempting to kill her in the past and
most certainly wouldn’t now— to be cautious of not overstepping, to avoid inciting his
displeasure.

He tried to reign back his fury, the murderous rage threatening to override his control, upon
hearing Severus’s name so casually falling from her lips. The Dark Lord still hadn’t completely
forgiven the man for his insolence, for interfering with his plans, and it caused something dark to
unfurl in his chest. ‘So Snape had visited her even after our little session,’ the thoughts were
thunderous as he filed the information away for later, a thread for a conversation next time he saw
the potions professor.

But for now, he had to focus on getting his temper under control before it caused irreversible
damage. It wouldn't do, after all, to have Harri even more terrified of him—not yet at least.

Voldemort plastered on a pleasant smile, the look not quite reaching his eyes, as he struggled to
keep his tone lighthearted, “Well, I can’t 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,
gaze keen in a conspiring manner, “But I can. All you have to do is leave the blood wards, Harri.”

Harri couldn’t quite help but scoff at the idea, slumping down into her seat as she fixed him with
an incredulous glare. His audacity, his gall and nerve, were almost unbearable. ‘Great,’ she thought
in rising annoyance, ‘he’s toying with me.’

“Oh yeah, wonderful idea,” she mumbled, not quite being able to resist the urge to roll her eyes, to
keep the bite from her tone, “And then the second I do, you finally get your wish to murder The
Girl Who Lived. What a perfect plan.”

The Dark Lord drank in her words greedily, the cheshire grin on his face doing little to hide the
ever-mounting amusement. He debated about 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 gaze upon what wasn’t theirs. To make her
understand that she and he were one and the same.

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, Harri. 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. Voldemort could practically feel the weight of her stare, the
caution and interest in it as she tracked his movements. ‘Perfect.’

“Did you know that parselmouths aren’t entirely human,” he began slowly, fingers linked 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 glittering 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 saying— 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, the bleeding refusing to abate for almost an entire day as a clot struggled to form.

Her hand flew to the mark at her neck, eyes blown wide in barely concealed horror, “You-!”

“Of course,” he interrupted her, relishing far too much in her bewilderment, 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.

“It wouldn’t kill another parselmouth. But I’m afraid,” his smile grew wider at the way she had
readily slumped in relief and he tsked with false regret, “without an antidote, the healing process
can be very slow.”

“And of course, normal magic has a rather tricky time dealing with parselmagic. The two are oil
and water I’m afraid, very temperamental.” he crooned, his smile all teeth as he devoured the
conflicting emotions warring across her face.

She sprang from the armchair to stand in front of him, her rather slight frame barely reaching his
shoulder, chest puffed in righteous anger. Part of her couldn’t even believe what she was hearing,
what he was admitting to, the culpability of his actions. That, as if biting her wasn’t bad enough, he
had to go the extra length to introduce venom into her system— one that was entirely of his own
making.

“How did you know it wouldn’t kill me then!?” her eyes flashing in the fire’s light, the glow in
them an unearthly green in the wake of her confrontation.

The tolerance for the Dark Lord’s antics was slowly dwindling, fear ebbing away into something
far more potent— anger. The laugh escaping his chest, the belittling smirk, his casual body
language all served to only make her blood pressure spike, fists balling at her side, and shaking in
outrage.

“Oh Harri, I have my sources,” his glee suddenly seemed dangerous, smile suddenly too sharp.

Voldemort found that he couldn’t quite resist gloating his connections, his power, that he could
find any information he so possibly wished, especially if it concerned her, “The younger Malfoy,
Draco I believe his name was, told me all about the stunt you had pulled in your second year. It
honestly shocked me, I must admit, to hear we shared the ability. After all, I had thought that I was
the only one left in Europe, at the very least.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, leaning down ever so slightly to crowd her space, “So from one
parselmouth to another, I would fully recommend that you don’t go around biting people for now.
After all, you wouldn’t want a nasty little accident to occur, would you?”

Her jaw dropped of its own admission 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. The girl tried 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.

Through clenched teeth, she grit out, the civility in the tone long gone, “You said there was an
antidote to make it heal faster. Where is it?”

The smile sliding the corners of his mouth upwards could only be described in one way-- a shit-
eating grin, smug self-satisfaction making itself known as the crimson gaze lightened several
shades.

“It’s around. I would summon it for you, Harri, but you see,” his eyebrows knitted together in a
mock show of remorse, stare somehow managing to look both dismayed and delighted, “my mind
is currently so very 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 incredulity painted on as her expression. The girl looked pointedly over at the roaring fire, one
that had been dead a few minutes prior, at 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 closed 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 curse green gaze narrowed a fraction, hands clenching and unclenching in a physical outlet to
ground herself, to find her calm. But Harri found herself unable too— 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 center, at its
core. And yet, the man had the gall to stand there, teasing her with a carrot just out of her reach
with his glittering eyes and the stupid plush mouth manipulated into a fake sympathetic frown.
Harri tried to count to 10, tried to reign in her anger, to find the composure— Snape’s voice
floating in the back of her mind, berating her for being a foolish girl and entirely too reckless.
Unfortunately, it was a regrettable truth to her personality that controlling her emotions, most
particularly anger, was an area she fell short in, and required strong improvement.

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 smile from his face.

But then it sank in— she just struck the Dark Lord. The girl watched in silent horror as he stared,
equally shocked, his own hand rising to his jaw to rub it 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 tried,
considering how small his horcrux was. But it was still enough to give him pause— after all, a slap
would be enough to surprise anyone. Lesser men would have already been dead for raising a finger
to him— then again, she wasn’t exactly lesser, was she? Wasn’t exactly someone that he could
punish normally, to push them until they begged for his forgiveness under torture, to tear down
their minds and bodies.

Truly, he had been debating about giving her the balm to soothe the bite, having wanted to just
push her a bit further for his own pleasure. But now he had just figured out the perfect punishment
— to let her suffer from both pain and embarrassment. It was no skin off his back, after all, if she
was mortified, ashamed, if she ached and was miserable for the next few weeks. ‘Fine,’ the
thoughts were dark, tinged with a biting savageness, ‘let it heal on its own.’

From the way she was considering him, caution and terror alight in her gaze, his horcrux was
expecting him to retaliate, to maim, to possibly kill her. Instead, a flash of a predatory smile, too
cutting and sharp. Part of him admired her for the bravery, for the brashness and unpredictability as
it kept him on his toes, his mind constantly moving. She was proving to be his greatest distraction,
a delight, and 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 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.

“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, gaze nervously drifting towards
the door, muscles tensed as though she was prepared to sprint, would be entirely false. He adored
it. It was a heady power, knowing he could still make her afraid of him if he so wished, to realise
she wasn’t entirely without fear, mindscape or not.

“It would be best if you woke up now, little one,” the Dark Lord began ominously as he crowded
closer to her, hand darting out to grip her chin and forcing her attention back to him.

He savoured the petrified light entering in her gaze, fascinated at how they turned into a vivid
shade of green in their distress. That darkness in his chest, the toxicity, sang to see more of her
expressions, to reveal all of her masks so she would never be able to hide from him. The fingers
tightened ever so slightly on the delicate chin before dropping away. The world around them had
begun to bled, the colours blurring as the study’s furniture dematerialized. His horcrux was already
beginning to turn transparent as her own mind started to stir, urgently recalling her consciousness
back to her body.

“Oh, and Harri?” a knowing vindictive glint in a crimson gaze, “I do hope you enjoy the school
year. While you still can, that is.”
 Back To Hogwarts We Go
Chapter 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.

Seriously, thank you so so so so much for all of the past comments and likes! They
mean so much

* edited 08/13/2020*

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, 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”. In her consciousness, Snape’s sneering of
‘foolish girl’ looped, the phantom voice demanding to know if she had a death wish or if her head
was just empty.

A ghost of a chill as the look in hellfire eyes materialised, the shocked delay in them as he
processed what she had done— the cold fury that expressed how he had wanted nothing more than
to finish what had been started, to tear her throat out with his teeth, to revel in her blood. A hand
strayed to gently trace over the mark still on her throat, prominently displayed. 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. Wistfulness glazed over her thoughts when a finger passed over the
deepest divot, an impression of curved canines.

It had been a shocking revelation, to say the least, to learn that she was apparently venomous—
something she probably would have never known if not for Voldemort deciding to clue her in on a
parselmouth trade secret. An unbidden shiver as she tried to ignore the gruesome scenario in which
she could have accidentally bitten someone. And for once, the girl was actually grateful that she
didn’t have a boyfriend-- constantly worrying about slipping up and killing him would have
definitely put a damper on the entire relationship.

‘Well,’ she thought morbidly, 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.’ A stray image of a handsome
man, red eyes and high cheekbones, completely unbidden and unwelcomed. She pushed it away
hastily. This 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 one who had killed her parents and attempted, on several occasions, to do the same to her.
‘Plus’, a dry passing thought, ‘pretty sure he wants my head on a spike now more than ever.’ Harri
groaned in exasperation, tossing the bundle into the open trunk with aggression. Nothing could
ever be simple in her life, could it?

At precisely 5 pm in the evening, the front doorbell to number 4 Privet Drive rang and the witch
had nearly tripped during her scramble down the stairs. After all, she had been waiting all day for
an indication someone was coming, ready to take her away from the muggle world, liberate her
from the Dursley’s pastel nightmare, and return her to her rightful place— her home. When the
front door swung open, much to her relief, it was to the kind face of McGonagall. The shrewd gaze
of the transfiguration professor softened a touch as her attention drifted from the quiet
neighbourhood, with its identical houses in a row and white picket fences, to the girl vibrating on
the front step.

“Harri, good evening,” the professor’s half-moon glasses caught the lamppost’s yellowed light, a
forced smile pulling on thin lips that betrayed her nervousness, “Are you all ready? Trunks
packed?”

Green eyes spared a hesitant glance over her shoulder and down the narrow hallway, heart skipping
a beat as she spied her old room beneath the stairs. The sliding grate and bolt still tacked on to the
painted wood, a remnant of a childhood spent in the dark, in the dust. Against all reason,
everything in her was warring against the idea of letting the older witch into the house, to subject
her to the other reality she was forced to live every summer. To expose the professor to the foul
mood of the Dursleys, to be tainted by their hatred and toxicity. And Harri most certainly didn’t
want the woman to see the spartan room— one that she had been reluctantly moved to once she had
grown too tall to fit in the cupboard.

Swallowing thickly past the lump in the hollow of her throat, the girl attempted to plaster on a
smile that didn’t betray her anxiety, “Yes, professor. I um, I’ll go grab my trunk if you want to wait
here for a moment.”

Keen eyes clung to the way the girl’s hand had tightened around the doorknob, a sharp gaze over a
thin shoulder into the hallway at the sound of harsh laughter and music. McGonagall, expression
pinched, gave a slight nod, an acquiescing encouragement. It was all too clear that the girl hadn’t
wanted her in the house and she wasn’t going to argue otherwise— especially if it meant avoiding
Petunia and Vernon Dursley. The woman had met the unfortunate pair once, spent an entire day
observing them as a stray house cat on their fence, and had come to the rightful conclusion that
they were the worst sort of humans— muggle or not.

A few minutes later found Harri hauling her trunks down the carpeted steps and out onto the
manicured front lawn, all too eager to leave. Naturally, there had been no exchange of goodbyes, of
heartfelt sentiments to have a good year, from her relatives— and that was fine by her. Harri shot
the professor a grateful smile as a featherlight charm settled over the weighty luggage, grasping
gently at the frail arm held out in a silent offer. A tug at her navel and Privet Drive ebbed away
into nothingness, her body squeezed through a vacuum of space.

It had been a blink of an eye, and then there it was. The glittering silhouette of tall spires,
blackened against the brilliant orange fade of the sunset. An impressive ancient sight, a place that
hummed with energy, with magic, as though it were alive. And as they crossed the long bridge,
some kind of pleasant warmth settled over her bare arms, the wards welcoming her in a hug as an
old friend. She was finally home.

Dumbledore had been waiting for the pair in front of the Great Hall and Harri couldn’t even
summon the usual resentment towards the twinkle in the man’s pale eyes, heart too light with
euphoria, with joy and elation. The feeling of the magic residing in the castle’s halls, the pleasant
crackle of it dancing between the spaces of her fingers, lighting up her nerve endings— it was
enough to make her sing.

“Harri, my dear girl, I presume that you had an enjoyable summer?” a cheerful question that was in
direct conflict to 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 in critical assessment, almost as if
trying to determine if she had grown a mysterious limb since they last saw each other, to determine
if there were any remarkable changes. An observant stare hovered, almost insistently, over the
slowly healing wound hidden under the collar— as though he could see through the fabric—
before bouncing back to her face. There was tightness in the corners of his mouth, a forced quality
in the saccharine smile.

Harri shifted awkwardly, almost reaching to tug the fabric up higher when she remembered what
she was wearing. It was always cooler on the school grounds, even in the late summer, so she had
opted for a black short sleeve turtleneck-- it served to ward off the chilly breeze rolling from the
lake and, bonus, it hid the still rather noticeable imprint. ‘He can’t know, can he?’ a worried
thought, a sense of sudden unease in the wake of his scrutiny. The girl cleared her throat, tongue
heavy and not quite willing to respond to his question, mind turning over with spite. Her summer
was not pleasant, and, in fact, had been quite the opposite— he, of all people, should know it,
considering their yearly routine of pleading and bargaining to go to Grimmauld Place, to the
Burrow, to anywhere but Surrey.

“Professor,” finally finding her voice, glancing at the empty Great Hall, having arrived far earlier
than her classmates, “Why couldn’t I have just ridden the train with everyone else?”

That grimness around his mouth had reached his eyes, the twinkling fading behind crescent
glasses, “Just a precaution, my dear. Hopefully, it was unwarranted but still better to be on the safe
side.”

As it turned out, the precaution was indeed fully warranted. Later in the evening, as Harri slid into
the bench wordlessly next to Neville, the usual enthusiastic chatter of the Great Hall was quite
subdued. It was unnerving, as she regarded the tables, how some looked especially empty— the
mass of curly brown hair and a shock of ginger missing amongst the Gryffindors. A frown crossed
her features, briefly wondering if they had missed the Express, a bitterness on her tongue. After all,
she had prepared quite a speech for them, to demand to know why they had given her the cold
shoulder.

Having changed into her house robes prior to everyone’s scattered arrivals, she tapped her friend’s
shoulder imploringly, “Hey Nev, what’s happened?”

The boy jolted, eyes growing fractionally wider as he took in the redheaded girl at his side, surprise
evident in the way his mouth had parted, “Blimey, Harri! I thought you weren’t coming, that they-”

His explanation was cut off, words dying on the tip of his tongue as Dumbledore abruptly clapped
his hands and stepped up to the podium.

“As many of you are already aware,” his voice boomed over the hush of the Hall, an eerie echo of
what had occurred at the end of last year, “several Ministry officials halted tonight’s train bound
for Hogwarts in order to enact upon a mandatory inspection. Several students were forcibly
removed from their seats for perceived infractions against the Ministry’s newest mandates.”

A weight settled heavily in the pit of her stomach, brows knitting together in confusion as she
reflected on the words. ‘Ministry officials’ was easy enough to piece together to mean Death
Eaters, followers in disguise that were flourishing with Malfoy as Minister— but what mandates?
‘What happened,’ she wondered as the whispering amongst the students began in earnest, ‘while I
was gone?’

“I wish to remind all of you in light of this,” the headmaster continued and Harri contemplated if he
had always looked this tired, this frail, this exhausted, “that the grounds of Hogwarts have been
declared a neutral zone, exempt from enforcing such edicts. 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.”

And then he retreated from the podium, the solemn hush over the hall slowly breaking through the
smattering of whispers. Green eyes trailed further down the benches, frowning at the pinched
expression on Ginny’s face— it told her everything she needed to know. Ron had remained behind
with Hermione in a fierce show of loyalty to the witch. When food began to appear on the tables,
Harri found herself unable to eat any of it, appetite nonexistent, and the ability to converse with her
housemates diminished. ‘Death Eaters,’ a numb thought, ‘were on the Express. If I had been on
it-’. Alarmed, attention fixated on the slumped form of Dumbledore, the headmaster whispering
urgently to McGonagall at his side. ‘He knew this was going to happen.’

Some part of her considered marching up to him right then and there, other students be damned, to
demand what he all knew— to confront him, question him about what else he was keeping from
her. After all, it wasn’t a coincidence at this point and the headmaster was obviously withholding
vital information. However, the weight of a stare, insistent and heavy, drew her attention from the
older wizard to an apprehensive pale gaze. Draco Malfoy looked waned, complexion bordering on
waxy, and bruising circles under his eyes that spoke volumes to the current state of his mind. Harri
considered she should feel some form of sympathy— the boy had never looked this terrible before,
this drained, this tired. But then the words of Voldemort came rushing back to her, the gloating
manner in which he revealed that the Slytherin had told him all about their duel. ‘What else did he
let slip?’ the swirl of an embittered thought, eyes narrowing in distrust, in distaste. As if sensing
the resentment rolling off of the girl, Malfoy shuddered, attention slipping from her and back to his
plate.

Harri had 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 begun, she couldn’t stop it, the obsession causing it to snowball, to overwhelm
and consume. The girl had been pacing about the carpeted length of the common room, wearing
holes into the ornate Persian rugs, reprimanding herself for being so stupid, so foolish, during their
last meeting. After all, what kind of reckless fool slaps a Dark Lord? To goad and bait him? The
warning of his wouldn’t leave her in peace, a vulture about her mind, that hateful sneer imposed
behind closed lids.

The portrait door abruptly creaked open. It was after 2 in the morning when a small group of
students were ushered into the Gryffindor common room, a grim quiet affair. The waned faces
were shuttered in disbelief, weary after what was supposed to be an evening of enjoyment and
blissful reunions had turned into a nightmare. McGonagall, in a dressing robe and greying hair in a
frayed braid, looked almost identical to her flock of charges-- haggard and beyond the point of
exhaustion.

The redheaded witch was sprinting over in an instant, arms thrown wide around her best friend,
relieved to see her unharmed, the earlier fury at being forgotten over the summer dissipating in the
glow of her safety. A silent prayer was sent to every unknown god, every deity, every being in the
universe, a wordless expression of gratitude. Hermione returned the embrace, arms lifting tiredly
and tears in the corners of her eyes as she let herself sink into the petite frame. Ron hovered
awkwardly on their periphery, a half-smile that was sheepishly returned.

Harri had waited to question Hermione until the morning, until the girl had a chance to recover
from the shock at being dragged off the train, and until she could have her first cup of coffee. She
figured it was best that way— to let the witch process and calm down before being bombarded
with inquiries. Shortly after the late-night arrival, the girls had fallen asleep, curled on a single bed,
and content to bask in the knowledge the other was safe.

As it currently stood, the pair was seated in the Great Hall, sporting equally ghastly shadows under
their eyes. The morning’s sun was weak, watery, entirely too dim, and the silence stretched until
she finally gathered the courage to break it, “What happened, ‘Mione? What’s been happening?”

Hermione stilled, fingers tightening around the mug as she regarded the redheaded girl across from
her, the way those green eyes shone with a concern that she felt she didn’t entirely deserve. After
all, she hadn’t even sent a single letter all summer, not even one for her birthday, under the explicit
instructions of Dumbledore. It had been eating away at her, the thought of a girl, one who just
desperately wanted to be shown love, believing that she had been abandoned by her closest friends.
And though she knew, logically, the headmaster was correct, that the post was easily intercepted
and could make Harri vulnerable, it 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 apparently met with
Minister Malfoy to negotiate us into being allowed 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, hard to
swallow around the rising regret, the remorse.

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 closer, breakfast forgotten as caramel 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, You-Know-Who’s followers. And I think they were looking for
something else— I think they were looking for you. Oh, Harri, they looked so disappointed, so
terrified, when they finished searching the train and you weren’t there.”

Attention fixated on the cooling gelatinous mass of oatmeal, stomach lurching at the sight. She
pushed it away with one hand, mind turning over the admittance. Though she knew it was probably
the safest thing to do, that it was probably right in not trusting the owls, it still stung nonetheless
that Dumbledore had his claws in her friends as well. But yet, it all seemed petty, distant—
especially so in the wake of what just had happened. Death Eaters were now so blatantly placed in
positions of power, able to move freely without consequences, their master hidden in the shadows.
Hermione had just confirmed it— that the ‘ministry officials’ had stopped the train all because of
her. That’s what it always came back to in the end though, didn’t it? To the tangled web between
her and Voldemort, the never-ending chase and messy aftermath that arose from their existence.
An ominous warning and vindictive gaze flashed in the back of her mind. He had threatened
Hogwarts, the peacefulness of her school year, her home. And no small part of her knew the
unsettling truth that this was just the beginning.

A quick squeeze to her friend’s hand, voice grim, “It’s okay, ‘Mione. I know.”

“You were correct in your assumptions, My Lord. The girl wasn’t aboard the Express.”

Voldemort barely registered the words as he scratched away on the scroll of parchment in front of
him, already knowing she wouldn’t be. Both of his spies had reported that the girl was to be
apparated directly to the school, that Dumbledore deemed the trains would no longer be safe. In
fact, he only sent his followers after it in the vaguest hope that Harri would have been defiant, 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 plume stilled as he watched in contemplation the way the ink bloomed on
the period of the note’s final sentence, spreading and fanning outwards greedily. The old fool was
cunning, manipulative, frustratingly always one step ahead. But soon it wouldn’t matter.

He had already foreseen the impending downfall of Albus Dumbledore. And how glorious it was.

Rising from the desk, an introspective light entered crimson eyes as they fixated on the melting
emerald wax held above a flame. So, his little horcrux had made it to the safety of Hogwarts— was
being hidden away in her stone tower. A soft chuckle at the naive thought that it would be enough
to keep him out, to stop him from reclaiming what was rightfully his.

The Dark Lord absentmindedly rolled the missive, reflecting on the girl hovering on the periphery
of his consciousness, on the bright flares of her joy. He had 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 that it would be. Because, as it stood, he had
plans to remedy all of that. ‘Soon.’ The signet ring was pressed into the hot wax, sealing the note
and, a humorless thought, her fate as well.

“Give this to Severus,” he instructed the kneeling Death Eater, already turning back to his desk,
fingers trailing among the scattered papers in an absentminded search of a report.

He paused for a moment, a malevolent smirk lighting up his expression, “Oh, do tell Barty to be
quite thorough in his lesson plans. I fear the curriculum at Hogwarts has been suffering as of late,
and it would be a shame to waste such potential.”

Reclaiming the seat at the desk, his attention drifted over to the armchairs in front of the mantle.
Just a few days ago, they had occupied the very same set in his mindscape, a girl at his side and
seeking him out for answers. How natural she had looked in them, how at place among their finery
and unnaturally green eyes solely fixated on him. It was where she belonged— and it was exactly
where he planned to make her stay.
 The Mirror Lake
Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! I just wanted to say you're all amazing and the best readers I could ever
ask for! The comments and likes you've been giving this fic has been such a huge
motivator for me to write these chapters so thank you <3

Enjoy <3

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 too loose. 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 the thin frame when the sting
had numbed his throat, a glare was aimed towards the cause of his frustrations. A note, seemingly
innocent, lay half curled in on itself amongst the chaos of the desk. The seal had, undoubtedly,
been his Lord’s— no other man in Britain would dare to have an ouroboros for a crest, the signet
proudly pressed into emerald wax.

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 thought formed traitorously, a
girl with red hair flashing in his mind’s eye-- the daughter of a woman still festering in his heart,
detrimental to his rationality from even beyond the grave, ‘That’s changed, hasn’t it?’

Snape poured himself another glass. It finally seemed that the Dark Lord was exhausted of the
back-and-forth game the potion’s master had been executing all of these years, that the time had
finally come to prove loyalty to a cause. Quite 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 rather suspiciously frail
these days. The once-proud posture now hunched, full cheeks a touch gaunter, the twinkle behind
half-moon glasses diminishing. The vigor, the energy, he had always known the man to possess
was waning. ‘He will die,’ a grim thought, reflecting back to the now much younger, much
stronger, form Voldemort possessed. ‘Especially if he is to face the Dark Lord.’ As great of a
wizard Albus Dumbledore may be, the odds were not on his side, perpetually stacked against him.
And the one man that Voldemort had always feared, the one man that he had been hesitant to move
against, would finally fall— then where would they be? Left to suffer under his whims, his
mercies, his volatile temper.

And the girl, what would happen to 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 behind the
flagstone walls. But if they were to crumble— Severus shuddered in unease, in dismay. A bitter
truth, irrefutable. She couldn’t defeat him, not as a mere 16-year-old who hadn’t even fully
completed her schooling. ‘But what if,’ the sharp mind began to whir as he eyed the parchment
warily, hesitant to voice any thoughts 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. Yet, the scheme had begun to already piece itself together all the same. And the
unfortunate conclusion quickly made itself known that, should he act upon such a plan, it would
most certainly spell a tragic end for himself. But his hypothetical doom wasn’t enough to curb the
defiance unfurling in his chest at the image of a pale body cooling, sprawled 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, too much control. Another glass of
startling 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 a bemused look-- their roommate was always the last to fall asleep and the
last to rise.

“I’m going to shower first,” she whispered, tilting her head towards the bathroom’s door, wincing
when it creaked on the hinges.

As the water warmed, the redheaded witch stretched, relishing in the pleasurable cracks in her
spine as they chased away the persistent residual 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 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. The second crimson eyes met hers, no one else truly mattered,
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,
her reaction-- a rhythm that they had perfected, an odd sense of comfort in knowing exactly what to
expect.

Yet, as he had proven last night through the harsh reminder of his influence, everything was about
to change. The rules were shifting, the stage broadening, more pawns appearing. 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 with his followers, with 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, was also in their shoes.

‘How are we supposed to fight him?’ her thoughts were grim as the shower’s warmth was cut off,
body shivering from a sudden lack of heat. The witch tried to clear the morbid turn her mind had
taken, determined to leave such depressing musings behind for now as green eyes scanned the
shelves for her pjs. However, the red and gold striped set had completely vanished, were nowhere
to be found. ‘House elves.’

Harri had been barely two steps out of the door when her ears were assaulted by a high-pitched
screech, freezing mid-step in abrupt alarm.

“Oh. My. God. Harri! What is that ?!” Lavender squealed, tone lilting with barely concealed glee
as she bounded across the bed, sleep forgotten and honey eyes glowing in scandalised delight.

A frown tugged on the corners of her mouth, trying to puzzle out as to what had set the blonde on
edge when her attention drifted downwards. The towel had done very little to hide the fading
impression of teeth on her pulse point, the skin tinged slightly pink around the edges. ‘It almost
looks like a-’ coherency halted, a cold wash of mortification. Emerald eyes glanced up in
desperation, 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?” the brown-haired girl questioned, her expression outwardly mature but the redden tips of
her ears betraying such an effort.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear-!” she fumbled for words, trying to defend herself, to fend off
their misplaced assumptions.

“Well, what it looks like,” Lavender sang, finger prodding at the fading mark with a bright and
knowing glint, “Is that somebody had a very pleasurable summer.”

“That would make two of us,” she tacked on quickly, tone suggestive, a broad smug grin plastered
on full lips.

“I swear, Lav-- Wait? What?” Harri could only stare dumbly at the girl before, Hermione echoing
the sentiment of confusion.

“My summer was spent with Cormac McLaggen,” Lavender stressed the syllables on his name,
adoration glazing over mirth in doe-like eyes.

“We’re in love!” she declared with finality after a few seconds of pause, clapping her hands
together in her elation, and not even noticing the lack of enthusiasm 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, a brow quirking in a silent question, “Oh, honestly Harri, it’s just a
little hickey. I’ve had dozens! They truly mean nothing, especially not when you have se-”

A short burst of a yell, a plea begging for her to stop, came from Harri, 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. The redhead 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 it had come from a monster sinking his fangs
into her throat. And, quite frankly, even imagining Voldemort in that way caused her nerves to
spike and stomach to flip. She couldn’t even comprehend getting physically involved with anyone,
especially not after finding out that she could kill them on accident-- especially not with him . 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. Lines of his body heaving in exertion as glowing
filaments covered the expanse of his chest, elegant fingers finding purchase in the damp earth,
smears of drying gore marring the alabaster smoothness of his skin. And she saw it all with
startling clarity. The smooth planes of pale muscle, the hollowed divots 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
cursing her roommates for inciting such a thing. Floating from the bedroom were the giggles of
Lavender as she proudly regaled the tales of her summer, the soft gasps of Hermione following in
suit-- and, for once, she found herself not wanting to join in.

Harri had fled the bedroom of tittering girls under the guise that she was late in meeting
Dumbledore, embarrassed with how Lavender spared no detail while Hermione listened in wide-
eyed fascination, blushing but eager to know more. And how badly she wanted to yell that no, it
hadn’t been a hickey. That no, it hadn’t been some quick summer hookup like they were assuming
it to be. In fact, that would have been preferable over a Dark Lord lapsing in his sanity and almost
tearing her throat out-- at least a muggle boy wouldn’t have suddenly sprouted fangs or saw fit to
poison her out of the blue. The redhead 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.

“Oi, Potter.” the posh drawl sounded from over her shoulder, the sneer of her last name being
purposefully dragged out.

An unbidden groan, that tone irrefutably unmistakable. ‘Malfoy. Of bloody course.’ It would
appear that Fate was keen on not letting her have a moment's peace, content on taunting her with it,
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.
School didn’t technically start until Monday, after all, and she had made a promise to hex him the
next time they met.

The blonde pulled up short a few feet away, pale eyes regarding her just as shrewdly in return. ‘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 could easily imagine as to who they featured, a sneaking
suspicion that she and Draco shared the same monster, albeit for different reasons. The dark circles
under his eyes had lessened slightly since the welcoming back feast, and he seemed to be regaining
the sense of superiority that she had always associated him with. But the look in that silver gaze
still 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, however.

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, schoolyard bullying that couldn’t even hold a flame to the real threat out there.
The one that was currently living in his home, the one that he had been forced to bend the knee to.
And even though the Dark Lord was hundreds of miles away, he 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.

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, already waned skin draining of colour even further, a
nervous air clinging to the sharp angles of his shoulders. And the twitch of his fingers, a jerky
reaction that curled about his forearm before abruptly dropping away. 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 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, one that didn’t
quite reach his eyes.

It was hard to continue to evenly hold such green eyes, the sharpness in them exposing him, 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 the withering stare.
It was calm today, the surface a mirror that reflected the cloudy sky above. Peaceful, serene, a
sorely-needed kind of tranquility.

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, like
the spineless child he was. That it wasn’t his choice, 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, a resounding truth when he found himself desiring even a shred of her courage. After
all, she had faced his Lord before, had defied him, had never crumbled as easily as he had-- and he
hadn’t even been tortured into compliance. 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, the venomous warnings not to shame the Malfoy name. A muscle in his
jaw ticked, the polluting wave of self-loathing surging through him.

When he 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 courage 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 did. He
was a Slytherin through and through, always acting on self-preservation, unable not to even when
his conscience, his heart, screamed otherwise. The boy settled for watching her out of his
periphery, roaming over the turned profile. The heart-shaped face and pointed nose. The fanned
lashes and rosebud mouth. 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 it was a startling thing to realise in the moment-- Harri Potter
had always been the one constant in his life, for better or for worse, always proving 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 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.

Draco roughly stuffed his hands into his school trousers, turning away before he could say
anything foolish, could let all of his secrets slip.

“I’m glad you weren’t on the train,” a soft utterance, quickened steps carrying him from the witch
before she could respond.

And as he languidly trekked back up to the castle, it hit him how strongly he had 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 be their saviour.

The redhead stood in silence as he left, alone with her thoughts and the waves lapping against the
pebbled shoreline.
 The Unforgivables
Chapter 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. Chapter 15 will
be back to being more plot-driven so don't worry if you find yourself not wanting to
read this chapter!

You're all amazing, thank you for still reading <3

“Some think that we shouldn’t be teaching our students the Dark Arts,” Mad-eye began, scribbling
roughly on the chalkboard, the writing only barely legible.

Behind him, the class of 6th-years sat with bated breath, their eyes full of restlessness, of unease, as
they tracked scarred fingers setting down the chalk with a decisive click. The syllabus had been
abruptly changed that morning, ‘Defence Against the Dark Arts’ now rebranded as simply ‘Dark
Arts’. The cause for such was in response to a Ministry mandate to begin to normalize the branch
to young people, to cease the potential discrimination against its users-- a way to gain a sort of
'equality' in their society. Unfortunately, Hogwarts had conceded with the condition that only
upper-year students would be required to take it.

“Some like to think that it has no place in the classroom,” he whirled on the stunted leg, magic eye
whizzing about around 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 that she was
sporting, what she thought of the new curriculum. And he supposed the reaction was reasonable
enough-- after all, the girl had been on the receiving end of a few rather nasty spells in the past.
Yet, there was something oddly 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 was a figment of his imagination.

“Cowards, the lot of them. I say it’s best to know what you’re up against. To gain power over
fear,” he roughly cleared his throat at the lengthening silence, the dusty words magically scrawling
out “The Unforgivables” at the top, “We’ll start off with an area that we are all familiar with-- the
Unforgivables. There are precisely 3 that, in the past, would have earned you a one-way ticket to
Azkaban. What are they?”

A smattering of students had puzzled out in hesitant voices the 'cruciatus curse', a wild smile
pulling on the split lip, the magic eye rolled into the back of his head. Out of the trio, he supposed
that it could be said the torture curse was the least offensive, the weight of it not as damning. But it
was also the trickiest to cast, its power drawing from the intensity of the caster's emotions, their
will to hurt.

“Ah good, very good,” he mumbled, tongue darting to the corners of his mouth as he regarded the
line of consternation appearing between Potter's brows.

He almost debated about having a student volunteer so they could experience what it felt like
firsthand, for the others to see what magic was truly capable of. But the thought of Dumbledore’s
impending dismissal, at failing the mission, and having to return to his Lord a failure caused him to
eagerly cross off the idea. Instead, a grisly misshapen hand reached into the cloche housing a
rather large spider, the one good eye glinting in a perverted glee. Though there were some outlined
protocols to follow for the course, naturally for the safety of all involved, there hadn't been one that
explicitly prohibited the usage of demonstrations on any non-human bodies.

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 shattered. It was one of the preferred extraction methods of the Dark Lord during his
reign."

Mad-eye brandished the gnarled wand, pointing the tip at the spider who was trying to vainly
scrabble off the desk.

“Crucio,” came the soft intonation, a perverse satisfaction surging in him as the magic, dark and
heady, hummed in his veins, the creature curling in on itself in pain.

Unable to help her nose from wrinkling in disgust, Harri tore her attention from the scene to roam
over the horrified expressions of her classmates. For the most part, they were rapturously watching
the demonstration, some a touch greener in the face than the others. And then she 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 at him, frowning at the sight that greeted her. The boy looked
on the verge of tears, lower lip quivering at the way the spider was stumbling over itself, legs
curling and uncurling. Fair enough as it wasn't exactly the most pleasant sight to behold. And the
girl did feel a passing sort of sympathy for her fellow Gryffindor, for the spider even-- after all, not
everyone had the experiences she did, beheld the same monster, or constantly had to face magic
blacker than sin. Passive emerald eyes retrained themselves on the ongoing display, thoughts
becoming occupied with puzzling out how it must 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, your bones to snap? ‘It certainly looks like it,’ she noted
bitterly, propping her chin up with a tightly balled fist. 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, of course. If it was smart, it would know that. An image of herself, tied to 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.

“Stop! Just stop it!” a tearful cry broke the room’s weighted silence, devastated outrage colouring
the voice.

Harri slid a surprised gaze over to Hermione at her side, those caramel brown eyes now shining
wetly. Her friend's hands, she noted, were shaking under the table, an air of discomposure to the
normally collected girl. The desperate cry seemed to break their professor out of his reverie,
dropping the wand to end the spell, and 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 as though to drive away
the cobwebs, the haze. A cough, almost embarrassed, followed the half-step away from the now
still spider.

“The others,” he bit out quickly, a frown pulling at on the scarred face as he tried to recover his
composure, “Someone, give me another.”
And much to his surprise, a pasty 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.

“Yes, yes, the imperius curse. Nasty business. It removes all will from the person it’s casted on,
forcing them to obey every command. After the Dark Lord’s fall, scores of witches of wizards had
claimed to only do his bidding while under the influence," an unbidden darkness unfurled in him as
he thought back to the traitors, those who so readily defected the first chance they had, begging for
asylum and a lesser punishment.

His gaze drifted to the half-dead spider, voice low in contemplation as he prodded it with the wand,
“Ah but, the imperius looks quite...different on a human than it would on an animal.”

Mad-eye retrained his keen stare to the petrified class before him, expectation bright in electric
blue eye, “Any takers? I promise, it doesn’t hurt.”

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 in the silence, heart squeezing dully in her chest. A part of her, the brave and rash
Gryffindor, urged herself to selflessly volunteer, to be the one to step forward. After all, she had the
most experience with curses. When compared to her classmates, most of whom were still innocent
from finding themselves on the other end of a wand, who hadn’t known 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 safety and comfort of others, people that she barely even knew.
Unfortunately, it was a little well-known fact that Harri Potter suffered from a rather outrageous
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, an older sister unable
to rescue her younger one. And so an annoyed 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 hesitation as she stepped forward, could hardly believe that the girl
responsible for the downfall of his Lord had offered herself up on a practically silver platter. And
while he could admit to holding a form of fondness towards her, sometimes even wishing that his
comrades held an ounce of her brashness, of her spirit, it didn't change the fact that they were in
opposite camps. As such, he ensured that he never got too attached, the Dark Lord’s plans
involving her murky at best. 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 her will actually was.

“Don’t worry, Potter,” he pointed his wand, smiling cheerfully at the way she hadn't even flinched,
“I promise I won’t make you do anything too embarrassing. Imperio.”

A yellow light had shot forth, settling over her clothes, her skin as though 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. And 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, spreading over 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.
She was about to give in to the sweet siren’s song when something rather peculiar had occurred. 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 remanents of
light. ‘No.’ Another voice had emerged from the chaos, a baritone that made her think of velvet
against bare skin. Of stormy summer nights, of sweet smoke curling from a blazing fire.

‘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 consciousness, 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 she
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 coursing through her, the temperature dropping, her skin turning
numb at the sting. It was at this point that Harri had become dimly aware of the eyes fixated her, of
how they were all waiting for her to do anything. To perhaps dance like she had been instructed to,
to make a fool of herself, to prove the effects of the Unforgiveable. But, as the fog was dispelled,
she remained rooted in place, peering in owlish bewilderment at a rather perplexed Mad-eye.

He dismissed her when it was more than apparent that the curse was going to be ineffective,
trudging back to her spot on unsteady legs and shakily slipping into the bench. She might as well
had been molded from jello, knees laxed, 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,’ feeling oddly off-kilter, unnerved ‘did I hear
his voice?’ And it was unmistakably his, there was no denying it-- yet it wasn't the skeletal
monster's, the one that had been too reedy and always bordering on a hiss. But his. Tom Riddle's.
A sort of tone that could disarm just about anyone, charm, and make you believe as though you
were the only thing that truly mattered to him.

Harri tried to vainly puzzle out what it had meant, trying to understand the fact that she had so
clearly heard Voldemort’s voice in her head fighting off the curse’s hold. Had he somehow
actually been there? They did share dreams after all-- maybe their peculiar connection was finally
bleeding over into waking reality? The girl felt as though she were drifting away, untethered,
absent from Hogwarts as the words of her professor became unintelligible. Murky, diluted, as
though she were sinking further and further under the water, 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 in apprehension, 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. Yet, only one
person has ever been known to survive the Killing Curse,” he mumbled, attention flitting across the
redhead before him.

She fixed 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, a momentary blinding. Every corner of the room was filled
with the sickening hue, dancing across the worn stone walls, casting verdant-tinged shadows upon
young faces before dying down. As her sight 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,
having 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.
 A Party Is A Marvelous Idea
Chapter Notes

Thank you for all of the comments on the last chapter--- I really hadn't expected that
and it made me almost cry in happiness! You guys are seriously so amazing and I can't
even thank you enough for reading my work <3

Enjoy!!

Harri’s sixth year was passing by at an alarming rate and, while she wouldn’t exactly say she loved
the endless essays or mountains of homework, she also didn’t want it to end anytime soon. Finally
being back in the castle and using magic once again, albeit with a wand that seemed to hate her
half of the time, was almost enough to make her forget how oddly the year was progressing.

Snape had been barely looking at her during potions, his old habit of sneering and insulting
subsiding into one consisting of a frown and an unreadable look. Mad-eye had taken to watching
her with a guarded expression, as if unsure of her ever since she had fended off his imperius curse.
And Dumbledore was….distant, to say the least. Whenever she caught his attention during dinners
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 minute changes
occurring in the headmaster. He was, indeed, growing gaunter as the term progressed, his
expression constantly pinched with worry, shoulders slumped with an invisible weight she didn’t
quite know. In the past, he would have invited her up to his office a dozen of times already,
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 offend him, to
earn his irritation, the cold affront.

And then there was the matter of Draco. 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,
one in which he admitted that he was glad she was safe, he had been weirdly subdued around her.
They no longer bickered with one another, no longer insistently pushing buttons and stepping 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. But, apart from those small, silent interactions, he mostly kept his distance. It
was disconcerting, to say the least, that he had changed so quickly, had done a full 180 personality
switch. One might even say that he had matured, if they felt so inclined to do so.

“I can’t believe Dumbledore is fine with this!” Hermione seethed as she slid into her usual spot
next to the auburn-haired girl, a whirlwind of frenzied disquiet.

Harri noticed her fingers were darkly stained with ink, finding purchase under cleanly trimmed
nails, and that she had a frayed quill tucked haphazardly behind one ear. The girl seemed frazzled,
the fevered look in those caramel eyes betraying the speeds at which her thoughts were cycling
through. And there was only one thing in this world that could reduce the witch to such a state--
schoolwork. Hermione reached for the roasted carrots, piling them onto her plate with far more
force than necessary, Ron turning to spare a nervous look in Harri's direction.

“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 dark,” at this, she shot a mutinous glare towards the
professor in question--who was, currently, nipping at his flask at the head table.

While Harri couldn’t disagree that the paper's topic was an odd choice, she also believed that
Dumbledore wasn’t exactly too thrilled with the class's curriculum either. And neither was she-- for
entirely different reasons, of course. Much to her barely-concealed horror, she was doing
alarmingly well in Mad-eye’s class, her highest grade at the moment in fact, 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-- and she knew that, if she had
her original wand, she might have excelled even further. Harri bitterly tore the dinner roll into
smaller chunks, unsure of what to say, and choosing to hum softly 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 been a sore topic of subject ever since the ministry’s new regime began, apparently
having flourished under strict protocols.

The ginger boy had leaned forward, elbows crossing on the table, blue eyes grim, “He told her to
check the papers first thing tomorrow morning.”

There was a switch that 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 wild curls, she
considered the information. Percy had followed in his father’s footsteps after Hogwarts to join the
Ministry, finding his niche in bureaucracy and order. But, unlike his father, he held an ambitious
streak for a higher position, eventually becoming the personal scribe to the Minister’s
Undersecretary himself.

“Really?" she breathed out, fingers drumming against the worn wood table, "Did he say whatever
for?”

Harri listened with half an ear. 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 over everything in a warm
glow. Leaves had been scattered on the stone flooring in a thick carpet to mimic the outside, the
soft crunch of them underfoot a comforting sort of sound as students came and went from 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 marked a day of
peculiarity in Harri Potter’s life for the mere fact that it was a day of longing, of 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 masses may remember it as a great triumph but, to her, it was a
sobering day of loss. Yes, he had been killed 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’s back and my parents
are still dead.’

Ron shrugged and reached for a red currant scone, “No, he refused to say why. Just that it’s
important.”

He 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?”
A party sounded like the complete opposite of what she needed at the moment-- which was
precisely why she decided she had 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 dismay-- but she had to give credit to the blonde when credit was
due. The waist-length auburn hair had been piled in a messy bun atop her head, strands and wisps
of baby hairs artfully left loose to frame a heart-shaped face, while the kohl liner decorating her
eyes made their usual vivid green somehow even brighter.

“Merlin, Lav,” she muttered in wonder, turning casually in the mirror.

“I know, I know. I’m a genius,” Lavender crooned, appearing at her side as she twisted her curls up
with a pale pink ribbon-- 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, full mouth
jutting out in a pout, “Merlin, I wish I had your body Harri. I just look at food and I gain 10
pounds.”

With an exasperated sigh, the witch floated away from their reflections to shuffle through a jewelry
box, muttering ceaselessly about a bracelet she couldn't find.

Harri opened her mouth to say something, closing it with a click when she realised that she truly
had no idea as to how to respond. Girl talk had never been her strong suit and it always threw her
for a loop whenever Lavender bemoaned her body. The redhead eyed her own image critically,
frowning at the fact that the blonde had mentioned she 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, 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 not convince herself to change, to reach for an oversized jumper.

As it turns out, going to a party was a stupid, idiotic, wonderful idea. The Hufflepuff common
room was packed with teenagers, all swaying and jumping around restlessly to the heavy bass of
the music blaring from suspended speakers. The lights had been dimmed and were currently
strobing in different colours, a dizzying kaleidoscope that cast the faces around her in technicolour
tones. Truly, Harri had no clue as to where her friends had wandered off, zero idea what kind of
music was even playing at this point, no concept of what time it was--yet she could care less.
Tipping back a half-full 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 sing. And very few times in her life had she ever actually gotten drunk-- but,
as she giggled into the quickly emptying cup, steps unsteady, she wondered 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 upwards to take in the flushed face of
Draco, the betraying evidence colouring his normally pale skin-- he was guilty as much as she for
drinking tonight it would seem. Yet, somehow, the alcohol had made his crystalline eyes almost
shine, the striped tie undone and hanging carefree 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 towards him, 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 attention
flitted across the refined features, at 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 and she grinned humorously at the thought.

“Malfoy!” she drawled his name out, poorly mimicking the same inflections he always used, a
terrible joke that incited another surge of giggles from her.

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
heartbeat was chaotic, hammering wildly in the cavity 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 the persistent instinct, the one that whispered for her to seize the
moment, small hands darted out to fist the front of his collared shirt. Unrelentingly, 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 since he needed to keep
a level head, to beguile and seduce without being influenced by her temper. And 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 these days to try to name all of the
things she felt, to find new words to label emotions he hadn't known to 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 had elicited a chuckle from him,
still vividly recalling himself as a teenager, shortly after learning about the curse himself, resolutely
practicing occlumency long into the night in determination to never succumb. Perhaps she
possessed an innate disposition to the arts of the mind that she wasn’t fully aware of yet-- it
certainly was worth looking into.

And on a mere whim, the Dark Lord decided to peak 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, a lack of
inhibition overcame him-- the way she felt so unrestrained, even wilder than usual. Deft fingers
stilled on the ring, leaning back thoughtfully into the armchair as he tried to place it the sensations.
‘So, she’s intoxicated,’ a dark thought, 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 her to land in unfortunate
situations when sober, never mind 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,
rather peculiar, emotion bursting brightly in the link. And he most definitely recognised this one --
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.

‘The little minx,’ his thoughts were venomous, quickly identifying the emotion to be a vague form
of arousal. That, even with the distance between them, the sound of her pulse still drummed in his
ears, pervaded his senses. 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 that they toyed with death.

The marble mantle cracked cleanly in two.

 Sweet as Honey
Chapter 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 <3

‘Wake up, Harri.’

A sharp spike of irritation, followed by a surge of displeasure. The feelings, she realised belatedly,
gasping herself awake and staring wildly about the dim bedroom, weren’t her own. There was an
unbidden groan as pinpoints, bright flares of pain, stabbed at her consciousness, thin hands
scrubbing over her face in an attempt to chase it off. ‘Oh bloody hell, I feel like shit.' No small part
of her was already bemoaning the fact that she, undoubtedly, had a biting hangover-- and that it
was only going to 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. A few feet away, she
could make out in the shadows the softly rising forms of Hermione and Lavender, soft snores the
indication that both were still blissfully asleep. And, at that, she frowned, knowing quite certainly
that there had been a voice instructing her to wake up-- one that, apparently, didn't belong to either
of her roommates. However, the more she concentrated on it, trying to puzzle it out, the worse the
headache sharpened-- wearily, she flopped back down to the nest of pillows in search of
momentary relief. Gingerly, fingers reached up to massage the smarting temples, a futile effort to
ease away the stabbing tension. It was beginning 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 the wand.

“Tempus,” she mumbled, nearly crying out in thinly-veiled dismay.

The numbers of 6:45 am floated in front of her strained eyes in bright blue letters, nose scrunching
at the offending time. She had only slept for 3 hours, the night before a foggy, distant memory.
And how alarming of a realisation 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 its pieces, one that was to be solved at a later date. A pale arm draped
over her face, determined to piece back together the scattered remnants of sleep when she heard it
again.

‘Wake. Up.’

This time, aggravation entirely of her own making flooded her as she threw the arm back down
against the pillows in a huff, resentment a bitterness on her tongue. Not entirely too pleased at
being told what to do, long legs swung over the mattress's edge with a grimace. Belatedly, Harri
realised that her pants were missing, scanning the room for the pair in a daze. And--ah, there they
were. Piled in front of the door, crumpled in a heap. Groaning in exasperation, she made her way to
the bathroom, feet feeling as though they were made out of lead-- sluggish and disinclined to move.
‘Oh hell,’ the reflection in the mirror was mayhem. The once carefully applied eyeliner was now
smudged down her face in inky tracks, artfully styled hair a tangled mess atop her head-- wild and
frayed. The shower sprung to life in the background, warming its spray as the girl flinched, failing
to sort out the bird's nest, the tugging not helping her headache in the slightest. There was no shame
to be found in admitting that she had taken a longer shower than probably necessary. Considering it
felt as though Knight Bus had just flattened her against the pavement, she justified it was beyond
well-deserved.

“Accio Pepper-up,” she intoned listlessly, head thrown back in a silent scream when nothing came
flying from her trunk.

Harri marched over in her towel, dripping puddles across the floor and shivering against the cold
air of the room. Sinking to her knees, she aggressively began to dig through the trunk's contents,
mumbling vehemently about how the second she found her original wand, this one was destined
for the bin.

It was nearly 8 am by the time Hermione and Ron had wandered down to the Great Hall, the
remaining piece to their trio already sitting in their usual place. An auburn head was resting against
the wooden table’s edge, glassy eyes trained on the floor and unblinking. Not even bothering to lift
her head, she merely rotated it when she heard them approach, darkening circles a testament how
little she had slept.

“Hey guys, I was wondering when you’d show up,” a yawn she couldn't quite stifle, words slurring
together.

Her head was pounding and the girl took a vindictive comfort in the fact that her friends looked just
as terribly as she did. They sat in silence for a moment, Hermione taking a deeper sip from her
coffee than usual, posture not as straight as usual. Ron blinked in confusion, as though he wasn’t
quite sure where he was or how he got there, blindly reaching for a muffin and taking a bite.

Harri finally muttered out, words muffled by the wood-- it hurt too much to look at her friends
silhouetted 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
cinnamon rolls and caffeine awaiting them. Intrigued by the continuing hush, she peeked up to take
in Hermione’s reluctance to remove the mug from her face, how Ron had turned almost as red as
his hair.

She jerked up, mouth forming a surprised ‘oh’, a soft groan 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, she would be rooting for them, 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 ax. Staring down at the spread appearing before them, the witch 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 at the very top of the Hall. Harri glanced up in wonder, in
wide-eyed amazement, as hundreds of newspapers began to rain down upon them. It vaguely
reminded her of the whirlwind of Hogwarts letters spewing from the Dursely’s fireplace when she
was 11, how the letters 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. And it was as though a bucket
of cold water had been tossed on her, the brisk clarity chasing away the fog of her hangover, numb
fingers reaching for the paper. There, in a moving photograph, teeth flashing in a disarming smile,
an air of unwavering 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, bloody 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, 100 percent sure that all
three were happening to her in 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 redhead chanced a glimpse, hoping that she was imagining it, that it was some sick joke her
mind was playing on her when she considered Hermione’s equally pale face. 'So it's not one, then.'
Hands clenched tightly around the paper’s edges, wrinkling it in the process, tongue running over
her canines 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 the
ineffectiveness of the governing body. In a shocking move, he bidded the Wizengamot
Council to vote on the implementation of a new structure, urging them to look to the
future and to progression. In an exclusive interview, he explained his reasoning for
such, stating that he felt the previous adminstration of the Ministry was too dated to
achieve its intended purpose.

“It has been proven countless times that the Ministry, as well as the Wizengamot
Council, have been continually lacking in their abilities to produce results,” Minister
Malfoy had stated from this office, 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 able to be beneficial in
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, it was passed through 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 he appeared on the political scene, was named High Sovereign of Wizarding
Britain at 9:38 pm on October 30th.”

Harri's attention drifted to the empty seat that the headmaster usually occupied, things suddenly
clicking into place. Why he had looked so worn, so tired, over the past few months. Why his
shoulders seemed to be permanently hunched and frown lines etched in the corners of his eyes,
between his brows. ‘He’s been fighting against him,’ a grim thought as she turned her attention
back to the article, ‘Politically trying to stop him from making a move.’

“Appearing first on the social scene earlier this summer, Marvolo Gaunt has taken the
Wizarding World by storm. A mystery seemingly to appear 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 lines, once thought to be extinct, of Gaunt and Peverell, as well as a Founder’s
Seat as the 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 system:

“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 closer towards Enlightenment. Meanwhile, as 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 with 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 even pass a simple law without debating it for
weeks on end. As such, the Ministry is an ineffectual system, one 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 new government.
Mr. Gaunt had given us an indulgent smile at the question, jokingly stating that it is
not his intent on turning 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 equally before being passed formally.”

Having received the greenlight, 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 unusual 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 bloodline-”

Harri tossed the paper aside, unable to stomach the sight of his sharp smile, the confident look in
his eyes. 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
begin, had wisely instructed that they prepare themselves for the changes about to unfold in their
world. 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 the wizarding world by force.

However, he had chosen to smile sweetly, to play the role of a wolf in sheep’s clothing by
garnering the public's favour. And for some reason, that set her even more on edge-- the fact that
he could be so deceiving, that people had melted like putty in his hands. ‘The devil trying to play
human,’ a spiteful passing thought, aggressively wadding the paper up into a ball and tossing it
over her shoulder. Quite truthfully, she 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 one that was bestowed onto him 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 jolted from her seat, Hermione and Ron still engrossed in the news that the entire foundation of
their world was crumbling, and looked, once again, 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.
 Look At Me
Chapter 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
favourite scenes 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 <3 Thank you!!

Harri nearly ran down the stone halls of Hogwarts, her feet carrying her as swiftly as they could to
the office of the headmaster. She had already made a running list of questions in her mind,
demands that he would have to answer before she would leave him alone in peace. Why, for
example, didn’t he tell her about Voldemort rebranding himself as Marvolo Gaunt? About him
publicly claiming seats on the council? Didn’t Dumbledore think, just for a moment, she would
have some insight on how to defeat him, considering she was the one that had talked to him? Met
with him face to face?

She paused at the awaiting Gargoyle, shifting the weight from one foot to the other. A small part of
her felt 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, about the dreams. How can he trust you
when you’re obviously a liar?’ The concept settled like a weight in her stomach, a souring taste in
her mouth.

She tried to banish the rationale, wishing for it not to be true, choking out uncertainly, “Lemon
drop?”

The Gargoyle refused to budge for a second, as if judging her intentions, before it slowly spun
away to reveal a step of stairs. Voices strained in the height of a heated argument, tense sounds that
floated down from the office, and filled the echoing space of the stairwell.

“Albus, she is not ready. She’s a mere 16-year-old girl and woefully underprepared. She can’t face
him,” the sharp inflections, the stress placed on the consonant sounds.

The voice had belonged to Snape, Harri figured, as she paused on the last two steps. There was a
distinct thud of hands on something solid, as if he had forcefully placed them down on a desk or
chair. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion and she glanced down at the paper clutched in her
hands, at Voldemort’s face frozen in a disarming smile. ‘Not ready?’ she wondered, eyes widening
at the revelation. Did this mean that they had a plan in motion? An inkling of an idea of what to do
next?

“Oh, Severus. I know that she is. In fact, I am painfully aware. But we had always known it would
only be a matter of time before he rose up once again and she would have to face her destiny.”
Ah- that one definitely belonged to Dumbledore. Harri crept closer to the door, wanting, needing to
hear more. If they had a plan, she craved to know about it, to feel that she wasn’t alone in this,
wasn’t drifting in some endless void of confusion. The voices went quiet, the silence stretching on
for a frustratingly long time.

And then the door before her magically swung open, body going rigid as she was caught with her
hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Green eyes flitted between them sheepishly, trying to fight down
the humiliated blush at the thought she had been caught eavesdropping of all things.

“Harri, my dear girl. Please, do come in,” the headmaster beckoned, voice strained and cheerful
tone false to her ears.

Pale eyes were watching her in apprehension, twinkling behind his crescent moon glasses, all
thoughts carefully filed away as she stumbled into the office. The door behind her had swung shut
of its own accord, a resounding click that occupied the seconds where a conversation should have
been.

Severus trained his sharp gaze on her, the sneer she didn’t know she had quite missed finally back
on his face, “Eavesdropping, Potter?”

She struggled to find appropriate words, not to retort in a way that would make her seem childish,
to give them any more reason to believe that she was incapable of being an adult. With an effort,
the girl swallowed down the venomous words on the tip of her tongue and it took all of her
willpower not to giggle at the thought 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 a scenario she had imagined, raised
a thin brow at her antics. Silence ensued, an awkward weight to its heaviness that no one seemed
willing to break.

Harri cleared her throat awkwardly, realising the newspaper was still clutched between sticky
fingers and she thrust it upon Dumbledore’s desk. All eyes were drawn magnetically to it as it
landed with a deafening dull thud, the ledgers underneath upset by its appearance-- it was funny
how such an innocent thing 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,” she pleaded, the look in
those dim eyes already telling her all she needed to know.

“I’m afraid, dear child, he can. Has, already in fact. Starting tomorrow morning, he will be
appointed the new Sovereign of Wizarding Britain,” a grimace racked thin shoulders at the thought
of what was awaiting them, the unlimited power that was now at his 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 anyway. Tom has always been quite tenacious in
gaining what he most covets,” Albus considered the girl standing before him, those unearthly green
eyes and auburn hair. He faintly remembered Lily looking at him in a similar fashion, full of both
despair and simultaneous hope-- it was as though a ghost stood before him, separated only by a
walnut desk. ‘She would never forgive me.’

Harri considered him as he rose from the worn chair, a gnarled finger extended to trail down
Fawkes’ feathery back and crimson plumes. She watched the motion obsessively, mild jealousy
sparking to life in the cavity of her chest--the bloody bird was being shown more attention, more
love, from the headmaster than she had been all year. Valiantly attempting to stamp it down,
fingers curled inwards until nails bit crescent moons into the softness of their palms.

“You have a plan though, right? You’re going to fight this, start a war against him? I want in. 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, 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 down. 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. 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 need 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, coal eyes holding an assessing glint as he watched in keen
observation-- not quite saying anything but also not moving to leave.

Dumbledore studied the girl for a moment longer, grey brows raising in surprise at the sudden
declaration. 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 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 this morning.”

A dropping sensation, heart sinking when he had turned from her. Green eyes settled on the nape
of his neck, a silent plea for him to face her, to not treat her as though she were a spectre.
Unfortunately, it was starting to become a sight that she was all too familiar with-- the thin
shoulders, the 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 the one he had specifically chosen. Keeping her at an arm's length, purposefully withholding
information and only doling it out whenever he saw fit-- his way of controlling her, she was aware
of it. 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, her willingness to prove herself to him. And how it
made her stomach turn to acid, rolling and lurching, a sense of restlessness bursting in between the
spaces of her ribs that rendered 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 weary pacing about the room. ‘He always abandons me whenever it's most
convenient for him.’

He had flitted to another portrait, tone somberly grave 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 until she can
be ready to face him.’ 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 in his
periphery. She was staring at him with a lostness in her gaze, 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 it, unable to surface for a blessed breath. And
how it filled 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
looking to be lost before it had even begun.

“Severus, can you please escort Miss Potter back to her common room? The other professors will
be arriving soon,” a wave of an open hand, no small part of him wishing she could be rid of his
sight already-- the phantom of his failures.

Harri blinked once, then twice at him, 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 purposefully given cryptic, half-baked answers. The world around her
seemed to slow down, 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 have helped 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 bean, sharing 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. 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 loving acceptance. 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 had been 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 he 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, 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 thin 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, giving way into fury in its stead. The adults in
her life had always done this, treated her like a small child that was clueless to the evil in the world.
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? Distantly,
Harri did wonder where this sudden burst of violence was coming from, why the voice whispering
to her was the same as the one 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 in the
moment. 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, 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 unyielding tension in her mind. ‘Show him. Show
Dumbledore how you truly feel, let him see.’ Her vision tinged red and then-

“Look at me!” she screamed, a hoarse outburst that shredded her vocal chords.

Snape’s hand snapped back to his side in alarm, and Dumbledore whirled on the spot at the
unexpected order. He seemed so surprised that she had raised her voice, had disobeyed a direct
command of his, a shocked sort of fury for his expression. But 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 mounting 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, 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, everywhere I look he’s there. I can’t even sleep without seeing him,
without-- I just feel- I feel so lost, so angry.”

She scrubbed away the tears with shaking hands, trying to make a distinct image from the blurred
lines of his silhouette, “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. He struggled to school the planes
of his expression into a sympathetic one, tried to not show how disturbed, how unnerved he was as
he replayed the words over again. It took more effort than he would ever care to admit to seem
calm at the present

Forcing a smile, trying to keep it as reassuring as he could, he settled for, “I see you, Harri. I finally
see you.”
 She Never Had An Answer
Chapter 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 <3 You are all amazing readers and it means
so much to me!

Snape had guided her 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 his observations, she normally was content to bottle up her emotions, to
put on a mask that told the world she was fine, wasn't phase-- in many ways, she was like himself
in that regard. Onyx eyes fixated 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 caused the usually
unflappable headmaster to go into 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 Severus Snape
could have sworn that those green eyes had flashed red for a split second, an eerily similar shade to
a specific Dark Lord that haunted his every waking minute. He shuddered at the memory and was
thankful as they had reached the bottom step, eager to be alone with his thoughts, to finally dissect
everything in the quiet solitude of the dungeons.

“Go on, Potter,” he settled for a sneer, the tone lacking any true menace.

He watched as her form retreated down the hall and, for the millionth time since he had first met
her, a too-skinny 11-year-old with knobby knees and a smattering of bruises, he pondered about the
mystery that surrounded Harri Potter’s existence.

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 when she didn’t even have 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 rose from her
chest. The surprising burst of anger and aching sadness had been replaced by lingering
embarrassment and she was, truthfully, quite upset with herself. Why did she have to cry, of all
things, in front of the headmaster? After all, she had been trying to prove that she was an adult,
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 further that I’m still a kid.’ Her attention drifted in the
direction of the courtyard-- the trees that were beginning to lose their autumn leaves while the
cobblestone pathways were thickly carpeted in red and orange hues. Fall was coming to a close
sooner than she would have liked, another year's end steadily approaching.
A shiver ghosted through her in the wake of the wind's chill, arms wrapping about her torso in a bid
for reprieve as she reflected upon Dumbledore’s promise. He vowed that they would have a serious
talk, that she would finally get some answers the second he had some for himself. He claimed that
he needed time to think, to process before he could be of any use to her-- and Harri 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 his offer because at least it was something.

“Oi, Potter,” a voice floated from down the hall and she glanced over her shoulder to see a
breathless Draco bounding towards her.

“Weasely said you’d be here. I wanted to--,” he trailed off, noting the redness rimming her eyes,
the way they had begun to already puff up.

Unbidden, a frown formed 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. It didn't suit her-- sadness wasn't something she should ever be privy
to. Not the rash girl who performed death-defying feats during their quidditch matches or whose
confidence was unmatched during their duels. Not the girl who was was made for happiness, who
wore it so well in the form of a smile that was entirely too bewitching and disarming.

Shoving his hands into his trouser's pockets, he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to
another before jerking his head towards the courtyard, “I know a place, if you want.”

An eyebrow was raised at his obvious discomfort, finding it somehow in herself to scoff a bit, tone
just a touch peevish, “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 exactly that 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.”

They found themselves sitting on the rocky banks of the Black Lake, an inlet surrounded by trees
and quiet trills of birdsong. As Draco explained, he had found this place in his second year and it
occupied a special spot in his heart-- a place of escape 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 see the tears or to play witness to her breakdown. But he
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-- in reality, it had only been mere minutes.

Harri watched as he sheepishly turned, 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 hangover. Almost hesitantly, he moved to sit down
next to her, pale eyes flitting nervously to hers in search of a sign that he wasn't allowed. 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 have been the perfect path for him, a profitable one even though
money wasn't an object of concern for his family. The sun was slowly beginning to dip in the sky
and her arms locked about her bare legs to fight off the biting sting of the autumn day.
Subconsciously, she had started to lean in towards the pureblood in search of warmth, surprised
when her shoulder bumped his without meaning to. He didn't move away.

The silence stretched on between the pair 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. When she finally broke it, however, 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?”

She lifted her gaze, regarding the confusion dawning on his face from the corner of her periphery.
Pointedly, her eyes shifted down to the dark mark hidden under his left sleeve, muttering out,
“Voldemort.”

The muscle in his shoulder tensed unwittingly, jaw ticking in outward reaction to the cursed name
being spoken aloud. He glanced uneasily about the forest, scanning the darkening treeline in dread
and fully expecting to see the Dark Lord appear out of thin air. The devil ready to wreak havoc and
sow destruction upon all those who dared to utter his name, the taboo of an unspeakable power.
When nothing had happened, however, he couldn't help but slump a bit in relief, gaze flitting
across the face tilted up at him expectantly. ‘How the hell is she so perceptive?’

"You know?” he grimaced, suddenly finding it hard to swallow.

She huffed, a small laugh at the incredulity in his tone, at the surprise that she had been able to
piece it together. Harri retrained her attention on the flat expanse of the lake, tone somber, “I had
my suspicions."

"I saw him, you know,” she further explained, squinting into the horizon's distance, “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.”

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. 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.”

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
truly 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 them out as though
he had never thought of an answer before this moment. She didn’t know how to respond because
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 accurately portray.

In the end, she settled for a soft, “I see.”

In the expanse of quiet that had ensued, Draco 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. 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. However, 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 would
appear that she had forgotten about the incident entirely and he cursed himself for even 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 and fascination for turning water into rum.

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 .”

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 almost 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. She
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, 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 it seemed-- yet another mystifying
occurrence in her existence that defied all logic and reason, entirely unexplainable. And it would
seem that it was becoming an unsettling motif over these past few months, the list compiling of
questions by 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
regarded 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 the leaves clinging to her
skirt-- the fabric had lifted 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, rosebud mouth a pleasing shade of
pink, the skin a touch creamier, paler from the lack of sun. 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, a
gangly child that 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 abundance of clarity. Why he cared if she was crying or not, how badly he 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. 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-- one in
which she revealed that the kiss had meant something.
 To Make A Deal With The Devil
Chapter 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 and believing in this fic! I never thought I
would get this far and you all have given me the motivation to continue to write <3
Thank you, everyone, you're all amazing and beautiful!

I hope you guys will continue to read and enjoy it! <3

As it turned out, much to her extreme surprise, Dumbledore 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
8 in the morning and the girl was already out of bed, greedily devouring its contents in an eager bid
to see what Dumbledore had managed to divine. The uncomfortable sensation of wood biting into
her knees or the morning chill of the bedroom did little to offend as she knelt on the ground, thin
fingers curling about the parchment’s edges. A beat of a second passed before a swell of
disappointment replaced the earlier anticipation when the letter revealed little of substance— it was
merely imploring her to stay behind for the upcoming break so they could have a conversation in
private. And as she crumpled the letter in one hand, tossing it over her shoulder carelessly, a frown
appeared as she considered how Dumbledore had stressed several times the imperativeness in
heeding his wish. Mentally filing away the instruction, the girl rose with stiff knees and a weary
sigh, trudging to the bathroom while idle-mindedly thinking back to the strangeness the past week
had brought.

She had refused to watch Voldemort’s broadcasted sham of a coronation, irritated at the very idea
that he felt the need to flaunt his victory so publicly, so widely. It had been bad enough to see his
smug face, with that too sharp smile and false displays of humility, plastered over the papers every
single morning. But now? Now, she had run into an entirely different, albeit to be expected,
problem. Around the halls of Hogwarts, “Marvolo Gaunt” had become a buzzword, something
everyone wanted to keenly discuss. Who, for example, was the mysterious young man now in
control of their government? 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 fact that there was a distinct lack of potential suitors who looked even remotely
similar at school. It had turned Harri’s peaceful routine of breakfast into one giant gossip fest as the
clamouring in the hall centered around what he was wearing that day or how that photo had
captivated his very essence. And how she wanted nothing more than to scream at them to just stop
talking.

In fact, her very own roommate, one Miss Lavender Brown, had declared herself the new
Sovereign’s number one supporter much to Harri’s never-ending headache. “He’s just dreamy!
Some may not like them but I think his red eyes just adds more to the mystery of him. What I’d give
to touch him just once,” the blonde would croon nightly, eyes alight with adoration as she would
busy herself in snipping his photos out of the papers. ‘It’s almost hilarious,’ Harri thought bitterly,
running the soft-bristled brush through the auburn strands with an unkind strength, ‘at how quickly
McLaggen was replaced.’
Of course, it all had disgusted her, made her feel beyond ill in seeing how the man had managed to
utterly and completely win over the female population with a bat or two of his eyes. Even
Hermione, level-headed, rational Hermione, had fallen prey to his good looks much to her
unbridled horror.

“You have to admit, he’s quite handsome,” she had stated nonchalantly over coffee,
having just finished the article declaring the appointment of Lucius Malfoy to a seat
on his council.

Harri nearly choked on her oatmeal in turn.

“He’s the Dark Lord , ‘Mione,” she had hissed out in response, barely concealed
dismay in her gaze while her appetite vanished into thin air.

“I know that,” the brown-haired witch defended, the tips of her ears bright red and a
dazed look in those caramel eyes, “it’s just that I can see the appeal is all.”

Harri slammed the trunk’s lid closed forcefully, an exasperated groan slipping out of its own
accord. The man had invaded Hogwarts in the most unexpected way possible yet everyone was too
blind to see what he was actually doing— Lucifer hiding his wretched deeds behind an amiable
facade and honeyed words. Like how, for example, he delegated prominent Death Eaters to the
council that was meant to be the check to his power. Or how, for another, he had pardoned those
from their Azkaban sentences only after he had illegally broken them out under the guise of a
‘security breach’— people that, by all accounts, most certainly deserved to rot in their cells. But no
one seemed to be piecing any of this together. It was absolutely maddening.

And she just knew that he possessed an awareness that the public was falling left and right for his
saccharine charm and sultry smiles. ‘Smug bastard.’ Scowling in the mirror, the girl slipped the red
and gold tie over her head, muttering incoherently as she deftly did its knot. How many times did
she find herself in this past week alone wanting to stand up on a soapbox and yell to the heavens
that he was the Dark Lord? To beg everyone to wake up and see him for the monster he truly was?
And it had only been a measly 7 days— this was to be her indeterminable future, a foreshadowing
of a lifetime spent housing truths most were ignorant of with the inability to change their minds.
Though it was a shameful thing to admit to, Harri also found herself almost letting it slip that the
“hickey” Lavendar had gushed on about for weeks on end had actually come from him— a
graceless bid to end her roommate’s stupid ramblings about one day marrying him, to shock her
into silence so the blonde couldn’t utter another damnable word about his “dreamy face”. He was
everywhere she looked as of late— Merlin only knew how sick she was of it.

Then there was the matter of the concerning dreams she had been having. Thankfully, on the
whole, he had been suspiciously absent in making an appearance— ‘Too occupied in flirting with
the press’, a scathing assessment as pale hands aggressively shoved the tails of her starched button-
up into the pleated skirt’s waistband. Yet, despite the lack of his involvement, they had become
increasingly stranger, more vivid. Most of the time, they 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 unhelpfully, rolling the black nylons up and past her calves in a
precarious balancing act on one foot. And other times, she would be hunting through the dew-
laden grass, forked tongue flicking outwards to taste the crisp morning air. When she would finally
return to her body and rouse from sleep, it would always be with a hollow ache between her ribs, a
longing for something she couldn’t quite place a name to. A few times, she had even been moved
to tears— silent things escaping unbidden in the dimness behind drawn curtains. It was utterly
disturbing, to the say the least. After all, there was no logical reason, no basis for such emotions,
and yet they were felt so viscerally all the same. A shudder racked through her thin shoulders as
she slipped stocking-covered toes into the polished loafers, Hermione already long gone to
breakfast.

Harri 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. An easy smile unfurled on his face
when he noticed her approaching, a good-natured thing that lent his usually prim countenance a
boyish casual charm. And how she was quickly realising it suited him best, that it was an
expression she was rather fond of seeing. An airy feeling overcame her at the fact he had chosen to
wait— then it all slipped away, the threads of her good mood twisting, fraying, snapping. There
was a smattering of giggles escaping past the cracked doors, a grating sort of noise that could only
mean one thing— the morning post had arrived.

“Oh, bloody hell. Already?” she groaned, splayed fingers running through the fiery hair, barely-
concealed resentment sparking emerald eyes to a poisonous green. It had been her dearest wish to
at least get a few bites in peace— yet the universe was determined to not even let her have that.

Draco was unable to help the smirk at her exasperation, a hand flying to his chest in a feigned
surprise, “What, Potter? Dark Lords aren’t your type?”

There was a passing urge to sock him in the arm for the comment, her fingers tightening
imperceptibility around the leather strap of her school bag. She had always been a bad liar— she
knew it, her friends knew it, hell even the professors knew it. It didn’t matter whether it was a
large, elaborate kind of lie or even the smallest of fibs, she struggled with them all the same. And
part of her blamed the harsh authoritarian rearing methods of her uncle and the sting of his 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 quirk of her brow, “And then a few times after that.”

“Draco!”

The teenagers whirled around at the unexpected hiss, the reprimanding and chiding tone that
sounded from further down the hall. Both had similar reactions of tensing stances and paling faces
but for entirely different reasons. Storming up the flagstone front steps was none other than Lucius
Malfoy, the metal tip of his cane clicking with an obnoxious pretense against the tiles— and those
pale eyes of his held nothing short of icy contempt when they landed on who his son was talking
with.

“Father,” confusion bled into the younger Malfoy’s voice as he edged away from the redhead, a
doomed endeavour to put a respectable distance between themselves while clearing his throat
anxiously, “W-What are you doing here?”

Lucius had given a disdainful sort of sniff, gaze slowly raking over the wisp of the girl standing by
his heir. How she had possibly defeated his Lord escaped his comprehension, an impossible sort of
feat when, outwardly speaking, there was nothing truly remarkable about her. In his eyes, she was
too skinny, a mere slip of a child— one that he had the displeasure of underestimating in the past.
After all, he still could clearly remember the little stint she had pulled, 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 around the handle of the cane— how he couldn’t wait until her reckoning would
come.

“Our Lord has ordered me to come observe the safety of Hogwarts,” he explained offhandedly,
attention fixated on the defiant expression she was so brazenly wearing, “To make sure everything
is being kept in working order.”

“Your Lord, Lucius?” Harri snapped, shoulders drawing up at the way he was cooly dissecting her,
teeth setting on edge, “Careful or people might get the wrong idea. After all, someone else was
once your ‘Lord’ too in the past, wasn’t he?”

His nose wrinkled in disgust, in outrage at her bold and impudent insinuations— she lacked tact
that most people, Dumbledore included, understood and abided by in public. A bubble of contempt
rose in him, the itching need to put her in her place. Though, in the end, it wasn’t worth the risk,
especially not when his Lord was fully intent on handling her himself. He settled for a tsk, a
scornful click of his tongue before harshly turning on the spot. It was a non-verbal cue, an
expectation for his son to follow, the irritation only rising when there were no ensuing footsteps.

“Draco!” Lucius barked out, glaring over his shoulder, “Come along.”

It hadn’t gone unnoticed the way the boy had drifted closer to her the second he had turned his
back, the way they were inching together. Nor did he not see the sheepishly apologetic smile sent
her way, the small saddened wave given to him in response. His hand darted out in a blur to tightly
grip the back of his son’s neck, fingers digging unkindly into its softness as he steered him away to
the headmaster’s office and far from the Girl Who Lived.

It was in Darks Art class as Mad-eye was having them practice disillusionment charms on some
rather questionable, and quite vile, objects, that it occurred to Harri she hadn’t told her friends of
the plan to stay behind during the holiday break. A spellbook bound in skin, from who or what she
didn’t know, had been placed in front of her, the purple eye embedded into its cover narrowing
threateningly. With an uneasy swallow and an apprehensive glare, she decided, for her own safety,
it would be wise not to turn away from it should it try something devious. Instead, she leaned
hesitantly over to Hermione, a wave of sympathy surging at her friend’s own plight. The brown-
haired girl was pale at the sight of her artifact— a china doll with its porcelain face cracked and
painted lips mouthing a senseless whisper.

“Hey ‘Mione,” Harri muttered, jumping at the blink the grimoire had suddenly given, “I forgot to
mention 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 undignified and ear-
splitting shriek filled the room. Neville, who was unfortunately stuck with a crawling severed
hand, had screamed when it launched itself off the desk— and straight onto his face. Their
professor had been drifting from table to table, rather gleeful in his commentaries of “Oh yes, that
one’s rather nasty. Don’t let it touch you” or “Finnigan, don’t stare at it or it’ll haunt you for a
week,” when he whirled on that stunted leg of his for the source of the noise. A mad type of
chuckle escaped him as he hovered over the boy sprawled on the ground, the vain attempts to pry
the hand off his cheeks rather pitiful.

“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!”

As she watched the interaction, Harri couldn’t help but wonder how the man was even allowed to
become a professor in the first place. Such musings, however, were interrupted when a flash of
white-blond hair appeared on her periphery, dragging her out of her mind and back into the present.
Lucius Malfoy drifted by their classroom, muttering intelligibly to himself, his strides long and
almost hurried in nature. Leaning back on the bench, she peered out into the corridor to observe his
chaotic manner— glittering gold sparks drifted upwards from the tip of his wand, crackling in the
air for a moment before fizzling out. A frown appeared at the queerness of him hastily scribbling
into a notebook afterwards as though he were recording the effects to read over at a later date. ‘Is
this what he meant by observing for working order?’ she wondered idly as he snapped the journal
shut, marching down the corridor with unknown purpose.

Her dreams that night had found herself in what, suspiciously, looked like the restricted section of
the school’s library. The moon was already high in the sky, silver pools of light sporadically
illuminating the darkened corners and lending the space an ethereal atmosphere. 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 desks, legs swinging
sluggishly off the side, Harri found herself more than readily acknowledging it was quite
beautiful.

“Ah, the library. Interesting choice of location, if I must admit, Harri,” rounding the corner and
materialising from the shadows was the Dark Lord.

He was wearing the same outfit from Diagon Alley all those months ago, a black half-unbuttoned
linen shirt and trousers to match. It would appear that even the famed Potter luck was bound to run
out at some point, her dry spell of evading him finally coming to an end. Quite truthfully, Harri
was almost sure he had forgotten her, far too consumed with the power vacuum fashioned in the
wake of the Ministry’s dismantlement to pay her any heed— or, at least, that’s what she
desperately wished for. Though, it now appeared she was wrong on that account. Rather than
speaking, green eyes eyed him critically, legs stilling when he had stepped closer and out into the
moonlight. ‘He certainly looks well enough,’ a passing note, attention flickering across his
towering frame, ‘considering he now has to run an entire country.’

Voldemort trailed a finger over a book’s spine, nonchalantly stating for the sake of conversation,
tone almost wistful, “I had spent quite a bit of time here myself while at Hogwarts.”

It had been ages since he last laid eyes on her, had felt her. And how starved he was for her
company— a fact unrealised until this very moment. The cutting edge of hunger was only
sharpened by the fact that, this time around, it was her who summoned him. It had begun as a tug
on his consciousness, a demanding pull that increased until he had finally relented to the call.
Admittedly, the very idea, the notion that she was seeking him out incited pleasure to thrive, a
boundless type of elation. The witch was still watching him silence, keen eyes flitting in an
assessing way over his relaxed form— he busied himself in pretending to read the title of a novel,
eager to continue having her attention fixated upon himself. During the past week, Voldemort had
been resolute in keeping their link shut to avoid any impeding distractions that were rapidly
becoming associated with her. Though, to say that was the only reason would be false— it was
partially out of fear as well. The fear of letting his emotions accidentally slip through, of, perhaps,
tipping her off and causing her to become suspicious. And that wouldn’t do. Not now, not when he
was this close.

The quiet stretched into an almost unbearable length, a weighty and crushing thing. She had yet to
speak and, though he was loathed to admit it, such blatant disregard was driving him insane. A long
finger tapped once, twice, three times on the wooden shelving before whirling around to eye,
incredulously, the girl still perched on the table.

“Do you know, Harri,” he started, tone disbelieving at her gall in ignoring him, “How rude it is to
invite someone into your mind, only to stare 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 table’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 from the desk to stand yet refused to step any closer towards him, “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 all night. But, then again, why
was he even surprised by her antics at this point? The girl had shown time and time again that she
possessed an uncanny ability to astound him with an outcome he could never foresee. A slow
indulgent smile played on a shapely mouth as his arms crossed over the solid expanse of his chest,
leaning casually against the shelf to observe his horcrux.

There was a gleam of anger in her gaze that was next to impossible to resist prodding at, “Whatever
do you mean, love?”

A twitch jumped in the muscle above her brow at the pet name, the mocking innocence in his eyes,
at how casual and at home he looked even though it was her mindscape they were currently in. The
audacity he had to appear so at ease made her want to bare her teeth in frustration, to expel and
freeze him out. Curse green eyes slipped closed, a deep inhale following in pursuit as a futile
attempt to ground herself. After all, she wanted answers and the logical side to her was urging not
to act in a way that would push him to become volatile— this was a Dark Lord she was dealing
with, a fact she had to make a conscious effort to remember.

Fixing him in a withering stare, Harri fought to keep her tone even, “You know what I mean.
Sovereign, really? Why? Was “Dark Lord” or “Supreme Ruler” just not catchy enough?”

He let out a breath of laughter, the smile almost genuine on his lips as his head shook 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 himself off the shelving to take a step forward, he noted in content 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.

“It’s easier to move across the chessboard when I’m not reduced to hiding in the shadows. You can
not tell me you disagree that the Ministry was comprised of 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 his gaze, “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 how large of an egomaniac 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, their holy saviour— it made her skin
itch. In truth, she despised the spotlight more than anything and hearing him so confidently express
his love for it. Well, she just couldn’t find it in herself to relate.

Crossing her arms defiantly to mimic his own stance, she snorted before biting out venomously,
“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 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, drinking in the form of an agitated redhead in front of him, ‘mostly
everyone.’

A mischievous smile lit up his face as he bent down, crowding her space and watching, pleased, at
the way her pupils had dilated just for a second, “And what about you, Harri? What do you think?
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, a chuckle filled the library, a sense of accomplishment in getting her
to react so favourably. The girl’s lips were pulled into an embarrassed pout, 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 to her. But he could
sense their time was running out, that she was going to wake up soon and the fun would end.
Attention drifting about the library, a cunning idea planted itself in his head, 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 glittering with the scheme formulating in his mind, “You
manage to complete this 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, gaze flitting across his face in an attempt to discover a lie, a 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. How many fairy tales, how many fables,
had started out this exact same way? And how many ended just as poorly? But the Gryffindor side
to her, brash and unwavering, the side that never shied from a challenge was roaring, cheering, for
her to accept.

Harri acquiesced with a small nod, voice calm and steady, “Fine. Just tell me what to do.”

A cheshire grin spread on his face, voice low in anticipation, heady in his excitement, “Tell me
what a horcrux is.”
 Holiday Break
Chapter 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 <3

Harri had, initially, 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 and, for
another, the entire expanse of the Hogwarts library to serve as backup. ‘He’s a fool,’ had been the
original thought, unable to fully believe that Voldemort made such an easy, low-stakes bet. In the
end, the girl promised herself a day, maybe two tops, before she would find the answer and
demand something so outrageous from him that it would engender an eternity’s worth of regret for
ever daring to provoke Harri Potter.

But now, as the start of holiday break had managed to creep up at an alarming rate, an entirely
different conclusion was being entertained-- she had been tricked, duped, given the short end of the
stick. When Hermione had been asked, rather nonchalantly in passing over lunch, if she ever came
across the term “horcrux” in her endless readings, the answer came in the form of an owlish stare
and a deep-set frown. Then when she tried to use a location spell in the library reserves, not one
single book had come flying off of the shelves-- some part to her desperately hoped it was just the
replacement wand acting up, spitefully ignoring its 'master' as usual, and had taken to doing the
research in plain old Muggle fashion. But now she was starting to question if the word was even
real or if he had made it up, a last parting gift in the form of a 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, especially given
how mercurial he was in their shared dreams.

The idea though, the very promise, of what kind of reward awaited pushed her forward with
renewed 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 halted
abruptly as there, masquerading as a footnote in an obscure text plucked off the shelving in a whim,
was it: 'horcrux'.

Giddiness overrode the fatigue as Harri flipped to the appendix, the pad of her finger tracing
excitedly across the age-worn pages and almost screaming for joy when she stumbled upon 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 rattling precariously.
Yet, as she raced along the narrow aisles, desperately counting the titles once, and then twice, that
elated high was diminished by frustration-- it wasn’t even in their library. And, for the first time in
her life, a serious debate was mulled over regarding the ethics of actually murdering another human
being

“It doesn’t exist!” came her rant as she slid down next to Hermione in the Great Hall, exasperation
lending the tone a biting edge and practically inhaling the goblet of pumpkin juice.

Hermione anxiously eyed her best friend’s agitation, the way she could practically see the fuse of
her temper glowing behind those startling green eyes. An unbidden sigh, knowing full and well
patience was never the girl’s strongest virtue. Instead of attempting to offer her pointers, however,
knowing it would set her off even further, she reached over to pat her back gently.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she started slowly, wary to see if Harri would snap in turn, “did you try
asking Professor Moody?”

The redhead's fingers drummed irritatedly against the wood grain of the table, tongue running over
the roof of her mouth at the suggestion. She had debated about going to him, to see what he would
know after Hermione had been at an utter loss. But as she recalled Voldemort’s cheshire grin and
the brightly-lit anticipation in his unholy gaze, she had decided against it. It would be rather in
character for him, the sadist he was, to have her be looking into something questionably
inappropriate-- and, honestly, Harri felt like she couldn’t deal with any further embarrassment that
might earn her shifty-eyed glances from the professor for the rest of the year. Instead of answering,
she gave a noncommittal hum and resigned herself to tearing up the dinner roll spitefully.

Ron shifted his gaze between the two girls, trying to understand what they were fussing about,
when Hermione tossed a pointed glare his way. He coughed at the ensuing kick to his shin,
choking briefly on the mashed potatoes and reaching for the water pitcher.

“Mum’s real disappointed you’re not coming home with us. I tried to tell her you’d be arriving later
but she’s still pretty miffed about it,” he said.

Rather than responding, Harri chewed the bread slowly-- 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,’ a frown forming, knowing full and well she would miss the
customary beef stew and carrot cake Mrs. Weasley had always made for their first day of the
holiday break. Just another thing to add to the running list of let downs.

The morning of December 20th was a dreary affair as she had woken up in a sullen mood. 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 morose 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.

It had been her choice to walk with them down to the station's platform, feeling oddly out of place
without a trunk at her side-- but she needed the air, the space to think. With a tight smile, Harri had
tried to gracefully accept Hermione’s assurances 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 had 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. Not finding
herself able to join in with their enthusiasm, she settled for a fleeting hug and despondent wish for
safe travels. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow too,’ a silent promise, watching longingly as 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 with a puff of white smoke, there was the strangest sense of
foreboding. That, perhaps, this was to be the last time she would see the Express, that she would
stand on this very platform and wave mournfully to her friends that were rapidly fading into the
distance. Though she did attempt to banish the unshakeable feeling, the 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, an irrefutable proof that she was alive, and how the world would become so
still, 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 insistently chilled to the touch, Harri was the definition of an 'ice cube'. Yet she didn’t
entirely mind and felt 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 left behind, and a twinkle overhead immediately caught her attention.
Sometime in her absence, the elves had managed to transform the hall into a winter wonderland. A
rather impressive tree stood proudly in the corner behind the professors' table, glittering with
magically hovering orbs in kaleidoscope colours, and 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 tee-shirt, having the foresight that the
exposed tower would be exceptionally cold at this time of season. ‘Why,’ her thoughts were
grumbling, discontent 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, even 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. And the spiral staircase was an absolute nightmare at the best of times-- rickety and
questionably rusted in some areas. 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 an overabundance of discretion.

Harri had 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 had somehow materialised behind
him, and even more so that she 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 by him on the balcony that jutted out from underneath the sloped gable
roof, trying her best not to let her teeth chatter at the brutal sting of the wind. Though it was no
wonder why Dumbledore had been enthralled by the sky, somehow 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 almost glowed under the soft light
and swirling as though in a playful waltz. Normally, she would have been captivated as well but she
was here on a mission, the thrums of anticipation surging strongly, a giddiness inspiring a relentless
pounding in her heart.

Harri's voice was tentative as she broke the silence, imploringly cautious, “Professor, why did you
call me here?”

A sigh, a heavy sound full of a burden that only he knew of, escaped his thin frame as he turned
away from the moon. Rather than lingering in the snow, the man had wandered further into the
circular room, mind whirling as a small part of his conscience tried to argue against the plan.
Fingers tightened imperceptibly around each other, the skin whitening from the exerted, gripping
pressure. ‘Merlin, forgive me.’ It took more strength than he would like to admit to find 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. His heart
tightened uncomfortably.

“Did you know, Harri, that there was a prophecy made about you and Voldemort? 16 years ago
and by our very own Divination professor, in fact.”

Emerald eyes widened marginally at the leaked information, and she hurried after him inside, the
bitter cold long forgotten. They roamed searchingly over his wizened face, hungry in their attempts
to glean any more information, to spot any further tells he may produce as a sign that there was
more to come. There were none. Yet, hearing the fact that there was an unknown prophecy, one
that involved her, strung her nerves, tightened the cords of them until they threatened to snap. And
there was a mild undercurrent of disbelieving anger to that anxiety, a fluttering cadence in her pulse
that betrayed her shock. Somewhere out in the world, their fates were foretold, a divining truth--
one that concerned her, was about her life. So why was she just hearing about it now? And what
else, exactly, might she still be unaware of?

“What did it say?” a heavy swallow and a steadily nursed fear that he might deny her the answer,
the shuttering expression he was suddenly sporting doing little to inspire confidence.

Dumbledore considered the eager heart-shaped face, the flashing dismay in her eyes, the way she
had trailed after him so readily. He squeezed his hand tighter to fight off the mounting guilt, “It
mentioned that 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. His attention fixated on the way she had swallowed around a lump in her throat,
the column of it bobbing unevenly. Once sure steps suddenly faltered, lurching uneasily as the
fundamental truth regarding her relationship to the Dark Lord was processed. The guilt was rising
to a tidal wave, a tsunami whispering in a threat to engulf him at any second.

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, the motion smooth, fluid,
slow. It made sense all of the sudden as to why Voldemort had targeted her as an infant. She had
always wondered what, exactly, had prompted him to do so-- what would possess a grown man to
be terrified of a newborn child, of all things? Some part had assumed it was something that her
parents had done, that they had angered him so immensely that he had wished to erase their
bloodline fully. But then again, another part had always suspected that there was more to it than
merely that--- that there was a hidden part to the story being kept from her, concealed and stashed
away until the time was right. Knuckles turned colourless as the grip tightened, a little voice
whispering to reign in her rising anger, her disappointment before she could react childishly again
in front of the man. And yet, for the strangest of reasons, the girl found herself more upset with the
Dark Lord than with the Headmaster.

After all, Harri had come to expect Dumbledore lying openly and brazenly-- but Voldemort? What
did he say to her once upon a time, that 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, an unwitting
wince made itself known at the residual pain of crescent moons imprinted a touch too deeply into
the softness of her palms.

With a deep breath, an even longer exhale, she managed a quiet, “I see. It makes sense, I suppose,
why he keeps trying to kill me. Because 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 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, watching her
more closely, he would have seen the signs. The way her eyes were a shade of green that no
ordinary human could possess, the way her magic would sometimes swell with a stain before it
would turn bright once 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 a growing darkness deep within herself. Considering her parental lineage,
it seemed appropriate to just warn her not to give in-- to suppress it, 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 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 more
information on it. I was, uhm, hoping 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, 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 to frantically probe at his constructed occlumency shields, entirely unnerved
by the abrupt perceptiveness. 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. 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.

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. It is, essentially, a vessel. When
someone places their soul into 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 low light of the tower as they
fixed themselves upon him. In their depths, he was so sure that he could see pinpricks of crimson
swirling, traces that betrayed the true nature of herself. And an unsettling thought planted itself
firmly-- was he, perhaps, always watching? Using her eyes as a one-way mirror, making himself
privy to every conversation, every interaction he had had with the girl? The tilt of her head, the
questioning look in her gaze, and Dumbledore could swear he almost 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 his morality that was
vehemently protesting otherwise, the hushed voice championing to find another way.

Harri drifted her attention 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 received her answer.

“Through murder, Harri. Done with intent and in the coldest of blood,” his explanation was barely
a murmur.

A chill ghosted through her, unable to prevent the shudder at the words and suddenly
comprehending 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 thinking or 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, trying to make all of the jagged pieces
of the puzzle before her fit congruently when she saw it. In the polished surface, Dumbledore was
soundlessly mouthing something and then, in slow motion, his wand was raised-- the tip of it
pointed directly between her shoulder blades.

A flash of green filled the room of the tower.

 The Wards That Shone Like The Sun
Chapter Notes

I'm having so much fun reading everyone's comments for the last chapter so thank you
for every single one! The story is going to get a tad more intense from this point out
but I hope you'll continue to give me your support! <3

Thank you as usual! You're all wonderful <3

Snape 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 in the background, each passing moment of the
second hand an unspoken reminder of how his time was running out. He had only a little over 30
minutes 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
was all he had 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 glanced at the innocuous bottle of wine resting upon his desk, laced with enough
dreamless sleep potion to be instantaneous in rendering anyone unconscious. It was difficult 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. In all actuality, the plan was simple enough and Snape
reminded himself of it obsessively, lips moving without uttering a single verbal 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, a reckless scheme born out of loyalty to the
memory of an already dead woman. Snatching the bottle, the relentless chime of the ending hour
chasing him from the office, he stormed from his dungeon 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 to follow, an alarming sound that disrupted the somber hush.
Freezing in his determined path, not quite able to help himself from briefly remarking on how
teenagers weren’t even secretive in their liaisons anymore-- then a louder, more insistent thud had
promptly followed. The commotion was far too violent sounding for a possible late-night
rendezvous, a twisting in the pit of his stomach as intuition screamed that something was amiss.
Brandishing the curved wand in one hand, the thin neck of the mead container gripped in the other,
he cautiously started up the tower’s winding iron steps.

Harri had barely managed to dodge the vivid curse flying out from Dumbledore’s wand, years
playing as Gryffindor’s seeker finally having a form of payoff. She landed heavily on her side,
rolling hastily to the ground to spring back up onto her feet, heart hammering. Owlish eyes were
blown wide in a stupor, a wild sheen to them that relayed the jolt of disbelief as she tried to process
what had just transpired. ‘He tried to kill me,’ her thoughts were ladened with distraught panic,
mouth suddenly far too parched, uncomfortably dry. The kind headmaster who had always given
the best welcoming back speeches, who had attended her matches and cheered her on, who had
comforted her in front of the Mirror of Erised when she saw the ghosts of her parents, was
attempting to murder her. And suddenly it clicked as to why he had wanted her to come to the
Astronomy Tower, to a portion of the castle usually abandoned and so far removed from any signs
of life-- the chances of someone interfering were slim, the probability of them finding her body
before it cooled even slimmer.

Her voice was shaky, pleading with the hopes of it being a misunderstanding “Pr-professor?”

However, the coldness in his eyes, the hard glint of determination, wasn’t exactly inspiring faith in
her that it had been one. She dodged another sickening flash of light, leaping behind haphazardly
stacked crates that clattered to the ground when she jostled them from their resting place. The
chambers of her heart were pounding with adrenaline, clenching erratically to push blood down
into her legs, despair, and confusion the only clear feelings she had at the moment. ‘Why,’ played
over endlessly on a loop as he began to circle the room in a predatory manner, the silver globe at
the center broadcasting his every move. She was his student, his protege, his Chosen One. The girl
who was his champion, the one meant to defeat the Dark Lord in his stead. The boxes she had
sought refuge behind exploded abruptly, and she had only just spun away in time to lunge out of
the spellfire's path-- though not quick enough to avoid the errant plank that had clipped her
shoulder blade, a pain barely registered. It was unnerving to her that he refused to speak, that he
was treating her like a pest that one calmly disposes of swiftly--- like she was an animal he was
hunting without remorse.

Harri glanced down helplessly at the wand in her hand, a morbid alarm settling as a heavy weight
in her chest. She could barely cast a functioning accio with it, nevermind go toe to toe with a
wizard who was highly regarded as one of the best of their time. There was no helping it-- she
needed to run, the instinct to flee stronger than that to fight. The girl darted for the darkest corner of
the tower, ducking behind the tarp draped over a telescope and praying it could give her
momentary respite from the onslaught of spells to figure out a plan. Maybe if she pleaded with him,
begged him to tell her what she had done to deserve death, he would come to his senses? After all,
there was no logical basis for it. But then she was faced with a sobering fact, an uncomfortable
realisation. The man before her, the frail old wizard that looked as though he had spent his nights
doing sudoku and drinking chamomile tea with a twist of lemon, was the same one that had once
betrayed his childhood friend-- his dearest companion, his lover. That he had defeated someone so
dear to him in battle and banished him to a life in a tower surrounded by ice. ‘Compared to that,’
Harri’s stomach clenched, unable to find her breath, ‘I’m nothing.’

In her periphery, the redhead spied the door, wild calculations being made to see if she could make
it if she sprinted fast enough-- maybe, with famed Potter's luck backing her, she could reach the
stairwell before he could hit her. Then, without warning, she heard the stressed drawl of “Petrificus
Totalus!”

Snape had apparently come to her rescue in the most ironic turn of events-- not that she wasn't
grateful for such a thing. In fact, Harri had never once been so thankful in her life to hear the
grating harshness of his accent or to see him in all of his batlike glory hovering in the door’s frame,
wand trembling minutely in his grip. Rising on unsteady legs, clutching at the telescope for
support, the girl took a second to study the bound form of Dumbledore lying prone facedown on
the ground. The potions master was flitting his gaze in a frenzied manner between herself and the
headmaster, silence stretching between the two as they had tried to come to a mutual understanding
of what to possibly do next.

He tried to comprehend, to digest, what he had just witnessed from between the slates under the
raised platform. Dumbledore had been clearly attempting to kill the girl for reasons he was
apparently not privy to--- and she had been barely scraping by the skin of her teeth, dodging the
multiple rounds of the killing curse rather than attempting to go on the offense. A bitter grimace
coursed through his frame as dark eyes fixated on the frozen headmaster-- frankly, it had been pure
luck that he had even managed to land a spell on him, that it was fortuitous the old man's back was
turned at the right moment. And while he wasn’t the worst dueler, Snape was all too aware of the
sobering fact that his magic wouldn’t be able to bind Albus forever, that, at some point, the
Headmaster would be back on his feet. And then, most likely, attempting to dispose of Severus as
well for what he had seen. Already the wizard’s fingers were twitching, pale eyes darting behind
his glasses in a telling sign his mind was still active, plotting their demises. Snape’s thoughts were
racing, intelligible half-formed ideas as he tried to reassess, reevaluate the strategy he had so
carefully concocted before this very moment. Someone was needed to occupy Dumbledore, to
engage him with enough skill that wouldn’t let themselves be so easily defeated--while, in the
meantime, giving the girl the chance to flee. Attention drifted down uneasily to his left arm,
rationality briefly demanding if he had a death wish for what he was about to do as his body
moved on autopilot, yanking the robe’s sleeve up and past his elbow. Faltering for a second, all
choices were desperately weighed for a backup, a way out, a second option-- but, upon finding no
such solutions, shaking fingers pressed down onto the mark with a wince.

Harri’s prior relief came crumbling down around her as she watched Snape hike his sleeve up his
pale arm, almost not quite believing her eyes. She screamed for him to stop just a second too late,
horrified panicked flooding her nerves at the sight of the Dark Mark. “No!”

A beat of silence ensued where they had just both stared at each other with the same amount of
alarm, the same amount of trepidation-- a hush of a waiting game for something, for anything, to
happen. For a minute, it appeared nothing would, blissful stillness persisting in a void where no
sound possibly existed. And then they felt it. The ground beneath their feet started to shake, a
deafening crack of several distant apparitions in the background-- such noises faintly reminded
Harri of the dry snap of a bone breaking, a testament of the horrors about to come. There was a
sharp tang of electricity charging the air, an audible crackling that led to the hairs on their arms
standing on end as the two wizards remained rigid, not quite daring to move nor to speak. Without
warning, golden light flooded the dim room from the open circular windows of the Astronomy
Tower, the sight of a dome, one usually rendered invisible, now suddenly making itself known-- it
surrounded the school’s grounds, from the limited view Harri had, to even the edges of the
Forbidden Forest. ‘The wards,’ she thought in momentary amazement, marvelling at the beauty of
such a thing, at how they flickered and shone like the surface of the sun.

And then abruptly, the sphere started to melt away-- oozing as corrupting pockets of darkness
began to spread over the glittering surface, greedily devouring the spaces it hadn’t quite touched
yet. It was mildly horrifying to witness something so pure become pockmarked, hideous almost,
shadows leaking in as creeping, hungry tendrils. The magic settled over their skin, sparking
between their fingers, an unpleasant bubbling sensation pervading their bodies as the wards finally
fell away. ‘He’s dismantling them,’ her thoughts were appalled at the concept, that he was even
capable of such large-scale destruction. Draco’s words from the lake distantly unwittingly came
back to her as she drank in the gruesome sight of the sun's distortion, of it being utterly eclipsed:
“I’ve never seen someone with so much power before, with so much control over magic.” And at
this moment, she couldn’t help but begrudgingly agree with the assessment, some part of her
faintly considering how she ever thought she could even triumph over him, could beat him back.

As quickly as the cacophony of rising sound had begun, it died, trailing back off into an unsettling
silence. Harri studied her professor's dismayed countenance, the complete quiet unnerving after the
loudness that had just preceded it.
“What did you do?” she hissed but somehow already knowing the answer-- though she may have,
unknowingly, invited the monster into their home, he had just thrown the doors wide open to usher
it in like an old friend.

Then he was there in her mind-- a feeling that struck without warning. It was quite unexpected in
the way he had appeared on the peripheral boundaries of her consciousness, the accompanying
fury one so strong that it made her throat parched, and her knees quiver. The last time they had
been even remotely in the same place was at Diagon Alley-- yet she could have sworn his presence
now was more concentrated, pressing down heavily, dominating, more oppressive than ever
before. It caused her heart to seize for a second, breath robbed by an acute sting in her scar. Harri
couldn’t help but sink to her knees at the sheer intensity of the pain, of the sensations, biting out a
scream and clutching her temples. Only barely did she register as Snape fell beside her in unease,
hands hovering about her doubled- over form in uncertainty. She took it all back-- he was beyond
fury, beyond enraged. He was a tempestuous storm come to seek chaos, a tidal wave eager to
swallow everything in its path, a supernova ready to implode and plunge them all into the abyss.
He was Death itself.

Voldemort stood still on the other end of the stone bridge leading into Hogwarts, chest heaving
with exertion and a light sheen of sweat decorating his brow. The chasm below them was gaping its
maw in anticipation, eager to swallow those who made even the slightest misstep--- and he, briefly,
considered how he and the canyon were very much alike in that regard. He too wished to swallow
his enemies, to ensure they never once again saw the light of day, all thoughts consumed by one in
particular. The yew wand hung limply in his grip, thrumming hotly, far too overheated by the sheer
amount of magic he had just pushed through it. Crimson eyes glanced down for a moment to take
note of the crack that was beginning to form in its handle, a threat of what was to come if pushed
any further. But he had done it. The crowd of Death Eaters, his acolytes at his back all bearing
witness to the power that was their Lord-- the fury, the greatness, the might. He had looked on in
unresponsive awe as the wards fell before him, crumbling to his magic, to his will. And there
before him, with its protections stripped and destroyed, was the glittering estate of Hogwarts-- his
first home and current fortress that was intent on still shielding his prize.

Awe quickly gave way to the fury that exploded within himself, a vile, implacable thing in his core
that demanded blood and atonement. He had played the bystander to the memories Snape pushed
through the mark, 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 bleeding upon the flagstones and lifeless head on a spike. The
Death Eaters behind him had begun to shift anxiously, awaiting for their Lord to make the first
step-- to lay claim to what he had just so easily conquered. And so he did. One step on the stone
bridge and his loyal army 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 savageness resting in his tone that demanded no response, “keep
her unharmed but leave Dumbledore to me.
 The Battle In Hogwarts
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I'm so happy to see that the response on the last two chapters has been
so positive and I've received so many kind words from you all! Thank you so much,
you guys are all seriously amazing <3

Enjoy! <3

She blinked in a daze, trying to clear the fog of pain from her mind as she took in 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--- had finally entered the castle with the intent to destroy
and maim. An angry god descended down from the heavens with spiteful vengeance his only
driving goal. And the girl would be lying if she said such a thing didn't fill her to the brim with an
unholy terror.

Harri was only given a passing second of momentary reprieve before being yanked roughly up to
her feet, Dumbledore finally beginning to stir in the background-- only distantly did a firm grip
curled around her arm register through the muddled thoughts, tightening fingers steering her to the
stairwell. 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 they sounded.

“Go to Hogsmeade and get to the inn. There’s a floo parlor for you to use there. Think of any place
you can-- as long as it's far from here,” he commanded, pulling her dragging feet across the
wooden flooring and pushing her not so kindly down onto the first step.

It was starting to become apparent that she would have to make this journey alone and, as he
apprehensively studied the twitching form of the headmaster, it would probably be for the best.
The Dark Lord would have been able to track them if he went with her anyway, the mark his arm
bore a homing beacon that could never be destroyed-- his permanent collar, a shackle about his
own neck.

Snape’s grip flexed on his wand's handle, forcing his attention to the girl blinking blearily up at
him. Truly, it was the most inopportune moment to be reminded of Lily-- yet he thought of her
nonetheless. He would save this child, her child, in a form of atonement for his sins that had led to
her death, the destruction of his dearest love, of his heart. The somber man noted the girl’s
unwillingness to flee, how her steps had faltered in uncertainty, an adamant refusal so clearly
resting upon the tip of her tongue. It wasn’t until he had pushed a burst of magic towards the center
of her chest, urging the witch to move, to have even an ounce of self-preservation, did she finally
take another shaky step.

“Go on, Potter. Run!” he begged as she backed down the stairwell slowly, his sneer offset by the
panic shining brightly in those coal eyes.

The door swung shut on its own accord, a resounding click as he eyed it for a heartbeat,
desperately hoping she had taken his advice to heart. And then the strangest thought had occurred
to him just then, as shaking feet whirled on the spot to throw up a hastily constructed shield against
a stream of purple light barrelling his way--- when had he become such a reckless Gryffindor? The
spell fizzled out, an overwhelming feeling of arrestingly cold horror surging at the sight of
hardened eyes glinting behind half-moon glasses.

Harri was rushing down the stairs, taking the stone steps two at a time with adrenaline to fuel her
forward. ‘They’re here,’ her thoughts were edged with hysteria, ‘Death Eaters, him, they’re all
here.’ Glancing wildly down the corridor, left and then right, mind spinning to decide which
direction to possibly take-- she sprinted towards the courtyard. The girl, for the briefest of
moments, did wonder why Snape was even telling her to run, to escape when he had just revealed
himself as a Death Eater. After all, he was a loyal follower who had summoned his Lord, had
joined in Voldemort's dark crusade against the light. But in the end, he was correct. If she could
only get to Hogsmeade, she could escape, go get help-

The stone walls shook violently without warning, throwing her already unsteady steps further off-
balance as thin hands clung to a nearby archway for stability. She peered over her shoulder in
unbridled dismay, the air suddenly becoming too thick, too cloying to breathe in. It felt as though it
had coated her lungs, fully intent on replacing the oxygen in them with its own corrupting miasma,
persistent on circulating throughout her veins. Harri panted shallowly, the pain in her scar reduced
to a continuous dulling throb, and she couldn't help but note with panicked awareness that her skin
felt too tight, too stretched. And then it dawned upon her that the changes in the charged
atmosphere were traces of his magic--- the oppressive aura that clung to him, exuded outwards in
suffocating, rolling waves. Another violent quake and, this time, a deafening crack of stone falling
in the distance ensued. ‘He’s trying to bring down the castle.’

He had appeared in the Astronomy Tower from the shadows, darkness dripping from his form as it
knitted together to materialise into something more solid. 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 nearly glowing as two pinpoints of searing scarlet,
critically studying in the prone form of Severus Snape sprawled out on the ground. The normally
composed man was battered, ragged, startling bruises blooming across his sallow complexion, and
glistening with a sheen of sweat that relayed how hard he had fought. Yes, he had done well
enough to prove his loyalty tonight--- and the Dark Lord always rewarded such promising
behaviour. With a sweeping arc of his wand, as though the beaten man slumped against the wall
was a mere sack of flour, an inanimate object to be displaced at will, the potions master
disappeared from existence with one accompanying thought: ‘Heal him.’

It was only then that he stepped forward from the cover of darkness, bone-white wood twirling in
an offhanded manner between elegant fingers.

“Dumbledore,” the tone was even, an underlying frigidness to it that was comparable to the chill in
the night's air. Voldemort moved further into the pools of moonlight, the severe black robes
trailing softly on the ground and kissing his feet with reverence.

In turn, Dumbledore watched warily, trusting the calm demeanor of the wizard before him just as
much as one trusted the sudden calm before a storm. Gnarled and warped fingers curled tightly
around the knobbed stick in his palm, an attempt to calm himself, to justify he held the wand of
power and, therefore, the upper hand in this situation. Yet, it hadn’t escaped his notice as he
observed, from behind crescent moon glasses, the way the Dark Lord had honed in on the motion,
greed causing those hellfire eyes to burn.
“You shouldn’t have come here tonight, Tom. The others will be waking soon, no doubt to your
theatrics, and the Aurors will have been called,” he warned softly, thoughts a dizzying speed as he
tried to formulate an impromptu strategy.

At such an insubstantial excuse, a flimsy caution, Voldemort couldn’t quite stop the indulgent
smile from unfurling on his face-- the all too sharp row of teeth were revealed as lips pulled back,
the stare alight with a perverse glee at the desperate attempts to cow him, to reprimand and
chastise. It may have worked, once upon a time, when he was still a schoolboy and desperate for
the man’s approval, for his whole-hearted acceptance. But that was decades ago-- and that child
was long gone, lost to the ages even though his face may have remained the same. A click his
tongue, a derisively mock show of hurt as he stepped to mirror the Headmaster’s circling path.
Their dance was starting.

“Oh come now, we both know that I have not arrived here alone. Pray 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
steadily and refusing to stray.

“And then what of Harri, Tom? What will you do with her?” Dumbledore questioned in response,
voice hesitant, almost hopeful, as though wanting 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, the smile sliding from his face at the gall of the Headmaster.
He had dared to so casually use her name, to stare at him with such bright expectation hidden
behind that insufferable twinkle--- as though he wished nothing more than to snuff the life from the
Girl-Who-Lived. He had dared to hope he would harm his soul's vessel, destroy it-- and,
apparently, the old man was banking on the fact that he was unaware of the witch's true nature. But
what had disgusted him the most was the keenness in the question, in the demented expectancy she
would be dead before the night was even up. The girl that which Dumbledore had sworn to protect,
to raise, to teach-- yet all of those sentiments were pointless, moot, nulled. Instead, he was tossing
her aside, feeding her to the proverbial wolves in his place.

At this point, his fury wasn’t a boiling, heated thing, one 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. His answer for the inquiry had taken the
form of a quick burst of a yell, arms thrown wide as magic, as dark and vile and cold as the wrath
thriving in his chest, sprang forth into existence. The fragments of shadow, pointed and malicious
as they tore through the air in the older wizard's direction, shredded easily through the hastily
constructed protego. A few errant pieces, the ones that had skirted around the shield, sliced through
the stone walls instead--- the castle shook in response to the unexpected assault, valiantly trying 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
begun to appear on Dumbledore’s body where the shield was unable to hold against the vicious
onslaught. Attention fixated obsessively on the lines of red welling along his papery skin, ruby red
staining the garishly purple robes, and immense satisfaction rising at the thought that crossed his
mind-- ‘Even the great Albus Dumbledore can bleed.’ And then water rushed out from the tip of
the elder wand, an overpowering amount that battered against his own protections, seeking to
drown him, to wash away his impurities, his very existence.

The final battle had begun.

Screams and shouts echoed in the corridors as those remaining in the castle were roused by the
quakes, by the burnt smell of the wards being forcefully shattered, and the sudden heaviness of
dark magic, thick and heady, permeating the air. Everywhere she had looked, there were flashes of
light in 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 waiting for had finally arrived within the stone halls of the
school.

Harri forced herself to keep running, to not go towards every cry or shriek that ricocheted off the
limestone walls--- because she knew, deep down, that if she escaped 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, the girl would be a hindrance more than a help, a liability to
any she tried to aid. That had been her motto, her plan, when she saw on the boundaries of her
vision, down the adjacent corridor, the Charms professor being cornered.

The part-goblin looked exhausted, as though he had been fighting for hours-- it was evident in the
way his steps had faltered, his shoulders drooping, and the slight tremor in his hands. And as a
Death Eater, a woman dressed in obscenely tight clothing with a mass of black curls wildly
cascading down her back, rounded on him from behind, she couldn’t just stand by to watch.
Because Harri Potter was a bleeding heart through and through, a well-known fact by any that
knew her-- and possessed such an inconvenient saviour complex that it would have had Freud
drooling. Without fully thinking, the girl had charged down the hall, mentally threatening the wand
that if it didn’t work, she would snap it right here, right now to end its miserable existence.

“Expelliarmus!” it was a moment of triumph when a corkscrew of crimson light sprung forth,
hitting the witch squarely in the back and sending the oddly curved wand flying from talon-like
nails. It clattered noisily somewhere further down the corridor, silence following for a beat of a
second.

It had taken the Death Eater a moment to process what had just transpired, whirling around with a
surprised ‘oh’ plastered onto her face-- untempered fury lent those onyx eyes a glittering sheen,
lighting them up from their endless depths. The woman looked like she desired nothing more than
to hex whoever had dared to ruin her surprise attack, to tear into their flesh with her clawed nails,
and to revel in their spilled blood. But then she saw who was standing a few feet away, manic glee
giving way and transforming her countenance into an almost unnervingly child-like state.

“There she is! There’s Harri Potter!” she screeched, the accompanying laugh grating as she hopped
from foot to foot, bouncing in an uncontained excitement.

The two wizards flanking the dark-haired witch's side had trained their wands upon her without
instruction, an alarming sight that made her stomach lurch in turn. Not waiting to find out what
spells they had brewing in their thoughts, Harri spun on the heels of her worn sneakers and forced
screaming legs to pump faster. Arms swinging wide and breaths laboured, she willed herself to
flee, for her feet to gain wings and to grant her the distance she so desperately needed from the
ensuing trio. In the back of her mind, Snape's assessment of 'foolish girl' looped-- and the redhead
found herself unable to fully disagree with the phantom words, a slew of curses muttering softly as
green eyes frantically searched for a side entrance to slip into. Behind her, the heavy footfalls
persisted, the sounds a reminder of the hounds closing in, nipping with gaping maws at her ankles.
Then there was a spell, a stinging sensation that elicited a sharp cry of pain to bubble up from her
throat-- glancing down with horror, she tried not to retch at the sight of burnt flesh. Whatever it
was 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 against flesh, an outraged cry following, “You
idiot! The Dark Lord wants her unharmed!”

Her mind, distantly, made note of that, filing it away to dissect at a later date when she wasn’t
being chased by three Death Eaters intent on capturing her.

She had skidded around the corner at an alarming speed, nearly crashing into the stooped form of
Mad-eye. Cool relief flooded her as she gripped the thickly corded forearm for stability, able to
feel the exorbitant amount of scar tissue from even from under the leather coat, bent over and
panting heavily.

“Professor!” she gasped, heart still beating a touch too fast against the confines of her ribs, lungs
burning.

In the background, the heavy slaps of feet against the stone drew closer, a chaotic screech of upset
splitting the air, “Find her, you idiots! She couldn’t have gotten far.”

An assessing glint entered the one good eye of her professor and she watched in mild interest the
way he had 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 drawing her towards an
empty classroom.

“In here, Potter.” he shoved the girl into the space, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The refreshing tingle of a Notice-Me-Not charm settled over their skins and he held a finger to his
scarred lips, a nonverbal signal for her to remain quiet. Harri held her breath, not even daring to
exhale as the pursuing Death Eaters paused just outside of the classroom. Green eyes watched
through the slated windows as the witch in the trio slapped the back of her companions' heads,
demanding that they continue their search and reprimanding them for their stupidity. After a few
seconds, they had moved on and she nearly slumped down the wall in relief, the tension that
knotted her stomach finally lessening. But now that the immediate threat had passed, her mind felt
it appropriate to pay heed to the burn mark, the excruciating spread of residual heat and acute
aching spreading down the length of her arm. Gingerly trying to lift the singed fabric away from
the blisters, an unbidden wince and a barely held-in cry of pain made themselves known when
fingers had accidentally brushed the tender skin. It was an ugly sight to behold, the pale
complexion an angry red and marred with nauseating divots, the weeping edges charred black.
Mad-eye had taken one look at the wound, frowning at the sight and vehemently muttering
incoherent ramblings under his breath. Harri only managed to catch the rushed word of “halfwits”
before he hobbled 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
asked her in a distant tone of wonderment, “Did you see him-- The Dark Lord? Who was with
him?”

Harri pondered how he knew it was the Dark Lord at their gates, considering that she hadn’t said
anything remotely about him-- yet she just assumed that perhaps another professor had gotten him
a message somehow. Her response came in the form of a slight shake of her head, breath long gone
and still too laboured to clearly speak as she leaned heavily against a desk. Though as her heartbeat
had begun to settle, clarity began to come back now that she had a moment of respite.

Opening her mouth to suggest that they keep moving, to ask what he had been looking for, and to
offer assistance, she was rendered silent by the strangest possible sight. The professor's skin was
beginning to ripple, voice changing in pitch, and patches of sandy brown hair peeking through the
blond. And then it hit her where she had seen the exact same symptoms before, the rapid changes
in appearance. It was back in her second year when she, Hermione, and Ron had all used polyjuice
to sneak into the Slytherin common room in search of answers regarding the chamber. And even
now, the girl could still feel the phantom itch when she had morphed back into her original self--
an uncomfortable process that she wasn't too keen to ever repeat. ‘The flask,’ the thought was a
revelation, things clicking into place as to why he was always nipping at it. Part of her had
considered it was a severe case of alcoholism. Who could blame him after the life he had led? But
no-- it had been polyjuice potion. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Mad-eye and, considering the timing
of everything, it filled her with trepidation to acknowledge.

Harri tried to remain as quiet as possible, as still as she could without arousing suspicion, thin
fingers wrapping around the wand and silently pleading with it to work for a second time in a row.
“Stupefy!”

Bright vermillion light shot forth, hitting the man between his shoulder blades--- she could nearly
cry in relief that it had listened to her. However, while the wand had cooperated, it also decided to
put far more power than necessary into the simple spell and had launched the wizard halfway
across the room. A sickening crack resounded as his head collided with the stone wall, crumpling
down into a heap as the visage of a young man replaced the grisly scarred face. The girl had
noticed, belatedly, the Dark Mark that was beginning to etch its way onto the skin of his left
forearm.

'They're everywhere,’ the inner-voice was coated in thinly veiled horror as she wasted no time in
rushing out from the room.
 'Harri-Hunting'
Chapter Notes

Enjoy everyone! <3

Her sneakers echoed dully against the stone tiles and she tried not to think about the fact that there
were polyjuiced professors roaming about the school. Who else was possibly lying? Who else
could she really trust, at this point, to be who they claimed they were? A particularly loud scream
from somewhere within the castle made her wince, thoughts evaporating into nothingness and
bringing her back to the present. Harri had almost turned down the left corridor when tensed voices
floated out from further down, instructing unfamiliar names to go in various directions. Managing
to skid to a halt just in time, her burnt shoulder smacked uncomfortably against the limestone--
however, the throbbing pain was barely registered as the sight of the courtyard drew nearer. By this
point, the snow had gathered in mounting inches since her earlier trudging walk, a thick carpet of
white blanketing the Earth. The girl broke free into the night air, the chill ignored as the surges in
adrenaline coursing flushed her skin warmly. An auburn head snapped to peer back at the
destroyed castle, stubbornly pressing onwards and not quite believing her luck that she had even
made it outside.

“Potter!” she collided headfirst into a solid chest, hands shooting out to grip her shoulders.

A sharp hiss of agony when fingers had pressed into the blistered skin-- they lowered themselves
abruptly to rest about her upper arms instead, almost apologetic in nature. Green eyes blinked up to
see the distraught face of Draco, his normally calm blue eyes alight with unspoken nerves and
tension.

“What are you still doing here?!” he demanded, gaze darting about the courtyard to see if anyone
was watching them. And then he noticed how the girl in his hold had relaxed minutely, the trust in
her wide eyes turning his mouth to acid, his heart to constrict violently.

“Draco! Oh thank Merlin,” she breathed out in relief, 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 an uncomfortable realisation settled in her chest, stomach
clenching at the thought.

Draco was here even though she had clearly watched him leave on the Express. He was here and
that could only mean one thing-- he had arrived with the Dark Lord. Suddenly the hands upon her
felt less comforting and more constraining, restricting, threatening.

The girl tried to shrug them off, tone accusing as she reflected back to Lucius's impromptu visit
during the school year, “Your father! That’s what he was doing that day, wasn’t it? He was finding
weak spots in the wards!”

The blond boy dragged her struggling form over to the shadows, a nervous tick in his jaw, and a
tightness in the lines at the corner of his mouth. A shaky low sigh escaped him, having deemed it
safe enough for the moment to speak freely.
“Why didn’t you leave the second you felt the wards fall?” he questioned, voice sharp in its
urgency. Begrudgingly, he was amazed she had even made it this far without being caught--
especially considering how many followers the Dark Lord had brought with him.

A distant shake, the quake a vibrating rumble, drew both of their attention and he grimaced at the
alarming crack of a stone being cleaved in two.

“I-” she was about to confess all about Snape, about Dumbledore, when strange voices had
interrupted her-- the distinct words floating out of ‘check the courtyard’ causing her to stiffen. The
Slytherin had a similar reaction, one of terror, as the shouting came closer, looming with an
unspoken threat. Harri tried yanking herself from his grasp but the strength in it was unyielding.

“Draco! Draco, please,” the beg was soft, whispered, the grip not lessening as pale eyes glazed
over, unfocused. Fear crowded her mind that he was going to turn her over, that, perhaps, he was
more loyal to his Lord than he had initially let on-- and she had been too stupid, too naive not to see
it

Gaze narrowing a fraction at the nearing shouts, the boy tried to formulate a plan, a strategy,
anything that could buy her enough time to get off of the school’s grounds. And then she began
thrashing in earnest, striving endeavours to break free. One look of those pleading green eyes,
desperation and fear making them glint wetly in the moonlight, and he dropped his hands
immediately. The hawthorn wand was slipped from its holster, mentally berating himself for the
stupidity in what he was about to do.

“You owe me big time, Potter. And please, for the love of all things holy, don’t get caught.”

The redheaded girl watched as he had shouted in surprise, startling at the unexpected outburst-- the
brilliant yellow sparks he had sent into the air temporarily blinding, flashing from even behind
closed lids. He chanced a quick glance towards her, a boyish smile plastered on his face that didn’t
quite reach his eyes, before sprinting down the northern corridor. Harri did allow herself a moment
to admire his loyalty, his bravery, an appreciation for him blooming warmly somewhere deep in
her chest. With a silent prayer for him not to do anything too reckless, she took off stumbling down
the sloped hill, darting for the treeline.

Voldemort stood over the gasping form of Dumbledore laying prone at his feet, his own chest
rapidly rising and falling with exertion, with exhaustion. Crimson eyes bounced about the
destroyed room of the tower, belatedly realising the destruction they had reaped in their duel, in
their dance of death. Large pieces of stone had been blown out from their resting places in the
walls, the wood flooring charred and cracked in some places-- even the roof hadn't been spared,
some spots now sporting gaping pockets where the ceiling had caved in. And the silver globe lay
scattered in a cloud of fine dust underneath them, courtesy of a clever little maneuver Dumbledore
had tried to pull on him.

But in the end, it was he who loomed over the older wizard. It was he who was victorious, who had
pulled an unwilling Albus Dumbledore down from his throne in the Heavens and into Hell. Fingers
skirted over the widening fracture in his wand, the wood and core straining against the amount of
magic that had been forced through it during just the past few hours alone. It was a pity, indeed, to
lose such a fine one-- but he had an even better prize awaiting him.

The Dark Lord spied the Elder wand a few feet away, having rolled from the weakened hands of
its master, its allegiance shifted the moment that he had fallen in surrender. Polished shoes took
measured steps over to it, the choking and wheezing of his greatest enemy in the background a
sweet song seemingly composed just for him. Sliding the yew stick into the pocket of his sleeves,
he reached for the fabled hollow-- his eyes widened, minutely, at the amount of raw power, of
sheer magic, coursing through it, greeting him eagerly as if an old friend. Yes, this was his true
match, a wand that was worthy and able to withstand his will. A cough, wet sounding, seized his
attention, interrupting his musings. Crimson bloomed in a puddle, spreading its stain over the plank
flooring where Dumbledore had rolled to his side and spat onto the ground.

“The pro-phecy,” the bearded wizard rasped out, a cut above his right brow dripping tears of ruby
into the eye below. He desperately tried to blink it away to focus his rapidly dimming sight on the
monster before him.

“Oh Dumbledore, you truly are a fool,” he crooned, smile a savage, wild thing.

Voldemort crouched down beside the headmaster for a moment, red eyes holding a feral
satisfaction as they evenly met the headmaster's petrified gaze. “I carve out my own destiny, shape
it to my will. A prophecy means nothing to me. Not anymore.”

He raised back up to hover over the body, despising the way clarity had briefly come back into
those pale eyes, the assessing twinkle hidden behind half-moon glasses. The wand thrummed in his
hand as though reading his thoughts and urging him to follow through.

A perverse wave of pleasure, capricious in nature as it squirmed in his chest, he intoned softly,
almost tenderly, “Avada Kedavra.”

Verdant lightning seized the aged body and the glint vanished from those eyes, extinguished as the
soul was forcibly departed. He had done it, had conquered his greatest foe, had made the invincible
Albus Dumbledore mortal-- finally humbled before him. The need to memorialize this moment
filled him to the brim, a desperate wish that clawed the inside of his chest raw. Glancing up
between the exposed patches of the parapet roof, and seeing the moon hang heavily in the sky,
innocent and waiting to be corrupted, an notion came to him.

The knobbed wand was pointed upwards, a soft mutter, “Morsmordre.”

A green aura of flickering radiance materialised, the shape of a skull forming as the shimmering
particles drew together in a cluster. He watched approvingly as the jaw extended, a snake writhing
out from its gaping mouth. It always sent a thrill coursing through him, seeing his mark bared in
the celestial heavens for all to see-- his claim cemented for all to see.

Voldemort turned to leave, eager to claim the second prize he had come here for, only pausing long
enough to release a snake-shaped fiendfyre into the room. It curled around the corners, around
every edge, greedily devouring whatever it could in its path with its flames. He watched, passively,
as it 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 he knew, as he considered the
gruesome sight, that he wouldn’t stop until every single trace, every mention, every memory of the
mighty Albus Dumbledore was eradicated from history.

The Dark Lord apparated away from the tower, attention now entirely focused on a girl with red
hair and too green of eyes.

Weaving through the trees, it took her a second to realise, 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. Harri leaned against a winter barren trunk to catch her breath, grimacing
at the number of impressions she had left in her scramble to get to safety. Unfortunately, the
moment of reprieve only lasted a second before she felt a surge of displeasure on the borders of her
mind, of an emotion she could only equate to how a predator must feel when his cornered prey
eludes him. Voldemort was finally on the move, it seemed, to join in on the fun. An unbidden dark
thought crossed her mind-- this was turning into a rather high stakes version of her cousin’s
favourite pastime of ‘Harri-Hunting’.

Voices began to flood the forest, deranged laughter bouncing through the deadened trees as she
heard a sickly-sweet voice croon, “Harrikins! Come out, come out wherever you are!”

That was the only motivation she needed. The girl willed tired legs to move, bursting through the
snow with renewed bouts of energy as a shriek of joy rang out--- a purple spell hit the trunk by her
head and singed the bark. It was moments like these she wished she could apparate, that she knew
how to, her muscles burning from exhaustion as the wolves became ever so closer to descending on
her.

And then the oddest sense of self-satisfaction blindsided her, vile and twisted in nature that spoke
volumes to the sin he had just committed. Harri stopped short, panicked at the possibility of what it
might mean, mind immediately conjuring up images of Snape, Draco-- even Dumbledore. An
explosion split the air. It cleaved the silence of the forest and her moment of worry, a deafening
roar that shook the ground under her feet.

Whirling around, green eyes darted about in a wild search to identify the source, to see what further
destruction had been reaped tonight. Her heart sank, a heavy pit settling in her stomach. The
Astronomy Tower was in flames. Set ablaze, its orange glow was licking the wooden parapets,
devouring the shingles as though alive--- far too hungry and demanding to be sated. It was jarring
to see such violence set against the tranquil night sky, the smoke beginning to already overshadow
the full moon. And just above the tallest peak of the tower, glittering green and twisting around the
blackened smoke was the Dark Mark. The stinging in her scar increased slightly at the sight of the
sigil painted in the sky. A flicker of triumph on the boundaries of her consciousness, a single one
springing to the forefront--- ‘There you are.’

All the warning she had was crack. A sharp sound, similar to a gunshot, before he was there. A
possessive arm had found itself encircled around her waist, a too-large hand clutching at her throat
and tightening just slightly on the soft pulse point beneath her jaw-- the grip forced her head
upwards to the night sky. A body, too large, too solid, too real, was pressed up against her back,
the heat of it warming her chilled skin.

This was different from her dreams, she realised with morbid fascination. There, she could wake
and he would be gone--- could act with abandon because the threat of death wasn’t as real. In
them, she hadn’t felt as powerless, as small, as she did now with him molding himself to her and
too keen to fill in every possible space. The scent of sweet smoke washed over her and she could
feel the spark of magic, a swirling darkness that elicited goosebumps to prickle and hair to rise. It
was licking at her skin in greed, in a silent claim.

Harri could hear her own pulse drumming in her ears and she wondered, distantly, if the hand at
her throat could feel it too-- if it was sensing how her heart was pounding in anxiety and dread, a
racing tempo that threatened to burst. She hated the fact that the answer was ‘yes'. That he was,
more than likely, revelling in her fear and that there was no possible way to fake she wasn’t
shaking. The useless wand slipped from numbing fingers with a soft thud-- it disappeared,
consumed by the blanket of white coating the ground.
“I have finally caught you, Harri Potter,” he nearly purred in victory, in triumph at finally having
his hands on her.

And it was even more glorious than he had ever envisioned, than he could have ever imagined.
The way her pulse was fluttering under his 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. 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--- 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 doubted it 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 but I have brought it
to heel, have given it a new master.”

He 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 unyieldingly until an auburn crown rested 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, was almost overwhelming. The girl had finally begun to struggle and his tongue clicked
mockingly at the futile efforts. An experimental squeeze on the vulnerable point of the exposed
pulse, an unspoken threat--- blooming satisfaction when she had immediately stilled in her
squirming.

“Remember the stars, Harri. Remember them well.”

They apparated away without much fanfare, an inward hiss as the fabric of time was shredded and
bent to his will. The spot where they had once been was demarcated by two sets of footprints and a
wand buried deep in the snow.
 Feral
Chapter Notes

Hello to all of my lovely readers! Thank you for showing me, and this fic, so much
love in the comments recently!! I am so so excited to finally move forward with this
story and have so many fun scenes planned out that, hopefully, you will all love!

I hope you guys enjoy <3

When they had finally rematerialised into existence, it was to a room she was immensely
acquainted with and one that she could never have even imagined she would see in person-- his
study. Harri wondered, wildly, if this was where he was going to do it, where he was going to end
her existence and finally fulfill the prophecy. He was still holding her in the restraining embrace
from the forest, an ache in her neck flaring as bright spots of pain as he refused to let her move
from the awkward angle, the arm on her waist still pressing her against him. An image of a snake
wrapping around its prey, ready to squeeze the life from it and devour it whole, formed in her
mind-- it did little to calm the strung nerves. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep her
head, to think of a plan, when her only thoughts were of how warm he was, an unexpected
discovery on her end-- and that she immediately needed to get out of his hold if she wanted a
chance.

Harri started to thrash, wincing as the arm around her middle dug into the softness of her stomach,
the vulnerable spot right below her ribs.

“Let me go!” she hissed, hating how her neck was exposed, that she couldn’t see his face.

“As you wish,” Voldemort released his grip on her, watching her stumble without him supporting
her small frame.

He watched with immense delight as she spun around to glare at him, drinking in the way her hand
had drifted up to her throat to the exact spot where his had been-- the way it trembled
imperceptibly. Even though she was now longer slotted against him, the traces of her warmth were
still felt, the phantom pulse thrumming erratically beneath his fingertips. A fierce desire, a base and
vulgar thing clawing between the empty spaces of his ribcage, sang of wanting to hold her more--
to revel in his victory, to ensure she was real and not a specter produced by his imagination. He
doubted she had even noticed it, amidst the height of her panic, but there had been a distinct lack of
pain stemming from their contact. It had, in fact, been quite the opposite. Pleasurable almost as he
felt the horcrux’s pull, its needy pleas to be connected to the original soul. The Dark Lord leaned
against the walnut desk to see what she would do, taking some sense of warped pleasure in the fact
she looked like a deer in headlights, a rabbit being cornered.

She studied him, trying to discern his next moves, half-expecting him to yell two little words and
fill the room with a flash of green. Harri moved to grab a wand that wasn’t there and she was,
uncomfortably, reminded of a rather similar encounter once upon a time. One in which she had
found herself in this very same study and equally underprepared as she was now. In fact, there were
quite a few memories based in this room that she wished to forget and she, faintly, wondered if he
had brought her here just for that reason. ‘Sadistic bastard,’ the thought contained no little amount
of resentment.

“Get on with it,” she stated boldly, thankful that her voice hadn’t quivered despite her knees feeling
like they were about to give out. At least she could pretend to not be scared, to face a death she
wasn’t ready for with false bravado. ‘Merlin be damned,’ she thought adamantly, ‘if he thinks I’ll
beg.’

Crimson eyes glittered with something akin to amusement as he drank in the way she jutted her
chin out, squared her shoulders, and tried to puff up her chest. It was, in the strangest way,
endearing how she was still so clueless about what his true intent was.

He chuckled softly, delight only growing at how she shrank back at the sound before he trained a
level stare on her, “I’m not going to kill you, Harri Potter.”

While the words should have brought her a sense of reassurance, the laughter that had
accompanied it, the burning look in his eyes, did very little to render her relieved. In fact, her heart
quickened at the possibilities of what else he was meaning to do first and her mind conjured up the
image of the spider being tortured in Not-Moody’s class. Fingers clenched, the bite of her nails into
her palm a welcomed distraction.

“What are you going to do then?” Harri hated how small her voice had come out, desperately
wishing for some of the famed Gryffindor courage right about now.

He raked his eyes slowly over her figure, hands behind him gripping the wooden desk’s edge,
knuckles bleeding white from the exerted pressure. There had been multiple scenarios entertained
in which he had dealt with her, each one a different outcome based on how she would react. And,
as much as he would enjoy the path of least resistance, to spend entirety with his horcrux in a
congenial mood, the girl’s track record tended to point to the opposite.

The answer was slow, deliberate, “That depends entirely on you, now doesn’t it?”

Silence settled between them, neither content nor willing to break it. Harri could feel her heart rate
finally slowing to a reasonable pace but her nerves were still strung, ready to snap at any moment.
And while Voldemort was watching her in the usual predatory manner, there was a new darkness
lighting up their depths, a different kind of hunger that she didn’t even want to begin to examine.
The threat of his words hung heavily over her and she jumped at every move he made, no matter
how slight. That expectation of seeing the yew wand and his admonishment of her for being so
naive refused to abate.

Then she noticed, over his shoulder, a door that hadn’t been in the dreams. Her mind was
screaming to just get out of the study first and make a formal plan second--that the further she was
from him, the better chance she might have. Counting slowly down from 3 in her head, the girl
meandered about the room to nonchalantly positioned herself to an advantage. And then she
bolted.

Harri pushed over the side table in a blind attempt to slow Voldemort down, to perhaps give her
enough time so that she could reach the door without him being none the wiser. A prayer was sent
to an unknown god, wishing that he might trip over it, that it might surprise him enough into giving
her a heads start. Without a wand, there was only so much she could do, and if it meant resorting to
sly Muggle tactics to put space between herself and a Dark Lord? Well, she wasn’t exactly morally
opposed.

Unfortunately, it appeared that her luck had very much run out as an arm, once again, shot out to
hook her around the waist. She had been so close, so close, to the door, her fingers outstretched to
graze the cool metal surface of the knob when the breath was forced out of her lungs. Harri let
loose a scream of frustration as another arm snaked across her chest, pulling her back against his
solid form in a bruising manner.

“Really now, Harri,” false disappointment coloured his tone and he clicked his tongue in an
attempt to make it believable.

In all actuality, however, he couldn’t have been more pleased than he was at this very moment. It
would have been a pity, a letdown after all, if she hadn’t resisted at least somewhat. And, as he
came to realise rather quickly during their past encounters, there was nothing more that he enjoyed
than to push her to her limits, to see what she could do to shock him.

“Going so soon? Don’t you know how unbelievably rude it is to leave without even saying
goodbye first?”

She kicked at the air, fingers going up in vain attempts to pry his arms off of her, blunt nails doing
little to inflict the amount of pain she so desperately wanted to. A vague notion that he was the cat
and she was the mouse, that he was toying with his dinner before eating it, had taken root in her
mind. It made her feel beyond ill.

“You bloody psycho, let me go!” she screamed.

He chuckled a bit at that, dark amusement swelling within his chest. How easy it would be for him
to turn into the maniac she thought him to be, to show her the monstrous side that earned him the
title of a Dark Lord, the one that made people so terrified that they dared not to even utter his
name. It was certainly appealing enough, if not at least to force her into a more subdued state.

Voldemort whispered lowly, lips grazing her hair, “Should I show you then, Harri, how much of a
‘psycho’ I truly can be? Show you what I have all done to deserve being called a ‘Dark Lord’?”

A moan of pain slipped out as the arms across her chest tightened, the pressure on the charred and
blistered skin inciting a sharp throb. The sheer agony of it was almost enough to make her start to
cry, his soft laughter making her think he had done it on purpose. ‘This is it,’ her breath was
coming in rapid short pulses, ‘he’s going to kill me.

Writhing against his binding grip, the girl was determined, at the very least, not to make it easy on
him. Her mind was racing quickly, shuffling through idea after idea on how to escape, on how to
live, that it was beginning to physically ache. The building stress, the mounting anxiety, finally
caused the precarious wire she had been balancing on to snap, far too occupied with the full-blown
horror that, no, this couldn’t be how it all ends.

In a last-ditch attempt, Harri threw her elbow up and back forcefully, numbing pinpricks radiating
through her arm as it connected with something solid, something warm. A revolting sound of wet
cracking, a cry of surprised pain, and she was free. Scrambling from his hold, desperate to put
distance between them, to run from the growing wrath that was, undoubtedly, awaiting her. The
gleam of a golden globe, expensive and rather weighty looking, caught her eye and she darted over
to the bookshelves, grasping it, hoisting it above her head, preparing to throw it at him.

Voldemort stumbled back at the sudden burst of sharp pain, a stinging ache that was rapidly
spreading from his nose and outwards. It had shocked him into stillness, into silence, for a second
as a hand slowly went up to inspect the damage her little stunt had reaped. Traces of the
momentary relief at the fact she hadn’t broken his nose were quickly overshadowed. The hand
pulled back to reveal bright spots of scarlet coating it, a tacky scarlet. A tidal wave of fury washed
through him, the serpent coiled in his chest baring its fangs, demanding punishment, retribution,
vengeance. He had, initially, planned to have a calm chat with her, reveal the truth about her
nature, assure her that her place was at his side. But now? Now, all he wanted was to make her
suffer, make her regret drawing his blood.

“You spiteful little menace,” he seethed, eyes as vivid as the blood streaming from down his face.
He watched with a vindictive amount of pleasure at the way her face had paled when she took in
the gore on his face, the way he could practically see the heart hammering, her hands trembling
around the globe.

Voldemort pushed his magic squarely at the center of her sternum, the golden sphere dropping
with a heavy thud as she was forcefully thrown backwards into the chaise lounge. Sadistic
gratification filled him at the way she groaned, the way the wind had been expelled from her lungs,
how her head had hit the wooden frame-- those green eyes glazed over, stunned and unfocused. It
was a war of two truths right now in his mind-- one was singing for her to be disciplined harshly, to
correct this kind of behaviour, to make her regret ever laying a finger on him. The other, however,
was screaming for caution, for temperance, for patience, to avoid damaging something as precious
as she was. It was a dilemma that irked him for the mere fact his own mind was advocating against
his every instinct, every desire-- betraying him in favour of one 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 moving, one
hand shooting out to grasp both of her wrists and pressing them harshly into the velvet fabric above
her head. He noticed her chest rising rapidly, the swell of it visible even under the guise of her
bulky black jumper, and he stared at it in morbid fascination. An unholy thought paced in his mind,
as though it were a tiger being kept in a cage, demanding that he tear into her breast, break apart
her ribs and find the shard of him that existed deep within. 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 around her wrists, constricting the barest amount as he tried to chase away the sinful idea.

In a bid for distraction, his attention became engrossed by her thrashing against the chaise, the
pitiful attempts to break free-- the way her spine arched to throw him off, her body rising to press
against his for a brief second before sinking back down. ‘This is what happens to magical
children,’ he thought distantly, her vehement protests to be let go barely registering, ‘when left to
the tender mercies of the Muggle world. They become feral.’

He raised her wrists abruptly before slamming them back down into the plush fabric, drawing his
face nearer to hers, the fuse of his tolerance already at its end.

“Even my patience has its limits, Harri. And right now? Well, you are wearing it dangerously thin,”
he bit out, eyes glowing pinpoints of hellfire that bore into her own.

And then something ruby red dripped onto her cheek. ‘My blood,’ he mused in surprise, forgetting
that he had been injured at all. She stilled as his free hand, idly and on its own volition, rose to her
cheek. Morbid fascination filled him as his thumb swiped at the bloom, a man possessed by the
sight. A foreign feeling, an aching gnawing want unfurled possessively in his chest as he watched
the streak of scarlet stain the cream of her skin. It was corrupting, impure, sharply contrasted
against the purity of the girl. His gaze refused to leave the mark, at the jarring, yet beautiful,
image-- the earlier anger rushed out from him only to be replaced with something more dangerous.
He had become painfully aware of the position they were in, her stretched underneath him and he
holding her down.

“I believe,” he started slowly, pushing his magic into her body, urging it to follow his command,
“it would be wise for you to get some rest, Harri.”

Her green eyes fluttered shut almost instantaneously, body relaxing and going limp under him.
Releasing the hold on her wrists, absentminded fingers rubbed the blood on his thumb against the
index, its residual warmth fading. And as he hovered over her, not quite content enough to back
away, the Dark Lord found himself, yet again, debating the existence of his living horcrux.
 Nagini
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but a storm knocked out my
power! I'm so sorry to everyone who was expecting another update last night <3

Once again, you are all amazing and thank you for every kudos, bookmark and
comment! It makes my day reading your reactions and thoughts on the story <3

She dreamt of smoke and fire, of flashes of green light and pained screams, of red eyes, possessive
arms, and bright drops of blood. And as Harri finally opened her eyes, she could have sworn she
smelt the lingering traces of brimstone, felt the residual heat of flames lick at her skin. It had filled
her with trepidation, with a sense of impending doom that, somehow, Hell had been unleashed and
she was stuck right in the middle circle of it all.

A high vaulted ceiling with white elaborate crown molding materialised in view and Harri stared at
it unblinking, trying to puzzle out when her dorm room in Gryffindor tower had been revamped.
Her eyes traced over the intricate filigree impressed into the trim, deciding on the spot that it was
quite ostentatious in its excessive detailing. Two thoughts had then occurred to her, as she tried to
blink away the hazy fog of sleep, that made her stomach clench in a rather unpleasant way. For
one, her body felt incredibly heavy, as though stones were placed on top of her, pushing her rather
insistently down into the plush mattress. And the second was that she, most certainly, was not in
her dorm room like she originally thought. Her bed at school was, begrudgingly, much less
comfortable than the one she currently found herself in, while the drapes encircling her canopy
were a brilliant shade of red, not black.

It all came rushing back to her in a brutal onslaught of a game of ‘catch up’. Hogwarts being
invaded, Voldemort finding her, the struggle in the study, the sheer amount of blood spilling
everywhere. ‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ she jolted to get up, to escape before he could divine her
punishment, but was promptly yanked back by something digging into the delicate skin of her
neck. Harri choked for second as it constricted her airways, coughing in greedy gulps of sweet
oxygen as her eyes watered from the violence of the insistent pull. Searching fingers reached up
blindly and immediately recoiled at the abrupt bite of cold metal. ‘A collar,’ her muddled thoughts
were perplexed, surprised at its unexpected appearance on her skin. She skimmed along the band,
stumbling upon a rather thick loop in the back that indicated the choker was connected to
something. Suddenly, the mattress seemed far less comfortable than she had initially thought.

Craning her head as much as she could without dislocating it, her mouth dropped in mute horror. A
silver metal leash, gleaming and thicky corded, was attached to a mount on the wall above the
headboard. A shudder passed through her body, her mind trying to desperately stamp down the
speculations of what it normally was used for, of what kind of person had chains over their bed.
And then it hit her, an embarrassed rage blossoming fiercely in her chest. She was tied up, like a
dog, knowing that, without a shadow of doubt in her mind, he had done it to get back at her.

Static filled the empty space of air, a crackling that danced along her skin, between her ribs,
occupying every fibre in her body. He had chained her up, like some damned wild animal, because
of what exactly? That she retaliated, fought for her life, hadn’t rolled over to a psychopath that had
been attempting to murder her since her birth? Harri gave an embittered laugh at the thought, at
how he was treating her like some misbehaved pet of his that needed to be disciplined. ‘And isn’t
that just hilarious,’ she thought venomously as she yanked violently at the chains, praying for them
to break, that they would rip the plaster off the pristine walls, that he would see the physical
evidence of her wrath, ‘Considering he was the one who bit me first.’

As she sat there in frustrated silence, the backlog of emotions from the past few hours finally had
time to process, to filter through their queue. A fierce realisation, one that made a frigid rage unfurl
in her chest, one that gave her wrath a voice and conscious, made itself very well known. She was
sick of it all, of the hypocrisy, of the betrayals, of 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, her last
living blood relative, had kept the truth about her true nature from her, about her parent’s death.
And while Voldemort may have never outright lied to her, he certainly was content enough to keep
her in the dark just as much as everyone else had. ‘You weren’t even told about the prophecy,’ a
small voice reminded her, bringing about an entirely fresh new wave of rage. Electricity danced
behind her eyes at the thought, at the little bomb that had been dropped on her out of the blue. Her
entire life, she had stumbled through thinking it was her parent’s fault, that they had done
something to enrage the Dark Lord, that Lily and James Potter somehow brought their fate upon
themselves. It was easier to rationalise it that way then to think of it as just a random act, that it had
been some terrible luck that befell them into attracting Voldemort’s attention. And then
Dumbledore-

The lights overhead flickered once, twice, before plunging the room into darkness. An astringent
taste coated her tongue, sparks at her fingertips, when she thought of the headmaster. Her skin
suddenly felt stretched too tightly, the room in the air too charged, too cloying, too suffocating. He
had betrayed her, attempted to kill her for reasons she didn’t even understand, had the audacity to
do so when her back was turned. Harri, distantly, knew she should feel grief, that she should feel
some form of sorrow at the thought. The tears she had been waiting for, however, never came and
she thought vehemently about claiming her vengeance the next time she saw him. The
windowpanes began to rattle in their frames, her fingers clenching at the silk sheets as she gritted
her teeth, her magic singing for revenge, for justice for-

“Ah, you’re finally awake.”

It felt as though cold water had been splashed over her, dousing the flames of her temper, and
shocking her into stillness. The lights slowly flickered back to life as Harri noted, much to her
rising alarm, that the covers at the end of the bed were shifting.

Tentatively, hesitantly, she lifted the edge of the blanket, heart dropping to her stomach at the sight
of two golden eyes glittering up at her. Harri immediately dropped the duvet from her hands in
silent horror as she scrambled to get her legs out from underneath, pulling them tightly to her chest
and squeezing herself against the headboard. The undulating form of the snake moved closer until
its triangular head peeked out from the blanket, forked tongue flicking at the air in a curious
manner. A scream died in her throat as its tongue swiped across her calf, blood chilling in her veins
and distress rapidly mounting when she realised that she was chained and unable to escape.
Another gruesome idea quickly followed, crossing her mind that, perhaps, Voldemort intended to
feed her to his pet alive, had made it easier on the massive serpent by limiting her movements.
Harri’s vision dimmed, and she could have sworn that she was about to faint.

“I wasss worried. You had not ssstired for a while,” Nagini began coiling herself around the girl’s
legs, relishing in the warmth of the heat emanating from the human’s body. The forked tongue
scented the air and she recoiled at the palpable fear, the taste sour, tart.

“I won’t eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she admonished, rearing up to half her
height to look evenly into green eyes.

As she took in the shivering form of the girl in front of her, even Nagini found herself admitting
that she was pretty enough, by human standards. Another flick of her tongue and disappointment
filled her at the lack of acidity present-- she had yet to develop her venom it seemed. ‘ A
hatchling,’ supplied a possessive thought, a fierceness that urged her to protect the girl. She coiled
herself even tighter around the legs, refusing to let go.

Harri blinked once, then twice, trying to process the horror of the snake being so close to her, the
chilled expanse of flexing muscles around her body. While she may have dreamt, every now and
again, to be the snake, it was quite the surreal feeling when it draped itself across her, reminding
herself that this was all too real. “You--you won’t?”

It was the first time, in all of her 16 years, that Harri had ever witnessed, what she supposed, at
least, to be a snake’s laugh. Not that she had the chance to talk or interact with many. After her
second year, she had made it a point to avoid any serpent bigger than herself, especially the ones
that possessed venom. But, nonetheless, it was a jarring sound, a series of stuttered sibilant sounds,
the triangular head bobbing side to side eagerly.

“No, little one, I will not. You are too preciousss to the Masster to even consssider it.”

The snake moved to curl around Harri’s torso, flat head nudging and attempting to worm herself
into the burnt hole in the sweater’s arm. She tasted the newly healed skin, the spot just a touch
paler, a tad shinier, than the rest of the girl's complexion.

“He healed it nicely,” she mused, retreating once she realised her body wouldn’t be able to fit in
the sweater’s sleeve.

Harri glanced down in confusion, for the first time since waking, registering that the burn wasn’t
hurting, that she could no longer feel the sharp throb of it. Her eyes brow knitted together as she
gingerly prodded the healed area, eyes going wide when there wasn’t even the slightest bit of
residual pain left over. It puzzled her, why he had gone to the lengths to mend the wound, to do so
in a manner that it wouldn’t leave a scar.

She leaned forward in urgency, eyes glowing with a need for more information, enticed by the
prospect that, perhaps, someone would finally be upfront with her. Distantly, she recalled the dark-
haired witch’s horrified screams when her companion had hit her with a tail end of a spell, going on
about how their Lord had ‘wanted her unharmed’. Harri had thought, back then, she only meant
that he wished she was kept intact so he could do the job himself. However, hearing the snake’s
confession rattled her, the sneaking suspicion that there was more to the story settling as a pit in her
stomach.

A frown, tightness in the lines at the corners of her mouth, and she crept closer to the serpent, fear
abandoned at the prospect of an answer that might, finally, reveal something of importance, “Why?
Why am I precious to him?”

He had appeared unnoticed, watching from the shadows as the girl chained to his bed began to
casually converse with his dearest companion. Hearing her speak for the first time was a revelation,
a holy and solemn occasion. Throughout the entirety of his life, Voldemort had never once heard
another human speak the sacred language, this hissing of other snakes his only reference to how it
may have sounded. But hearing her? Well, he suddenly could understand the reasoning behind
Bellatrix’s starstruck face, the desire in her hooded eyes, whenever she overheard her Lord
conversing with Nagini. It was an intoxicating sound, electrifying and rousing, that did little to
quell the toxic possessiveness settling between his ribs. She was truly made from him, from the
very marrow of his soul, from the shadow of his magic. He watched in fascination as her lips
moved, the soft slippery sounds spilling forth with ease, the way her eyes lit up at Nagini’s slipup.

“That’s quite enough, Nagini,” he emerged from his observational spot in the darkness, evenly
meeting her shocked stare at his sudden appearance.

From his periphery, he saw the snake slowly uncoil herself from the girl and retreat from the bed,
felt the rippling of her muscles over his feet, distantly heard her warning hiss to be lenient. But all
of it fell away as he drank in the sight of a girl with red hair and deathly green eyes.
 Are All Dark Lords Drama Queens?
Chapter Notes

Aaand here's the second chapter from last night that should have been posted!

Enjoy! <3

Harri watched him cautiously, mind screaming for her to be on guard, to be careful. He looked
rather calm, she noticed-- the greatest deception. Those crimson eyes were half-lidded, darkening
with something she didn’t quite know how to comprehend-- fingers curled into the silken sheets to
ward off her nerves. And though she would be loath to admit it aloud, she almost missed the snake-
- the barest flickers of hope that it would come back any second now and provide a distraction.

Silence fell between them and the girl took the time to fully observe the room. It was all quite
monochromatic, to say the very least. Uniform, sterile-- a testament to its owner's rigid personality.
The walls were simply white, just like the marble mantle above the fireplace. An accent of a fur
rug was arranged in front of it-- ‘A fire hazard' -- and the flooring was made of slates of light grey
wood. But apart from those few instances, everything else was the same shade of black. The four
postered bed she was in, the sheets, the drapes, the desk in the corner. ‘Someone’s imaginative.'
Emerald eyes passively darted about in an attempt to divert herself from his too assessing, too
watchful stare.

When Harri had finally seen fit to let her attention drift back to him, it was to belatedly discover
that he had changed out of the severe duelling robes from earlier. Instead of the signature look she
had come to associate Voldemort with, he was wearing a black and white three-piece suit. It hit her
then that he was probably coming back from a council meeting or press conference. ‘And so he’s
back to being ‘Marvolo Gaunt’,’ she thought snidely, still finding the entire pretense he was
insistent on acting out ridiculous.

She watched in morbid fascination as he shrugged off the black tailored jacket, tossing 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, trying her best not to be unnerved at how casual he was
being-- at how human he was managing to make himself look. But then again, hadn’t Tom Riddle
always been excellent at playing pretend? As posing as one thing when he really was another?

“Why the hell am I chained up? And whose bloody room is this anyway?” she had finally found
her nerve, inching as close to the edge as the leash would allow.

He busied himself with shuffling through a stack of envelopes, trying not to dwell on how at home
she looked in his bed-- how much she looked like she belonged there, surrounded by black silk.
Admittedly, the contrast of it against her pale skin and richly coloured hair was a rather tempting
sight. 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 she had
looked so enticing as her lips formed to produce the breathy hisses, came unbidden to his mind.
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.”
Then he raised his head, an eyebrow raised and 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 as appalled rage made her forget her earlier
caution.

“Attack you,” she gaped at him, echoing his words in an incredulous tone.

It truly was 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? Attempted to kill her
repeatedly in the past? In terms of who was attacking who, only one party truly seemed guilty on
that account. She threw her hands up, exasperated that the man had even felt the need to tie up a
wandless girl-- that he had the audacity to be upset over a single bloody nose when he had done so
much worse to 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 curling into the sheets in an
attempt to keep her temper in check before it could make things worse. He hadn’t even seemed to
notice, nor apparently care, that her magic was lashing out. And Harri did distantly wonder where
this sudden courage was coming from, the vaguest idea forming that it was because he didn’t look
so much like a Dark Lord at this very moment. Without the severe robes and bloodthirsty violence
in his gaze, Voldemort truly appeared the part of a harmless, charismatic businessman. And her
mind was screaming for her to remember who she was truly talking to, what he was capable of-- to
have even a shred of self-preservation.

“Untie me,” she demanded, trying to keep her tone level and reign in the crackling energy swirling
about her.

He scoffed in response, striving to ignore the fact that she did have some validity in her reasoning.
Perhaps he had overreacted initially. But truly, he had been fully prepared to let her go free once
she woke up-- but now? As her magic became more agitated, like a child’s during a tantrum, he
was more than content to let her cool off before feeling inclined to do so.

“Not until you calm down.”

“Untie. Me,” Harri gritted out between clenched teeth.

She was aware of her temper spiking, the belittling disregard in his voice striking a nerve-- that he
was purposefully turning his back on her. It reminded her too much of the way Dumbledore had
always done so-- how the headmaster had always refused to listen to her, acknowledge her
whenever her emotions would bleedthrough. And telling someone who is upset to 'calm down' was
a sure way to only add more dry kindling to the flame.

“No. Not until you calm down,” he repeated once more, tone firm as he scanned the wax seal of
the letter in his hand.

A sudden gust of wind shot through the room, an uncontrollable force, that blew those damned
letters from the table. They scattered haphazardly about the floor. The sight reminded her of the
Dursley’s living room after the neverending onslaught of Hogwarts letters had arrived, spewing
from the chimney and carpeting the house in inches of crisp envelopes. A sea of white. Her
shoulders had begun to shake, eyes alight as her magic itched to be released further-- to finally
bring about the chaos she so desperately wished for. To make him listen and give in to her
demands-- she figured that he, at the very least, owed her that considering what she had been put
through in the past day alone.

“Kindly piss off then.”

His patience finally snapped as the organised stack had been interspersed about the floor.
Voldemort forcefully threw the remaining letters in his hand down onto the side table, turning his
irritation on her as he stalked towards the bed. Leaning over it, his hand shot out to clasp around
her ankle before, roughly, yanking her down and closer to him. The Dark Lord hovered over her, a
sneer on his face.

“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 her answer, “Are you finally done and ready
to behave civilly this time? Or do I still need chains to hold you?”

She swallowed at his threat, and looked up at him, pressing herself deeper into the mattress. His
eyes had begun to swirl with a blackness and the crackle of his magic danced over her skin in an
ever-present warning, attempting to assert its dominance. A stinging retort was on the tip of her
tongue, wanting so desperately to demand who had been the childish one-- who had been the one
to throw a tantrum in the first place when he hadn't gotten his way. The rational side to her,
however, was raising its own warning flags, pleading with her to shut up. Instead of scathing
words, she willed her magic out and it rose to meet his, a subtle warning for him to give her some
space.

“No,” she bit out, not daring to say more but also not quite daring to stay silent.

The Dark Lord stilled for a moment as he sensed the press against his magic, the electricity of her
anger-- the way it had felt so familiar, yet so unfamiliar, to his own. He was, vaguely, reminded of
a spitting stray cat, the kind that lashed out with its claws at those who dared to approach it.
Sending her an indulgent smile, as though immensely pleased by her answer, he released his vice-
like hold on her ankle.

“No,” he agreed lightly, good-naturedly, “I do not.”

The chains on her throat melted away, releasing its bindings around her thin neck and setting her
free. The Dark Lord crossed the room to settle in the armchair by the fireplace, the letters still
flung wildly about the floor. With a flourish of his wand, a tea set had materialised on the table
between the two chairs, steam curling out from the pot invitingly. Voldemort leaned back, fingers
steepled, and gestured for her to take the unoccupied one at his side.

An all too sharp smile spread on his face, crimson eyes dancing with an eagerness that made Harri
grind her teeth.

“Come, sit. We have so many things to discuss.”

 Tea With The Dark Lord
Chapter 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 if need be <3

This chapter was weirdly hard for me to write and I ended up scrapping entire sections
several times before I was content enough to post it lol. That being said, I hope it
doesn't disappoint you guys and will have the follow-up chapter posted asap!

As always, you are all lovely and I feel so lucky to have you guys as my readers <3
Thank you and enjoy!

Harri stared at the steaming cup of jasmine placed in front of her, eyebrows raising in surprise, in
astonishment, at the simple gesture. Though debating about initially refusing it, she hesitantly took
the proffered cup anyways before sitting down, eyeing it suspiciously as though it may have
contained poison. And knowing who had conjured it, it was entirely within the realm of possibility.

“We’re having….tea,” she questioned in puzzlement, unable to believe that the most feared and
powerful man in Britain was at her side, drinking tea 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 chalice, not jasmine from a rather expensive
looking fine china set. She focused her attention on the ripples spreading concentrically on the
liquid’s golden surface, trying to digest the fact.

“Harri, we are British. It’s in our very nature to have tea during difficult conversations,” he mused,
tone incredulous as he placed the rim to his lips, eyeing her hesitance to do the same.

He returned the cup to its saucer, taking a moment to turn his gaze to her profile and admiring the
product her lineage had sown. Her heart-shaped face, the gently defined jawline, the slightly
upturned point of her nose. He pondered over the features for a moment, trying to figure out who
they vaguely reminded him of, when, suddenly, a dark-haired witch with hooded eyes came to
mind. ‘Interesting,’ the Dark Lord filed away the comparison for a later time, making a mental
note to investigate a connection between her and the Black line. Voldemort willed for the fire to
flicker to life in the empty mantle, feeling her unease on the very edges of their bond.

“I have a proposition for you,” he started slowly, trying to draw her attention away from the cup
and back to him, “You can ask a question, 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, irritation flaring at the fact he was still
demanding more from her. ‘Calm yourself,’ her conscience warned, arguing it was a fair enough
trade, harmless really.
Harri leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, “Fine. Let’s start with the
prophecy, shall we? You never told me about it. Why?”

He winced at the noise, at the fact that she had the audacity to all but throw the fine china down
onto the table. ‘She really is a feral, uncivilised thing,’ he thought scathingly, trying to discern
whether or not she had chipped it and resisting the urge to take it away from her. Appearing to still
be in one piece, he sighed before training an impassive look on her, disappointed that she had
chosen to start there. Then again, he supposed it made sense why she would, all things considered.
It was the reason for their story, the origin point in their still unfolding tale.

The Dark Lord eyed her, voice blasé, “You never asked me about it.”

Anger started to rise in her, a bitterness in the back of her throat and a burning behind her eyes at
his lack of an answer. ‘Of bloody course he would do this,’ her fingers dug into the softness of her
upper arms, the flames in the mantle suddenly heightening in response to her growing frustration. “

No,” she bit out, her tone disbelieving that he still had the gall to try to deceive her, “None of this
half-baked, cryptic bullshit. I want answers, real answers”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at her cursing, his earlier assumption of her being uncivilised,
uncouth, being confirmed once again, “Alright, Harri, fine. 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 fact. I felt that you shouldn’t concern yourself with it seeing
as it has become obsolete.”

She gaped at him, eyes widening at his admittance, his guilt, of withholding it from her.

“No lon- Of course it matters!” she choked out, relieved to have had the foresight to put her cup
down as the temptation to throw it at his head was almost overwhelming, “It’s the entire reason for
everything! Why you killed my parents, attempted to kill me, why I was cursed to be ‘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 stare, jaw ticking in annoyance at her mention of his past actions. He
admitted that he hadn’t been the most rational but he also suffered from having a soul split far too
many times. It hadn’t been his initial plan, after all, to have his soul interspersed between 8
containers, with himself included, and it had done some dreadful things to his state of mind.
Voldemort sighed and gingerly massaged his temples, already foreseeing what a headache this was
going to be.

“The rather tricky thing about prophecies is that there can be countless interpretations as to what
they refer to. It isn’t so easy to pinpoint down their exact meaning and can be rather slippery to deal
with.”

She groaned at his explanation, noting, much to her dismay, that he was still avoiding the question.
Harri slumped further down into her chair, not missing how his left eye had given a minute twitch
at her bad posture. A vindictive thought crossed her mind that, good, let him be uncomfortable, let
him be vexed and let her get under his skin. It was only fair after the year she had because of him,
with his constant disruption of her dreams, his thoughts a very much so unwanted commentary.

“You’re still avoiding the question,” she accused, tone pointed and coloured brightly with
annoyance. It was starting to become crystal clear as to why he made such a competent politician,
his ability to evade giving a straight answer making her want to grind her teeth to dust, “Why
doesn’t it matter anymore?”
Eagerness filled him. A hunger demanding to be sated bloomed in his chest as he leaned closer to
her, the radiance shining brightly in his eyes betraying his excitement, “What do you remember of
our bet, Harri?”

Whereas he was eager and excited, she was wary and anxious. A Dark Lord with that kind of
expression, in her past experience, only proved to be trouble, to be more than a slight
inconvenience, for all else involved. Usually, as she had come to learn the hard way, it meant
someone either wound up dead, tortured, or both. She eyed him suspiciously, voice slow, hesitant,
mind racing to figure out where he was going with this turn of conversation.

“That if I could tell you what a horcrux is, you would give me anything I want.”

The uncharacteristic urge to groan in exasperation was mounting in him, his impatience making his
mind pace as though it were caged.

“And so?” he prompted her, motioning with an open hand for her to hurry up, entirely too keen to
get to the heart of their true conversation, the reason why they were here.

Harri straightened her spine, arms unfolding to drum her fingers against her thighs, trying vainly to
recall Dumbledore’s words from the tower. She swallowed stubbornly around the lump clawing its
way up her throat at the memory of seeing the normally kind headmaster’s eyes turn to flint, the
way he had reprimanded her for looking into it, the way he seemed so horrified at the prospect. It
wasn’t time to unpack that emotional baggage. Not yet, not while she was finally getting some
information that could shine a light on her existence, on her relationship with Voldemort. She
pushed it as far down as she could.

“It’s a container you place your soul in for safekeeping. It will keep you earthbound, should you
die, making you essentially immortal,” she trailed off, eyebrows lowering in contemplation as she
tried to recall any other important tidbits, feeling that she was missing something crucial.

Voldemort’s fingers dug into the plush arms of the chair, knuckles bleeding white from the
pressure. She was missing a rather central detail to their creation, one that he was dying to hear her
say aloud, “And how does one, exactly, create a horcrux, Harri?”

She had wanted her voice to have a bite, to accuse him of making her look into something so vile,
to flaunt that she knew what he had done or was about to. She wanted to gloat that she knew of his
immoral plans, was finally one step ahead of him, to shock him that she wasn’t the naive girl he
thought her to be. But, instead, her voice had come out timid, small sounding, unsure and phrasing
her answer as though it were a question and not a definitive response.

“Murder committed with intent?”

Triumph spread through his chest, warm and content that she had not only followed his instructions
but that she managed to prove herself more resourceful than he had expected, that she had found
for him an answer. After all, it was no easy feat. Dumbledore would have seen to it that all texts
mentioning a horcrux, even the very slightest of a trace, would have been removed, disintegrated,
wiped away from the library after his rise. Voldemort shot a hand out to grasp lightly at her chin,
tilting her head up towards him. Pleasure coursed through his veins, a heady feeling of approval, at
the electrifying sparks that stemmed from their contact. And judging from the way her pupils had
subtly blown wide, the way her lips had parted just so slightly, she was feeling it too.

His voice came out as a purr, a vibration in his chest, as he stared down at the stunned girl in his
grasp, “Aren’t you just a clever girl? Well done, Harri, well done indeed.”
Harri blinked, trying not to feel the warmth, the satisfaction, the bubbling sensation in her chest, at
hearing his praise, at the featherlight touch. A small part of her admonished herself for even
wanting his approval, for even feeling relieved she had managed to gain it. But another part of her
relished in it, basking in it as though one would in the sun. A picture of herself and Draco sitting by
the lake, surrounded by autumn leaves, came to mind, his grim admittance and startling words used
to describe Voldemort’s presence-- ‘..you can’t help but want to please him, to get his approval.’
She swallowed, not missing the way those crimson eyes tracked the movement, and she shuddered
as it dawned on her how just right the Slytherin had been.

He released his hold on her, retreating back into the plushness of his chair. The residual warmth,
the pleasant prickling, was a phantom sensation lighting up the nerves in his hand where he had
touched her. The Dark Lord greedily drank in the glow on her face, the conflict in her eyes when
she realised she had enjoyed his touch, had desired his praise.

“I am a man of my word. Name it and it shall be yours.”

He would be lying if he said the thought, the anticipation, of what she would demand from him
hadn’t kept him awake at night. This was his chance to finally see the core desires of Harri Potter,
to see her priorities, to reveal some fundamental truth about herself. It left him ravenous. Her mind
was a whirl, her conflicts of interest broadcasting themselves to him loudly, chaotically, as though
they were his own.

Harri fell back into the chair, dazed and in a stupor. Her mind was still reeling from the radiant
light that was rushing through her veins, a side effect leftover from his skin against hers. And now
she had to decide what she wanted from him? Several ideas came at once as the floodgates were
opened, clamouring for her attention and to be the dominant thought. She considered, briefly, of
demanding he return her to Hogwarts and never touch her again. However, considering his
obsession with her, and his apparent need to make a reappearance every single school year thus far,
she knew he would never grant it. And if a small part of her recoiled at the idea of him never
touching her again, at being disappointed by the concept of being cut off from that newly-
discovered buoyancy? Well, she, too, repressed that deep, deep, within herself to be pondered over
another time.

‘It can’t be too big of a request,’ she mused, biting at 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 stingy
bastard he was. An image of a wand came to her mind, one that would actually listen to her, and
she firmly nodded at the prospect.

“I want--” she trailed off.

Images of Hermione being dragged from the train, eyes rimmed red and heartbreaking at not
understanding why, materialised in her conscience. Snape defending her against Dumbledore,
pushing her down the stairs and urging her to flee before the Dark Lord could arrive. Draco,
terrified and pale in the face, shooting off sparks and drawing attention away from her at his own
risk. Her heart sank at the thought of what might happen to them, of what fate would await them
should they be found out. But right now? Right now, she had a chance to do some good, even if it
meant sacrificing a tad more of herself once again. The wand could be damned. Harri squared her
shoulders, jutting her chin out bravely as she stared into fervid scarlet eyes, her tone adamant and
brimming with passion.

“I want for you to leave my friends alone. Swear to me that you won’t touch them, that no harm
will come to them and that they will continue to live.”

Voldemort blinked at her, not entirely too sure why her answer had surprised him. It had been quite
characteristic of her, to selflessly use the opportunity, one in which she could have received
anything she wanted from him within reason, for purposes that wouldn’t even directly benefit her.
He threw his head back in a deeply amused laugh, gleaming teeth catching the light, absolutely
astonished at the extent to which her saviour complex ran. She truly was a Gryffindor in her nature,
at her core.

“As you wish. You have my word that no one you truly care for will be harmed by my hand.”

Harri stared at him, his wording putting her on edge, and was nervously awaiting the settling
sensation of an Unbreakable Vow to appear. It never did. She frowned when she realised he had no
intention of even making it in the first place, of solidifying his promise in magic. Her fingers dug
into the softness of her thighs as she tried to fight off the overwhelming urge to yell at him, to call
him a liar, to demand that he show her that she could trust him. But then again, he had just granted
her a boon, one that he would probably rescind just as quickly if she accused him of being
untrustworthy. Harri let out a shaky breath, trying to quell the hissing side to her that would only
make things worse, attempting to satisfy herself with just having to take his word at face value. It
was more difficult than she thought.

“Tell me, Harri,” she snapped her attention back to the Dark Lord, stomach clenching at the way
his eyes were shining, “Have you ever wondered as to why the bond between us is so visceral at
times? How you, a witch with zero training as a legilimens, can slip into my mindscape with ease
when even the most accomplished wizards are unable to do so? Or, perhaps, why you are
sometimes so painfully aware of my emotional state, as I am with yours?”

She blinked at him owlishly, trying to understand where he was possibly going with this particular
thread of conversation. Raising the cup to her lips, suddenly feeling far too parched, too thirsty, she
took a pensive sip of the still-warm tea. Of course, she had wondered about every item he had just
pointed out, sometimes even staying awake into the hours before dawn in contemplation. But she
had always just assumed that this was the way things were, that it was a side effect of the curse in
her scar.

Her brows knitted together as she tentatively responded, “Because of your rebounded curse?”

Voldemort let out a breathy, indulgent laugh, a cutting smile frozen on his face as he shook his
head in disbelief at her naivety, at the endearing way she still hadn’t piece it all together. He leaned
forward, closer to her, hands on his knees propping himself up, gaze fixed intently on her. They
flitted across her face, determined to commit every reaction, every tell, to memory.

“That might explain some of it, naturally. But of course, not everyone who bears a curse mark will
be bonded to the caster as you and I are. And it certainly wouldn’t explain some of your other,
more unusual, abilities,” he said.

His eyes shone with amusement, smile widening at the way she stared at him in doelike confusion,
the way he could practically hear her heart quickening, the way she had begun to fidget in her seat,
“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, had just so
happened to manifest an inherited ability? That it was all a mere coincidence?”

The world around her had begun to slow to an excruciating pace, his words distant and obscured by
the pounding in her ears. She felt oddly cold, as though she were hovering outside of her body, her
mind screaming in warning against something . Harri couldn’t remove her eyes from his plush
mouth, from his too sharp canines, from the left corner being tugged higher into a self-satisfied
smirk. She even watched, in distant horror, as his mouth formed the next words, her heart stilling
for a beat and body going rigid.
“It’s all because you, yourself, are a horcrux,” he stated, allowing a weighty silence to settle
between them.

The fireplace in the mantle extinguished, plunging the room into shadow and eliminating the
priorly pleasant warmth in the room. Her hands weren’t working, too frozen in place, curled
inwards with shock, and she was unable to stop the cup from slipping from her grasp. It shattered
on the floor, the white rug beneath their feet staining golden from the spilled tea. Harri felt
nauseous, beyond ill, like she was about to throw up, as she tried to understand what he meant,
what it could possibly entail that she was a horcrux . And she wondered, briefly, if she really was
about to be sick, her stomach clenching in an unpleasant way and throat burning with acid. Her
vision dimmed as a coldness gripped greedily at her conscience, Voldemort’s smug face blurring
away as darkness overcame her.
 At The Eye Of The Storm
Chapter Notes

Happy Saturday everyone!! I'm so excited it's the weekend so here's an update a tad
earlier than usual <3 This chapter so much fun to write and I hope you guys all enjoy
it!

As always, thank you so much your comments and kudos! You are all amazing
readers and I appreciate you all so very much! <3

When she awoke, it was with an acidity in her mouth and a pounding in her head, her heart heavy
and beating in the pit of her stomach. The crown molding, with all of its dainty filigree,
materialised back into view and she stared up at it, mortified that she had fainted of all things. Then
she remembered why she had in the first place, what had prompted her to lose consciousness. Harri
was overcome with deja vu as she jolted up from the bed, half-expecting to be yanked brutally back
down like the first time she had done so, to be restrained with nowhere to go. No amount of little
relief flooded her when she wasn’t, however, her hands hesitantly going up to explore her collarless
neck.

The Dark Lord was perched on the edge of the bed and Harri stared up at him owlishly,
desperately trying to chalk up what he had revealed to her as part of her overactive imagination,
that she had misheard him when he had proclaimed her to be a horcrux. Her mouth fell open and
then promptly closed, still too dumbstruck to actually move, to speak, to function. Suddenly, it all
made sense; why he wasn’t attempting to kill her, Nagini’s assessment that she felt familiar in the
graveyard, dreaming through the snake’s eyes, feeling the endless loop of his emotions. And then
the voice inside of her, the one that had fought off the Imperious, the one that had encouraged her
anger, stoked the flames of her wrath, in Dumbledore’s office. Harri clutched at her head, bile
rising in the back of her throat as it clicked into place. It was the horcrux in her, it had been the
shard of Voldemort’s soul lodged somewhere deep within her. Her breaths suddenly seemed too
short, too rapid, not quite enough. ‘Oh sweet Merlin,’ she squeezed her eyes shut as the pounding
in her head increased, at the too loud pulse in her ears.

Voldemort watched her critically, afraid to approach or to say anything should it trigger another
unpleasant reaction. Admittedly, it hadn’t been the one he was expecting from her, hadn’t been in
his master plan to levitate an unconscious girl back onto his bed and to wait around until she
recovered enough to speak. But, as per usual, Harri Potter had put another wrench in his plans, had
found a way to do the one thing he hadn’t accounted for. He watched the way she was gulping in
air, the way she had hidden her head in her hands, the way she was trying, struggling, to process.
He almost felt strangely sympathetic towards her, having felt a vaguely similar way when he had
divined her true nature for himself. Though, of course, his reaction had been less of fainting and
more of wrath. Even now, he could still picture the destroyed graveyard, the statue on his father’s
tombstone decapitated, the trees cleaved cleanly down the middle to reveal their pliable, splintered
cores. He had caused it to storm that night, for lightning to split the sky and for the wind to howl,
in an attempt to have Mother Nature match his chaos, feel his fury. In a way, he was grateful she
was just overwhelmed emotionally, if not just for the sake of his bedroom staying intact.
Voldemort watched her slowly raise her head, unable to stop the frown from etching its way onto
his features at the dazed stupor still misting over her eyes.

“You fainted,” he stated slowly, carefully, not wanting to further alarm her but also not wanting her
to lapse back into her mindscape.

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, vengeful, and angry all
at once. It made her stomach tighten painfully.

“Yes,” she snapped sarcastically, the fearful caution, the one that usually advised her to deal with
him in a calm, collected manner, evaporating in the wake of the tempestuous gale of her feelings,
“I am well aware that I fainted, thank you.”

His jaw ticked at her biting tone, at the clip in her voice, at her impudence to speak to him in such a
way. His back teeth clenched down with enough force that he was sure they would crack, trying to
remind himself to exercise patience, to attempt to understand what she was feeling, to not lash out
and worsen the situation. And how he hated that feeling. He was Lord Voldemort, the darkest
wizard known in their history, feared and adored by his followers and enemies, a man
accomplishing great things. Yet here he was, catering to the meltdown of a teenage girl. A small
voice tried to justify her reaction, to argue that it was deserved as she just learnt she was housing
her parents murder’s horcrux, that her soul hadn’t been her own since she was a little over a year
old. It was largely ignored, however.

Her head suddenly shot up at an alarming speed, desperate hope reflected clearly in those round
green eyes. She untangled herself from his sheets, scrambling on the bed towards him, hand
lashing out to grip his forearm in a vice-like grip. Harri, as much as she hated to admit it, had seen
him do near-impossible feats, accomplish things with his magic that she could never dream of.
Perhaps he could, once again, do something incredible, something godlike.

“Take it out,” she pleaded with him, brows drawn together in despair, in distress.

He glanced down at the hold on his arm, at the way her small hand hadn’t even been able to fully
encircle it, how its fingers were trembling. A stray thought occurred to him that this was, probably,
the first time she had ever initiated contact first, that her first instinct when she was distressed was
to clutch at him. A feeling of immense satisfaction flooded him at the thought, his ego inflating at
the proof that she wanted, needed, physical contact as much as he did.

“Harri,” he said deliberately, trailing off in uncertainty, not willing to admit extracting his horcrux
was beyond his capabilities.

After all, she was the first human one he had come across, his countless hours of research yielding
nothing that would 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 something worse.

“Come on! I’ve seen you do the impossible before. And what did you say to me in the woods? You
do things lesser men can’t. So please,” she didn’t even care that she was begging him, admitting
his magical prowess, acknowledging his greatness.

All she could think about was his soul, vile and dark and wretched, inside of her, feeding off of her
like a parasite. The very soul that murdered countless people, that had done unspeakable things to
strangers and those she cared about alike, the one that had killed her parents. She just wanted it
gone, erased, eradicated. It was appalling, terrifying really, that not only could he physically hold
her, keep her locked away forever, but now? Now, he was also inside of her, corrupting her from
within, laying claim to her soul and mind. Her grip on his arm tightened, her fingers finding
purchase in the corded muscle underneath the crisp material of his collared shirt.

“Please! Remove it.”

He watched her plead with him, the way her eyes shone wetly, her lips parted, her shoulders
quivering, how she was looking to him as though he were her only hope, her only lifeline. A sick
fascination, a perverse and twisted thing, rose to the surface and he realised he rather liked her
begging. And hearing her admit aloud his potential, his mastery over magic? It did very little to
help tame the toxic desire, to quell the immoral thoughts currently circling in his mind. ‘If only she
could always be this compliant.’

Voldemort straightened his spine further to tower over her, levelling her with a look that spoke of
having no room for debate, “No, Harri.”

It took a second for his words to register, for her to understand that he was denying her,
admonishing her as though she were a child asking for another toy. She withdrew her hand from his
arm as though it had been burnt, eyes glowing in resentment and voice full of vitriol.

“Take. It. Out,” she demanded through clenched teeth, unable to believe his nerve, his refusal, that
he was, undoubtedly, finding some sick delight in her desperation.

Harri could have sworn, at the moment, she could feel it inside of her, slipping between the empty
spaces of her ribs, filling her lungs, beating in time with her own heart. The notion it was festering
inside of her only increased her alarm, “I don’t want your vile soul in me!”

The doors in the room slammed shut on their own accord, the shadows in the corners beginning to
climb up the walls, eagerly consuming all in its path. Voldemort’s magic permeated the air heavily,
a suffocating static charge that caused the lights overhead to start to dangerously hiss in a threat to
burst free from their glass cages. His eyes flashed at her insult, his lips drawn back into a sneer.
She dared to call him vile, to act like she had a revolting parasite inside of her instead of his soul, to
act as though he were some nauseating growth that she could just cut from her.

“Do you know, Harri, how many would consider it an honour to house my ‘vile soul’'? How many
would kill to be in your place, to be of such value to me? You should be grateful for the
opportunity,” he seethed, voice low, a deadly sort of calm that spoke volumes to his mounting
irritation.

“Well good,” her own voice was rising in volume, a sharp contrast to his quiet. In her angered
hysteria, she hadn’t even noticed the magic pouring out from him, her attention only drawn to it
when it began to cling to her like a second skin, “Then you have plenty of people you can give it to.
If it's such an ‘honour’, one of your followers will gladly take it!”

As she took in his pinched expression, the tightness in the corners of his mouth, the silence that
followed, Harri had come to a rather startling conclusion. It was enough to make her heart drop to
her stomach, her mouth falling open in a surprised gape.

“Oh bloody hell. You can’t, can you? Remove it, I mean,”

“No. I can’t,” his voice was tight, a grimace racking his shoulders at the admittance.

His hands were buried, clenched into the duvet’s covers, a bloodless white from the pressure and
straining from the physical effort it took to verbally acknowledge he was just as clueless as she
was.

Harri hated how her first thought was that if he didn’t know how to fix it then she was absolutely
screwed. She tried to process the fact that she was stuck with his soul inside of her, that she was
saddled to house part of him for however long she lived, that she was irrevocably, undeniably, tied
to him. Her stomach gave another unpleasant squeeze, uncontrollable chills running through her
body as two dawning realisations abruptly came to her. The first was that the horcrux inside of her
had come from the night of her parents’ murder. Harri was playing host to a sliver of the soul that
had witnessed their murder which meant-- the memories she had from that night, those clear, vivid
details of her mother standing in front of her crib with arms thrown wide, begging for her child’s
life to be spared, the brilliant flash of green that followed. They were all the horcrux’s recollection
of the night. It made perfect sense, after all. No 15-month-old child should have been able to
remember that much, especially not that clearly, no matter how traumatic it may have been.

The second was that the entire purpose of splitting one’s soul was to remain immortal, that the
existence of a horcrux was to keep their masters earthbound. ‘He kept coming back because of me,’
she thought, feeling ill at the thought, acidity back in her mouth. And who knew how many else he
had created, apart from her, how many objects were out in the world that were tying him to the
earthly plane. He truly was invincible, undefeatable, a monster made from the void that could keep
coming back no matter what. And if a horcrux kept its master from death’s clutches then that must
mean they were, to some degree, immortal themselves.

Harri fixed her alarmed stare on the Dark Lord, finally fully comprehending what he had done,
what perverse act of nature he had dragged her into. Suddenly, it made sense as to why
Dumbledore had attempted to kill her, the logical explanation only being that the headmaster was
aware of her condition. He knew and never told her. The violent anger was back, gnashing its teeth
and singing for blood, a vindictive, vengeful side that wanted to scream, to demand how he could
be so selfish, to tear him limb from limb. She wasn’t entirely sure if the anger was more directed at
Dumbledore, at Voldemort, or equally at both.

Instead, she settled for scathing words, cruelly targeting his weakness, the embarrassment he felt
from finally being out of his depth.

“It looks like even the ‘Mighty Lord Voldemort’ has limits to his usefulness,’ she sneered, lip
curling in spite as her fingers twitched to lash out in physical violence.

He stilled, a vacuum of space fabricating into existence, an eerie quiet that warned her to be
careful, to choose her next words wisely. His magic lashed out to constrict around her frame, the
voice advising for gentleness, for understanding, now silenced and overshadowed by an urge to
discipline her, to make her remember her place.

“Careful, Harri,” he warned, fixing her in a cold gaze, eyes narrowing just a fraction, “Or would
you like to see where the extent of my limits truly lie?”

Perhaps she had finally lost it, perhaps Harri Potter had finally gone off the deep end but, as she
met his gaze, she had come to the unsettling conclusion that she didn’t care at this moment. His
threats sounded empty, anything he could possibly do to her now paled in comparison to what he
had already done, how he had already ruined her, brought her down to his level of corruption. He
had marked them both as foul creatures, adulterated them against humanity, against nature’s
wishes. And now? Now all she wanted was retribution.

Bitter spite, a venom spreading through her body, urged her onwards, armed with the knowledge
that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, kill her. She just wanted him to hurt like she did, to feel even an ounce
of her vengeful mood, to make him regret everything he had done. And much like Voldemort, the
little voice that begged her to be careful, to not to give in to her temper, had also been silenced.

“How fucking ironic is it,” she started, voice slipping into parseltongue, her tongue losing its
ability to speak English in the heat of her rage, “that the ‘Darkest Lord of Our Time’ now has to
rely on a 16-year-old girl to stay alive? It’s beyond pathetic.”

He descended on her, launching himself across the bed to grab her by the throat and pin her to the
mattress. His crimson eyes were glowing in passionate anger, in heat, his canines elongated in his
blind fury. She dared to call him pathetic, to mock him, without even realising he had done
something beyond great in her creation, something that would make lesser men tremble before
him. He caged her body between his legs as he hovered over her, fingers constricting around her
throat as he brought his face closer to hers.

“I warned you to be careful, Harri,” he whispered lowly, voice singing of the promise of the
violence to come, of the war she had incited.

Voldemort moved one hand from her throat to press, with a bruising force, at the spot where her
heart continued to beat. It was pounding erratically under his hand, whether from fear or anger, or a
mix of both, he was not sure. He relished, however, at the soft moan that escaped her when his
hand squeezed tighter around her throat, cutting off her oxygen and making her go still under him.

“I do need you alive, that much is true, but I do not need you to be cognizant for that to happen. All
I require is for your pretty little heart to continue to beat,” he pressed down just a touch harder on
her chest to make his point, “For you to breathe. Everything else you continue to do is at my
mercy.”

He released his hold on her, eyeing her for a moment as she tried to sit up to cough, his body poised
above her preventing her from doing so. He watched fear swirl with residual anger in her green
eyes, the way she looked as though she still wanted nothing more than to sink her teeth into his
flesh, to shred apart his skin with her nails. Voldemort recognised that anger for it was his own, the
writhing kind that turned him so easily into a monster, that earned him his feared reputation. His
eyes flitted briefly to the lightning scar. It seemed that his little horcrux had inherited that as well
from him and, despite the situation, despite the violence that had just occurred, he found it oddly
endearing.

He removed himself from atop her, eyes glinting as he stared down at her in assessment. The little
voice was back, screaming at the top of its lungs to take a step back, to let himself, and her, cool
down. “

Take the rest of the night to calm yourself,” his voice was even despite his magic singing for her
submission, to make her understand that she had come from him , that she was from his marrow
and therefore owed him allegiance. The whisper of his conscience loudened at the thought,
demanding for him to leave now before he could do anything he might regret later.

“I will come back once you have had the chance to do so.”

He disapparated from the room, leaving her on the bed to rub at her sore throat and lick her
wounds. Harrie stared at the spot he had just been, feeling the phantom hand still at her throat, on
her breastbone above her heart, the residual heat on him hovering over her.

A scream of frustration, grabbing a pillow from the bed and hurling it at the door. It fell with a soft
thud on the ground, her fingers itching to grab something harder, to wreak havoc, to make
something feel her pain, her anger, her desperation. And so she did.

She leapt from the bed in rage, eyes casting wildly about the room to find something to destroy, to
mutilate. Harri grabbed the god forsaken tea set and threw it against the wall with all of the force
she could, the shatter it produced a satisfying sound that fuelled her onwards, encouraging to sow
even further damage. Her magic, wild and unrestrained, its gaping maw full of gnashing teeth,
bounced about the room. It was an unbridled typhoon and she was its eye. She wished he had never
told her about her true nature, had never enlightened her, that he would just put her to sleep like he
had just threatened. If living meant living with him, as proof of his corruption, of his sins against
nature, then she didn’t want to. If the truth meant revealing to her that she had to live with a
murder’s soul inside of her, that she had to exist to be his tie to immortality, then she refused to
acknowledge it. At this point, all she wanted was to be oblivated, to go back to a constant state of
confusion and unknowing.

The dark wood of the bed’s frame cracked as her magic targeted the structure, a deafening sound
that brought her reality. It was a sobering sight to behold what she had reaped, what destruction she
had caused in such a short amount of time. The floor was littered with porcelain shards and
destroyed pages from books, the chairs broken and pillows shredded, a few of the walls now
marred with rather impressive cracks in their plaster. Harri took a shaky step and then another, her
back hitting one of the walls that had managed to escape her wrath.

She suddenly felt exhausted, stretched too thinly, like the world had become too much and that
now it was its turn to swallow her whole. Her knees gave out and she slid down onto the floor,
drawing her knees up to her chest to cradle them. The rage that carried her forward, that propelled
her into action, had been extinguished, leaving her cold and empty. And for the first time since she
could remember, she allowed herself to freely cry. Scorching, angry, frustrated tears that spoke of
her grief, of her sorrow, of her frustrations.
 The Many Facades of Lord Voldemort
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone!! Just a few things in the announcements real quickly--

1. I'm sorry for the later than usual update! I ended up coming home a tad late today
and am working on getting the next chapter up sometime tonight!

2. 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 when we don't know
him as Lord Voldemort. I've done some research on his key personality traits and how
everyone describes Tom Riddle in the books + movies so I want 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
violence and sexuality and whatnot that aren't quite canon for Voldemort.

3. 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!! <3

Voldemort had finally given in to his conscience, to the bodiless voice in the background of his
thoughts screaming for distance between himself and the girl, to disengage before he could do
something worse apart from choking her. Honestly, taking his own current mental state into
account, it had been a miracle that he had even listened to it in the first place. The coiled serpent in
his chest, the beast baring its fangs, was still singing for violence, for bloodthirsty retribution, to
make someone pay quite dearly. It thrummed in his ears, coursed through his veins, synchronised
with the tempo of his heartbeat. She had dared to call him vile, to akin him to a parasite leeching
off of her when everything she had was because of him. Her fame, her parselmouth abilities, her
rapidly expanding magical core that surpassed her peers. All of it came from him, gifts he had
bestowed unto her and yet she had the audacity to reject him. Her echoing words refused to leave
him in peace, a persistent ghost all too eagerly reminding him of his limits, of the reality of their
codependency. Even now, as his feet carried him forward down the stone steps and deep into the
earth below, he could see her vivid green eyes, shining with hatred and resentment, her mouth
forming the words ‘ It’s beyond pathetic.’ And oh how that darkened his mood.

The flames on the wall’s sconces flickered uncertainly as he swept past them, as though afraid to
burn too brightly for fear of risking the Dark Lord’s ire. As he descended further, the air began to
chill, a dampness clinging to it that made it smell stale. A vindictive thought crossed his mind that
he should lock her down here, force her to come to terms with her existence, with her true nature,
without him having to coddle her. His fingers tightened around the elder wand, a sharp taste
flooding his mouth as he, belatedly, realised his canines were still elongated. It had only been a few
days since he had retrieved his human horcrux and things were derailing far too quickly for his
tastes. With her around, it had become harder to concentrate on his rise, on appreciating his well-
deserved rule, on his victory. Already he had to deal with the facades of the charming ‘Marvolo
Gaunt’, lawful Sovereign of Wizarding Britain, and the feared persona of ‘Lord Voldemort’, Dark
Lord in the shadows, but now? Now it was becoming painfully transparent that there was another
side to him that arose in Harri’s presence, a troubling new reality that had plagued him ever since
he had regained his old form.

He turned sharply around the dimly-lit corner and past the empty cells, his need for bloodied
violence urging him forward. While he had, initially, traded his old body for the powers of youth,
for a stronger connection to his horcruxes, for the aristocratic looks, there had been some adverse
side effects that were starting to make themselves known. While, admittedly, he had never been the
best at controlling his temper, the 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 streets of
London and brawling in the halls of Wool’s Orphanage. It was the same temper that was associated
with youth, a reckless abandon that was afforded to them for their lack of experience, for their lack
of control.

Then there was the issue of his body itself. In his older form, the draws of flesh hadn’t affected him
as much as they did now. His desire for pleasure stronger, more assertive in its demands to be
sated, a need far too reminiscent of his teenage years. Even before his original fall, it had been easy
enough to curb his sexual nature, to restrain its appetite, to push it aside in order to focus on other
tasks. Now it had become far harder to do so. Several times already had he taken Bellatrix to his
bed, her willingness to please him compatible with his desire for release. It was, at its core, the
basest of human necessity, sex without any true meaning. And Voldemort had thought that would
be enough to tide him over until he could figure out how to control the urges of his new form, until
he could regain and exert some control over it.

But then Harri Potter had to come along. With her, there was something extra, a buoyancy
whenever he touched her as the horcrux in her melded, temporarily, back to the original soul. It
was electric, addictive, tempting in a way that Bellatrix wasn’t. A siren’s song that goaded him
into wanting to touch her, transforming him ever so slowly into an addict. His knuckles bled white
from his grip on the wand, teeth nearly cracking from the pressure in which they were ground
against each other. He cursed himself for ever being stupid enough in the first place to absorb back
the horcruxes from his youth, for damning himself to relive the discomforts of adolescence.

A pained groan, masculine and low, followed by a high reedy laugh, feminine and demented,
echoed from the seventh cell. Something pungent and foul permeated the damp air and Voldemort
frowned in distaste at the smell, a realisation overcoming him that their prisoner had most likely
lost control of his bowels during Bellatrix’s fun. He rounded the corner and swung the metal bars
open to reveal the dark-haired witch standing over the slumped form of a portly man, a look of
manic delight on her face as he lay in a bloody sweaty heap at her feet. The beast began to claw the
inside of his chest raw, howling to be unleashed at the sight of a suitable target for his rage.

“Tiberius Ogden,” he greeted warmly, as though the man were an old friend. Voldemort stepped
over the puddle of urine, arms thrown wide in a mock hello, “Welcome to Malfoy Manor. I hope
my dear Bella has been keeping you comfortable?”

The stout blond man looked at him in a daze, eyelids blinking rapidly to clear away the drops of
blood from obscuring his vision. Recognition dawned in his eyes, followed shortly by paralysing
fear, as he saw who had just entered the cell. He scrambled on the ground to crawl further away,
voice quivering, “Y-you!”

The Dark Lord let out a soft chuckle, one that spoke of the dangers, of the pain, to come, as he
eyed the fleshy wizard on the ground. In his periphery, he saw Bellatrix bow and mumble out a
rushed ‘My Lord’ before retreating to a corner.

“Do you have any idea, Ogden,” he moved closer, Oxford shoes clicking loudly against the damp
flagstone flooring of the dungeon, “how irksome you truly are?”

Voldemort crouched on the ground near his prisoner, the elder wand hanging loosely from his grip,
as his eyes 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 a political rebellion against him,
trying to pass into motion a bill that all but challenged the legitimacy of his reign. He also had been
one of the few to initially oppose Lucius Malfoy, as well as the first to proclaim his loyalty, in front
of the entire council nonetheless, to Albus as the true Chief Warlock. A sneer crossed his face,
eyes glittering with malice at the thought of Dumbledore’s followers rallying against him, that,
even in death, the headmaster was still finding ways to inconvenience him. He recalled his promise
from the Tower, a vow to eradicate all mentions or traces of Albus Dumbledore and Ogden was the
perfect place to start.

“When D-dumbledore comes back, h-he won’t stand for this!” the older wizard rushed out,
stumbling over his own words in panic. The bark of laughter the Sovereign had given, however,
did little to quell his nerves or to inspire confidence.

The Dark Lord leaned closer to Ogden, a smirk on his face that betrayed his amusement, his
enjoyment, at how his victim was quaking before him, “Oh you poor fool, you have no idea how
wrong you are.”

Voldemort straightened himself to hover above the portly wizard, Bellatrix nearly bouncing from
foot to foot in the background in excitement, in anticipation. The wand of power began to hum in
his hold, heating up pleasantly as if sensing its master’s thoughts, his intentions.

“Crucio,” he intoned softly, watching the body contort in nauseatingly inhuman ways.

The wrath in him grew stronger, the flames being stoked, as he recalled Harri’s poisonous words,
as he pictured the damned twinkle in Dumbledore’s pale eyes.

He fed more power into the curse, relishing in the hoarse screams, in the pleas for him to stop, 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 heady pulses of magic in
his veins, to hear the alluring song to give in, to chase crashing wave after crashing wave of a high.
Yes, he was a Dark Lord , he was Lord Voldemort at his core, not some charming politician with
sycophants clinging to him or some starstruck adolescent boy weak from the touch of a girl. He
wasn’t sure how long he had casted the spell for but he only ended it when scarlet tinged forth
came bubbling out from between those fattened lips, when trails of crimson started to leak from the
cavities of his nose and ears, when his brown eyes turned shot from the broken blood vessels.

Voldemort staggered back, panting slightly, the syrup in his veins still coursing strongly from the
aftermath of casting an Unforgivable. He was vaguely aware of Bellatrix staring at him with lust
shining in her dark eyes, her adoration of him strong enough to be almost palpable. But it wasn’t
enough, not when he could still hear the words accusing him of being pathetic, of having limits, of
being lesser. His jaw ticked, frustrated that his mind had brought back the ghost of a girl he wished
to forget, the girl that he had left locked away to deal with her own emotional insecurities without
him having to cater to her.

The fury was back, ever-mounting, and he stared obsessively at the broken form of the man on the
ground. He was everything he despised-- weak, snivelling, one of the many who had idolised a
man that Voldemort had personally dragged down from the heavens. And yet, Tiberius Ogden still
dared to oppose him, dared to follow some drivel spouted by the very same man that believed in
sacrifices for the “greater good”, dared to even dream of a rebellion against him.

“If I remember correctly, Mr. Ogden,” he started slowly, finally catching his breath and drawing
strength from the cold savagery nestled within his core, “you have quite the lovely little
countryside manor, don’t you? You and your wife live just outside of Lavenham, if my memory is
to be trusted.”

The bloodshot eyes casted wildly about the room from the stout wizard’s unmoving head, tremors
from a cruciatus curse held too long racking his form. An alarmed groan escaped Tiberius and
Voldemort smiled in perverse pleasure at the sound. “

Bella, my dear, I do believe a visit is in order. After all, Mrs. Ogden must be rather terribly worried
by her husband’s sudden disappearance.”

The muffled groans grew louder and the older wizard’s fingers started to twitch in protest. ‘A
valiant effort,’ the Dark Lord mused, watching the man before him as a spider would watch a fly
caught in its web. A squeal of glee and he turned to see Bellatrix bowing deeply, her voice lowered
in a sultry tone to acknowledge his command. Satisfaction, demented, twisted and immense,
flooded him. That is what he deserved, obedience and a willingness to please him-- not a defiant
teenage girl who felt the need to play the moral high ground, to accuse him of his faults without
recognising her own.

“Oh, and Bellatrix?” he called out after her, eyes still glued to the man before him, “Have some
fun, of course, but do try to be discreet.”

Voldemort crouched in front of the Wizengamot member, hand shooting out to grasp unkindly at
the flabby skin on his face, wrenching his head back towards him. A smile, all teeth, his eyes
glowing like embers in a fire waiting to be stoked back to its former glory.

“Oh no no, Ogden. Don’t turn your attention away from me. After all, we are far from being done
here.”

The Dark Lord took an unsteady step back, chest rising and falling with exertion as he admired his
handiwork. Blood, warm and tacky, coated his hands, his robes, his arms. A random spray had
splattered his cheek, marring the pale skin with evidence of the violence he had just committed.
His left hand rose to wipe it away, smearing it further in the process.

He had flayed Ogden alive, 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 was metallic, cloying in its sweetness,
as what had started as a small puddle had spread into a crimson lake. The coiled serpent in his
chest felt abated, soothed, subsiding back into the further reaches of his mind for the time being.
He almost wished Harri could see this, could take in how he was able to skin a man while still
keeping him alive, to place him just far enough out of Death’s reach and to control the exact
moment when he would, finally, sink into the void. He wondered, bitterly, if she would still find
his abilities lacking, still call him pathetic, when she saw how he could cheat Death.
He raised the knobbed wand to the still-beating chest of the skinned wizard, debating about
displaying the corpse publicly, to make a warning out of him for all those who still dared to hold
faith with Dumbledore, to those who still wanted to break bread with the famous headmaster. ‘A
concern for later,’ he thought resolutely, a flash of green filling the small room and illuminating
the dark stone walls. The rising chest fell abruptly.

As he stepped through the puddle of blood, leaving behind a trail of scarlet footprints, his hem
being painted by it, he realised something startling. He had felt 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, for
once, he couldn’t tell if that was an excellent or a foreboding notion. That, if on some level, this
side of him, the side of Lord Voldemort, was being overshadowed by ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ and by
‘Tom Riddle’. During his ascent back from Hell, from the dungeons below, he tentatively probed
their bond, eager to see if she had calmed down yet, had accepted her fate so they could both move
on. An onslaught of emotions, a whirlwind of grief, frustration and anger, greeted him and he
immediately receded, bringing down a stone wall between them and shutting her out.

Lucius was waiting for his Lord in the pristine marble parlour, nervously straightening and re-
aligning the stack of documents in his hands. When his Lord had presented him with the
opportunity to write a press release statement for the attack on Hogwarts, he was beyond delighted
and eager to prove himself. But, with the responsibility also came apprehension, a fear of
disappointing him and what that disappointment could entail for him, for his family. His blond
head shot up at the sound of approaching footsteps, instinctively knowing who they belonged to,
and he sank to his knees in reverence.

“My Lord.”

Taking the hum as acknowledgment for him to rise, Lucius opened his mouth to explain how hard
he had been working, to express his gratitude for the opportunity, when his words failed him. A
trail of crimson, the exact same shade as the Dark Lord’s eyes, had dotted the white flooring, the
hems of his black robes dragging the gore through the marble in a gruesome pattern. His arms were
soaked in it, his hands stained red, and there was a vivid streak across his face. Only one thought
could cross his mind, a thankful prayer to every god he knew, that it hadn’t been him on the
receiving end of his Lord’s tender mercies.

“Lucius,” Voldemort drawled, trying to retrain the shocked man’s attention back on him.

With a wandless flourish of his hand, a cleaning spell swept over his form, the cooling tingle of it a
welcomed sensation after the heavy heat of the portly wizard’s blood on his skin. He raised an
unimpressed eyebrow as he banished the evidence of his wrath, hoping it would be enough to let
the pureblood gather together his delicate sensibilities.

“H-here are the reports from our raid on Hogwarts, My Lord,” the senior Malfoy stuttered, trying
to overcome the shock of seeing a Dark Lord in his pristine foyer using a stranger’s blood as
though it were warpaint.

Voldemort thumbed through the papers, humming his approval at the story Lucius had concocted.
It was perfect, a devastating blow to the memory of the headmaster’s pristine reputation. A
satisfied smirk grew on his face as he read the quick summary in the footnotes:

‘Albus Dumbledore, battling several weighing mental issues and resorting to heavily
drinking for escape, had left Hogwarts unattended in his stupor over holiday break. It
is believed he was suicidal, numerous professors reporting a sudden gauntness to his
 body and an adamant refusal to eat during the past few weeks leading up to the
incident. Hogwarts, home to many prized and rare artifacts, was looted in his absence
by an unknown group of dark wizards. Dumbledore is still missing at the present, his
whereabouts currently unknown as he has made no signs of returning. Suicide is
heavily spectulated at this time. Severus Snape has been appointed Interim Headmaster
of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.’

He lifted his gaze from the papers, dimly aware of Lucius snapping his fingers for a house-elf to
clean up the trail of his footprints.

“Excellent work, Lucius,” he praised, closing the file and already planning the inflections, the
expressions, the mannerisms he would use as Marvolo Gaunt to deliver the news.

He turned to leave but Lucius had reappeared at his side, his good mood vanishing at pureblood’s
insistence of basking in his company. Irritation growing, he stared impassively as the senior
Malfoy opened his mouth and then closed it again, hesitant to speak his mind.

“Forgive me, My Lord,” the pureblood finally gathered the courage to find his words, 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 your intentions are towards her.”

Voldemort stared evenly at Malfoy, shoulders tensing at the way those pale blue eyes were flitting
across his face, far too keen and far too observant. ‘Bloody Slytherins,’ he thought distantly, tone
growing cold, “That is none of your concern, Lucius. And until I say otherwise, it would be in your
best interest not to utter a single word regarding her current whereabouts. If you do, I can promise
you that I will be quite displeased .”

Malfoy shrank back at the mild threat, eyes widening and head bowing. He had known that the girl
was brought to the mansion but his Lord had also just confirmed that she was, in fact, still very
much alive. And, more importantly, she meant something to him to the extent he was hiding it
from his followers. As his footsteps receded, the pureblood couldn’t keep his mind from whirling,
from trying to piece together what it might possibly mean, what their relationship might fully
entail. An image of Draco, standing unusually close to the Potter girl and laughing freely with her,
came to his mind. Lucius turned on his heel in search of his son, eager to uncover what Draco had
learned about Harri Potter and her connection to the Dark Lord.
 She Finally Had Her Bath
Chapter Notes

Hello to all of my lovelies! Here is the next chapter featuring some Nagini, as
promised! I hope you guys enjoy <3 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 <3

As always, thank you for reading, for every kudos, and for every comment! You are
all amazing <3

Morning had come quicker than she had expected, the watery sunlight filtering lazily through the
cracks in the drawn drapes. Harri felt beyond sore, far too stiff and rigid. She had spent the night
huddled against the wall’s baseboard, head tucked between her knees and wallowing over the truth
of her existence. ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she thought dimly as she stretched her spine, arching it
with a crack, trying to chase off the residual discomfort from the awkward position she had spent
several hours in. She reached up with the sleeve of her dirty jumper, attempting to clear the crust
from her eyes to wake herself up more fully, when she recoiled at the touch, wincing from the
stinging sensation that abruptly followed. They were puffy, angry with her after the fact that she
had irritated them with her tears. She tilted the auburn crown of her head back to rest against the
wall, blowing at a shaky sigh. The room, she firmly decided, looked even worse in the daylight and
she knew, without a doubt, Voldemort would be furious at the fact that she had destroyed his
pristinely structured bedroom. No small amount of satisfaction filled her, making her chest puff up,
when she saw those damned chains had been ripped from the wall.

“Let him be mad,” she mumbled venomously, “he had it coming. What’s he going to do anyways--
kill me?”

Her hand strayed up to touch her throat at the thought, grimacing at its tenderness and already
guessing, without even looking, a bruise in the shape of a handprint was starting to bloom. It felt
raw, throbbing, burning with every swallow she took. She picked up a rather substantial piece of
white plaster and chucked across the bedroom, groaning in exasperation as it landed with a dull
crack. ‘First he bites me and now he chokes me?’ She huffed, her thoughts turning distant as she
thought about ways to enact her revenge on him, vindictively debating about returning the favour
tenfold to see how he liked it. She had, resolutely, decided not to focus on the horcrux issue for the
moment, seeing as it was too early in the morning for indigestion and a pounding headache.

A slithering sound of something large shuffling through the chaos of the room, through the strewn
about pages from books and scattered down from the pillows, made her straighten her neck in
alarm. The large snake was back, body half raised off the ground and tasting the air curiously.

“You’ve made quite the mess, little one,” Nagini observed, her head bobbing side to side as she
took in the destruction the girl had reaped. ‘Good, it means that she is strong,’ her thoughts were
approving, somehow finding the chaos more preferable, more suitable, to a nest than the usual
organisation her master liked.
Harri’s eyes glittered in assessment before she decided to throw all caution in the wind, removing
her eyes from the approaching snake. ‘At this point,’ she thought with an embittered chuckle, ‘if
she decides to eat me, it would be for the best.’ Her head returned to the wall with a soft thud, eyes
fluttering closed briefly. The emotions, the whirlwind that had unleashed the mayhem upon the
room, were all starting to flood back as dulled, almost lifeless, ghosts of what they had been last
night. The anger, the horror, all of it felt too muted, too subdued, overshadowed by her exhaustion
and fatigue.

“Back in the graveyard,” she mused, words coming out a tad shaky as her throat stung in protest at
being used, “you said that I felt familiar. Did you know what I was?”

The snake began to coil herself around the crook of her legs, head popping up from the space
between her knees before receding again, “Yes.”

Her green eyes opened slowly to stare, fixedly, at the ceiling. She had noticed, rather belatedly, it
was also sporting a sizable crack and she smiled slightly at the thought of all of the repairs he
would have to make, “You’re one of them too, aren’t you?”

Nagini paused in her looping around the girl’s legs, taking immense pleasure in how warm she
was, especially so compared to her master.

“I am,” the snake responded lightly, as though they were discussing the weather in passing rather
than split souls being hidden in living containers.

Harri straightened herself against the wall, propping herself up on her hands to remove the hunch in
her back. She stared disbelievingly at the black and green patterned snake, mouth falling open at
how casual Nagini had sounded. Distantly, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was the only one
that had a problem with this revelation, that she was living a life not entirely her own, that she was
forced to, grudgingly, share her existence with another, unable to ever separate.

“Why did you let him do that to you?” she questioned, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as
she tried to desperately understand the snake’s nonchalance.

Nagini slid further up her body, displaced by the sudden change in posture. She had settled for
loosely coiling around the witch’s torso, triangular head raised to have her golden eyes meet vivid
green ones. They reminded her of her master’s favourite spell, the way it would light up the entire
space of a 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 do the same.”

She nearly screamed in frustration at the lack of an answer, at the way she had stated it so
factually. Shivers ran down her spine at the words of ‘you are his’ and flashes of him atop of her,
of him caging her against the bookshelf, of him looking like he had wanted nothing more than to
swallow her whole flashed in quick succession in her mind. A small part of her found the concept
to be morbidly fascinating. She had never belonged to anyone before, especially so not in that way,
and she couldn’t help but wonder what it must feel like. What it must be to have a place with
someone, to occupy a spot in their hearts and mind, to have them feel like home. ‘He’s the Dark
Lord,’ a rational voice reminded her, trying to derail any dangerous notions before they could even
start to blossom. It felt as though cold water had been splashed on her at the sobering realisation,
that Nagini was already ascertaining her to the status of an object.

“I don’t want to be his,” she protested adamantly, the words somehow sounding slightly too feeble
to her ears, a touch too lost, too quiet.
The snake nosed her way under the girl’s shirt, pleased at the heat rolling off more intensely from
her direct skin. When the witch hadn’t pried her away, she slithered up and appeared out from the
neckline, her flat head bobbing in a sage nod, “You will.”

Her forked tongue flicked out to scent the air, licking across the bruise blooming on her neck,
tasting the heat emanating from it as it tried to heal. Nagini reared back, hissing with displeasure at
the sight. It hadn’t escaped her notice the way the girl had gone rigid, her heart rate rapidly picking
up, and it took her a second to puzzle out why.

“I told him to be lenient,” the snake explained, voice coated thickly in distaste at his callousness,
at his aggression. She made a mental note to scold him later, to chastise and maybe nip him in the
ankle to make him fully understand her warnings about violence against little ones who had yet to
develop their own fangs.

“To be gentle.” Nagini squeezed slightly tighter around Harri, unwilling to let go, an irrational
thought crossing her mind that the human girl, the hatchling that she had claimed as her own,
would only acquire further injuries if she let her out of her sight.

“Nagini,” she wheezed out, the constriction, combined with the hefty weight of the serpent’s body,
making it hard to breath. She muttered out a quick thank you when the snake took the hint and
went back to loosely coiling around herself.

“How many are there, anyways?” she ventured to ask, a grim curiosity overcoming her to
understand the extent to which Voldemort had ruined himself, had made himself an abomination
against nature, had so deeply marked himself as a monstrosity.

“There were seven with you. 1 that you destroyed,” she added slyly, curling around the back of the
human’s neck, “Then he took 3 and left 3. You and I, we have a brother left. A locket.”

A tugging sensation, an uncomfortable squirm, spread through her chest at Nagini’s words,
suggesting that they had a ‘brother’. It bothered her, made her stomach clench and her teeth grind,
at how readily the snake was recognising her as another horcrux, as part of the fold.

Then Harri’s eyes widened as she processed the information of what had been slipped, her jaw
dropping as she pieced together what Nagini had meant by her destroying one. ‘The bloody diary.’
Pictures of Tom Riddle emerging from the book’s pages, the black ink spewing forth from the
cover’s bindings, the way he had been pierced through by light, the agonized screams when he
disappeared. She had destroyed it, had rendered it back to a useless diary with a hole in its leather
cover. If that had happened to the journal, then that meant it might happen for her as well, that
there might be a way to get rid of the shard within her, let her go back to being a human.

She jolted forward, tone suddenly desperate, pleading, “So there is a way to destroy them. Nagini,
how do you get rid of a horcrux?”

A sharp pop drew both of their attention as, a few feet away, a house elf with knobby knees and too
big ears stood nervously. The creature shifted from foot to foot under Harri’s owlish stare,
coughing timidly into a balled fist.

“I was summoned to help the Miss bathe,” it explained shyly, as though too afraid to say anything
more for fear of angering the witch.

Harri gaped at the creature’s sudden appearance, struggling to get to her feet with the heavy weight
of a snake curled about her shoulders. She struggled to separate the serpent from her, its length
almost twice her height, and she decidedly ignored the hissing grumbles of one malcontent Nagini.
The idea of a bath sounded heavenly, a luxury she didn’t even know she had missed. It had been
how many days- she blinked in alarm at the thought, suddenly unsure what the date even was, the
hours having blurred together in a seamless, endless loop.

The redheaded girl struggled to keep the snake at bay, pushing her away with a foot when she tried
to start climbing up on her again, “What did you say your name was?”

Tennis ball-sized eyes stared at her in astonishment, confusion muddling the poor creature’s bright
gaze. Its gnarled fingers went down to twist the hem of its pillowcase sheet, debating about
whether or not it was proper to reveal its name, “I is called Zivvy, Miss. And I be serving the Noble
and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Miss.”

She nearly laughed in outraged shock, at the absurdity of it all, that he had taken her to Malfoy
Manor of all places. Part of her wondered if it was because he didn’t have a house of his own or if
it was because he enjoyed imposing himself on people, to make them feel uncomfortable. That,
perhaps, he took pleasure in asserting his dominance over all aspects of his follower’s lives,
including the one involving their home. ‘Probably the second, the sadistic controlling prick he is,’
were her soured thoughts. But if it meant that she was in the Malfoy’s home, that must also mean--
.

‘Draco’s here.’ A new hope filled her, lighting her nerves in joy, in relief, making her feet suddenly
feel lighter and her shoulders less tense. The Slytherin boy had helped her escape once already,
back at the raid of Hogwarts, so maybe she could find a way to encourage him again, implore him
and stoke back up the flames of his bravery. It was his home after all. Maybe he knew of some
secret passageway or some means to slip off unnoticed. It had crossed her mind to ask the house elf
to whisk her away but she highly doubted it would oblige her request or that the wards, which were
probably quite dense, would even let her pass. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, eyes
glimmering with anticipation and trying to ignore the way Nagini was watching her with
unblinking eyes.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Zivvy. A bath sounds lovely but I have another favour to ask as well.”

The house elf’s ears started to flutter in excitement, adoration bright in her purple gaze at the
witch’s kindness, at her gentle manner. “Anything, Miss! Zivvy lives to serve.”

She was reminded, rather fondly, of Dobby and prayed he was living his free life to its fullest.
Harri swallowed at the way Nagini stared up at her unwaveringly, as if already guessing her plan,
already knowing of her wish to escape. Leaning in closer, lowering her voice as if afraid to speak
too loudly for fear he would somehow hear, tone conspiratorial, “After you draw me a bath, could
you please tell Draco that I’m here? That I want to see him?”

The bathroom was just as ostentatious, just as lavish, as the bedroom, Harri had decided. It was an
entirely white room, every surface covered in marble with veins of black, the faucets gleaming in
gold. It seemed that the Malfoys enjoyed flaunting their wealth, preferring to live in obscene
luxury. But then again, she already knew that. She could still remember when Draco had joined the
Slytherin Quidditch team, crowing about how his parents had bought the latest Nimbus models for
all its members. ‘What a prat,’ she thought, the words lacking any real bite and holding a certain
degree of fondness as she reflected back on a simpler time, one in which the only dangers had been
errant bludgers and the threat of falling from her broom.

She stripped off her tattered sweater and stained sneakers, grimacing as she noticed, for the first
time, how her hair smelled of smoke, of sweat, of her failure to outrun the Dark Lord. In her
periphery, she saw flashes of pale skin, of a slender body and soft curves, of vivid auburn hair,
streaking past the sink’s vanity. Harri slipped into the bathtub sunken down into the floor, moaning
at the heat of it, at the comfort it provided. She couldn’t bear to look at her reflection, not yet at
least. With her too green eyes and oversaturated colours, to see the not-quite-spitting image of her
mother staring back at her, an adulterated and corrupted version of Lily Potter. She felt like an
imposter in a shell, an alien wearing the face of someone dear to her and long gone, a monster
trying to play human and distorting every aspect that would make her one.

Harri sunk further into the fragrant water, idly skimming her fingers around the rose petals floating
on the surface. As much as she hated to admit it, the bath felt beyond wonderful. A soothing balm
to her worries, and, if she pretended hard enough, she could imagine it was washing away her
impurities, cleansing her soul of the darkness she didn’t even know she had. She glanced down at
her exposed chest, the gentle swell of it half covered by the water, and she frowned. Outwardly, she
didn’t look any different, her body unchanged and the same she had always known. But inwardly?
It felt foreign, suddenly tainted, as though it weren’t her own. A hand raised on its own will to cup
at the soft curve of where her left breast began, feeling her heart beat steadily behind it. A
rhythmic, pulsating sound. She closed her eyes, grimacing when she swore she could hear her
name being called in echos between the beats, a mocking tempo. Thump. Thump. Thump. Harri.
Harri. Harri.

Throwing her head back, she plunged herself under the water to escape the voice, to drown out the
crawling sensation of something trying to break free from her ribs.

Lucius had found his son seated next to his wife in the solarium, Narcissa consumed by
rearranging calla lilies in a black vase and Draco on the chaise lounge with his nose in a book.
Neither had looked up at the clipped sounds of his shoes echoing against the polished stones, the
weak morning light flooding through the glass panels and casting everything in a watery glow. “

Dearest,” he cleared his throat, hands curling around the metal serpent at the head of his cane and
eyes glued to his son.

“Husband,” Narcissa mused in response, the corners of her mouth pulling into a frown as she
fussed with the white flowers, gaze not lifting upwards.

The older Malfoy paused in front of the lounge, his wife suddenly glancing up in apprehension at
the sudden interest in their child. With a single eyebrow raised at his son's inattention, he drawled,
“Draco.”

A blond head shot up, wide-eyed at seeing his father in the solarium. Lucius usually never dared to
set foot in here, the greenhouse having become a universally acknowledged place of solitude and
respite for him and his mother. He blinked slowly, alarmed and tense, as his father impatiently
tapped his stretched out legs with the end of his cane in a signal for him to make room. He placed
them to the ground, slipping in a silk bookmark between the pages to hold his place.

“Father,” he responded equally cautious, mimicking the same inflections that had been used on his
name.

Lucius swiftly sat down, ignoring the way Narcissa was staring at him in a hawklike fashion.
Eagerness flooded him as he leaned closer to his son, hungry and searching for information, “As I
have come to understand it, you were rather close to the Potter girl at Hogwarts, were you not?”
“Lucius!” his wife hissed in warning, the chair scraping loudly against the stone as she jolted
upwards, her hands clutching the table’s edge.

As far as she knew, only her and her husband were aware of the girl’s presence in the manor and
were under explicit instructions from their Lord not to indicate otherwise. It was a direct defiance
for the Malfoy head to even speak her name, and now he was dragging their son into it. She
glanced uneasily about the room, half-expecting the Dark Lord to appear, to retaliate against their
disobedience, to punish them all for their disloyalty.

Draco blinked slowly at his father, trying to understand where this conversation was heading, what
he possibly could want to know. He was unaware of what had happened to the redheaded witch
after they had parted ways, desperately assuming that she had gotten away like he had hoped.
Perhaps that’s why his father was asking about her? To find information that could lead their Lord
to her. His shoulders tensed, resolute to not give anything away if he could help it.

“I wouldn’t say we were close, Father. She was a thorn in my side, a rival more than anything.”

Lucius scoffed, eyes turning bright with hunger, with impatience at his son’s blatant lie. His fingers
clenched around the cane as he observed his son’s tense posture, the tick in his jaw. And as much
as he hated to admit it, Draco was their best bet to finding out any information on the Potter girl, on
what she might possibly mean to their Lord.

“Don’t be coy, Draco. I saw you two in the Great Hall on rather friendly-looking terms. Tell me,”
he edged closer, “In all of your conservations, did she ever say anything about the Dark Lord?
About a potential connection, a specific relationship to him?”

Draco opened his mouth to deny it all, to demand why his father was even asking him in the first
place, to adamantly refuse any close relationship with her, when a sharp pop resounded. A few feet
away was one of their house-elves, rocking on her feet in excitement.

“Miss Potter requests Mr. Draco’s presence in the East Wing.”

The younger Malfoy stared in shock, blinking in a dazed stupor at the elf as he tried to process its
words. ‘She was here,’ he thought dimly, feeling ill, ‘she didn’t get away. She was here’

He shot to his feet, looking wildly between his parents, confusion and anger colouring his voice,
“She’s here?! In the Manor?!”

“Draco!” Narcissa called after him as her son whirled on the spot to leave, desperate for him not to
do anything stupid.

She could tell, after all, that her son cared for the girl more than he would verbally admit. It was a
mother’s intuition, a blessing and curse. And now it would be those feelings for her that would
endanger him, entangle him with the Dark Lord further when all she wanted was to hide him away,
keep him safe. She glared venomously at her husband, at the house-elf who was shrinking back
under her wrath, and threw the calla lilies forcefully down onto the table.

Lucius reacted faster than his wife, already on his feet and snapping his cane out to land heavily on
his son’s shoulder. He ignored the way Draco had winced in pain, panicked at his child’s sudden
rashness.

He pulled him closer to him, his hand shooting out to grasp his shoulder in a vice-like grip, voice
urgent and leaving no room for questioning, “You will not go to her, Draco. The Dark Lord has
forbidden it, explicitly stating 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.”

Draco tried to shrug off his father’s hold, to protest at being kept in the dark, to demand why, if
their Lord had her, she was still alive. And being kept in the East Wing, nonetheless, rather than
the dungeons. But seeing the sharp glance from his mother, the desperation and fear in both of their
eyes, he swallowed down his words. He looked helplessly, first to Narcissa, then to Lucius, feeling
dizzy and nauseous. ‘Why was she here?’ he thought desperately, trying to piece together a puzzle
that was lacking too many of its pieces.

The soft click of the bedroom door being open had Harri rushing from the tub, hair soaking wet
and leaving behind a trail of puddles on the floor. ‘Draco!’ she thought joyously, hurriedly
shrugging on the plush bathrobe and securing the ties around her midsection. She almost hadn’t
expected Zivvy to follow through with her request, waiting for the house elf to deny her, to say it
wasn’t possible. And, for the first time since falling into the hands of a certain Dark Lord, she felt
uplifted, happy, floating. Thoughts of the horcrux inside of her, the impending doom swirling in her
chest whenever she thought of her future, were all blown away as she threw open the bathroom
door.

However, standing among the rubble of the room and unable to conceal the horror in his coal eyes,
was not Draco Malfoy. Instead of the fair-haired pureblooded boy, there stood the towering frame
of a man dressed head to toe in black, cape drawn tightly around his frame, and hooked nose
wrinkled in distaste at the carnage she had sown.

“Professor Snape,” she breathed out in relief, in shock, at seeing the man once again.
 Snape's Advice
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! It's a tad longer of a chapter today but I got a bit carried away writing
as Snape again lol. I promise you though that Harri and Tom interactions will be back
in the next chapter <3

Thank you so so so much everyone for the amount of kudos you have given this story
and the amount of love you've shown it! I really didn't expect it to be this well-
received and I am beyond delighted! You guys make me cry and you are all amazing
readers <3 Enjoy!!

Severus Snape had determined that he would never again lay eyes on Harri Potter after the night of
December 20th, coming to the conclusion that one of two scenarios would have played out in his
absence. The first being the most preferable outcome in which she would escape, get to
Hogsmeade, and leaving him to die at the hands of Dumbledore or Voldemort. The second, he
shuddered to think about, assumed she would be captured by the Dark Lord and, much like in
scenario one, he would be 6 feet under on his way to join her in the afterlife. So one could imagine
the immense surprise, combined with no small amount of horror, of the potions master when he
awoke a few hours after the raid was completed, healed, and granted the title of Headmaster to a
school he felt very little attachment to. It appeared that, as usual, fate was spitting in his face,
mocking him behind his back, torturing him for his past sins in a final ditch attempt to earn his
atonement.

The newly-appointed headmaster had found himself in Dumbledore’s old office, removing traces of
the man’s presence and clearing away the long cold cups of chamomile on his desk. His stomach
clenched painfully at the innocuous sight of them, at the thought that Albus would never have the
chance to drink from them ever again. With a flourish of his wand, the china set disappeared from
existence. It was a feeble attempt to eradicate remnants of the old wizard, the urgent need to do so
before the ever-mounting guilt of what Severus had done could override him, tear down his
defenses and render him useless. And, as he had come to find out the hard way, the new Sovereign
of their world had very little desire for useless things.

Almost on cue, as if sensing the turn his thoughts had taken, a sharp sensation radiated from his
mark, his summons, the beckoning of the Dark Lord. He grimaced, shakily pouring himself a glass
of fire whiskey, knocking it back, relishing in the burn at the back of his throat. In between his
endeavours in rebuilding the school, and his weak efforts to cajole the other professors into
accepting his newly-appointed authority, Snape had been actively trying to find the trail of the
Potter girl. But, as it turned out, she was rather slippery to locate, seemingly having disappeared
into thin air. At this point, he could only pray that she had listened to him, had managed to get to
Hogsmeade unharmed, to leave the school’s ground, or, better yet, perhaps even Britain. ‘Merlin
only knows where she is.’ The stinging in his mark, hot oil dancing across his skin, flared at
Voldemort’s ire of being kept waiting. He hissed in pain, the room blurring away as he prepared to
bend his knee to his Lord and sign away his soul yet again.
As it turned out, fate truly loved using Snape as its own punching bag, finding ever new ways to
torment him, to render him speechless and astonished. That is how he had found himself standing
in the middle of the Dark Lord’s chambers, marvelling in its destruction, in its carnage. On the
bright side, though twisted it may be, neither scenario he predicted had played out: she had been
captured, yes, but he was still alive. And being alive meant he still could help her, find small ways
to aid her, to keep her from the clutches of Death. So when his Lord had ordered him to heal the
girl, to soothe her mental turmoil, to mend her, he had armed himself with the presumption that he
would stumble upon the worst and a determination to make her whole once more.

But even so, no amount of mental fortitude could have prepared him for the chaos of the room, for
the cracked ceilings and walls, the broken porcelain and shredded books.

“Sweet Merlin,” he muttered, stepping around what had suspiciously appeared to be a shattered
teapot.

The bedroom looked as though an obscurus had passed through it, tearing it apart and shredding
everything it came in contact with during its fit of rage. Chills passed through his frame, a lump
forming in his throat, at the foreboding sense of what the Potter girl must have looked like. For a
brief second, he almost wished that she were dead, that she could find some relief from the Dark
Lord’s unassailable wrath.

“Professor Snape!” he whirled around in alarm at the relieved voice, eyes widening marginally as
he took in the form of a shivering redheaded witch, drenched and in a bathrobe, a puddle forming
at her feet. His eyes flitted over her frame, taking in the sallowness of her skin, the dark circles that
had begun to form under her eyes and-- he winced seeing her throat.

A rather substantial bruise was blooming in sharp contrast to her pale skin, already a deep purple
with yellowing fanning around the edges. Distinctly, he could make out the impression of fingers,
the colouration darker on the sides where more pressure had been applied, imprints that spoke of
violence, of an urge to extinguish the flame of life from her. But, apart from those disturbing
details, she looked, suspiciously, intact, whole, not at all the grisly state he was expecting to find
her in.

He raised a single eyebrow at her, trying to keep his tone level, to act blasé when he truly wasn’t,
“Do you always greet your guests in a bathrobe, Potter?”

Snape considered her as she blinked once, then twice, before letting out a shaky laugh that sounded
forced, strained even to his ears. His gaze tracked the way her hand rubbed gingerly at her throat,
the way she flinched in pain, a smile somehow still on her face in spite of everything.

“It’s good to see you too, professor,” she said rather pointedly, frowning at why he was here rather
than Draco. She took a step forward, hissing and letting out a slew of curses as she stepped on an
errant shard of glass. Blood began to well out from the piece lodged in her foot, dripping thickly
onto the flooring.

“Sweet bloody Hell! God that hurts.”

He rushed over in an instant, wand out and vanishing the debris from around her in a wide circle,
eyeing the bright flecks of crimson dotting the grey wood. Already the two armchairs in front of
the fireplace were patching themselves together, reconstructing and knitting back their destroyed
upholstery.

“You foolish girl, watch where you are going at the very least. Honestly, Potter, how one can be so
careless is beyond my comprehension.”

Despite his biting words, his scolding tone, he offered her an arm to guide her, limping, over to one
of the chairs. She felt oddly thin, her weight nearly nonexistent, and he couldn’t help but wonder if
this was a recent development or if she had always been this small, this flighty, this wisplike. After
she had settled down, he followed suit and yanked her injured foot onto his lap. Wand hovering
above it, he intoned a soft 'episkey', watching the glass fall from the wound and the flesh meld
back together.

Snape could feel her burning stare on him and he looked up, mouth pulled into a grim line, “What
happened here, Potter? Why did you fail to get to Hogsmeade as I had instructed?”

She stared at him owlishly, shocked that he was still alive, that he had managed to escape both
Dumbledore and Voldemort unscathed. And she wasn’t sure if she had already become this
delusional, this starved for company leftover from the life she once knew, but Harri found herself
actually smiling at the man, warmed at seeing him, at how he hadn’t changed. She glanced
uneasily about the room, biting her lower lip in contemplation.

“I tried to,” she started slowly, brows drawn together as she attempted to recall a night that seemed
so distant, as though it had happened ages ago, “But he caught me in the woods. As for the room,
well-- I lost control of my temper, just a bit.”

Harri flinched under his unrelenting stare, incredulity making his dark eyes burn brighter.

“You. Just. Lost. Your. Temper?” he echoed, trying to comprehend her stupidity, that she was the
one to cause the destruction around them and not the Dark Lord.

It was an unsettling conclusion, a disturbing dawning of a notion, that she was even capable of
doing such, that her core had the ability to conjure up devastating bouts of magic even without a
wand. He roughly pushed her leg off his lap, sneering at her recklessness, the need to pull out his
hair quite almost overwhelming.

“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 or are you just that reckless, Potter? ”

She groaned, wincing a bit at his tone and knowing, deep down, that he was right. Her fuse had
always been short, that was true, but never to the point of destroying a room before, especially the
room of someone who, some might say, had an even worse disposition than she did.

The healed foot fell to the ground with a dull thud, and she bit harder down on her lower lip, “Do
you think he’ll be mad?”

He stared at her impassively, trying to assure himself that, for some reason, his Lord had yet to kill
her, and most likely didn’t have plans to do so in the near future either. Why heal someone, after
all, restore them back to their health? ‘To prolong the experience,’ a voice supplied in his mind and
he stubbornly pushed it away, not wanting to deal on the thought.

“Undoubtedly,” he stated with purposeful inflections, mind whirling with vague notions of a plan to
help her escape, to smuggle her out, the difficulty in doing such increasing with her being so
entangled in the Dark Lord’s clutches. Snape fell back in his chair, frustrated and a headache
forming when he realised it would be next to impossible.

“Professor,” she ventured tentatively in the following silence, trying to draw the wizard’s attention
back to her and out of his mind, “What are you even doing here? What happened afterwards, with
you, er with Dumbledore? What day even is it?”

His gaze snapped back to her, alarmed and panicked. Warning flags, sharp things that spoke of
caution, began going off. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he thought in trepidation, unsure of how much he
could, should, reveal to her, ‘He hasn’t told her anything’. His spine straightened and he steepled
his fingers, trying to stop them from trembling, from 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. It’s December 26.”

She blinked at him, heart dropping to her stomach, her blood turning chilled. She had thought it
had been a day, two, maybe three but sweet Merlin, December 26? That would mean that she
would have been here for almost an entire week, that she had been missing for 6 full days.

“No no no no,” she chanted under her breath, slumping forward and burying her head in her hands.

By this time, she was supposed to be at the Burrow, was supposed to have celebrated Christmas
with Hermione and Ron and the rest of the Weasley bunch. It was at the thought of her friends
waiting for her, their promises not to kick off the festivities before she would arrive, that caused
tears to prick at her eyes.

“Does anyone know? That I’m here, I mean. What is Dumbledore saying?” her words were
muffled by her posture, trying desperately to blink away the tears, trying not to feel upset by
missing Christmas, her friends, the merriment. Of all things, it felt ridiculous, given the current
situation, and she chastised herself for being such a child.

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 that, for the time being, it
would be easiest to omit some of the truth in hopes that she would be able to better process smaller
chunks rather than the whole.

“No, not yet. Dumbledore is currently...missing. From what I have gathered, they are painting it as
a looting done by a rogue group of random dark wizards, claiming that they were after some of the
more rare artifacts hidden at Hogwarts.”

Harri’s head snapped up at that, eyes shining brightly with fury at the injustice, at the false truth of
the situation.

“That’s ridiculous, though,” she bit out fiercely, still finding, despite her bitter resentment, a shred
of loyalty towards the headmaster, “Dumbledore would never leave Hogwarts unattended nor
would he let thieves into the castle.”

Severus swallowed thickly at the green eyes burning with anger, alight from the flames in her
chest, at the way she had tensed her jaw and drew her eyebrows together. It was Lily all over again,
the expression the girl before him was wearing one that he was all too familiar with. His heart
tightened uncomfortably, the lies coating his mouth in a bitter aftertaste, acid rising in the back of
his throat.

“Be that as it may, that is what they are passing it off as. In the meantime, I have been appointed as
the Interim Headmaster. Not by my choice, I can assure you.”

Harri slumped against the back of her chair, unable to fully believe and process the lies that
Voldemort was spinning. She knew the press would trust him, eating up whatever tale he had
concocted straight out the palm of his hand. To the students who had remained, it certainly seemed
like a random attack by dark wizards, every one of her peers unaware of the Death Eaters existence
or what they would have even looked like. Same with the professors-- the ones that would have
recognised the group as such had gone home or on vacation. She let out a shaky laugh, mind
reeling at the grim recognition that he had thought of everything . The timing, the professors that
would be left, limiting how many people could recognise him, could see his Mark floating in the
night sky.

“How long had he been planning this, I wonder,” she mused more to herself, hating the small part
of her that was mildly impressed with him, at his strategy, at his foresight.

Severus allowed the girl to her thoughts for a moment, feeling oddly off-kilter, off-balance, that he
had lied to her, that he had left out the most crucial detail of all: Dumbledore was dead, felled by
Lord Voldemort’s own hands in the Astronomy Tower. He briefly closed his eyes, praying for her,
for the universe, to forgive him for adding another sin to his karmic debt. He schooled his features
back into something more neutral, to hide the fact he was lying through his teeth, having
remembered his entire purpose for being here. “

Let me see your neck, Potter. I doubt the Dark Lord will let me stay long.”

Her thoughts were broken and she jumped in her chair, blushing slightly in embarrassment that she
had let her attention wander.

“Right, yeah of course,” she pulled the collar of the bathroom down a little further to fully expose
the bruise, leaning her head back with a hiss of pain to give him better access. She flinched at the
probing of his cold fingers, catching a glimpse of his frown from the corner of her eye.

“Any more pressure and he would have damaged your windpipe,” his tone had turned cold in his
anger, eyes glittering with thinly-veiled rage.

He still hadn’t ascertained as to what his Lord intended for her but, staring at the swirl of purples
and yellows spanning across her neck, he had determined it would still be a fate at her expense. In
the background of his thoughts, he could hear the faint pleas of a woman from beyond the grave,
the ghostly voice of his only love begging for him to save her child. To find some way to prevent
further violence from befalling her, to ensure hands could never be laid upon her skin in such a
manner ever again. A sudden thought dawned on him that seized his heart, a faint memory of
seeing another mark on the girl’s cream-coloured skin, one that plagued him for weeks at its
viciousness.

“Potter, that bite mark from the summer,” his hands stilled in the featherlight prodding, tone
cautious, hesitant to know the answer, “That was from him as well, wasn’t it?”

His eyes tracked the movement as she swallowed, the slight bob in her throat, the way her fingers
had twitched in her lap. Severus already knew the answer long before she verbally confirmed it, his
stomach clenching painfully at the realisation he always had the ability to touch her, to hurt her. It
never mattered whether or not she was physically distanced from him, whether she was hidden
behind the stone walls of Hogwarts, was kept in the toxicity of the Dursley’s home or in the
shadows of Dumbledore. He had always been there.

“Yeah,” she stated simply, quietly, unsure of what he had wanted to hear, wanted her to say.

In all honesty, the potions master was more enraged with himself, with Dumbledore, for falsely
believing, even for a second, that they could protect her. He had seen the signs, had seen the way
the bite had reeked of parselmagic, unable to be healed by him. And yet, he still had been naive,
had tried to tell himself it was her acting out in rebellion with a dalliance with some random
muggle or wizard.

“You irresponsible, foolish little girl. Did you not think, for a second, that revealing that the Dark
Lord had access to your mind would be important?” he snapped at her, frustration clear in his
voice, alarm mounting.

“What? About the fact 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 from his
hold, eyes blazing in indignation, her tone accusing and full of vitriol, “What about you? You
never told me you were a Death Eater. Hell, does Dumbledore even know?! You’re the reason he
got into the castle in the first place!”

Snape shrank back at her words, knowing the girl was unaware of how right she truly was. It had
been his fault, undoubtedly. He was the one to let the monster into their home, he was the one who
all but served Dumbledore on a silver platter for the Dark Lord, he was the one who had been
plotting, planning, spying for sixteen long years. It was a knife to his conscience and she was
twisting the handle, digging it further, mercilessly, into the already festering wound.

He felt weary, exhausted, stretched too thin. His sins were a chain and ball about his feet, the
ground beneath him quicksand that was swallowing him whole, urged on the more he floundered.
No longer did he feel like a 36-year-old man with his life ahead of him, dreaming of glory and the
moment when he had finally had enough to feel content.

With a drained sigh, he reached back for her neck, “Let me heal you, Potter. Our time is running
out and we still have things to discuss.”

She acquiesced to his request, the dull look in his eyes frightening her, his lack of a retort
unnerving. A feeling of cool air being blown onto the bruise, a refreshing tingle spreading
outwards from her neck and into her chest, and then the pain was gone. Mumbling a thanks, she
cocked her head to one side and then another, experimentally testing to see if there would be any
residual sharp aches. There were none.

“I know that you have been asked to sacrifice quite a bit in your life, Harri.'

The girl looked up, startled at his usage of her first name, at how solemn he sounded. For some
reason, it made her panic, her breaths suddenly seeming too short, too rapid. This wasn’t like
Snape, the biting potions master who always sneered at her, who always had sharp words on the tip
of his tongue even in the face of danger. This was a shell of that man, one who seemed tired and
too desperate to carry on.

“But I have to ask, once again, for you to sacrifice a tad more. Our world is changing, leaving us at
the whims and mercies of the Dark Lord,” he shuddered at the thought, heart lead in his chest and
dully beating, “We are all hostages in his game, one that we can not win.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to argue that he was wrong, that no, they could still fight. But the
second she did, all that came forth was a mute exhale of air. Because, as she had come to the
horrifying understanding, he was right to some degree. They weren’t able to fight him, not like
this, not with Dumbledore missing, not with the most loyal to him scattered like leaves in the wind.
And it most certainly didn’t help that the Girl-Who-Lived, the champion, the bringer of peace was
also missing. It settled as a heavy pit, a medicine bitter and hard to swallow.

“A Dark Lord at large is one thing. An angry one, furious and vengeful, is altogether another,” he
explained softly, eyes casting about the destroyed room, wondering, briefly, if his Lord was
listening in, “This is why I urge you, I beg of you, endear yourself to him. Comply when you can
and avoid his wrath.”

He raised a hand at the protest already forming on her tongue, a grim tightness in the corners of his
mouth, “Live, for your friends’ sake, if not for your own. Do not give him reason to kill you, to
make your existence painful. I have seen the things he can do and, I encourage you, Potter, to
believe me when I say he can do far worse than bring you death.”

Snape trained his stare on her, pain and desperation glinting the depths of his coal eyes. His voice
had fallen to a near whisper, longing and regret making his words go straight to her heart and twist
cruelly around it, “Do not let your mother’s sacrifice go in vain.”

How badly she wanted to scream that it already had, that Voldemort had gotten to her in an
irreversible way, that he had tainted and ruined the only child of the woman Snape had so
desperately loved. She wanted to yell that her mother’s sacrifice was already in vain, that Harri
Potter had died that night on October 31st, that she was nothing more than a shell keeping the
Devil earthbound. But an irrational fear, a small voice in the back of her mind, urged her not to, to
keep her actual nature hidden, to not allow Snape a glimpse of the truth.

She thought it was ridiculous, that the man had proven himself loyal more than enough. But then
images of Dumbeldore were summoned, unbidden and unwanted. Of him, the man she once
wholeheartedly trusted to keep her alive, attempting to murder her when he had discovered what
she was. ‘Desperation makes even good men do vile things,’ it whispered, her stomach flipping and
nausea gripping her when she recognised that deep voice. The horcrux was warning her, alerting
her to an unknown danger, acting out in self-preservation. And, no matter how much she may have
tried, she was more than certain no words would have even been able to leave her mouth anyways.

A sharp hiss of agony escaped Snape as he clutched at his left forearm, an increasing sting alerting
him that their time was up. He looked frantically at the girl before him, mind racing with the
possibilities of what might await her, of how useless he truly was to save her. Reaching into the
depths of his robes, he shoved a glass vial in her hands, explaining in a pinched tone as he fought
through the waves of pain.

“He’s coming. A Calming Draught, it’ll help you.”

She stared at the robin’s egg blue liquid sloshing around in the glass, frowning and eyebrows
drawn in contemplation. ‘Do you trust him enough to drink it?’ the voice countered in alarm,
urging her to think before taking a random potion that she, herself, hadn’t brewed. Harri chanced a
glimpse at Snape, at his shuttered face and quickened breaths that spoke to his suffering. She
berated herself for even doubting its authenticity in the first place, for questioning his intentions
when all he had wanted to do was to help her. Uncorking it, she knocked it back knowing that she
would, undoubtedly, require its assistance to keep her temper in check if Voldemort was already
returning. The refreshing taste of peppermint flooded her mouth, the effect almost instantaneous as
the worry, the anxiety, the fear all became dulled, subdued, the tension leaving her body.

Returning the bottle back to him, surprised by how much she meant her next words, “Thank you.
And Professor? I really hope I see you again.”

He rose from the chair, gritting his teeth as the stinging morphed into an insistent heat, a burning
that relayed he needed to leave now. He took in the girl before him, eyes flitting over her features
as though trying to commit her to his memory, a nagging feeling in his chest telling him it would be
awhile before he would see her again. A small smile, a bittersweet one, tugged on his thin lips as
he stared down at the child that should have been his.
“You as well, Potter.”
 Their Bond
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! Here's the next chapter and, as I promised, Harri and Voldemort are
back <3

Also holy-- I saw the kudos on this fic when I logged on today and over 700?! You
guys are all too amazing and far too kind, thank you so much! It still amazes me how
much attention and love you have all shown this fic and it makes me beyond
delighted!

Thank you to everyone still reading along and I hope you enjoy! <3

Voldemort watched the clock obsessively, each tick, each second, an agony for him to endure. It
seemed every pass of the minute hand was intent on wearing down his already thin patience,
slowly chipping and carving away at it until nothing would be left to withstand his baser instincts--
the very same ones that sang for him to sink his teeth into the girl and to demand her obedience.
‘You promised them 20 minutes,’ a quiet voice whispered, reminding him of his promise, and he
drew his lips back into a sneer. Of course, there was nothing binding to that agreement other than
his reputation, his word, the image he was trying so desperately to cultivate with her that he could
be benevolent.

The Dark Lord abruptly pushed his chair back from the dining room table, his meal entirely
forgotten as he began to pace across the white marble floors. He had taken his midday meal in
solitude, as he usually did, but now he found himself regretting the decision. Here, in the silence of
the dining room, all that was to occupy him was that damnable ticking and his own thoughts. ‘15
minutes,’ he noted as he glanced up, the beast confined to its cage baring its fangs in a lack of
patience. Earlier that morning, he had been cornered by Nagini, his familiar deeming it fit to
chastise and rebuke him for ‘attacking a hatchling without fangs’, as she had put it, before slyly
alluding that he had gotten what he deserved by the state of his room.

There were a few fundamental truths to his character but one of the largest was that he coveted and
held in no small regard his earthly possessions. He supposed it was a residual effect from his time
spent in Wool’s Orphanage, where having anything that could distinguish you from the masses of
dirty-faced, too thin, too violent street urchins was considered a remarkable feat. The second one
that was central to him, to what composed his personality, was that he took immense pleasure in
organisation, in keeping things orderly and working like a well-oiled machine. And it appeared that
both foundational truths had been upset, shattered, destroyed by his little horcrux. The way Nagini
had snickered, had jeered, had coyly suggested to his private chambers being destroyed made his
jaw tick and his fangs bared.

‘10 minutes.’ The grip on his wand tightened, pale fingers clutching around the hallow in his hand
and eyes flashing. The Dark Lord tried to reign in his anger, to keep a level head, but it was
proving to be quite difficult. Especially so when faced with the reality that the girl had dared to
destroy, undoubtedly countless, rare artifacts that he had spent the entirety of his life trying to
acquire. ‘You can repair them,’ his conscience tried to find reason, to de-escalate and dampen the
inferno in his chest.

‘5 minutes.’ Voldemort passively twirled the wand in his grip, attention turning to the french glass
doors and staring into the distance of the perfectly manicured lawn now covered in mounting
inches of snow. The sun was weak, hidden behind a solid mass of grey clouds, the air chilled and
heavy with the promise of a storm to come. He hoped that Snape had followed through on his
orders, that he had done something to ensure the girl would be more pliant, that her temper had
been curbed somewhat. After all, it was entirely within the realm of possibility, depending on the
state his room was in and her attitude, that she might have something far worse done to her than his
hands around her pretty little neck. Dealing with her defiance, with her venomous words, her feral
ways, was not something he could bear, not today. He needed her obedience, her willingness to
cooperate, a show of fealty from her for tonight. And he was beyond determined to get it.

The tone chimed, signalling the close of the hour, and he stilled the wand in his hand. His head
snapped to the clock, eyes glowing with anticipation. Not even a second had passed before he sent
a sharp warning through his bond to Severus, harshly indicating his time was up, to remove himself
from the room unless he wished to play witness. And, of course, should he stay, to suffer for his
unwanted intrusion. The polished leather shoes echoed in their soft clicks, the pace of them hurried,
eager, as the heavy oak doors swung open before him.

He had passed Snape on the stairs, gaze impassive and focused ahead, his irritation flaring when
the man had sunk into a bow and blocked his path.

“My Lord.”

Crimson eyes dragged themselves over to the posturing potions master, assessing the way he had
hesitated in his words, lingering as though there was more to say. The Dark Lord clenched his
teeth, not appreciating the stalling and he made sure that the man could feel it through their
connection. The resulting wince was enough of a retribution, one that mildly soothed and pacified
him.

“I have given the girl a calming draught to soothe her emotional...instability, as instructed,”
Severus ventured through the pain, the phantom flames crawling up his arm making him all too
aware he was treading on thin ice, on ground that was ready to collapse underneath him. “But
might I strongly advise for some caution to be exercised?”

The all too shrewd gaze, the keen voice, the defiance burning in the depths of those black eyes, it
made the monster in him stretch its gaping maw. Severus cared for the girl, it seemed, and
something dark, something possessive, thrived in his chest at the thought. Voldemort’s eyes
narrowed as he straightened his spine, taking one step further up the stairs to tower over the newly-
appointed headmaster. His voice turned cold, holding a dangerous edge, willing his magic in the
mark to burn brighter, to punish him for speaking out.

“Do not,” he warned, satisfied when the man shrank back slightly, “test me, Severus.”

The Dark Lord withdrew his presence from their link, turning promptly on his heel and leaving
behind the startled wizard. He had dared to advise him, to judge him so clearly, to side with a girl
over his Lord? He owed his allegiance, his everything, to him, not to some teenager with a pretty
face that looked like his school crush. It was enough to make his temper rise, for him to turn
around, to exact punishment- ‘Calm yourself,’ the rational side warned as he paused outside of the
double doors to his chambers, inhaling and exhaling shakily to reign in it all in.
Then he stepped into the room, his feeble breathing exercises to pacify his anger, to even out his
mood, to quiet his thirst for vengeance, failing completely.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, shock rendering his usually eloquent speech to the
most common of curses.

He took one unsteady step forward, then another, as the doors slammed forcefully shut behind
him. Very few things, he liked to think, could leave him mute, dumbfounded, speechless. But
seeing his room in a state beyond disrepair, ravaged and overturned, did just that.

Voldemort scanned the room critically, noting the shredded books, the down feathers coating the
floor in a thick carpet, the cracked mantle of the fireplace, the overhead lights shattered in their
sockets and- his eyes narrowed seeing his bed. The splintered frame of the four posters, the tattered
duvet, the now sizable crater above the headboard where the mounted chains had been ripped
away. It appeared nothing had escaped her wrath, the whirlwind of emotions he had felt earlier
suddenly making sense, all of it clicking into place that the tumultuous storm was her manifesting
it physically. Shock fell to fury, to anger, to a seething rage that she had dared to disrespect his
chambers, his personal belongings. Especially so after she had plainly rejected him, called him vile
and pathetic. And this was all after the fact he had left on his own admission, had given her space
to process, to be alone, thinking she was enough of an adult to not have to be supervised.
‘Apparently, I was wrong,’ his thoughts were dripping in venom and malice. A crunch under his
feet drew his attention, a chill ghosting through him as he recognised the handle to a teapot, the
very same he had used during their conversation. Yet another way that Harri Potter had spat on his
kindness, had encouraged his ire even after his attempts to be civil and courteous.

His fingers curled around the wand of power with such strength, trying to find a physical outlet to
relieve some of the tension in his body, that it was almost a wonder it didn’t snap cleanly in two. It
was a war being waged in his mind, two truths battling for dominance. One sang to make her pay,
to make her understand the consequences of her infantile tantrum, to make her afraid to even step
foot into his room ever again. To teach her, as one would a child, the importance of respect, of
obedience, of gratitude. The other, however, was crying out for patience, for understanding, to
realise that she had been going through emotional turmoil and it was her magic reacting
uncontrollably. And Voldemort recognised he needed to draw his strength from the latter, to try to
keep collected if he was to earn her trust, coax her into cooperating for what he needed her for. He
clenched his jaw, forcing his fingers to ease off the wand before he could be tempted to hex her an
inch within her life.

“You have made quite the mess of things, haven’t you, Harri?” he said flatly, a calmness to his
words that bespoke of his rising displeasure, narrowed gaze scanning the rubble for where she
could possibly have been hiding.

And, ah--there she was, in one of the still-standing armchairs, auburn crown barely visible from
atop its backing. He nudged a piece of plaster out of his way with the toe of his Oxford loafer,
feeling a delayed horror at the fact that even the walls would need to be repaired. His eyebrow
twitched involuntarily at the task before him. It was a tempting idea to make her clean everything
up by hand, lower her to the status of a servant, and make it so that all she would have time to feel
was exhaustion. ‘Calm,’ he chanted to himself, a holy mantra, trying to find a balm to his wrath,
gaze bouncing about the room in search of some sort of silver lining.

Voldemort glanced up at the cracks in the ceiling, frowning in distaste that the gaudy chandelier,
of all things, had been spared. It truly did look like an obscurus had passed through his chambers,
maiming and devouring all in its path, in its rage. It was, begrudgingly, impressive in its own right
that she had been able to conjure up such violent bursts of her 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 flesh
wasn’t his most prominent feeling, to look into her aptitude for wandless magic.

“Are you satisfied with yourself and your childish tantrum? For destroying property that isn’t your
own?” he questioned coldly, irritation flaring at her lack of response.

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 hit something, a hollow sound, that
was buried beneath a mountain of feathers and he glanced down in apprehension.

Laying at his feet, in all of its mangled glory, was a heavy leather tome, worn through the ages and
fraying in the corners. His teeth almost cracked from the pressure in which he had clenched them
as he slowly, deliberately, reached to pick it up. He would have prayed, if he had believed in gods
or a force greater than himself, for it to be unscathed but, seeing the damaged bindings, the
yellowed parchment pages ripped cleanly out, it clearly was not. Crimson eyes blinked in thinly
veiled horror before snapping back to the auburn head, fury burning bright. He rounded on her,
teeth bared in a snarl, hands shooting out to tightly grasp at the chair’s frame by her head and
caging her in.

“This was an original,” he seethed, brandishing the shell of the book and tossing it forcefully
before her feet. It landed with a dull thud, a testament to how empty it now was--- its pages littering
the floor and invaluable words scattered.

“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. And yet, in the span of less than an
hour, you defiled it. Reduced it to nothing more than rubbish destined for the bin.”

As he took in her wide-eyed stare, Voldemort, reluctantly, had to acknowledge that Snape’s
brewing capabilities were phenomenal. The Calming Draught had been working wonders on her,
fear, anger, resentment, all of it absent in her too-green gaze. He almost wished it hadn’t been this
effective, that she would have fought against him, quarrelled with him, so he could justify lashing
out at her, at punishing her. ‘You still could. When has Lord Voldemort ever needed a reason to
demand reparations?’ a traitorous voice whispered, stoking the embers of his wrath into fully-
fledged flames, urging him to follow through with his desires for vengeance, for justice. His teeth
ached, an overwhelming urge to sink them into her jugular, to prise it from the pale column of her
throat, to let her bleed out.

His gaze flitted across her face in search of something else to occupy him before he could give in
and do something he would most definitely regret later. Then he finally noticed her hair was still
damp and she was still in a bathrobe. Those red eyes dipped down for a second, drinking in the
sight of the exposed planes of her collarbones, the dangerously low v-line of the collar, the swell of
her chest visible more than usual as an almost indecent amount of cleavage was put on display.
Desire--- ravenous, possessive, toxic. It began to unfurl in his chest and rising to battle with his
anger.

Voldemort fell into the unoccupied chair, leaning back, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers.
He allowed his eyes to close for a second, for a moment of stillness to overcome him, as the Dark
Lord tried to gather together his emotions, quell his yearning and sate his temper. ‘Remember why
you are here,’ a rational voice whispered, trying to refocus his attention away from the state of his
room, from the priceless artifacts destroyed, from the girl sitting barely two feet away from him in
nothing more than a bathrobe.

“Sorry,” she mumbled out in a quick apology, unsure what more to say.
Harri watched him as he sat with his eyes closed, his posture rigid and deathly still. She knew she
should have felt horror, fear, trepidation at his reaction, at him crowding her space. She knew she
should have felt visceral anger and resentment at the fact he had called her a child, that he had the
audacity to imply that she messed everything up. But she didn’t. Those feelings never came, her
body too relaxed, mind too foggy and at ease to even bother. Her heart rate hadn’t even picked up,
she noticed belatedly, and a note was made to ask Snape for some more of his magical calming
potion the next time she saw him. It was a wonderful feeling not to be scared, not to feel fear or
overwhelming rage for once. Blissful.

After a few minutes, the Dark Lord finally reopened his eyes, having deemed himself put together
enough to focus on his task at hand. He took in the girl staring unblinkingly at him and he
uncrossed his legs, leaning forward, voice low and quiet, “You always know how to test my
patience, don’t you Harri?”

His hand reached out on its own accord to lightly grasp a strand of damp hair hanging over her
chest, rubbing it between his fingers and staring, entranced, as the red hair separated under his
administrations, “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 assuring you that I accept the apology.”

His hand moved upward from her hair to almost tenderly cup her jaw, his touch cold against heated
skin. Voldemort guided 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 her stronger emotions, her anger, putting up
a defensive shield against its pull. He had heard it all from Barty that the imperius hadn’t worked
on her, and though he would undoubtedly cast one stronger than his follower, he couldn't risk her
fighting against it. Not right now.

“I do not want to spend an eternity fighting with you for it is a battle you will surely lose,” his
thumb began to stroke absentmindedly along her jawline, pushing more of his magic through the
bond.

There was a hunger gnawing between his ribs at the sensation of their souls melding, “And you do
not want that either, do you, Harri? Think of how much easier it would be on you if you were just
to comply and submit? How much that would please me?”

She blinked owlishly at him, heart beginning to pound erratically as syrup flooded her veins-- a
slow and insistent pull. The siren’s call, the coolness from his hand on her jaw, the rising floating
pleasure was all she could think about, the effects of the calming draught nullifying in the face of
something far more powerful. Something far more enticing. Her eyes fluttered closed at the
sensation, the tempting glow consuming her entire world in the moment. ‘Why does it feel so
good,’ a distant voice questioned, knowing she should be more than alarmed by whatever he was
doing to her. But those worries, the cynicism, were all drowned out as spots of light burst brightly
behind her eyes. It, vaguely, reminded her of the haze of imperius--- but she just knew, somehow, it
wasn’t. This felt different, too alluring, too right. In any case, she wanted more of whatever it was,
the caution of dealing with a Dark Lord long forgotten.

He felt immense satisfaction, a great deal of delight, when she had closed her eyes and leaned
further into his hand. While he, admittedly, felt the pull too, it was easier to mask it, to shield
against it with his occlumency and to fortify himself. Every shred of his attention was focused on
his one task--all he needed was for her to agree to tonight, to show up and act according to his
commands.

"Don’t you wish to please me?”

More magic pushed through their bond and he smirked at the way she gave a minute nod of her
head, lost in the crescendo of it, in the unrelenting waves of a pleasure only he could give.

“All I need from you tonight, Harri, is to follow my explicit instructions. Follow my orders and I
promise you that you will be rewarded. Perhaps a reunion with someone you have missed so dearly
is in order?”

He dropped his hand from its caress, watching intently as her eyes fluttered back open, a dazed
stupor in them once she realised the golden light, the buoyancy, had stopped. Crimson eyes
obsessively took in the way her lips had parted, her eyebrows knitted together in confused
desperation to regain back the high she had just lost. ‘Perfect,’ he thought, rather content. If he was
slowly turning into an addict for her, she might as well mimic him and become one herself--- to fall
into the depths of depravity and desolation right alongside him.

“What?” she questioned dimly, mind trying to play catch up to his words and figure out what he
was asking of her.

It was proving to be a difficult task, her thoughts sluggish and unable to focus no matter how hard
she tried. ‘Fight it,’ whispered a small part of her as the potion Snape had given her began to
evaporate in her system. Harri straightened her spine, frowning, bits of his request finally
processing.

His hand shot out at the first signs of resistance, a gentle yet unrelenting hold on her wrist. It
appeared that he needed an extra push, something else to encourage her in the right direction.
Voldemort’s thumb pressed down insistently on her pulse point, at the softness of her wrist,
languid and slow circles rubbing across her veins. She began to melt again, her momentary revolt
against their bond ceasing.

Voldemort's voice dropped to an almost intimate whisper, his own eyes glazing over in
reminiscence, “I skinned a man alive today, you know. He suffered quite a bit because of you and
your words. You challenged me when you called me pathetic, when you tried to impose limits onto
me. So I peeled the skin from his body. Kept him alive and just out of death’s reach until I deemed
it fit for him to sink into the void. Tell me, Harri, does that sound like something a man with limits
could do? Find a way to even cheat death, to taunt him and keep him from his pound of flesh?”

Harri knew she should have been horrified, should have found it ghastly and gruesome. Entirely
disturbing. He had just admitted to torturing a man to death, to killing him because of her taunts---
yet all she could focus on was that insistent, alluring tug somewhere deep inside of her. The light,
the floating sensation, the warm heat coursing throughout her limbs. It made his words fall away,
made them seem so distant and inconsequential. He may have been conversing about the weather
or a good book he had recently read for all she knew or cared.

“He paid the price in the end for your insolence. I may have given my word not to personally harm
those you care for,” Voldemort threatened, a cutting smile on his features as her head slumped
forward, eyes closed once again, and increasing the pressure of his hold on her wrist.

“But I have made no promises of accountability for the actions of my hounds. They have recently
developed a taste for human flesh, you see, that even I find hard to reign in at times.”

He jerked her forwards suddenly so she half-tumbled onto his lap, his free hand reaching up to tilt
her head back up to him. The Dark Lord drank in her half-lidded gaze, those blown pupils, the wet
shine of her lips--- that poisonous desire came flooding back in tenfold. With a soft tsk of mock
sympathy, as though empathetic to her struggles and feelings of disorientation, the hand lifted to
tenderly tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear. He leaned forward to whisper against the
auburn tresses, lips ghosting against the ear’s shell, and taking immense delight in the way she had
shivered at the contact. A soft whimper had escaped her--- a dulcet melody to his ears.

“Just remember, little one, that you can not protect them all. Think of how many countless
strangers will die at your behest, cursing your name upon their lips in their final breaths.”

Voldemort rose abruptly, dropping his hold from her and watching in perverse, twisted gratification
as she fell to her hands and knees on the floor. Glowing eyes glittered taking in her flushed face, at
the overstimulation that caused her to shake--- he could practically hear the erratic tempo of her
heart beating against its cage. Seeing her before him in such a vulnerable position, trembling in the
aftermath of their bond, only served to further encourage the twisting serpent in his chest. His
anger was long forgotten at the sight of the defiant Girl-Who-Lived bowing. It was doing terrible
things for his self-control and his conscience was demanding that he remember their position, what
he was here to achieve--- that he wanted her cooperation and not to do anything irreversible that
might cost him it.

With difficulty, he managed to keep his voice even, calm, as he trained an inscrutable gaze on her
dipped head, “Narcissa will arrive later to help dress you. Do not disappoint me tonight, Harri
Potter.”

He disapparated from the room to leave her to process his words and warnings, tremors wracking
her thin frame in withdrawal from the hazing pleasure of their bond.
 She Was No Longer 'Harri Potter'
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter! The chapter after this will be up in an hour
or so once I get the chance to give it a quick read through <3

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! Thank you and I hope you enjoy <3

She had remained on her hands and knees for a few minutes after he had left, unable to think, to
move. Her mind was reeling, her body trembling in the aftermath of whatever he had done to her,
unable to fully process it. Some part of her buried deep within screamed for him to come back, to
give her that glow, that light, that buoyancy, to make her feel whole again. Harri realised, in rising
terror and alarm, that she felt suddenly lost, adrift-- like she had been cut off from oxygen itself and
was left to gasp in air that did very little for her. The lovely bliss, the quiet reprieve, from the
calming draught had entirely evaporated from her system, leaving behind cold panic in its stead.
‘He skinned someone alive,’ she thought desperately, acid rising in her throat, ‘because of what I
said, he killed someone to prove a point.’

Harri shakily rose to her feet, fleeing to the bathroom as images of a man being peeled as though he
were an apple, a grape, flooded her mind. She had barely made it in time, her knees colliding with
the marble floor painfully as she clutched at the sides of the chilled porcelain of the toilet before
promptly retching into it. She stayed there for a second, hovering as hyperventilating sobs, breaths
too quick and too rapid, racked her frame. He had been so casual about it, as though it hadn’t been
a big deal that he had just ended someone’s life-- as though he hadn’t enacted such gruesome
brutality upon another human. With a bitterness in her mouth, she flushed the evidence of her
weakness, of her inability to handle such degrees of violence, down the drain.

A few seconds passed before she found the strength to stand, taking staggered steps to the sink and
cupping her hands under the cool spray. The water on her face felt refreshing, a soothing balm, as
she attempted to gather her thoughts, to process and figure out what to do. When she lifted her gaze,
she almost didn’t recognise the girl staring back at her. It was her face, no denying that, but the
look on it, the dilated pupils showcasing a darkness against a ring of emerald, the flush on her
cheeks turning her cream skin a rosy shade, the wet shine on her rosebud mouth. Whoever this girl
was, it was not Harri Potter. She couldn’t recall ever looking this dishevelled, this depraved, this
indecent-- truthfully, it scared her. A chill passed over her skin, leaving a wake of goosebumps, as
she tore her eyes away from obsessively staring into the mirror. Whatever he had done to her was
an issue that could be pushed aside, could be reflected on at a later date as something more
pressing required her full attention.

‘He threatened them,’ she thought dimly, overriding panic clawing its way up her chest, past her
throat. ‘He promised he wouldn’t touch them but he never said anything about his followers.’
Snape’s words came back to her, echoing hauntingly in her mind, claiming that they were all
hostages to his whims, playing in a game they could not win. And how right he was. She screamed
in frustration, squeezing her eyes shut at the tears that threatened to overflow. He had played the
board well, almost too well, trapping her in a corner without an exit strategy and targeting all of her
weaknesses. Her friends, her saviour complex by holding strangers prisoner, her need to save
everyone. She wrenched the faucet’s handle to the side forcefully, the soft stream of water ceasing
and returning the bathroom to silence.

Harri balanced herself on her hands, head bowed and staring down into the intricate bowl of the
sink. He said tonight, he wanted her to obey him tonight. She frowned, heart pounding against her
ribs, her knees feeling weak. ‘Tonight, what’s tonight,’ her thoughts were lit with panic, replaying
over the conversation that she, admittedly, only half heard. ‘He never said, just that Narcissa is
going to help me get ready.’ The thought made her stomach clench, the fact she was unprepared
doing little to quell her nerves. She threw her head back to stare up at the ceiling, mind a muddled
mess and jumping too rapidly from one thought to another. He mentioned a reunion if she followed
his orders but with who? What would happen if she didn’t listen tonight? Why did she feel that
way? Why did she crave for him to touch her again? How did he-

A resounding pop from the bedroom broke her out of her reverie and she nearly jumped out of her
skin at the unexpected sound. Her fingers scrabbled along the smooth marble counter, curling
inwards to form a fist, as her ears strained for any telling sign of who had just appeared
unannounced. She tentatively, slowly, moved from the sink and pressed herself up against the
bathroom door, ear flat against it in desperation to listen in. ‘Narcissa maybe? That doesn’t make
sense though.’ He had said the Malfoy matriarch would come by later so she assumed that he had
meant in at least a few hours time, not mere minutes. Plus, it wouldn’t make sense for her to
apparate within the halls of her own home. ‘Maybe he forgot something?’ was her next, most
rational guess. Hearing the rummaging about the room, it seemed entirely within the realm of
possibility. Harri flung the door open, ready to confront him, to demand what he was planning and
how he could expect her to behave how he wanted her to without any indication of what that would
entail.

To her immense surprise, it was not the Malfoy matriarch nor the Dark Lord that had appeared in
the wreckage of the bedroom but a purple-eyed house elf holding a broom far bigger than its tiny
body. They both stared at one another in shock, apparently neither expecting the other.

“Zivvy!” Harri recovered first, cautiously edging her way over to the creature, attention focused on
avoiding any remnants of glass or errant shards of porcelain littering the floor.

“Miss Potter,” was the enthusiastic reply, ears fluttering in excitement at seeing the witch, broom
forgotten in its hands, “Zivvy is summoned to clean the room, Miss.”

A dangerous thought came to Harri’s mind as she stared down at the elf, at how keen it was to see
her, at how it seemed so willing to be of help, of use. An insistent line of thinking planted itself
firmly into her conscience. It urged her to find a way out, that staying here with a man who so
readily tortured others, who so readily exacted the same violence onto her, who had this strange
control that rendered her too compliant for her preferences, was madness. It was reckless, a notion
made with abandon, but it refused to leave her nonetheless. Flashes of her plan during the
Hogwarts raid to lead Voldemort away from the castle, the success in it as she drew him into the
woods, replayed on an obsessive loop. Maybe she could do it again, on a grander scale, maybe she
could preoccupy him long enough to draw his attention away so she could-

‘It’s a stupid idea,’ logic reprimanded her, chastising her for even considering it. Voldemort had
already proven that he had no qualms about torturing strangers in her stead, warning her that she
couldn’t save everyone, that she was already testing the limits of his patience. Frustration welled
up in her at the thought, at the realisation that she was trapped, entangled in his web with no way
out. But maybe if she could get word to the Order, to have them rally their forces? Even if she
couldn’t leave herself, at least not right away, they could begin to oppose him in earnest if they
knew where she was.

“Zivvy,” she started slowly, crouching down to eye level with the creature, voice lowered to a
conspiratorial, desperate whisper, “Can you do me a favour?”

She smiled when the creature nodded enthusiastically, brightness in its eyes and an eagerness in its
step, “When you are done and have some free time, 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?”

The house elf eyed her critically before giving a firm nod of its head, chest puffed up in pride, “Of
course, Miss. Zivvy is a house elf, Zivvy can do anything Miss requires.”

Harri straightened, hope filling her as a warmth in her chest. She had, briefly, debated about
instructing the creature to find Dumbledore, seeing as he could gather together the Order more
quickly, had more sway over its members, was the one that could match Voldemort in power. But
after the Astronomy Tower incident, she wasn’t exactly too keen on the idea. After all, if she had
to hazard an informed guess, he knew what she was, what she meant to the Dark Lord, and had no
qualms about cutting her down. But she needed someone unaware, someone who, hopefully, still
felt a shred of loyalty towards her, someone who could encourage people to fight for what was
right.

Her stomach clenched painfully at the thought of lying to Sirius, at concealing something so crucial
from him, but then she was bitterly reminded that he had lied to her too. He had promised to visit
her during the summer, to rescue her from the Dursleys, to save her from their cruelty and hatred.
Her fingers bit half-moons into the softness of her palms, trying to swallow around the sudden
lump in her throat and the heaviness in her chest. Her godfather, the one who was meant to protect
her, love her, had bared his throat, his belly, so quickly under Dumbledore’s insistence, had gone
along with the headmaster’s plans without a blink of an eye when she could have lived with him,
stayed with-

“Oh, Zivvy almost forgot!”

The sudden exclamation drew her from her thoughts. Harri blinked in surprise as a breakfast tray
appeared in front of her, an assortment of pastries, fruits, and oatmeals littering the metal surface.
She would be lying if she said she was hungry, food the last thing she wanted at the moment,
especially so when the image of a skinned man, his muscles and sinew exposed, hovered
threateningly in the back of her mind. But seeing the house-elf’s insistence, at the gestures it made
towards the dishes presented so beautifully on silver platters, she couldn’t find it in herself to say
no. Harri absentmindedly picked up an apple, a gorgeous shade of red streaked through with pink,
and bit into it. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

“By the way Zivvy, did you ever find Draco?” she casually inquired, worried for a second that
maybe she had been wrong, that the Slytherin boy wasn’t in the Manor like she had initially
thought. That, perhaps, Voldemort knew of their friendly terms and had banished him in attempts
to cut off her potential allies. Or, heaven forbid, he did something even worse.

“I did, Miss,” the elf responded, wincing as though ashamed by its failure. It held up its bandaged
fingers in a show of apology, tears flooding its eyes when the witch exclaimed in horror,
demanding to know what it had done to itself, “But Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy refused to let him come.”

Harri tried her best to comfort the distraught elf, feeling nauseous at the fact it had so willingly
harmed itself for not being able to fulfill such a simple request made in passing. A frown painted
her features as she idly patted the creature on its back, its hiccuping sobs fading into the distance as
her mind mulled over its words. ‘So Draco is here,’ her thoughts began to whirl at the implications
of it, of what it could mean. Voldemort had yet to do anything to the Slytherin boy which made her
think that he, hopefully, was unaware of their bond, their friendship. It was either that or he was
holding onto the pureblood for safekeeping, to dangle him in front of her, to threaten his well being
if the convenient need for it ever arose.

A fierce protectiveness blossomed in her at the thought, a silent vow being made in the moment
that she wouldn’t allow the Dark Lord to lay so much as a finger on his blond head. A shaky sigh
escaped her, the bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth offset by reluctant understanding. It
made sense as to why his parents were encouraging distance between them, she couldn’t blame
them for it. After all, allowing their son to get close to a girl whose future was murky at best, one
who was at the mercies and whims of a Dark Lord, was a terrible, dangerous idea and she couldn’t
begrudge them for being decent parents.

A few minutes later had found the elf calmed down enough to begin the long task of cleaning the
chambers. Harri watched in thinly-veiled fascination as the room began to slowly knit itself back
together under the careful administrations of the creature’s magic. Her eyes tracked as bits of
plaster rose from the ground, carefully slotting themselves back into their original places on the
walls, the ceilings, and seamlessly blending together to appear as though they had never been
damaged in the first place. A sharp crack from the corner and the bed’s wooden frame was made
whole again.

“Bloody brilliant,” Harri muttered under her breath, unsure as to why he was so mad in the first
place when it all seemed like an easy fix. Then she noticed the elf gathering up pieces of parchment
off the floor, biting into her ashen apple and swallowing it with some difficulty. It seemed her body
was intent on rejecting food and she couldn’t fault it for not wanting to eat.

“Are you not going to fix those?” she asked in a curious manner, gesturing to the papers with the
half-bitten apple in her hand.

“No, I can not. Even Zivvy has limits. Only the Dark Lord can fix it,” the elf nodded sagely,
depositing the papers onto the newly fixed desk.

An eyebrow quirked in confusion before she, distantly, recalled Voldemort’s words of parsel and
normal magic acting as though they were oil and water. Her eyes keenly took in the destroyed
book, clicking into place that Slytherin must have embedded it with his own brand of magic to
keep those outside of his bloodline from having access. Harri groaned a bit at that, the Dark Lord’s
anger over the shredded tome making sense. Still, she couldn’t help the vindictive delight from
spreading through her at the thought that he would have to spend time fixing it himself, that there
was at least one thing that couldn’t be magicked away into being repaired. ‘Good,’ she thought
with a cutting smile, ‘at least I made his life a bit harder, the sadistic prick.’

From somewhere in the manor, a grandfather clock chimed, a sharp, thunderous sound that
demanded attention. Harri had taken to sitting on the now fixed mattress, ears straining as she
counted the bells. ‘5 pm,’ she noted dimly, apple long forgotten and sitting abandoned on the
serving tray. She looked down at herself, still in the bathrobe but her hair dried, puzzling over what
was meant to happen tonight, how he wanted her to act, when Narcissa would arrive-

Not even a minute after the last chime had fallen way to silence was there a sharp rap on the door,
the sound magnified in the stillness, in the quiet, of the room. It swung open to reveal a blonde-
haired woman, tall with pointed features, blue eyes carefully blank as she crossed the threshold.

“Pardon the intrusion,” her voice was calm, clipped with a posh accent, “But 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 quite a gentle person. She knew it from the way those shapely hands had
delicately steered her towards the bathroom, the demure pressure in which they had guided her to
sit down at the vanity, the considerate manner in which they had pulled a boar bristle brush
through her hair, mindful of any tangles. And as she trained her eyes obsessively on the Malfoy
matriarch in the surface of the mirror, taking in the elegant blonde curls cascading down her neck
and the ruby red staining her plush 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, watching as those hands stilled in her hair, those pale eyes
lifting up to evenly meet the reflection of green ones.

She had so many questions to ask, to demand to know what was happening, to beg her to tell her
what Voldemort had said, how she was expected to act tonight. Instead, she settled for a rather
simple one, “How is Draco?”

Narcissa set the brush down on the vanity, staring at the earnest look in those emerald eyes, a gaze
that appeared as though the killing curse was immortalized in a midcast when you met them. She
could see why Draco had taken a fancy to the girl. She was, after all, quite a beautiful little thing
that would have given even Lily Potter a run for her money.

“Draco is well,” she responded hesitantly, trying to understand where the girl stood in regards to
her son, to discern any deceit, any ill will. At the small exhale of relief she gave, however, and the
way her shoulders seem to lose tension, Narcissa was satisfied that there was none.

“He had wanted to come, you know. That day you asked for him,” with a flourish of her wand, she
began to curl some of the fiery locks of red hair.

Harri let out a shaky laugh, flashing the older woman an uneasy smile, “But you wouldn’t let
him?”

She nodded quickly, auburn hair flying, as she rushed to say, “I don’t blame you, of course, for not
wanting him to be around me. Not with Voldemort hanging about.”

The Malfoy matriarch flinched at the casual usage of the Dark Lord’s name, feeling ill at ease at
how she so bravely, so calmly, had said it. And, not for the first time since the girl was brought
back alive, she found herself puzzling over as to what the Potter heiress had meant to her Lord, why
he had so suddenly changed his mind about ending her existence. She began to pile the hair into an
intricate bun, fingers working deftly to twist and braid the strands.

“He talked, talks I mean, often about you,” she finally said when the silence became too much,
reaching over the girl’s thin shoulders for a hairpin, “Always regaling me with stories from your
time at Hogwarts. Particularly about your quidditch matches.”

Harri, for the oddest reason, felt relieved when she spoke again, afraid to offend the pureblooded
woman. She wasn’t sure why that was but, as those fingers worked nimbly in her hair to create
some elaborate hairstyle she knew she could never replicate, as her soft voice held a playful and
wistful tone, she just knew she never wanted her to leave.

The redhead sent an impish smile to the woman in the mirror, her own voice a tad cheeky, “Oh,
I’m sure he did. Even after you bought his entire team the new Nimbuses, he still couldn’t manage
to catch the snitch before me.”
A small smile tugged on Narcissa's painted lips as she recalled visions of a young Draco coming
home for the holidays, ranting and raving about how Harri Potter had bested him once again,
demanding for his father to find some way to remove her from the quidditch team.

“Oh, please do not begrudge me for that. A mother is allowed to spoil her only son. Though, just
between you and I,” she leaned down closer, a mischievous glint entering her eyes, “His father and
I had not heard the end of it for weeks afterwards. It was almost insufferable. He even begged
Lucius to remove you from the quidditch team altogether.”

The younger witch stared in the mirror, astonished by the confiding way Narcissa had let it slip
about her son’s childish reaction, and a bubble of joy rose in her chest. She couldn’t help the free
laughter, good-natured and without a care, at the thought of Draco being that upset with her over
something so trivial.

A wide smile, beaming and bright, spread on her face, her voice holding a tone of fondness to it,
“He always hated losing, didn’t he?”

Narcissa reached forward to tug a few loosely curled strands from the intricate braided bun, letting
them fall in front of the girl’s heart-shaped face in a framing curtain.

“Especially so to you,” she muttered, twirling the vanity’s chair around as she began to rummage
through the makeup caddy, “Even after getting him the best tutor we could find, you still managed
to hold onto your spot in Defense class. It drove him absolutely mad. Personally, I was always a
Potions or Charms sort of girl.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as the blonde witch began to paint her lips in a darker
shade of red, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration on the task at hand. It felt sticky, heavy, an
uncomfortable sensation that she was unaccustomed to. Without Narcissa’s words to distract her,
without the reminiscences of the past, an uncomfortable weight began to form in her chest, an ever-
mounting sense of impending doom making her heart skip.

Once the brush left her mouth, Harri gathered together her scraps of courage to ask, voice timid,
unsure, “What did he say about tonight, Mrs. Malfoy? About me?”

Narcissa paused, a makeup puff in her hand, as she took in the Potter heiress. She suddenly seemed
so small, so quiet, not at all the defiant and rash girl her son had always painted her as. It was an
uncomfortable sensation, one that made her feel ill, her heart to squeeze tightly, her blood to run
cold. The “Girl-Who-Lived” was precisely just that, a girl , a child, forced into a war she should
never have been expected to participate in in the first place. Draco, being marked and in agony,
came to her mind and a fierce rage, one that made her want exact violence in the name of justice,
unfurled in her. Fate was truly a laughable thing, having abandoned them all, depositing them at
the feet of a man with too much power, forced to abide by his whims and mercurial temper.

The Malfoy head busied herself with covering up the bruising circles under the girl’s eyes, unsure
how to even respond in the first place. He hadn’t, in fact, said much about tonight. Other than
being told she was to dress the girl and bring to the dining parlour by 7 pm, his instructions had
been pretty vague. A ghost of a chill passed through her frame, her mind suddenly conjuring up
images of crimson eyes nearly glowing in hunger, a frenzied desire, when he had dictated his
wishes for her.

“He wouldn’t say but,” Narcissa swallowed at the way her throat constricted, conflict warring in
her at the fact she was to hand over a girl a mere month younger than her son to the Devil himself,
torn between wanting to please him for the sake of her family but also wanting to hide this child
away from his gaze, “He only commanded that I make you look respectable, pureblooded. As
though you were royalty.”

Distantly, Harri remembered the pleasure from his touches, the heated syrup in her veins, how all
she wanted was for him to never let her go. Images of her expression, one she didn’t recognise,
depraved and craving something that she had no words for, his innocent question asking if she
wanted to please him, the vaguest notion that she had nodded in compliance. Her stomach clenched
painfully, a sharp sting and acid in her mouth. She was suddenly grateful that she hadn’t eaten
more than an apple.

An hour later had her staring numbly at herself in the dressing room’s mirror, unable to
comprehend the girl in the reflection. Harri felt as though she were hovering outside of her body,
suddenly feeling like she was an imposter, an unwanted presence, an intruder in someone else’s
shell. Narcissa 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 vividness that
made them almost glow. Harri thought, dimly, they were uncomfortable to look at, unnerved when
she held her own gaze for a second too long in the reflection. Her auburn hair had been pulled into
an intricate up-do, braids twisting the hair off of her neck to highlight the elegant slope of it, a pale
column of throat that, vaguely, reminded her of a Victorian cameo. A few strands had been left out
to frame her heart-shaped face, further defining the gentle angles of her jawline, drawing attention
to the high cheekbones. The red tackiness on her lips had finally dried down to a matte finish and,
much to her joy, she could no longer feel it so intensely. Somehow, the wine colour accentuated
her cupids bow further, lending her rosebud mouth a plumpness, a fullness that she had never
noticed before.

But it was the dress that she was wearing that she couldn’t take her eyes off from. 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, to her horror, felt naked, exposed. The material emphasized her soft
curves, the roundness in her hips, the nip of her waist, the swell of her chest, in a way she didn’t
even realise was possible. Her entire life, she had always thought her body to be too thin, too
waifish, too boylike, to have any true merit as a female but now? Now she was proven horribly
wrong and she hated it. Even though no skin was truly showing, the entire ensemble was rather
modest in that regard, she felt indecent, impudent, improper. It hadn’t escaped her notice, either,
that the fabric of the dress, a heavy black velvet, shimmered in the light with a pattern of scales,
moving as she did and drawing further unwanted attention. She had transcended, shifted across all
boundaries from a girl to a woman to a snake in a human skin.

Harri’s only reprieve was that there was a black cape trailing on the ground behind her, a flowy
fabric that glittered with magic to mimic the stars. She grasped at it desperately to cover herself, to
shield her body from being put on display, from having her curves so fully exposed. Narcissa had
just finished pinning the edges of the cloak to her, a gleaming silver medallion of a serpent eating
its own tail shining proudly at her throat. ‘I have to give it to him,’ she thought in abashed horror,
gripping the cloak to her frame before Narcissa, sympathetically, batted her hands away, ‘He’s
really outdone himself.’

Indeed, the person in the mirror was not Harri Potter any longer, the Girl-Who-Lived, daughter to
Lily and James Potter. She was royalty descended from the pits of Hell, a child born forth from
Lilith’s womb, a goddess who had left behind her snake skin to play amongst the mortals for the
night. The clock chimed 7 and Narcissa entered the mirror’s frame, worry bright in her gaze 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
to go.”
 The Meeting
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! As promised, here's the follow up! I know its a tad longer than usual
but I have too much fun writing this one lol. I hope you guys enjoy!

The two women had paused outside of the grand double oak doors of the dining room parlour, one
fair where the other was not. Narcissa sent the girl at her side a small reassuring smile, one that
didn’t quite reach her eyes and one that she, most certainly, herself did not believe in. As the
entrances to the room swung open, the Malfoy matriarch gave the redheaded witch one last
reassuring squeeze on her shoulder before tilting her head up, pulling back her shoulders and
walking confidently into the silence of the room.

One of the first things Harri had noticed, as she loitered at the room’s threshold, not willing to
cross over quite yet, was that an eerie silence had greeted her. Apparently, no one had dared to
speak until the women could arrive. The second, much to her rising distress, was that were, she
counted quickly in her mind, 28--29 including the Dark Lord--people seated at the long walnut
table in the centre of the parlour. In unison, their eyes immediately trained themselves on her with
looks that she desperately didn’t want to decipher, to decode. She allowed her gaze to helplessly
wander over towards Voldemort, looking for answers, for a sign. However, what greeted her made
her stomach flip in an alarming way.

Ravenous hunger, rapturous greed, possessive desire-- they all lent those crimson eyes a sinful
glow, and Harri, for the millionth time since putting on the godforsaken dress, wished desperately
for the comfort of her black jumper with a hole in its arm. As her hand reached for the safety of
Narcissa, she realised, in delayed horror, that the older woman had left her alone in the doorway.
Instead, she was now occupying an empty seat next to her husband and--.

‘Draco,’ she thought in temporary joy, for a moment forgetting her mortification, her uncertainty,
as she happily tore her gaze away from the monster at the head of the table. The Slytherin boy
seemed shaken by her sudden appearance, eyes blown wide in shock, and Narcissa grasped his
hand in a tight squeeze.

Voldemort would be lying if he had 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 a
daydream, than what his imagination could ever have conjured up. It looked to be almost painted
on her, as though it were part of her skin, the way it clung to her frame in all the right places--
highlighting what she usually hid behind bulky sweaters. A possessive thought crossed his mind
that he should have, perhaps, picked something else out, to make it so that only he could see her in
this light. She looked, by all rights, as though she were a goddess, royalty, deserving of her lineages
and pedigrees. It was perfect, glorious, a vision finally worthy of standing next to him, to be forever
cemented at his side. Crimson eyes flitted over her displayed curves, the column of her exposed
throat, his personal insignia gleaming at its hollow-- the plush mouth parted in confusion, the look
of being adrift in her eyes as she desperately searched his for an answer. It was heady, alluring,
tempting, and doing quite terrible things for his self-control. Outwardly, he tried to show no
reaction as he fought the urge to stand up, to grab her by 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.

Then she looked over to the youngest Malfoy, removing her gaze from him, the beast in his chest
baring its fangs at being ignored. The possessiveness, the covetous jealousy that sang from him to
retrain her attention back to him, to make it so that her eyes would never wander again, rose to a
surmounting wave. His finger tapped once, then twice, as those seated at the table refused to move,
to breath, their gazes jumping anxiously between him and the girl in anticipation of what he would
do.

“Harri Potter,” he drawled just loud enough for his voice to carry, satisfied when she jolted slightly
from the abrupt break in the silence, pleased when she refocused her lost gaze back to him.

“I see that you have finally joined us. Welcome. Come in,” he motioned with the crook of his
finger and the doors slammed shut behind her, trapping her in the proverbial den of snakes.

Harri jerkily moved further into the room, feet unsteady and hands curled into fists at her side,
imperceptibly trembling. Her shoes clicked almost unnervingly loud across the marble, a disturbing
realisation overcoming her that she was out of her element here, dressed in too confining and too
revealing clothes, without a wand at her side, and no allies that would be able to openly defend her
should she need it. The cape had been catching the still air behind her, drifting away from her body
to reveal even more of the snakeskin dress and she sorely wished it was made of something
heavier, something less flimsy, that would at least give her an illusion of protection.

She fixed her stare determinedly at a spot above Voldemort’s head, directly at the mantelpiece. She
dared not to make eye contact with him again for fear of seeing the depraved darkness in his gaze,
but also was not brave enough to look at the members seated at the table. Try as she did to ignore
it, she could feel the leers, the questioning looks, how some seemed particularly shameless and
immoral for looking at an underage girl in that way. The eyes settled heavily over her skin, making
it crawl, making it itch. Even if she was a few months away from reaching her magical majority, it
was still corrupt, degenerate, that older men were even daring to consider her in that regard. ‘So
this is his crowd,’ she thought bitterly, feeling mortified but not even the least bit surprised that it
was the most deviant that were following him.

She paused a few feet away from his still form on his throne, stopping behind the familiar back of
Severus Snape. He had been looking forward the entire time, resolutely not catching her eye once
since she walked in, but she still felt a calmness wash over her that he was there. A small part of
her hoped that, desperately, he would be on her side, defending her should anything go awry. It
was futile, most likely, but it still consoled her a bit. There was an empty seat at Voldemort’s left
but Harri was unsure whether or not to take it, whether or not she would be sitting or standing for
whatever little charade he had planned. Shakily exhaling, trying to gain back some of her nerves,
her famed Gryffindor bravery, to feel a tad less out of her element, she looked to the red-eyed man
in question, trying to decipher what he wanted or intended.

Voldemort had been obsessively tracking her movements as she crossed the expanse of the room,
eyeing appreciatively at how the cloak had fluttered behind her. He made a note to thank Narcissa
for the idea, that it truly did sell the untouchable royalty image, the raw power he had been angling
for her. After all, his hounds may adore and bow to him, but he needed them to do the same for
her-- to fear her as much as they would him. It wouldn’t be enough if he had just claimed her
verbally. No, she needed to fashion a new persona for herself, to carve out her own spot in his
ranks. It was a simple truth that Voldemort had been in this game long enough to know that his
Death Eaters tended to respect power, pure blood, and lineage more than anything else. It may take
time, Merlin only knows she was a feral little creature, but time was all they had at this point.
He steepled his fingers as she paused in her path, disdain rising in him once he noticed that she had
stopped at Severus’s side. It was becoming more and more apparent that they had some sort of
bond, a relationship he couldn’t quite understand-- and it was irking him, causing him endless
displeasure. He couldn’t wait to cleanly snap it in two, disband it, the very second he was able to.

A single eyebrow quirked, his irritation colouring his voice, “Well, Miss Potter? Are you going to
stand there all night or are you going to take a seat? By all means, remain standing if that is what
you prefer and I can gladly abide by it. After all, your comfort is….of utmost importance. But
please, do make up your mind fairly quickly as we do have some urgent matters to discuss before
the night is up.”

A mortified blush spread across her cheeks at the random snickers that fell in waves across the
table, his followers apparently only having the spine to mock her when he allowed it first. The
chair to his left, slightly more ornate and delicately carved than the others, slid out from its tucked
in place and she tried to, gracefully, sit down. However, the tightness of her dress had proven to
give her some difficulty and she ended up nearly stumbling instead. A soft moan of pain escaped
her as the chair was abruptly pulled back in, her ribs hitting not so kindly on the table’s edge in a
jostling motion. More snickers, soft mean-spirited chuckles, arose at her expense and Harri wished
nothing more than for the ground to open up, to swallow her whole.

“Now that Miss Potter has so graciously made up her mind as to her seating preference, we can
finally begin.”

She drowned out his words, his reports, letting her eyes wander across the table instead. Some of
the gazes she met were cruel, lascivious, others were impassive, carefully blank. She recognised,
across from her, the dark-haired witch from Hogwarts, two nearly identical black haired wizards
sitting at her side. Harri tried to puzzle out which one had cursed her, unable to determine any
significant differences between them. Placed further down was a sandy-haired young man, his eyes
wild with demented awe as they fixed intently on the Dark Lord at the head of the table. ‘Fake
Moody,’ her eyes widened in surprise at seeing him. There was half the mind to lean over to the
wizard seated next to her, who he was she had no idea, to demand the impersonator’s identity so
she could seek vengeance-- question him relentlessly as to where the real Moody was hidden.

Then the heavy weight of an insistent stare forced her attention down to the end of the table,
stomach tightening at the sight of a beast-like man. His nose was broad, his long hair scraggly,
eyes an unnatural shade of grey. He trained them on her, a lustful greed reflected brightly as he
dragged his gaze down once then back up in a slow, purposeful manner. Harri felt her blood run
cold as he smiled at her, yellowed teeth and sharp fangs, a suggestiveness in it telling her all she
needed to know about what he was thinking.

“And now onto the most important docket for this evening, the true reason why I have summoned
you all here,” Harri’s spine went ramrod straight as the Dark Lord addressed the room, heart
threatening to burst free from the cage of her ribs as her attention forced itself, unwillingly, back to
him.

He spared her a quick glance, face schooled into a neutral expression, impassive that gave away
nothing, before looking back to his followers, “The issue of what to do with Harri Potter, the Girl-
Who-Lived.”

The witch with a mass of dark curls leaned forward eagerly, black eyes flitting briefly to Harri, a
bloodthirsty violence in them, before bouncing back to Voldemort-- adoration quickly warmed that
gaze of hers. ‘She likes him,’ she thought dumbfounded, making a mental note to avoid her
entirely. Someone who had actually looked at a Dark Lord that way, as though they would give
anything in the world to kiss his feet, the hems of his robe, had to have something missing
mentally. ‘But can you blame her for her attraction?’ The biggest betrayal, a traitorous shock, had
come from her own mind as she thought back to her reflection after Voldemort had left her in the
bedroom, dealing with tremors and shakes from whatever he had done to her.

“My Lord,” a gravelly voice sounded from the end of the table, an eagerness to the tone that filled
Harri with trepidation, with an urge to run.

Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one who was surprised that he had spoken, several Death
Eaters around her going rigid at the interruption. The bearded man, the beast-like one, from earlier
had spoken, a fanatic look in his eyes as he stood from the table to tower over the seated wizards.
She noticed his leather trench coat was tattered and worn, his shirt ripped and stained as though he
were living in the wild and not a proper home. It was refreshing, in the most jarring of ways, to see
someone who hadn’t gotten so dressed up to be in Lord Voldemort’s presence and she found
herself bitterly wishing that, if he could show up looking like that, then why couldn’t she show up
in pants? He leaned forward placing clawed nails on the wood, dirty and sharply pointed, as he
fixed his fervid gaze to the head of the table.

“Might I request that you give the Potter girl to me? My pack has suffered in the last raid and more
members would help to strengthen it,” his gaze bounced to her, glinting as though he was already
visualising biting into her neck.

‘A werewolf,’ she thought in dim horror, mouth falling open slightly in shock as she turned in her
chair to stare unabashedly at the Dark Lord, ‘He has the werewolves on his side.’ Then it sunk in as
to what the feral looking wizard was asking, requesting, from his Lord, of what he wanted from
her-- a repulsed shudder coursed through her, bile in the back of her throat. Judging by the way
several members at the table had looks of disdain, of distaste, on their faces, it was clear she wasn’t
the only one to feel revolted. But it only appeared that 3 members truly felt horror for her, overly
concerned at the prospect. Narcissa had gone several shades too pale, Draco looked like he was
close to fainting and Snape suspiciously appeared not to be breathing. She wanted to assure them
that it was fine, that Voldemort wouldn’t dare turn her over, condemn her to that fate-- not when
she was his horcrux. Yet she held her tongue. Instead, her attention bounced back to the Dark Lord,
mildly concerned, and alarmed, that she could already identify the minuscule tells of his anger.
The way his jaw had ticked, his fingers twitching slightly, how stillness overcame him.

Crimson eyes fixed themselves on the werewolf, livid he had even dared to speak out of turn, dared
to even request such an outrageous thing-- dared to even look at his horcrux in that manner. Fury,
vengeful and bitter, started to rise in him at the image of Greyback touching even a single hair on
her head, attempting to lay claim to something that the feral pack leader could only dream of. The
fire in the mantle flickered dangerously, threatening to plunge the room into darkness, to unleash
the savage creature that found its home within the void. He tried to tell himself to calm down, that
no one knew, not yet, how much the girl had meant to him-- that it was only reasonable to request a
prisoner to turn, like the werewolves had done so many times in the past. But even so. Voldemort
rose from his chair, the ground quaking slightly under his anger, the cups on the table rattling in
his display of power, tone low and seething cold,

“Harri Potter belongs to me , Greyback. Do not presume, even for a second, you can touch her. The
next time you dare to even ask, I will see to it personally that your head ends up on a pike, and your
entrails are strung over the manor’s gates.”

He settled back into his chair, the fire resuming its steady flames and the quaking ceasing, content
at the way the werewolf had clamped his jaw shut and returned, hastily, to his seat. It abated his
wrath somewhat that he could make even the feared Greyback, the alpha of the wolves, bow to him
so easily. Voldemort steepled his fingers, levelling those before him with a look that demanded no
response, no retaliation.

“She is not to be touched.”

The glowing gaze, rage still simmering in their depths, an ember waiting to be stoked, landed on
one of the dark-haired twins by Bellatrix’s side. His words 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 raid of Hogwarts?”

Harri sat, tensed, her shoulders drawn up and her hands shaking in her lap. It was the first time that
his magic, that the show of power, of anger, hadn’t been directed at her and, from an observer’s
perspective, it was terrifying. It was heady, intoxicating, a darkness that sang to her but horrifying
nonetheless. The man, Rabastan, looked as though he was going to be ill. She couldn’t blame him.

“To leave Dumbledore to you and capture the girl unharmed, My Lord,” the identical twin furthest
from Bellatrix had echoed numbly, already aware of his fate and of what was to come.

A slow smile, wicked and cutting, spread across the aristocratic features of the Dark Lord. He
leaned back in his throne, as though relaxed and all was right with the world, wand twirling
passively in his grip, “Indeed. Your memory seems to be functioning rather well, Rabastan. So, tell
me, why was it that, when I finally acquired Harri Potter, she had a rather considerable burn mark
on her upper arm? Would you count that as being “unharmed”?”

The Lestrange brother had opened his mouth to explain, to apologise, to ensure he hadn’t done it on
purpose, when a dazzling red spell shot forth from the Dark Lord’s wand, an incantation not even
needed. Screams filled the echoing space of the dining parlour as the wizard dropped from his
chair, agony contorting his body in the throws of unrelenting torment. Harri stared in distress, in
blatant terror, as she saw, for the first time, a cruciatus curse being casted on a living human. The
way his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he convulsed on the floor, the gargling strangled
sound of his screams, the back arching to an inhuman degree, the sounds of sickening pops as his
body stretched itself to its limits. It was a thing of nightmares and she just knew it would haunt her
dreams, that image of his suffering would be superimposed behind her lids every time she closed
them. Her green eyes bounced wildly around the room, taking in the blank stares, at how casual
they all seemed that a man was being tortured just a few feet away from them. A pit formed in her
stomach, her body starting to shake in alarm, in sympathetic trauma, and she, vaguely, wondered if
she was going to be sick again.

Harri turned to beg with Voldemort to stop, the spell seemingly going on for ages, but words failed
her seeing his expression. His eyes were alight with a vicious glee, his mouth set into a determined
smirk, his wand not making any moves, any intentions, to end the spell. ‘He’s enjoying this,’ she
thought in panic, eyes snapping back to the suffering wizard whose nose had taken to bleeding. As
his head collided, sickeningly, with the marble, Harri jumped from her seat in hysteria, the chair
clattering to the ground in a deafening loudness. “Stop it!” she pleaded, desperate to make him end
the spell before the man would die, before he could hurt himself further in his vain attempts to
escape the pain that was, undoubtedly, searing his nerve endings. She wasn’t even entirely sure if
someone could die under the torture curse but, watching its effects on a human body, she had
ascertained it to be possible.

Several alarmed gazes, some of them aghast at her sudden outspoken protests, watched as she
rushed to the other side of the table, hesitantly crouching down with some difficulty in her dress
next to the twitching wizard. Her hands hovered uncertainly above his prone form, tears welling in
the corners of her eyes as she pleaded for Voldemort to end the spell, to stop the gruesome sight, to
stop the torture. She didn’t even care if his followers thought her weak for begging him, thought
her unable to handle the natural violence that came along with being in the Dark Lord’s inner
circle.

“Stop it, please! You’re killing him!”

Voldemort blinked slowly at her objections, at her distressed face, before flicking his wand down
and ending the spell. He watched as she knelt next to Rabastan, jealousy languidly pacing in the
back of his mind at her readiness to put her hands on another man. It was absurd, really. He was
getting her vengeance, her justice, her retribution, for the pain his follower had caused her, was
taking accountability for his disobedience. And yet, she dared to look at him like he was the
monster. He wondered, briefly, just how deeply her saviour complex ran and if all it took was
torturing a man before her to make her beg with him, to try to cajole him. A sharp laugh as he
shook his head in disbelief, an indulgent smile on his face.

“Oh Harri, dear naive sweet Harri,” he cocked his head to the side, amusement bleeding into his
voice as he trained his twisted glee on her. “What a tender heart you have. So willing, so ready, to
stand up even for those who have wished you harm. How very kind of you. ”

A few jeers in agreement and a few bursts of laughter broke out in their Lord’s assessment of the
Girl-Who-Lived’s character. She remained kneeling on the ground, helping the slowly recovering
wizard up to his feet, concern flooding her at his tremors. Voldemort watched her stay on the
marble floor, eyes glittering with a promise, with a predatory look, his wand hanging loosely in his
grip.

“Worry not, we will bleed that nasty little habit of yours out rather quickly. Who knows, we may
even just make a Death Eater out of you in the process.”

Harri took the proffered hand of Rabastan Lestrange as the dark-haired wizard helped her up on
unsteady feet, a calculating look in the depths of his coal eyes. He only sent her a minute nod of her
head before returning to his seat and she took it as his way of nonverbal gratitude for interfering on
his behalf.

“That brings us to our next order of business of the night,” Voldemort intoned, a keenness to his
voice that set her on edge.

A stack of papers suddenly appeared in front of the now unoccupied spot of Harri’s seat, crisp and
official-looking. She moved slowly towards them, body still trembling from witnessing such
violence, her dress not helping in hiding how unnerved she was. She decided it was best to remain
standing, not being able to bear being mocked again for her struggles to sit in such a constricting
outfit. Fingers, cold and unfeeling, picked up the first paper on top of the stack and she nearly fell
to the ground in shock, hand shooting out at the last second to grip the table’s edge to steady
herself. ‘This is what he was planning,’ she thought in horror, heart hammering. She could feel the
eyes upon her, the weight of them settling over her skin as her face paled.

“An Order of a Change in Guardianship,” she muttered in a breathless whisper, nausea overcoming
her as she tried to process what it meant.

Harri, in desperate confusion, looked to the Dark Lord for an explanation, for something to ground
her, to confirm she was reading this right and not imagining it.

He leaned back in his throne, smug and beyond satisfied with himself at his ingenious solution.
Political unrest was growing as small factions of Dumbledore’s most loyal tried to rally against him
and, while he had made an example out of Tiberius Ogden, more were sure to follow suit. But if he
used the Potter’s name, their distant lineage to the Peverell and Black lines, as a backing, it would
be harder to uproot his position as Sovereign. It was really killing two birds with one stone-- his
claims of legitimacy would be further solidified by an old family and he would show the entire
world, the entire Order, he had the Girl-Who-Lived, their last hope, tight in his grasp. Crimson eyes
greedily drank in her shock, her alarm, as he registered, in the background, his followers zealously
leaning forward in their spots to read the documents.

She shuffled through the pages of the file, rendered mute and unable to breathe. In it outlined
properties, estates, villas she didn’t even know she had, money and heirlooms in her vault that were
obscene in amount, her rights to seats on the council that Voldemort had disbanded. It was
dizzying, the world blurring and spinning as she thumbed through it all. And then she noticed, 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 free will to
him . And all until she turned 18, nonetheless. Harri finally found her voice, unsure and quiet as it
tried to recover from the little bomb he just decided to drop on her, at his intent to control her.

“You can’t do this,” she struggled to get out, mind in a daze and trying to find reason, an excuse,
“Sirius is my godfather. He’s my guardian.”

A sharp bark of laughter drew her attention as the witch with hooded eyes nearly doubled over.

“You,” she suddenly seethed, laughter giving rise to maniacal anger as she pushed her chair out
from her, “You would dare to say no to our Lord? Tell him what he can or can not do? To choose
my dirty, traitorous cousin over him?!”

She was nearly yelling at this point, looking ready to claw her eyes out and Harri watched her
warily. It appeared she had been right in hazarding a guess about the mental issues. Narcissa
suddenly appeared at the witch’s side, struggling to pull her sister away from the table, both stilling
when the Dark Lord idly raised a hand.

His attention was focused entirely on his horcrux, basking in her dismay, in her disbelief, taking
delight in that he had caught her off guard once again. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes shining
in pleasure at knowing he was about to shock her even further.

“You are quite wrong there, my dear. Sirius Black was never formally recognised as your
godfather nor guardian. He was one in name and one in name only, your parents never having the
chance to finalize 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 at Snape, a
smouldering look that made the potions master shrink back, “You need a new one appointed to
you.”

His words took a few seconds to process, eyes going wide and she was sure that she was going to
faint, that it was a miracle she hadn’t yet already. She 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, once again? Oh, I assure you, it is entirely possible and has already
happened, in fact,” he replied smugly, watching the struggle as clear as day on her face, the lost
look back in her eyes.

“You can’t make me,” she protested, tossing the papers down onto the table forcefully, seething at
the fact that he now wanted to fully control her, that he wanted even more from her.

Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, lips pulled back into a sneer at her refusal, apparently his
warnings from earlier going over her head once again.
“Don’t act like a child. Sign it, Harri,” he slipped into parseltongue, a quill flying up into her hand.
It was moments like these he wished he could cast the imperius on her, force her to obey without
having to deal with her resistance.

“No! You can’t force me, this isn’t fair!” Her ability to speak English was lost on her in her anger,
instinctively slipping into another tongue upon hearing his.

She barely registered the inward draws of breath, the awed stares, as she conversed in the sacred
language of their Lord. Harri realised, briefly, that they probably were not aware of her ‘secret
talent’ and she wondered if Voldemort would be upset that she had accidentally revealed it. ‘Well
screw him,’ she thought venomously. She threw the quill back down to the wooden table and
staggered a few steps away, determined to put distance between herself and the paper that
demanded she sign her life, her everything, away.

He rose from his throne, teeth bared in a snarl and wrath unfurling. The flames went back to
flickering dangerously, shadows growing in the corners of the room. She still dared to disobey him,
even after his kindness, after all of his warnings. The quill forcefully shot back into her hand, a
burst of his magic breaking free and pulling her back to the table, unrelenting pressure between her
shoulder blades that forced her to bend slightly.

“You will sign it,” he seethed, tone going cold in rage as his scarlet eyes pointedly moved to rest on
the wane face of Draco Malfoy, “Or do I need to give you some more motivation to do so?”

Her heart dropped to her stomach as she followed his gaze, at the way he was eyeing the Slytherin
boy with murderous intent. Guilt overrode her other emotions as she realised the position the boy
was being put in, the one who had helped her, who had been kind to her, the target on his back
simply because he was close to her. Her vow to protect him, Narcissa lovingly reminiscing about
his childhood, the way the matriarch had treated her so kindly, all it came rushing back in. Tears
blurred her vision as she stared at the boy’s terrified face, at how clueless he looked, at how
unaware of the danger he was truly in. The anticipating stares, the held breaths, the critical
assessments of the Death Eaters all fell away as she trained her eyes down to parchment, to the
blank line that mockingly stared up at her. The pressure between her shoulder blades increased and
she, shakily, dipped the quill into the inkwell. A drop had spilled from the nib, blooming greedily
across the paper, a lump in her throat as she debated how to get out of this, how to run. ‘There is no
escape,’ she thought dimly, squeezing her eyes shut and hastily signing her name. When she
opened them again, there it was, a messy scrawl of cursive right above the artistic flourish of
‘Marvolo Gaunt’, a sharp contrast that spoke of who was really in control.

She may not have had a Dark Mark like the rest of them, their proof of contract and fealty to their
Lord, but she still had bent her knee nonetheless. Harri Potter had just signed her life away to Devil
himself.
 Her Reckoning
Chapter 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! <3

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 <3 You guys have
inspired me to keep writing this fic and to keep going forward with my plot for it so
thank you!

Harri stared numbly down at the messy scrawl of her signature, a small part of her screaming,
begging to know why she had just given in, had handed him everything he desired. The quill began
to quiver and she realised, belatedly, as she watched the white plume dance, that her hands were
trembling. It was an unnerving feeling to know she had just traded another’s life for her own, that
she had just signed away her entire existence, her future, in hopes to spare a boy that she had only
recently gotten close to. ‘You knew that you were never going to escape him,’ a faithless voice
whispered in the back of her mind, heart stuttering at the thought, at how right it was. Yes, she
knew it, from the moment he held her in that constraining embrace in the forest, from the moment
that Hogwarts was burning and the Dark Mark glittered in the celestial heavens above. She was
never going to be able to leave, to escape. Tears burned stubbornly at the thought, her cursed name
forever immortalised on parchment, that single drop of ink blooming in bright corruption against
the paper. It was the damnation, the reckoning of Harri Potter.

“Well done, Harri,” he crooned in their shared language, his magic receding from the unrelenting
pressure between her shoulder blades and finally allowing the quill to drop from her grip.

Satisfaction and triumph were bright spots in his conscience as he felt the binding contract settle
heavily, densely, over his shoulders, his skin. It was done-- Harri Potter finally belonged to him in
all sense of the word, both physically, mentally, spiritually, and now legally. It was gratifying to
know that his little horcrux couldn’t run even if she wanted to. His eyes found themselves
wandering to the lightning scar hidden by the strands of her auburn hair, an obsessive thought
taking hold of how many times he had marked her as his own, had laid his claim to her, and how
many more times he would do so in the future.

Voldemort floated over to her shaking form, footsteps as silent as death itself, greedily drinking in
the horror in her downturned gaze, how those vivid green eyes began to shine wetly, how her chin
was starting to quiver. It appeared that she was finally having a revelation about her connection to
him and, while he, normally, would have welcomed it, knowing it was only a matter of time before
she had to fully accept the truth, he needed her to stay collected. The night was far from being done
after all. He slotted himself next to her, towering over her and drinking in her name above his.
‘She’ll have to work on her penmanship,’ he thought critically, her cursive dismal at best. A pale
hand, elegant and shapely, reached to grab hold of her much smaller one, ignoring the quiet gasp of
shock from Bellatrix in the corner.

Summoning forth the light of their bond, that pleasurable heat, the glowing buoyancy, he pushed it
insistently through to her skin, delighted when her shoulders stopped shivering and her eyes
seemed drier, "You have done wonderfully, Harri, but the night is far from over.”

Harri was vaguely aware that she should have felt horror, anger, alarm at the fact he was using that
strange power to influence her again, that she should reject him, pull away her hand from him in
protest. But she found herself unable to, helpless in the face of something so great and unknown to
her, only wanting to bask in it and forget her feelings of despair. Just for a second, that’s all she
needed. She watched, dimly, as his hand practically engulfed hers, overshadowing and dominating
the hold. ‘Fitting,’ she thought, the tone somehow lacking its usual bitterness in the throes of the
floating sensation.

Then as quickly as it started, it vanished from her system as he withdrew his touch from her. Her
surroundings came flooding back in. His court still remained in their seats, apprehensively
watching their interactions with a new light. Her gaze bounced around to them, the ones who had
met her eye holding a keenness, an awe, that made her heart drop to her stomach. Apparently,
revealing that you’re a secret parselmouth to a den full of Slytherins was enough for them to
change their tune. She decided then that she missed their earlier sneers, having found that
preferable to their looks of hungry, of greed.

“Pardon?” she finally asked in delayed confusion, grimacing at the fact that he had more planned,
that the main event had yet to come.

A razor smile, all teeth, and a hand shot out to hook around her waist, eagerness and anticipation
dancing brightly in his gaze, “You will see soon enough.”

The arm at her waist began to steer her insistently towards the doors, a rustling of chairs in the
background the only confirmation she had that his followers were in pursuit. Harri stumbled to
keep up with his long strides, the hold on her unwavering, uncompromising in its strength. A
headache began to form in the back of her mind, her mouth suddenly too dry, as he led them down
a darkened hallway, the wall’s sconces giving off far too little light. He was wearing a suit, she
noticed belatedly, a black ensemble with a matching robe over it, an identical medallion to the one
at her throat on his chest. For some reason, she knew what he was wearing wasn’t his typical,
casual affair and it made her knees go weak at what it might mean.

They finally paused outside of a grand set of oak doors, his followers behind him fanning out to
form a procession. Voldemort allowed his gaze to finally wander down to the girl in his grasp, her
quickened breaths making her ribcage expand erratically. She looked so small next to him, barely
reaching his shoulder, her face ashen and wane as though she were expecting something terrible to
occur. ‘She’s always thinking the worst, isn’t she?’ While the thought amused him, he also
recognised that it was partially his fault for fostering that kind of mentality.

His fingers clenched slightly, digging into the soft skin at the nip of her waist, making her nearly
jump out of her skin and turn her gaze up to him in alarm, in questioning. Though he would never
admit it aloud, it felt right to have her at his side, to have his hands on her waist, to feel the heat of
her seeping through the fabric of her dress. And how she looked up with those doe-like eyes,
confused and searching his for answers. Yes, this was precisely where his horcrux had belonged--
in his grasp and gaze only meant for him. It took a good portion of his self-control not to let the
hand at her waist wander further down, to pull her tighter to him.

Instead, he fixed her with a warning, his eyes holding a promise of what was to come if she didn’t
listen, didn’t obey.

“Behave,” a low whisper, watching, quite pleased, as she gave the slightest minute nod of her head,
a show of understanding.

The doors swung open and it was a crescendo of noise, an overwhelming display of flashing lights.
Harri felt frozen, adrift, only entering the room at the insistent pull on her waist, her feet reluctant
to move. There were cameras everywhere, voices rising above one another in a cacophony of
questions that she couldn’t even understand. Her eyes bounced wildly from reporter to reporter,
feeling blindsided by all directions as the bursts of lights blinded her, superimposed themselves
behind her lids. Her heart, at this point, she was sure was on the floor, her stomach tossing in
endlessly nauseating waves at the assault of voices, of mics being thrust into her face. Harri had
never liked dealing with the press or with the interviews, and she felt even more underprepared
than usual in a dress that did little to comfort her, to protect her. ‘Make it stop,’ a whisper begged
of her, headache sharpening agonizingly so at the harsh flares of the cameras, at the smell of rancid
gunpowder as they captured her moving image.

It occurred to her, as she took in their greed, their hunger for a new story, that they were here to get
photos of her next to Voldemort. To capture her betrayal to Sirius, to everyone she loved, to those
who all depended on her. A headline flashed in her mind, “Harri Potter, The Girl-Who-Lived
Defects to the Darkside”. Images of the crumpled faces of nameless strangers, of them bleeding out
in the streets with no one to save them, of her parents from beyond the grave devastated and
wondering if they had sacrificed their lives for nothing. Of Hermione being mauled by werewolves
on the steps of Hogwarts, of Ron seizing against the marble floor under a torture curse held for too
long. The press was here to capture her shame, immortalize her failure, record the day that their
champion, their Bringer of Peace, fell at the feet of the man she was born to vanquish. She felt sick,
with shame, with guilt, with horror, beyond ill and ready to retch. Images of the girl in the mirror,
the girl she didn’t recognise, came back to her and she realised that was who these outsiders were
seeing in the moment, who everyone in Wizarding Britain would undoubtedly look upon come the
morning post. They weren’t going to see Harri Potter-- they were going to see the monster, the
snake turned woman playing pretend, the image that Voldemort had cultivated just for this night.

She wrenched herself from his hold at her waist, curling into his shoulder and shielding herself
from the too eager, too fervid faces of the reporters before her. She couldn’t bring herself to care
that 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 so
she could wallow in what she had done, for her failures to be her own and only her own. Those
green eyes squeezed shut as her curled hands came up to rest, trembling, against his chest, burying
her head into his frame to hide herself from the too-prying looks.

“Make them stop,” she pleaded into the starched fabric of his collared shirt, a soft whisper in their
shared tongue, desperate to find some relief, some escape from the onslaught of flashes and
looping questions.

Surprise and then delight flooded through their bond but she only noticed it distantly. Self-loathing
occupied her at the fact that she was relying on him, the man who was the cause of this all, the
man who had ruined her time and time again, to help her. The smell of sweet smoke, of cinnamon,
of something sharp, refreshing, like the first frost of winter, filled her and, as much as she hated to
admit it, she felt slightly calmer, more grounded, breathing it in.

Voldemort studied the girl in surprise for a second, processing what had just happened. And then
delight, pleasure, elation at the fact she was leaning into him, begging him for assistance. His hand
rose to her waist to protectively slot her against himself, permitting a minute to revel at her
willingness to touch him, to clutch at him when frightened. He supposed it was partly because he
was standing next to her and that this was her first reaction. But nonetheless, it was him that she
had reached for. The Dark Lord stood there for a second, allowing the girl to grip at the front of his
shirt, allowing himself to feel her heartbeat against his own, the soft mound of her chest, his hands
idly tracing the dip of the waist and the beginning curve of the hip. A bright smile was aimed
towards the reporters, giving them a second to capture the image of the famous Harri Potter in his
arms. Then he dropped his hands before it could appear that he was a tad too friendly with her, that
she was something more than his newly appointed charge, his responsibility.

“My apologies everyone,” his posh accent drawled confidently, dazzling smile never once
dimming, “It appears that my new ward is just a touch camera shy.”

A round of friendly laughter, a few sympathetic clicks of tongues, came from the wall of bodies
before them. With the ever so slightest jerk of his chin, Narcissa darted forward from the
procession behind him.

Reluctantly, he pried his shell-shocked horcrux from her vice like grip on him, relinquishing her to
the mercies of Narcissa and hissing under his breath, tone holding a cutting edge, “Inform the
others to keep an eye on her.”

Harri dimly heard him reassuring the press that he would take any and all questions but she
drowned it out as Narcissa put a comforting arm over her shoulders, steering her away from the
curious onlookers of paparazzi. With shaky breaths, she tried to calm her heart, to regain her sense
of courage, her footing, to ease her headache. But as she was guided into the heart of the party, a
drink placed in her hand and the soft words coaxing for her to have some, all she could think was
that she suddenly felt cold, adrift, and unsure.

“Potter!”

She whirled around from staring into the fizzing glass of champagne, trying to recover her wits to
feel brave enough to leave Narcissa’s side. Draco had come bounding out of the crowd, pushing
aside reporters and party-goers alike to make his way over. Relief, cool and refreshing, washed
over her at the sight of the blond boy, his appearance a welcomed distraction.

“Draco,” she hadn’t even thought twice about throwing her arms about his shoulders, pulling him
down to her level in an embrace.

He felt different from the Dark Lord, his angles not as sharp, his height not as imposing, his chest
not as broad. The pureblood was everything Voldemort was not, boyish and good-natured, calming
and gentle. Tears pricked behind her closed lids, a lump in her throat at seeing he was unharmed,
that she had managed to spare him pain at the cost of her own expense.

An embarrassed cough made her drop her arms, a sheepish smile on her face for an apology as the
Malfoy heir straightened, face scarlet and tips of his ears burning. She was vaguely aware of
Narcissa’s keen gaze fixed on them, watching their interaction with an assessing glint. She felt
awkward by her sudden display of affection when his mother was lingering and, judging by his
weight shifting from foot to foot, he felt the same. Luckily, the matriarch seemed to understand as
she pointed with the flute of her champagne glass to her husband, an eyebrow quirked before
wandering off.

Draco watched his mother retreat, hearing her cautioning words though she hadn’t spoken them
aloud. The blush had died down, much to his relief, but as he dragged his gaze back to his
schoolmate, it threatened to rise up again. He cleared his throat, running his hands through his
slicked-back hair.

“It’s good to see you again, Potter. After Hogwarts I--well I just didn’t,” he fumbled for his words,
brows drawn together as his mind turned muddled.

“It’s good to see you too, Draco,” she finished for him, already guessing where his thoughts were
attempting to go and understanding his difficulty in voicing them.

After all, the last time they had seen each other, she was being hunted down by a vengeful Dark
Lord. She placed a light hand on his arm, sending him a small smile that assured him she
understood completely.

“So, you are the Dark Lord’s ward now?” He let out a bitter laugh, reaching over to grab a glass of
champagne and downing the fizzing liquid.

It burst brightly in his throat as he tried to wash out the taste of fear, of anxiety, of moroseness from
his mouth. He could never claim to be privy to his Lord’s mind, to be able to understand what went
on it, but he knew well enough that the redheaded witch’s life was not going to be an easy,
uncomplicated one. Plus, he had been there and while he, admittedly, found himself distracted
upon seeing her, he still saw the darkness in those red eyes. That ravenous hunger, that desire. The
Dark Lord was a man, just like any of them, having cravings and impulses and he would be a fool
not to be swayed by the beauty of Harri Potter. And that set Draco on edge more than anything
else, knowing he would be helpless to stop any of it. He took another glass off the tray and downed
it.

“Yeah, apparently so. Lucky me,” she mumbled with a matching level of spite, noticing the way
those around them were fixated by her, their stares assessing, critical.

She took her own sip of the golden liquid, the bubbles dancing across her tongue, “Be honest with
me, this dress? It’s stupid isn’t it? Everyone keeps looking.”

Tension drew up his shoulders at her question, pale eyes darting wildly around to see if anyone was
listening in, if the Dark Lord was hovering nearby and waiting to divine punishment if Draco was
too free with his thoughts. They retrained themselves on the girl, glued to her body as he was given
permission to freely take it all in. Admittedly, he never saw her wearing anything remotely close to
the dress and it was like a haze had been pulled over his rational thoughts. Their school uniforms
never revealed too much of their figures, though the skirts did allow for some leg to be shown, and
her casual outfits had always tended to be oversized, boyish and a bit too muggle.

But now? Now she was radiant, a goddess guarded by an insignia at her throat that acted as a
brand, as a ward to lesser men, that she couldn’t be touched. And it made him irrationally angry,
images of the Hufflepuff party coming back to him. How badly he wanted to gloat, to challenge his
Lord’s claim, to tell them all that she had kissed him first, that they had a bond born from days
spent in secret by the lake.

His eyes lingered briefly on the swell of her chest, at the hourglass of her hips, before looking back
up, tone even and serious, “You look divine, Harri.”

She blinked a few times before laughing at how serious he was, finding it easier to play it off as
him being kind rather than actually accepting the compliment. Then he had her hand in his, a
warmth that she didn’t even know her cold fingers were missing, as he jerked his head, claiming
that were people he wanted her to meet.
As it turned out, the people he wanted her to meet were ones she was, vaguely, familiar with.
Draco had led her over to a small group of teenagers, ones she recognised from the Slytherin table.
A silence fell over the huddled group when they had approached, hesitantly saying hello after a
beat of too long of quiet. She lingered for a few minutes, uncomfortable by how hesitant they
seemed to speak in her presence, their eyes, more than once, landing obsessively on the medallion
at her throat.

And of course she hadn’t missed the wizards scattered about the room, the ones she recognised
from the meeting, glancing over at her every so often. She moved and so would a random one,
trying to keep in her shadow, never letting her go free or go too far. It was beginning to make her
mind pace, an itch crawling in her chest, scraping the inside of her ribcage raw in irritation. It felt
too stifling, too crowded, the room too much and too little all at once. Harri sent Draco an
apologetic smile, claiming she needed air, before threading her way through the crowded parlour
and to the open french doors.

The air was biting, snowflakes lazily drifting down from the night sky as bright flecks of glowing
white, and Harri found herself shivering but not entirely minding it. After all, it was preferable to
the suffocating heat of the room, to the eyes that warmed her skin, to the looks of scheming as they
attempted to figure out who exactly she was, what her position was among their ranks. She cupped
her hands, letting snowflakes gather in them as they melted away into droplets on her skin. She
realised then that she hadn’t been outside since Hogwarts, since he told her to remember the stars.
A grim sense of foreboding passed through her at the memory, arms clutching about her torso to
fight off the chills stemming not entirely from the winter’s wind. The hem of her dress dragged
along the cobblestone paths, the main balcony areas seemingly having been cleared off earlier but
were now sporting an accumulating dusting of white.

A burst of laughter from inside had her warily looking back towards the warm glow of the Manor,
the briefest thought to run crossing her mind. Voldemort had disappeared, no doubt to deal with the
reporters he invited, and, as far as she could tell, none of his spies had noticed she left. And Zivvy--
the creature had yet to return so, perhaps, it hadn’t been able to find Sirius. ‘I have to tell him first,’
a snippet of a thought echoed, quite random in its insistence. But when she thought of her
godfather, his always smiling face, hearing the news from a paper that he had lost another part of
his dear friends, that he had failed to protect his goddaughter, it did something terrible to her heart.
The sorrow, the desperation, squeezed so tightly around it, constricting its beating to a dull thud.
She couldn’t bear for him to think that she abandoned him willingly, in spite of him doing the same
to her on several occasions. Maybe she could convince Voldemort to let her speak to him? To
explain why she had signed her name so he wouldn’t have to read about it in some heartless report?

The crunch of something heavy walking through the snow brought her out of her melancholic
reverie and she looked up, mildly alarmed, at the towering beast-like man from the dining room.
‘Greyback,’ her mind supplied, her eyes narrowing that it was apparently his turn to guard her now.
Faint warning bells began to go off though as she tried to recall when she last saw him, that he
hadn’t been in the party before this moment. She uncurled her arms from her torso and straightened
her spine, trying to look calm, collected, not at all alarmed at the thought.

“Ah, there you are, little pup,” yellowed teeth flashed as sauntered over to her, clawed hands
crudely stuffed into the pockets of the torn pants, grey eyes catching the moonlight, “I’ve been
looking everywhere for you.”

She eyed him in trepidation, recalling his words from the meeting, his begging for her to be given
over to him. Her instincts were screaming to be careful, to not take her eyes off of him, that he
wasn’t like the other Death Eaters, that he seemed more dangerous. Harri bit her tongue, refusing
to rise to the bait, to ask why he had been searching for her, to show any response at all.

“You know, I think you’d like being a wolf,” he paused a few inches from her, an impatience in his
gaze at the lack of her response. The glowing defiance in those unflinching green eyes made him
smirk, animalistic urges itching to break that spirit.

In a way, he could understand why his Lord seemed so taken with her, had looked at her the way
he did when she entered the room, “Your spine is wasted on being just a witch.”

Greyback leaned down to crowd her space, taking demented glee in the fact that she had gone
rigid, his face inches from her own. “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 though. I’ve never been really good at handling virgins.”

A mortified, outraged blush spread across Harri’s face and, for the millionth time since arriving at
Malfoy Manor, she wished for a wand to show him how ‘gentle’ she could be. Something dark,
twisted, unfurled in her, urged on by embarrassment, and she thought, vindictively, that maybe she
wouldn’t entirely mind if Voldemort got his hands on this one. She had opened her mouth to retort,
to threaten him, to call him vile and repulsive for even suggesting it when someone interrupted
her.

“And here I thought that dogs were supposed to be good at obeying.”

Harri turned halfway on the spot to see Fake-Moody strolling towards them in the snow, posture
relaxed but a wildness in his hazel eyes that made her believe he wouldn’t think twice about
striking someone down.

“Go find someone else to stick your cock in, Greyback. Or have you already forgotten our Lord’s
orders? Because, if so, I can gladly call him if you need a refresher,” the younger man sneered,
tilting his head over his shoulder towards the ruckus of the party.

The werewolf snarled, conflict warring across his features as though he were debating about
risking it all and fighting his fellow Death Eater. In the end, however, he ended up growling in
frustration, spitting onto the ground and roughly shoving the wizard on his way past.

“Lovely chap,” the wizard grimaced, rolling his shoulder experimentally and flinching at the
tenderness, “Always such a delight.”

Harri blinked at him, taking in his tailored clothes and, admittedly, handsome face. He didn’t look
anything at all like the grisly professor she had spent time with and it set her on edge. After all,
how long had he pretended to be Mad-eye? And did she even ever get to meet the real auror? She
slowly made her way towards him, regarding him in suspicion, in tentative puzzlement.

“Thank you, Professor Moody, ” her words were reluctant, finding it difficult to thank one Death
Eater for chasing off another. Emphasis was put on his fake name as her eyes narrowed, strolling
past him and noting as he followed in suit. Who knows, maybe she had traded Greyback’s
company for someone far worse?

A sharp laugh was her answer, his head thrown back in maniacal delight, “Right, I haven’t properly
introduced myself, have I Potter?”

In a theatrical bow, swept low and arms spread wide, he set her with an equally crazed looking
grin, “Bartemius Crouch Jr., at your service. Though, frankly, I’ve just been going by Barty these
days. Daddy issues, you know?”

She stared at him, coming to the disturbing realization that the dark-haired witch who had
screamed at her, who apparently held a flame of adoration for the Dark Lord, wasn’t the only
Death Eater not of sound mind. ‘Merlin help me,’ she thought in desperation at the idea she was
not only in the snake’s pit but in a lair full of deranged ones at that, “So, Barty , I have to ask. How
long were you Moody for?”

They had taken to walking back towards the glow of the Manor, the snow picking up in exorbitant
amounts and the wind growing fiercer. Harri watched him from the corner of her eye, the way his
gaze darted rapidly from snowflake to snowflake.

“A little over a year, actually. Since the start of your 5th,” he responded distantly, head tilting to
one side as a particularly loud wave of laughter floated out from the french doors.

Harri stopped in her tracks to look at him in thinly-veiled horror, it suddenly all clicking 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 defensively, finding an odd sense of amusement in her anger, in her
accusations, “Guilty as charged on all accounts. You really do hold grudges, don’t you Potter?”

She felt like screaming, like slapping him, like bashing his head in with a rock. He had ruined her
year, made her participate in a competition designed to maim and torture, had made it so the Dark
Lord could be reborn into existence. And yet, he was so nonchalant about it all, apparently finding
no issue with it and even accusing her of holding a vendetta against him. The headache was back
with a viciousness, with a spite, and she massaged her temples in a vain effort to chase it away.
Even though she wanted to be mad, to yell and exact justice, to make him regret ever deceiving her,
she found it hard to summon the energy to do so. In a twisted way, he had been a good professor to
her, had helped her, even if it was for his gain, had given her invaluable information. And the
tournament seemed so distant at this point, so far in the past, that she wasn’t even sure if it truly
mattered anyway. It was part of her old life, a life she could never return to, and thinking back on it
only filled her with desperation, with longing.

With a shaky, uneven sigh, she trained her attention to the manor and settled for asking in a quiet
voice, muted and dim in comparison to the joy coming from the open doors of the veranda, “Why
did he throw a party tonight?”

She had nearly expected him to laugh, to act deranged, to do something that showed he wasn’t in
the right frame of mind but he hadn’t.

Instead, the Death Eater at her side went silent, his own gaze following her direction, and Harri
was unnerved by his sudden moment of sanity, “I had you in my class for almost two years, Potter.
You’re a smart girl, I know you are. So you tell me.”

A ghost of a chill, goosebumps prickling her skin under long sleeves. She already had guessed the
answer, had figured it out when the reporters showed up. It was just that a small part of her was
hoping to be wrong, to be verbally corrected, that he had just thrown it together to make her feel
uncomfortable. A naive part of her thought that maybe, just maybe, this was what life was like in
the Death Eater inner circle-- meetings, torture, and soirees.

But she was wrong, the wizard at her side had just confirmed it. Voldemort needed her to be seen
tonight, to be observed in his arms and at his side, to be having fun amongst his most faithful and
smiling for the cameras. She thought that, maybe, he had been reluctant to tell the world about
having Harri Potter in his clutches, that he didn’t want to cause a rebellion, not yet. Snape had
certainly made it seem that way, that he was waiting for something else, for the right time. And
yet, once again, her naivety had stopped herself from seeing the full picture. He wanted the Order
to know that he had her, to force them into action, out of hiding, to eradicate them once they dared
to make a move. Because, next to Dumbledore, she was their most important piece, their hidden
card, their Queen. And without their King on the board, missing for whatever reason, they needed
her back.

This was his challenge to them, a chance to see the might of the Order of the Phoenix, “He’s trying
to flush them out.”

A beat of silence and her suspicions were confirmed.

“Come on, Potter,” he reached for her shoulder, pushing her unmoving feet into action and back
towards the house, “He’s summoning you.”
 Ballrooms and Waltzes
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! This chapter is up a tad bit later than usual because I ended up doing
some heavy revision for it.

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! <3

I hope you guys enjoy!

Much to her dismay, and to her reluctance, Harri was ushered back inside to the party by her old
professor. The air seemed twice as stifling now, an itching across her skin and sharp pin pricks in
the numbness of her fingers, as she slowly started to warm up from the minutes spent in the snow.
And not for the first time since she was dragged to this hellish soiree did she find herself wishing
for it to be over, to go back to the quiet of the bedroom, to get out of this dress and to wallow by
processing everything that had happened over the span of a few hours. Instead, however, she was
led through the crowd, threading and weaving past the mass of bodies dressed in ostentatious
finery to a raised dais. Her gaze lifted itself from the ground and up past the steps, the white marble
obscured by a runner of emerald velvet fabric. At its peak, a high backed chair was displayed for all
to see. ‘More like a throne,’ she thought idly, taking in the height of it, the ornately carved snakes
twisting in the dark wood, the intricate scrolls for the arm rests. It was massive, occupying up a
good deal of the plateaued space and she wondered, briefly, how she had even missed it upon
walking in.

Begrudgingly, it was impressive, a testament to the power of whoever occupied its seat, to their
control and absolute authority over the room. And, of course, there was only one person who could
fill the throne’s grandness, who could look so at home, so comfortable, in something so
excessively luxurious, so pretentious. Seated there, legs crossed and posture relaxed in a natural
grace, red eyes boring into her, was none other than the Dark Lord. A casual motion, a wave of his
open hand, and the Death Eater at her back was pushing her up the stairs, her feet heavy and
disinclined to move. Vaguely, Harri registered the fixated stares as she made her way up onto the
dais, their weight making the hair on the back of her neck rise as she was, once again, unwillingly
pushed into the spotlight. There were a few other wizards, she noticed, scattered about the platform
and hovering a respectable distance from the throne. A few she had recognised, Lucius and
Narcissa Malfoy for one, the dark-haired witch she still hadn’t learnt the name of, the identical
brothers and- ah, Snape. The breath she had been holding left her shakily at the sight of the sour-
faced potions master, his familiar pinched expression giving her the vaguest sense of reassurance.

“Ah, there you are Harri. I was beginning to wonder where you disappeared off to.”
An unbidden shiver passed through her at his choice of words, the very same ones that he had
spoken in the graveyard. Somehow, she had found them just as foreboding as they were back then,
when he was trying to kill her, to vanquish her, amongst the tombstones just moments after his
rebirth. Harri found herself determinedly dodging his gaze, eyes finding purchase on everything
else but him, a small nod the only form of a response she could give. Green eyes desperately clung
to the cloaked figure of Snape, trying to discern any tells in his impassive coal stare, in the recessed
frown lines at the corners of his mouth, in his rigid posture.

Standing this high above the crowd made the voices below even more distant, even more blurred
together. It unnerved her. She decided then that she hated towering over them, being this
vulnerable, being put into a position where they could casually observe her at their own
inclinations. Irritation, sharp annoyance, coloured the connection of their bond, forcing her to drag
her pleading eyes off of Snape and back to the Devil on his throne. He had a tight smile plastered
on his features, one that did little to offset the dark displeasure in his eyes, a pale finger incessantly
tapping on the delicately carved armrest.

‘She did it again,’ his thoughts were dyed richly with impatience, astonished that she had the gall to
not even look at him or acknowledge that he had spoken. Voldemort had traced her gaze to where it
had landed on Severus and his mind started to turn with the vaguest plans of how to separate the
two. Though the man had proven himself, his loyalty, countless times, there was still a voice
cautioning him about putting too much weight into the potions master. And the fact that his little
horcrux had apparently felt something of a kinship towards him made his teeth grind. With no
qualms or reservations about doing so, the Dark Lord pushed his disapproval, his discontent,
forcefully through the open gates of their link, making sure she could feel it. Slightly sated when
those emerald eyes were trained back to him, he gestured towards the backless cushioned chair
beside his throne, slightly lower to the ground and not as ornate as his own.

“Sit,” he instructed firmly, tracking her movements as she, with minor difficulty due to the
tightness of her dress, took the place at his side.

Voldemort busied himself with scanning the crowd of his followers, his acolytes, below on the
main floor and finding himself content with the fact that they all seemed fixated on the redheaded
witch beside him. It pleased him at how their eyes would shift to the dais during their
conversations, trying to be subtle in discussing what the famous Girl-Who-Lived was doing here in
the first place. ‘Good,’ he thought, finding the recent development amiable, ‘Let them see. Let
them all play witness to Harri Potter sitting at my side.’ It was precisely what needed to be done--
to show his hounds that she was not to be touched, that he had claimed her and given her an honour
most could only dream of. He finally allowed his eyes to shift towards her from his periphery,
noticing how she seemed tense, rigid, unsure, her shoulders drawn up and her spine painfully
straight.

“Drink,” his command was simple enough as he summoned over a floating tray to her, a flute of
champagne balancing on it.

She seemed hesitant to take it but he willed his magic out in encouragement, her slight jolt a
physical indication that she could feel him. Satisfied when her hand tentatively wrapped around the
glass’s stem, he banished the tray and watched in obsession, in predatory rapture, when she raised
the rim to her painted rosebud mouth. When she took a small sip, he tracked the movement of her
throat, the way it had bobbed, the pale column exposed before forcing his attention back to the
crowd.

Harri tried to understand why he had called her, had made her sit next to him in silence, why he
seemed intent on embarrassing her even further by placing her in everyone’s purview. But, as with
all things he did, it was underhanded and with a disguised agenda. Her throat constricted at the fact
that he was gloating by making her come up onto the platform, that he was making sure everyone
had an equal chance to drink her in, could testify to her presence among them. The flute tipped
back and the bubbles danced across her tongue, a pleasant fizz and a radiating warmth that
distracted her. She had taken to eyeing the Death Eaters scattered about the stage, how most of
them were content to converse with one another. One of the black haired twins, she realised, had a
mole under his left eye and she had determined that one to be Rabastan. He looked mostly
recovered, thankfulness flooded her at the thought, though he still seemed hesitant to move too
quickly. More than once, he had caught her eye but had yet to approach nor give any indication
that acknowledged her. ‘Love the gratitude,’ she thought sarcastically, taking another sip from her
glass.

A movement of black and she recognised, from the corner of her eye, that the witch with wild curls
had moved towards the Dark Lord. Harri blinked a few times in mild shock, trying to comprehend
how revealing the woman’s outfit truly was. An indecent amount of cleavage exposing a sizable
chest, a slit in the side that went up to an obscene height on her leg, the figure that looked as
though it had invented the term hourglass. She couldn’t help the mortified blush at the witch’s
boldness, at her confidence to even wear such a thing out in public. The Death Eater had leaned
down suggestively, a tad too close in her opinion, the dark painted sultry mouth quirking, her chest
pushed out in a purposeful manner, eyes dancing with glee, with lust.

‘And he’s just eating up,’ she thought venomously, trying not to dwell on the fact that she may
have been slightly jealous. Whatever the witch had whispered in his ear had left the Dark Lord
with a wide smile, teeth gleaming and sharp, his head thrown slightly back in genuine, low
laughter. The woman soon joined in, placing a hand with sharply pointed nails on his chest and
tracing idle circles. Darkness, bitterness, blossomed unwillingly in her as she downed the flute in
her hand, replacing it with another full one from a passing tray. ‘Apparently, he won’t talk to me
but he has time for flirting? That’s rich.’ Harri didn’t quite understand where this resentment, this
spark of envy, had come from but she allowed herself to feel it nonetheless. After all, he had
dragged her inside, put her on a pedestal next to him, and for what? To make her sit in silence, to
not converse with her but openly flirt with a witch who was obviously looking for something far
less harmless than a smile and an indulgent laugh. A stubborn voice suggested that, perhaps, it was
more than being simply upset at being ignored, that maybe she was annoyed with the fact that he
was letting his eyes wander after they had been glued to her all night, that she was irritated by his
attention drifting. Harri stamped it down, resolutely ignoring it.

Voldemort, briefly, slid his glance over to his horcrux, noting her pursued mouth, her gaze set
firmly ahead, the tightness of her fingers around the glass’s stem. And oh, how he could feel it in
their connection, in their link. She was jealous , of all things, miffed that he was talking to
Bellatrix, laughing alongside his follower, and not her. He would be lying if he said that it hadn’t
thrilled him, had urged him on to laugh just slightly louder to stoke that flame. After all, he had
witnessed her embrace with the Malfoy boy, had seen the way she let him openly leer at her, had
been so carefree and loose with her smiles, with her touches, with her girlish giggles. It was perfect
retribution, karma at its finest.

“My Lord,” he turned his attention from Bellatrix to Barty hovering on the steps in a bow of
reverence, “A Rita Skeeter is requesting an audience with you.”

With a wave of his hand, he sent the dark-haired witch scurrying back to the corner, giving the
slightest nod of his head in agreement. He could feel the tension come back into his horcrux, the
jealousy falling to a wave of sudden vitriol, of hostility. ‘Interesting,’ were his distant thoughts as a
blonde sauntered up the steps, bejeweled cat eye glasses catching the light and lime green suit
clashing with her scarlet lipstick.

“Your Majesty,” she simpered, dipping into a low bow before straightening with a saccharine smile
plastered on her painted lips. “Allow me to express my deepest gratitude towards you for allowing
me an inclusive. This will surely thrill our readers over at the Daily Prophet.”

Voldemort flashed her a charming smile, motioning for her to come closer. His eyes danced with
keenness, his tone friendly and holding a note to it, as though he and the reporter were old friends
sharing a secret, “I’m happy to oblige you, Miss Skeeter. You always do such a commendable job,
after all.”

Harri eyed the blond witch with thinly hidden resentment, remembering all too well her coverage
at the Triwizard Tournament. How she had twisted the truth, how she had painted it all to be
Harri’s fault, made it appear as though she were an unstable, reckless child looking for glory and
not content with the fame she already had. Her knuckles bled white from the pressure in which she
held her glass, angrily tipping back it and draining the alcohol down her throat as that damned
quick-notes quill poised itself above the floating notebook. If a human could puff up their chest
and preen themselves like a bird, she was undoubtedly sure that Rita would be doing just that at the
moment.

The reporter reached up to primly bounce one of her blonde curls, a self-satisfied smile pulling
back her red lips even wider as she tittered in pride.

“Oh come now, you flatter me,” she leaned forward eagerly, holding a small mic between her
hands, “Now tell us, what made you decide to take in the famous Harri Potter under your wing?”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers and putting on a rather believable show as
if he were puzzling out an answer. A mask settled over his features, his eyes going unfocused for a
second, a slight frown and furrowed brows. Of course, he knew his response, he was prepared for
it, the emotions he forced upon his face just the steps he needed to go through to sell it.

When he spoke, it was slow, hesitant, grim, as though he didn’t take immense delight in the fact
that he had finally acquired the Girl-Who-Lived, “As you are aware, Albus Dumbledore had been
originally appointed as Harri Potter’s guardian. However, in light of recent circumstances, he is
unable to fulfill 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 towards for guidance.
Seeing as how important she is to the wizarding community, it only felt right that I, the
representative for all magical citizens in Britain, take her into my care.”

The quill scribbled furiously as he spoke, the pages filling up. Rita clicked her tongue in false
sympathy, her own eyes misting over as though the plight of Harri Potter were her own. When she
spoke, her words were honeyed, cloying, sickly sweet, “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 that he was even able to perform his duties as her guardian in the first
place.”

Harri blinked owlishly at that, her spite towards the witch forgotten in the face of her words. ‘What
information,’ she wondered in alarm, spine straightening as worry shone bright in her gaze. She
ignored the way that Voldemort had glanced over at her in warning, trying to catch her eye before
she could speak, cautioning her not to open her mouth.

She did so anyways, “What do you mean by “recent information”?”

Rita turned to stare at her, electric blue eyes glittering hungrily behind her jewel-encrusted glasses.
It was an unexpected addition to her article, to have some words directly from the esteemed Harri
Potter, but one she welcomed nonetheless, “Why, my dear, the fact that he was an alcoholic and of
unsound mind.”

A chill ghosted through her at the false information, shocked that such libel was even being
spouted in the first place. And, despite everything he had done, despite all that he had kept from
her, despite his attempts to kill her, Harri still felt a shred of loyalty towards the ex-headmaster. A
certain degree of fondness still prevalent in her for the old memories she had of him at her bedside,
laughing at the disgusting flavours of Bertie Botts and firmly tucking her in.

“That’s a lie. He never drank. And he most certainly wasn’t crazy!”

The reporter rounded on her, her quill writing faster than the girl could speak. In her previous
experiences with the redheaded witch, her temper was as fiery as her hair and it always added an
extra flair to the articles.

“Oh you poor, poor, sweet girl. In such denial,” she quickly looked to the man on the throne,
clicking her tongue and adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Trauma residual from abusive guardians
can do that, especially to children.”

His eyebrow twitched slightly at his horcrux’s outburst, at the way she was so adamantly
defending Dumbledore. In a way, he shouldn’t have been surprised-- she had always been a fiercely
loyal little thing, even to those who had wished her harm. Voldemort’s hands tightened around the
armrest, his gaze darkening at how quickly things were derailing in the interview. He attempted to
communicate through their bond his displeasure, his wishes for her to just sit there and be silent,
but it apparently only just fuelled the fire in her further.

“I’m not a child,” she seethed from her spot on the velvet bench, a rising darkness threatening to
claw its way up her throat, vision dimming on the edges of her periphery.

“But of course, dear. Tell me though, how do you really feel? After all, with the death of your
parents, you very nearly ended up in the hands of the one suspected of leaking their whereabouts to
You-Know-Who. And then to have to deal with something so ghastly as a suicidal alcoholic! At
such a young age at that, too. Why I couldn’t even imagine, ” Skeeter goaded her, the mic floating
persistently in the younger witch’s face, far too delighted in the anger burning in those green eyes,
at the reactions she was getting.

Harri’s shoulders began to tremble, a sharp taste flooding her mouth at the fact that the reporter had
even dared to drag Sirius into this. Even if he wasn’t truly her godfather, he was still her family, her
tie to parents she would never know, her everything. The rational side urged her to calm down, that
Skeeter was purposefully antagonizing her, was just attempting to get a rise out of her. But she just
couldn’t bring herself to care. All she knew was that she wanted to make the blonde witch hurt for
her lies, for slandering the memories of those she held dear.

“He was found innocent of those charges,” she bit out through gritted teeth, struggling for
composure.

“Oh yes, I am well aware of that. But wasn’t that only due to a lack of circumstantial evidence?
After all, considering his violent past record, as well as his family connections, it is entirely within
the realm of possibility that he was an avid follower of the Dark Lord and was able to clean up his
tracks,” Rita suggested slyly, attempting to commit the girl’s outraged face to memory, wishing she
had brought a camera.
Anger, cold fury, washed through her as her magic began to bubble under the surface of her skin,
itching, begging for release, for vengeance to be sought against those insulting Sirius’s loyalty to
her parents. Especially so considering their true killer was sitting next to her, that his real followers
were in this very room, a mere few feet away. She tried to calm herself, to listen to the sharp sting
of a warning that was colouring their bond, to remind herself that she was supposed to behave and
not do anything that could upset the Dark Lord. ‘Screw it,’ she thought in hostility, ‘Screw him,
screw her, screw it all.’ The flute in her hand began to quiver dangerously, vibrating with a tell of
what was to come. Those green eyes narrowed and focussed solely on the smiling, simpering
reporter in front of her, how she had the nerve to look to the Dark Lord, to not even recognise Harri
as a threat or concern.

“Harri,” Voldemort warned lowly, dangerously soft, a whisper meant only for her ears.

His stare was fixed on her, on the tremors racking her slight frame, on the savage violence in her
glowing eyes, the ticked muscle of her jaw. Her magic was almost palpable to him, a headiness in
the swirls of darkness, at the allure of it, a signature so close to his very own. And while he might
have encouraged it in any other situation, her bloodthirsty need for revenge, it wouldn’t do to direct
it towards a member of the press. Not now, at least.

The champagne flutes on the dais shattered, a cacophony of sharp cracks as they failed to
withstand her rising fury, forced to crumble under her will, to disintegrate in the face of something
so wild and unrestrained. Rita gave a shriek of surprise as the shards fell at her feet, the golden
liquid coating the floor, the wizards, her own dress. Harri barely heard the gasps of surprise and
disgust from the Death Eaters in the background, barely felt the intent stares from those on the
main floor looking up at the commotion. All she felt was the quickly dying wave of anger as a
hand, heavy and vice-like, landed on her shoulder, squeezing in disapproval. She glanced up to
meet crimson eyes, alight with exasperation.

“My apologies, Rita,” Voldemort began slowly, not once breaking eye contact with Harri as he
addressed the blonde witch.

She flinched under his stare, under the weight of his grip on her shoulder, being the first to look
away in mortification at losing her temper, “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, I intend on correcting any and all of her ill-
mannered behaviours .”

Harri opened her mouth with a stinging retort, to claim that the reporter had deserved it, that it
wasn’t her fault that, no, she wasn’t ‘ill-mannered’ and that she didn’t appreciate being talked
about as though she were a pet that needed to be housebroken. The fingers dug into the soft spot
between the shallows of her collarbone and she winced, wisely deciding it wasn’t worth incurring
his wrath further. With a wave of his hand, the shattered glass disappeared and the stickiness from
the champagne, the nauseatingly sweet bite of the scent of alcohol, vanished from their clothes.

Rita had, wisely, chosen to retreat after being dismissed by Voldemort, apparently unnerved by
both Harri’s sudden burst of magic and by the look in his eyes that warned her to think twice about
what she put in her article. The party had reluctantly resumed and was back to its lull of white noise
and endless chatter, an orchestra of strings playing from an unknown spot down below. The dais
was near silent, apparently even his Death Eaters understanding that it was best to remain still,
remain quiet, when his mood turned foul. As she watched the masses below begin to dance, Harri
had found herself almost wishing for that dark-haired witch in the revealing outfit to come back, if
not to put him in a better mood so he would forget her little slip-up.
She caught a blur of black as he had suddenly risen from his throne, towering above her with an
unreadable look in his crimson eyes. He extended a hand to her, pale and elegantly shaped, and
Harri figured it was more of a command rather than an invitation. She placed hers in his, using the
steadiness of it to help herself up, his fingers curling in to encircle hers.

“Come,” he led her to the steps, her feet unsteady as he pulled her closer and down onto the
ballroom floor.

Instead of guiding them out of the parlour and the party, as she had expected, Voldemort crossed
into the heart of the action, the crowd parting for him as water does for oil. The song had ended,
the dancers resetting their positions, and the Dark Lord steered her towards an empty spot on the
shining golden floor. Confusion, wariness, trepidation overwhelmed her as his free hand returned
to its earlier spot on the small nip of her waist, insistently slotting her against him and closing the
empty space between their bodies. Harri blinked, mildly taken aback by his sudden contact, having
half the mind to step out of his hold if it wasn’t for its unrelenting strength.

“What are you doing?” she questioned, dumbfounded as the other partners on the floor shot them
careful and attentive looks.

An eyebrow quirked, a smirk tugging on his plush mouth, his hand giving an experimental squeeze
around her own, “Dancing, of course. It is a party after all, Harri.”

She opened her mouth to protest that she couldn’t dance to save her life, eager to escape the
ballroom floor, to avoid the humiliation he was about to put her through, but the swell of a waltz
abruptly began. In a sudden motion, he jerked them into moving and she had no choice but to
comply. Her hand rose to place itself on his shoulder, to steady herself as her feet stumbled to keep
up with his pace. An uninvited thought came to her mind that he was pulling her along as a puppet
master would to his marionette, leading her to feel vaguely ill at the notion.

The fingers at her waist curled possessively into her skin as he focused his gaze down at her, at the
fragile girl in his arms, so small, so petite compared to him. She was busy staring at his chest as he
guided them along to the proper steps, her weight almost nonexistent in his hold-- almost too easy
to position. ‘How easy it would be to break her,’ an idle thought came to mind, a sudden awareness
of how delicate her hands were in his, how fine the fingers, how thin the wrists. Voldemort
supposed he should be angry with her for the little outburst, for the little stunt she had pulled, but
he found himself unable to. After all, he should have foreseen Rita goading her, she was well
known for that irksome habit. Plus, his horcrux had shown a further aptitude for wandless magic
and it was hard to reprimand in the face of such potential.

“I’m not angry,” he murmured softly, pulling her sharply to the left in a spin. Her dancing skills
were truly dismal and he, mentally, added it to the list of things she would need to be taught.

The green-eyed girl finally let her gaze wander upwards from staring intently at the ouroboros
medallion. ‘It’s truly unfair,’ she noted morosely as she stared up into his face, into its perfection.
The aristocratic cheekbones, the definition of his jawline, the full velvet mouth. His dark lashes
framing almond eyes with different hues of red swirling in them, the persistent wave of a curl
falling just shy above shapely brows. He truly was a creature of beauty and when he spoke softly,
when he held her so tightly, it made her remember her obsession, her yearning for him in her
second year. It sometimes was too easy to forget his true nature, his violence, his cruelty when he
seemed so human at times. She would forever curse the day that Lord Voldemort regained Tom
Riddle’s face, bringing the memory of him back from the dead.

“You’re not?” Her tone was hesitant, as if he were lying and was ready to strike someone down in
front of her.
When he flashed her a smirk, the left side tugging slightly higher than the right, and pulling her
into a playful spin, she decided that he was in a good enough mood to, hopefully, answer some of
her questions. It hadn’t escaped her, however, that the hand at her waist was drifting lower and she
became hyper-aware of its heat as it trailed along the beginning curve of her hip.

“Are you sure that it’s appropriate to be dancing with me like this? Considering that you’re now
my guardian?” she questioned, tone pointed as her gaze bounced to some of the reporters lingering
around the room’s edges. Truthfully, she was just looking for a reason for him to stop touching her,
to stop distracting her.

He laughed indulgently at her accusation, shaking his head in disbelief at how naive she still was.
A taunting gleam entered his eyes, his smirk growing into a fully blown cheshire grin, “It’s just a
dance, Harri.”

Voldemort suddenly yanked her closer to him, the hand at her back pushing her even further into
him, slotting their bodies together in direct opposition to his words. He distantly registered the soft
press of her chest against his, the heartbeat irregularly pounding through her dress, her expression
of disorientation.

“Besides,” he bent down close to whisper, as though letting her in on a conspiracy, the biggest
secret. “They will not write what I do not want them to. Every press article is screened before
publication, either by myself or by Nott.”

Cold dread settled in her stomach and Harri found herself faced with the strangest urge to laugh at
the absurdity of it all. Of course he would control the press, why wouldn’t he? After all, it
wouldn’t do to have some unsavoury articles floating about. ‘The things I could tell them’ she
thought spitefully as he turned them to the right. Maybe it was because she had one too many
glasses of champagne that evening or perhaps it was his reassurance that he wasn’t feeling
antagonistic towards her in the moment but Harri suddenly felt brave, her tongue a touch too loose,
her thoughts a tad too free considering whose arms she was in.

“So, what the hell am I supposed to even call you now? Dad? Father? Your Majesty? My Lord?”

It was hard to ignore his reactions. The fingers at her waist suddenly digging forcefully into the
softness of her, the hand holding hers twitching at the words, the tension in his jaw, in the lines of
his body. How those red eyes suddenly seemed black, desirous, as though he were imagining her
willingly bending her knee and addressing him in reverence. Harri swallowed thickly, having the
faintest idea that she had opened the cage unwillingly to a monster lurking within.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he finally said, slowly, as though he immediately wanted
to take back his words and demand that she only refer to him in worship, “As long as we are in
private. In public, however, it would be wise to show some respect.”

She nodded minutely at that, suddenly feeling at a loss for words, uncertain by the look in his eyes.
He dipped her down suddenly and her fingers tightened on his arm at the unexpected motion,
scarlet eyes fixated on the exposed column of her throat, on her mouth parted in surprise. Then he
righted her again.

“Am I....do I,” Harri trailed off, finding difficulty in trying to string together the words, to voice her
fears, her reservations. It had been gnawing at her all night, the fact that she was supposedly now
his protege-- the fact that she was marked and claimed by him. It was a fear, a reality that she
never thought would be possible for her, and it filled her to the brim with anxiety.

“I mean, do you expect me to take your mark?” she asked.

Voldemort refused to remove his eyes from her, taking in her worry, alarm bright in her gaze and in
her voice. It had been a tempting idea, one that he had considered multiple times-- to have her
openly wear his brand on her arm. To forever impress upon her that she was his, that she belonged
at his side. For the entire world to look upon her skin and tremble at the knowledge that their
saviour was no longer theirs.

“No, Harri. I do not. You will never bear the Dark Mark, not now. Not ever,” he finally said,
recognising it as the truth as soon as it was spoken.

Yes, she would never be forced to endure the symbol of fealty upon her skin, not when so many
already bore it. The girl before him was different, special, so unlike the common masses that it was
blasphemy to even consider denoting her to standard stock, to just one of his countless acolytes.
She was made from him, from the marrow of his soul, born from his power and destined to rise
above the rabble.

A coldness, a chill, ghosted through her, her limbs suddenly feeling heavy and her knees too weak.
The look in his eyes, that rising hunger, the way they shone with a covetous thirst. How his grip
had tightened around her. The traitorous thought from earlier came back to her, affirming her
greatest fears, the circling theories that had kept her awake until the hours before dawn. He was
never going to let her go. Even if she did escape, his eyes relayed all that she needed to know-- he
would hunt her down to the ends of the earth until he found her again.

She tried to swallow but her throat was too dry, too parched all of a sudden, the grip too
constraining and their dance suddenly not as innocent. Distantly a clock chimed past midnight and
Harri couldn’t help but wonder when it would be her turn to wake up from this nightmare she had
found herself in.
 A Coin and A Phoenix
Chapter 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 so so much for the kudos and all the love! <3 You are all
amazing!
Enjoy!

A few hours later and Harri found herself back in the newly repaired bedroom, Narcissa hovering
about her and undoing all of the efforts that had been put into making her facade, her mask,
believable. To say she was exhausted would be an understatement, her mind sluggish and limbs
heavy. The Dark Lord had waltzed with her, though it was more of him forcefully pulling her
along, guiding her to his will, for what seemed like hours and she had come to the rightful
conclusion that she, undoubtedly, hated dancing. Green eyes lazily watched the Malfoy matriarch
in the mirror, taking in the thinned lips and furrowed brows, the silence between the two women
tense, heavy. Without conversation to distract her, the ache in her feet seemed more prevalent, the
tightness in her calves sharper, the twinge of agony in shoulders, sore from being raised too long,
stronger. Harri tried to stifle a yawn, the deft nimble fingers unbraiding her hair easing her closer to
sleep, making it harder to resist the allure of its call.

Narcissa’s pale eyes briefly flitted up from her task to take in the tired girl seated before her, the
shoulders slumping and those kohl-lined eyes starting to flutter closed. She had been watching the
young witch throughout the evening, keeping a close eye on her after the mild shock she had
received from the press’s appearance, and what had been observed was disconcerting, to say the
least. From the outburst that shattered the glasses to openly saying no to the Dark Lord to the
clenched knuckles and grinding teeth, she had come to a fundamental truth about Harri Potter’s
character-- the girl had a wicked temper that often seemed to get the best of her. The frown on her
painted red lips deepened as she blindly searched for any more hairpins hidden amongst the auburn
locks. It was a harsh reality but Narcissa Malfoy had been at her Lord’s side for years now, long
enough to know that lesser men have been divined harsher punishments for slights less offending
than Harri’s actions tonight. In fact, she could still vividly recall a man losing his wand hand for
simply daring to critique the Dark Lord’s strategy, voicing some concerns about the risks in it.
And yet, this girl remained unscathed, from what she could see at least, for defying him, for
disobeying his orders.

Then, of course, there was the issue of how his touches always seemed to linger on her, as though
he was possessed by a constant need to ascertain she was real, a solid form and not a figment of his
imagination. The look that had been in his gaze when he first saw her walk in, how he had been
eyeing her throughout the entire meeting as though he wanted nothing more than to swallow her
whole. It was enough to make her shudder. The Malfoy matriarch could not claim to be a
legilimens, to be able to peer directly into his mind, but it was easy enough to discern where his
thoughts had been. The most unsettling truth was that, no matter how godlike he may seem, how
invincible and omniscient he appeared, her Lord was like any man: weak in the face of the draws
of flesh. And from the explicit stories regaled to her by her sister, recollections of her time spent in
his bed, Narcissa was able to glean well enough that he was, by no means, a gentle lover or partner.
Flashes of his hands at the younger witch’s waist, of how they seemed to roam without
reservations, came to her mind and her fingers clenched in the red hair, a fierceness overcoming
her. She was unaware of the nature of their relationship but she would be damned, her Lord or not,
if she would sit by idly while he took advantage of a child without experience.

“Miss Potter,” she started slowly, trying to retrain the girl’s waning attention back to her. Narcissa
supposed that she was expected to show some reverence to the girl, considering that she had just
surpassed her on the hierarchical scale amongst her Lord’s ranks.

“Harri,” the green-eyed witch mumbled sleepily, correcting the older woman.

She had always found it to be unnerving when people called her ‘Miss’, when they spoke to her
with respect, after being known for most of her life as ‘girl’, ‘Harri’, or, frequently, ‘freak’. And
having someone like Narcissa Malfoy bow her head, talk to her with such formality, made her
stomach clench.

“Just ‘Harri’.”

“Harri,” Narcissa amended, spinning the vanity chair around and using magic to vanish the
remaining traces of makeup off of the pale skin.

It was as though a veil had been lifted, reverting her back to a childish innocence that had been
masked, concealed, by painted lips and lined eyes, “If anything ever upsets you, if you ever feel
the urgent need to talk, please do not hesitate to come to me. It can be about anything and I
promise you that whatever you say will remain between just us, one fellow witch to another. You
are a guest in my home and now the charge of My Lord.”

She blinked up into the unflinching pale blue eyes, the vehemence in them, the fierceness, the
honesty. It squeezed her heart in an uncomfortable way at how open the matron was being, at how
kind her heart was. Vague images materialised of wild ginger hair pulling her into a tight embrace,
shoving a plate full of food towards her and encouraging her to eat, knitting her a scratchy sweater
long into the night so she wouldn’t feel left out on Christmas morning. Narcissa was different from
Mrs. Weasely, Harri had decided, more reserved, more distant, more formal. But the sentiment was
there all the same in those shapely hands, in the comforting arm about her shoulder, in the
reassuring squeezes and the protective gleam in her gaze. Tears began to burn, to blur and obscure
her vision as a small part of her felt intense guilt looking into the distinguished beauty of the older
woman. ‘If only she knew what I was,’ her thoughts were full of remorse, of contrition at deceiving
the mother who had so eagerly offered her assistance, her aid. Part of her wondered if she would
retract it, remove those hands in disgust, if she ever learned that Harri was twisted, corrupted, a
monster wearing the skin of a human and playing pretend. Acting out a charade, pretending to be
good when something so revolting was housed within her. If only Narcissa learned that she was
created from the most vile of acts, the most damning evil that could be committed against another
human.

Harri resolutely turned her head away, giving a small nod for fear of trying to speak. She just
knew, from the way her throat was constricting and a lump forming in it, that her words would
have failed her anyways. Narcissa began to undo the buttons at the back of the dress, helping her to
stand on unsteady, aching feet to step out of the fabric pooling about the ground. Replaced by it
was a nightgown, a sleeveless one of dark red silk, lace-trimmed and hitting just an inch or so
above her knee. Despite the warmth of the room, she found herself shivering, all too eagerly
slipping into the matching robe held out for her in the matriarch’s hands.

She awoke dazed, disoriented, with a suffocating weight on her chest that made it a struggle to
breathe. With her mind still sluggish, still ladened with the residual effects of a dreamless sleep, it
was only natural that her first thought, blinking in a dulled panic at the canopy above, was that she
was dying. And the strangest thing about it was that she couldn’t bring herself to break down, to
summon the energy to cry for help, to think more than a distant ‘Oh, this is it’-- the weight on her
chest began to move, ripples of coiled muscle, a coolness against her exposed collarbones.

Hoisting her head up, neck straining in the effort, she met golden eyes staring evenly into her own.
An exasperated groan and she allowed herself to flop back down into the nest of pillows, her mind
slowly waking, her body gaining control as the blood started to flow back into her limbs.

“Mornin’, Nagini,” she muttered out, her voice scratchy, hoarse from disuse and sleep. It was the
first time since being taken that she could actually recall falling asleep, on her own free will, and in
a bed. The first time she had slept so soundly surrounded by the comforting scent of sweet smoke
and cinnamon. And it felt as though the Express had mowed over her, flattening her against the
tracks, her legs beyond sore and feet smarting.

“Good morning, little one,” the snake burrowed tighter into the mound of her soft chest, apparently
forgetting, or not caring, about how great her weight was on the thin girl.

A wheeze of air, a sharp groan, escaped her at the increase of pressure, having half a mind to tell
the serpent to get off and go find somewhere else to sleep. However, her protests were forgotten by
the sound of the bathroom door opening, a frown etching its way onto her face at realising that she
wasn’t alone. Harri craned her neck at an angle that caused an acute strain in its muscle, those
emerald eyes turning owlish at the sight of a Dark Lord sauntering out from the steamed room, hair
damp and a towel hung loosely about his hips. If her mind had been slow before, it most definitely
had ground to a complete halt by now, any coherent thought slipping away at the sight of his,
mostly, naked body.

She hadn’t meant to gawk, she would forever deny that she even did such a thing, but it was a
jarring sight that she couldn’t tear her eyes from. Harri had seen very few male bodies in her life,
her prior knowledge limited to Ron and the Weasley twins as they ran shirtless about the Burrow in
the summertime-- but she had come to the conclusion that they were nowhere near as attractive, as
perfect. He looked to be carved from marble, refined elegance just like the rest of him, and the
strangest thought of a sculptor carefully, painstakingly, forming his body by hand came to her
mind. He was unnaturally pale with sharp angles and lines of muscles that she never even thought
could be on a human body. Truly a contradiction in the best of ways-- slim yet broad shouldered,
muscular but not overly so. He reminded her of a snake, the way its strength was coiled under its
skin, a testament to a hidden power, to a predacious nature. ‘Merlin be damned,’ her thoughts
finally processed through their paused queue at the realization she hadn’t been able to find even
one imperfection-- not a blemish, not a scar, not a mole, not anything on his skin. Suddenly she
could see why people were so enamored with him why Lavender made a nightly scrapbook from
his images and why the dark-haired witch wanted something from him that was not entirely
innocent in nature.

A stray droplet of water from his damp hair started to drift down and she watched its path, a
woman possessed. It had skittered around the contours of his body, past the smooth planes of his
chest, past the definition of his abdomen, past the prominent v-line of his hips, past the beginning
dip of the towel- she suddenly shot up in mortification, displacing a malcontent Nagini.

“What are you doing here?!” she hissed out, English forgotten in her sudden panic, in her sudden
shock at seeing him this way. If she hadn’t been awake before this moment, she certainly was now.

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow, taking far too much pleasure in her flushed face, at her entirely too
naive response of seeing him half-naked. If someone were to accuse him of purposefully lingering
in the doorway, allowing her to look at him uninterrupted, of purposefully putting his body on
display for her when he could have so easily brought a change of clothes into the bathroom with
him-- well, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Her reaction was too tempting, too delicious, too
appealing to pass up the opportunity to do so. The dilation in her emerald eyes, the shortness of her
breath, the way she seemed so lost, so adrift, desiring something that she couldn’t quite yet
understand. It was glorious .

“These are my chambers, Harri, or did you forget? I can come and go as I please,” he stated simply,
as though it were the final truth of the world.

He sauntered past her rigid form tucked into his bed, disappearing into the walk-in closet with a
smug smirk tugging on his lips. The briefest thought to purposefully drop his towel came to my
mind, to just push her a bit closer to the edge, but he decided to show some pity. He was, after all, a
merciful Lord and the poor girl was as bright as the red silk she was dressed in.

“I-I. But-What. No,” she floundered for coherent words, viscerally feeling the effects of her
mortification, of her blush as heated fanned brightly from her face.

It felt as though her heart was about to rupture, her throat constricted and too parched, tension in
her shoulders she didn’t even realise she was consciously holding. Somehow, she had forgotten the
room she was in was his, that the bed that she had decided smelled rather nice, comforting, was his
scent. It only further stoked the flames of her embarrassment upon it all clicking into place.
Vaguely, she wondered if this was the beginning of Stockholm Syndrome.

Nagini pulled herself up from the duvet to scent the air in curiosity. The girl’s heart rate was
pounding like a rabbit’s, her body heat increasing and there was something else lingering about her
that betrayed her interest, her natural fascination. ‘It appears that she is as enamored with Master’s
body as the others are,’ she thought idly as she curled herself around her hatchling’s torso,
somehow approving of the idea.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” she added slyly, tongue flicking out across her cheek in light-hearted
jest.

Harri blinked down in embarrassment at the snake, groaning and hiding the evidence of her
humiliation, the bright red of her face, in her hands. She sent a wordless prayer to an unknown god
for the ground to open up, to swallow her whole before she had to endure it any longer. Even the
snake seemed intent on betrayal, on torturing her, on teasing her at her expense,

“Nagini! Please,” she begged, knowing the Dark Lord had heard it all judging by the amount of
smug pleasure that coloured their bond. For the millionth time since his rebirth, she cursed him for
ever regaining Tom Riddle’s face.

Much to her immense relief, he had come out a few minutes later fully clothed in a white button-up
shirt and charcoal trousers. The knowing glint in his eyes, however, when he looked at her still
huddled on the bed made her want to slap him, to kick him. Harri had tried her best to banish the
images on him naked, trembling in the earth and covered in white filaments, a sight she was quite
sure that she wasn’t meant to see. But apparently, her mind quite enjoyed being spiteful and felt it
was the appropriate time, after seeing him half-naked, to conjure back up the memory. It had
appeared everyone was against her, the snake, Voldemort, even her own conscious. A mental note
was made to beg someone later on to obliviate her, perhaps Narcissa or Snape if he was feeling
generous.

“Come eat, Harri,” she glanced up in alarm, pulled from her thoughts as an array of breakfast
appeared on the side table between the two armchairs.

A pang of guilt flooded her at the thought of Zivvy, wondering where the elf had gone off to after
she had sent it on a mission to contact Sirius.

Voldemort was already seated and she rose, on shaky legs, to take the unoccupied chair next to
him. He was drinking black tea, she noticed, overly steeped and without cream or sugar. Heathen,’
her thoughts were idle as she picked up her own cup, pouring in an unhealthy amount of sweetener
into it. It hadn’t escaped her that he was watching her in mild disgust and alarm, her eyes
narrowing at him in a challenge for him to say something, to critique her for her preferences.
Having picked his battle, however, his red eyes drifted to the fireplace and he willed the flames to
life. ‘Prick, he really doesn’t use his wand often, does he?’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, him sipping his tea and not eating, her picking at a flaky
croissant that he had personally placed on her plate. The entire situation felt oddly domestic and she
wasn’t sure what she preferred-- this or his anger, his wrath. At least when he was acting out in
fury, it was easier to predict his next moves, to know the proper way to handle it. A violent
exchange of action and reaction. It was their usual cycle and one that they both knew all too well
on how to play. This , whatever this was, was far from it and it left her feeling queasy, unsure.

“We made the front page,” he hummed absentmindedly, as though already expecting that they
would.

He tossed a copy of the Daily Prophet onto her lap, greedily drinking in her expressions, her
dismay. He would have been lying through his teeth if he said he hadn’t been looking forward to
her feedback come morning when she would finally see their picture, to see how she belonged at
his side, at how right they had looked standing together with her in his arms.

The nausea she felt earlier came back tenfold and with a vengeance as she stared, rigid and in
horror, at their moving photographs. She truly did look like a child playing the pretense of an adult,
no amount of makeup or tight dresses could hide that fact. Harri watched as the afterimage of
herself, eyes wide in panic, in shock, curled into Voldemort’s side as though she was hiding behind
her mother’s skirts. She watched as the hand possessively landed on her waist, pulling her closer,
the triumph in those unblinking crimson eyes, the cutting smile that held too many teeth. How he
seemed so much taller, so much larger, than her, how it was so clear who was in control. They
always said a picture was worth 1,000 words but this one screamed a million. She ended up tossing
it to the floor, unable to stomach it any longer, to stand the physical evidence of her weakness, of
her betrayal to everything she held dear. To see his claim on her, forever concreted in ink and
photographs.

“They won’t rise to your bait,” she protested finally, squaring her shoulders and meeting his gaze
with vehement assurance, “The Order is mostly disbanded anyways.”

Voldemort blinked twice at her in mild surprise, a cunning smirk replacing the shock as he leaned
forward towards her, clicking his tongue 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 the double-edged compliment, the words holding both praise and an
insult to her character. Amusement warmly filled him, both at her reaction to being depreciated but
also at her ignorance of the world, of how war worked. She truly didn’t believe that the Order
would move to get her back, that he couldn’t draw the roaches, the scum, the betrayers out from
every dark corner they had found refuge in. That innocent belief of hers was almost offending, a
crime in of its own, one that made him far too ravenous at the thought of tainting it, of corrupting
it.

“But of course, Harri,” he began slowly, smile fading as he steepled his fingers, “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.”

She blinked in unease at him, at his words, at how sure he was they would do something as
reckless as openly move against him. Part of her hoped they did, that the Order would put up a
fight, that they found the courage to oppose him and make his life, his claims of legitimacy, even
more unstable. But then part of her vainly wished for them not to, for them to stay safe, stay
hidden, to not risk their lives and allow anyone else to die in her name. Harri’s fingers dug into the
plush armrest of the chair, trying to ground herself, to not be unnerved by the passion, the flame of
a promise in those crimson eyes. He meant it, was hellbent on destroying everyone she cared for
the second they decided to come forth publicly. Even with his promise of not personally harming
those she cared for, there were too many in the organization that she didn’t know, too many she
couldn’t lay a personal claim to. And it was an undeniable fact that it would be his followers doing
most of the fighting, further nullifying his vow. She felt like retching, dry heaving at the thought.

“Come,” he suddenly rose from his seat, downing the last dregs of the bitter black tea in his cup
before tilting his head towards the door.

She stared dumbfounded at his command, at him retreating to the study, and she wondered in
trepidation of what was waiting for her. Deciding she had little choice but to obey, she followed
slowly after him, slipping into his shadow as the croissant was left half-eaten on her plate and their
moving photograph abandoned on the floor.

At precisely 8 am in the morning, not a minute afterwards and not a minute before, was when the
morning post was delivered. It was a familiar routine for many, a daily ritual to their mornings, as
they blearily purviewed the recent news over their coffee and trying to fight off the lingering pulls
of sleep. And ever since ‘Marvolo Gaunt’ had risen to power, it could be said that the readership of
the Daily Prophet had expanded astronomically, partly due to his charisma and partly due to his
looks. Most of wizarding Britain was captivated by their new Sovereign, by the mystery of him, by
the intrigue and the Prophet was unanimously decided to be the best place for information, for
exclusives.

And so when the morning’s news had 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 happiness to see their leader plastered on the front page and for the famous saviour of their
world to be in such capable hands. For others, it sparked a moment of jealousy seeing the
redheaded girl cling to their object of fascination and adoration. And for others, it was a moment of
indifference, a quick thought of ‘They look nice together’ or ‘Good for her’, before flipping to the
sports section to see who had won in the last Quidditch finals.

But in number 12 Grimmauld Place, the headline was a point of contention, of horror, of despair.
Sirius Black had found the paper waiting for him, as usual, next to a cup of coffee and an English
spread of a breakfast. He had expected to see an article talking about a new policy recently
implemented or some interview about what the pompous man did in his free time. As such, one can
easily imagine his surprise, his shout of dismay, when he saw the daughter of his dearly departed
friends in the arms of an incognito Dark Lord.

Sirius reached for the paper, trembling fingers tightening around the edges, crinkling it, as his mind
temporarily froze over. He distantly wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack from shock,
to know if wizards could even die in such a muggle way, and considered the possibility that he was
about to find out. Grey eyes obsessively drank in the article before him, scanning and rescanning,
trying to determine if this had been an elaborate hoax or a cruel nightmare his mind had conjured
up.

“No no no no no. Fuck!” he chanted under his breath, heart rate spiking and knees turning weak,
resorting to yelling to relieve some of the tension in him, some of the surreal disbelief.

In the background, he could hear the steps of someone rushing down the grand staircase, his name
being called in alarm, the slamming open of a door. But his throat felt too constricted, unable to
swallow, to move, as a hand landed on his shoulder in panic. Everything felt blurred, obscured,
slowed, as the image of his goddaughter curling into the Dark Lord’s side superimposed itself on
his closed lids. The insistent afterimage of that large hand spanning her waist, of slotting her body
against his, the smug glint in those damnable red eyes, the cutting smile-- it all refused to leave him
in peace.

“He has her, Moony,” he finally managed to bite out, voice containing heavy amounts of
bewilderment, an undercurrent of anger, “The bastard has her.”

Behind him, he could hear the slight breathes, the words being spoken in a rapid whisper as Remus
read over the article at record speed. The shaking knees finally gave way and Sirius fell, clumsily,
into the wooden chair. Fear gripped him, his mind racing as he tried to understand how it could
have happened. All he knew was that Dumbledore had gone missing and their spy, Snape, ‘The
sniveling coward’ a thought supplied venomously, had as well. But as far as he was aware, Harri
had been at the Burrow for Christmas, Remus and himself scheduled to arrive to celebrate the New
Year with the ginger bunch. So how the hell did she end up in the Dark Lord’s clutches?

A soothing hand returned to land heavily on his shoulder, the thumb of it rubbing insistent circles
into the bone in an attempt to calm him down. The voice was grim, as though he couldn’t quite
believe the article either despite the proof that was in the form of a moving photograph, “I know,
Padfoot. I know.”

A tremor racked his shoulders and he tensed the, shrugging off the hand angrily to whirl around in
his seat, looking up into a scarred face. Terror was reflected clearly in the forest green eyes that
met his, devastation bright pinpoints.

“How the hell did this even happen?!” desperation gave an edge to Sirius’s voice, rising in volume
to match his mounting inner turmoil.

When no answer came, he roughly scrubbed his hands over his face, trying his best to ignore the
guilt that threatened to overwhelm him, consume him, render him useless and make him reach for
the bottle of whiskey hidden far away on the top shelf. It was a crushing realisation to come to, the
fact that he had failed at his one job. That he broke his promise to keep the only daughter of those
dearest to him safe, out of harm’s reach. Instead, she was in the Devil’s lair, at the tender mercy of
the wolves. Incompetence, a crushing defeat, a complete and utter catastrophe.

“Lily and James would never forgive us,” he bemoaned quietly, something dark, something black,
twisted around his wretched heart, threatening to shatter and squeeze it until it stopped beating. It
was a sickening feeling of heartache, one that he felt viscerally in his stomach, in the way it
clenched.

Another beat of silence ensued, a rustling in the background, before Remus finally spoke in a quiet,
reserved tone, “Perhaps...this is how we redeem ourselves and earn back their forgiveness.”

The click of something metallic being placed onto the wooden table made his hands retreat from
his face, a disagreeable feeling overwhelming him at the sight of a gold coin sitting innocently
before him. An impression of a phoenix, rising up with its wings spread magnificently, glinted,
bringing with it a whirl of too many emotions. Yearning, resentment, sorrow, hope, the coin was a
pipedream that represented a bittersweet past. He made no move for it as memories, long forgotten
and suppressed, came back unbidden.

“Where did you get that from?” he finally asked, voice equally as quiet, as timid, as unsure.

The werewolf hovered by his shoulder, voice turning wistful as his eyes refused to budge from the
medallion, “I held onto it as a memento. For old time’s sake.”

Sirius reached to grasp the hand at his shoulder, shaking fingers landing on equally trembling ones,
their tips cold with fear, with distress. He hadn’t seen one of those medallions since the first war,
since he was just a young kid fighting alongside his friends in the pursuit of justice. Since he had
proudly declared himself a ‘freedom fighter’, a testament to his naivety and false bravado afforded
to him by his youth. Since then he had lost 2 of his closest, most dearest, companions in the quest
for enlightenment, for a better world.

“We can’t, Moony,” he tried to argue, to find reason. Too many had been lost in the first war, too
many finding a place in the void, too many leaving behind loved ones and families of their own.
True, they had pushed him back but at what cost? And it wasn’t even them that had managed to
defeat the Dark Lord.

His grey eyes flickered back over to the moving image of a girl, a girl so familiar to him yet also a
stranger. The makeup, the dress, everything about her seemed less like Harri Potter, less like an
echo of his beloved Lily and James. It was a child, an infant, that they had propped up to be their
saviour, placed on a pedestal for all the world to see, kept her in their reserves as a wild card should
the need ever arise again. And they just lost her. It made him sick, ill, like he wanted to retch.

“We have to, Sirius. They are our only hope to get her back. And we need Harri to defeat him. It’s
her destiny,” Remus advocated for his case, a bitterness and sting in the truth of his words.

Sirius turned back to the gold coin, heart lead in his chest and his shoulders suddenly heavy from
the unseen weight of responsibility. So many had finally found peace in the aftermath, had settled
down and moved on with their lives. Molly and Arthur had the family they so desperately wished
for, Kingsley had carved a spot out for himself in the government, Minerva had followed through
with her passion for teaching. And he was about to ask them to jeopardise that security, that peace,
to throw it all away once again in the name of justice, of restoring the scales of balance. And as
much as it pained him to acknowledge it, the truth truly was that they would need Harri to win this
war, especially now that Dumbledore had disappeared. It made him want to laugh, to spit in the
face of fate, to curse it to the end of time for even daring to place a child, a girl not even in her
majority yet, at the heart of it all, at the mantle. They were going to rely on her to lead them into
this war, to rally their people, to inspire hope where none was left.

“Remus,” he felt beyond conflicted, his soul, his morality, his conscience being split in two.

The knife laying beside his abandoned breakfast, sharp and suddenly wicked-looking, was placed
shakily into his open hand. Sirius stared down at it numbly, the cool metal of it disconcerting, its
weight crushing.

“We have to, Sirius. Call them and they will come,” Remus’s tone was uneasy, as though he,
himself, was trying to find the courage to believe in his own words, in his own convictions.

The grey-eyed man curled his fingers around the handle of the blade, knuckles bleeding white
from the pressure. He tried, in a last-ditch effort, to find a valid enough cause, moral grounds, to
say no, that they weren’t doing this, that they weren’t going to start another war. But part of him
rebelled against that idea, the side of him arguing that they needed to fight dominating the side that
pleaded with him to remain passive. They needed, he needed, to get his goddaughter back, to
ensure she was safe and far from the red-eyed monster that had emerged from the shadows. With a
grimace and a sharp hiss, he pressed the serrated edge into his palm, blood welling profusely along
the fresh line. Before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed the coin into the weeping hand, the
metal heating up in his grip. A thrill, a rush of exhilaration, the vaguest notions of foreboding
swept through him as the phoenix became animated, flapping its wings and looping about the
medallion’s surface.

It was time for the Order of the Phoenix to be reborn.

 A Gilded Cage
Chapter 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 a good opportunity to do some character study that I couldn't pass it up! So thank
you, JingleBat, for comment and I hope you particularly enjoy it

Also wow you guys-- I looked at my stats for this story and I am just blown away!
Over 800 kudos, I seriously can't believe it! You guys are so amazing and make my
little heart sing Thank you so so much for taking a chance with this fic!!

Harri had followed the Dark Lord into the dimly lit study, puzzling over the fact that nothing
atrocious greeted her, as she had expected, nor that he wasn’t stopping. The ache in her legs
morphed into a burn as she hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his strides, and frowning
in bewilderment as he approached a door. In all of her time spent in this room, she had never seen
that doorway before, wedged inconspicuously between the tall bookshelves, and had come to the
conclusion that it had not been there prior. Crimson eyes glanced over a shoulder, an unreadable
look that made them appear darker in the shadows, as though he were confirming that she was
keeping up. Pale fingers had curled around the intricate silver knob, pushing the heavy oak inwards
on its hinges and-- she gaped in confusion.

The glimpse of a four-poster bed greeted her, almost obscene in its size and grandeur. It was
beautiful, no doubt about it, with ornate flowers and scrolls carved into the frame, the wood
enchanted to be a glimmering gold and white gossamer curtains draped luxuriously at each corner.
A white quilted headboard was contrasted by an assortment of pale blue, gold and cream pillows,
far too many to be considered necessary or essential. Harri glanced uneasily at Voldemort, trying to
discern whose room this possibly was, trailing in only after he had tilted his head in a nonverbal
cue for her to follow.

Like the bed had indicated, the rest of the room was beautifully done, a testament to wealth and
opulence. High windows, double-paned and encased in blue silk drapes, let in natural light that
further highlighted the intricate gold crown molding on the vaulted ceilings. It vaguely reminded
Harri of something from the Rococo era, obscene in its elaborate detail and making her head spin.
The entire room was massive, a touch smaller than the Dark Lord’s, light and delicate where his
was dark and heavy.

“Your personal chambers,” he stated softly from behind her, hovering at her shoulder and feeling a
swell of pride at how taken off guard she seemed, how enamoured and doe-eyed she was.

The idea had come to him a few days ago when he was debating about the ways he could start to
foster some trust, some faith, in their relationship and he figured that there was a rather simple
solution. As she was made from him, from his soul, from his marrow there surely had to be some
similarities in their personalities-- she must value having her own space, as he did, and probably
took immense pleasure in beautiful things, in luxury, as he also did. And, judging from the
starstruck gleam dancing in her eyes, he had been correct. While there had been some adjustments
made to the room, purely in the name of security, he figured that she would still be delighted with
it.

“Mine?” she echoed, completely dumbfounded and for a loss of words, eyes jumping from the
ivory brocade chaise lounges to the marble fireplace to the two doorways that indicated there were
even more apartments than she had initially thought. It was a room fit for royalty, for aristocracy--
for all the things she surely was not.

“For you to destroy at your own leisure, of course. Should you ever feel the need to do so,” he
added coyly, hands dropping to her shoulders and giving her a light push forwards in
encouragement for exploration of the other rooms.

Voldemort watched as she stumbled about in uncertainty, choosing to remain in his spot at the base
of the grand bed, his self-satisfaction nearly overflowing, overbrimming. The possessive beast in
him, the one that seemed to arise whenever in her presence, was content, swishing its tail and
nearly purring, eager to show off its capabilities to care for her. To prove that he could be
nurturing, kind, benevolent. In his past experiences, women tended to love being showered with
gifts, especially ones that came from him, and he figured that she must be no different. And if
showing her a peek of the life awaiting her, of the affluent comfort he could give, could convince
her that being by his side would be pleasurable, then he was not above flaunting his abilities to do
so.

Harri crossed into a never-ending expanse of a closet tentatively, an overhead light magically
flickering to life as she entered. What greeted her were rows of dresses, formal robes, expensive-
looking things that proudly broadcasted their expense, their price tag. Even the more simple of
ones appeared to be cut from luxurious fabric and painstakingly tailored. She let her pale hand,
small and nervous to even touch such things, trail over them, eyeing the drawers that, undoubtedly,
held even more clothing, the jewels glinting brilliantly. Her feet carried her to a set of black pearls,
luminous in their shine, gaze turning unfocussed as she felt their coolness, their weight, their
perfectly smooth surfaces.

‘It’s all for me,’ her thoughts were slow, hindered by a dazed stupor. Distantly, she could recall her
Aunt’s sharp voice warning her not to touch things in the store, a visceral memory of being slapped
when she was found with Petunia’s pearls in her grasp. She could still vividly remember that day,
having been possessed by the sight of them when she was tasked with cleaning the master
bedroom. An 8-year-old girl drawn to their splendor, their opulence, having only ever seen them at
a distance around the blonde woman’s thin neck. Her cheek had smarted for days afterwards, an
angry red discoloration that made her afraid to ever even look at them again. The black pearls were
forcefully tossed back into their velvet box, hands violently retracting as though they had burnt
her.

She spun slowly to look back down the rows of clothes, the strangest thought overcoming her that
these were all made, all tailored, for her . Not some hand-me-downs that were tattered and too
large on her, not some castoffs that weren’t even meant for a girl, not something she had to roll up
ten times over just not to trip or to see her hands. These were all new, every single one. A pang of
guilt, a sour taste in her mouth. A mocking voice telling her that an ugly little thing like her, a mere
maid, a freak, should be content with her lot in life and to be lucky to have her cousin’s old clothes.
Harri fled from the closet, unable to stomach being in the room any longer.

A frown etched its way onto his features feeling her discontentment, her sudden wave of disgust, of
contrition. He had made his way over to pick up an original Faberge egg on the mantle, fingers
tightening around it and threatening to shatter it, to erase the rare artifact from existence. Had he
done something to upset her? Did she not like the clothes? Was she snubbing them and his efforts
to please her? Crimson eyes narrowed, slowly setting the porcelain back onto its stand before it
could suffer abuse from his rising irritation, his feelings of earlier pleasure quickly becoming
overshadowed. ‘The ungrateful little brat,’ his thoughts were full of venom as he watched her trail
out from the closet, her delicate features waned and pinched. The notion of the dungeons came
back to him, his lips pulled back into a sneer as he briefly considered it. There was an appeal, after
all, in locking her away down in the damp earth if she was content to be this unappreciative of his
time, of his attempts.

“What do you think, Harri,” he questioned, his tone holding a biting edge, a testament to his
aggravation, a warning for her to tread carefully. If she wished to make her complaints known
about the room, had no reservations to critique it, then he would have none as well to put her in a
holding cell until she could afford him some gratitude.

She sank down on the edge of the plush mattress, the downy top of it bending under her weight, as
she glanced about the room in disorientation, in bewilderment. His threatening question had
escaped her, her mind running with too many thoughts of how she didn’t deserve this. How she
was overstepping her boundaries, how she was being placed at the center of all of this luxury when
others would never even know such things. Images of the broom closet under the stairs came to
mind, with its sliding grate and lack of light, of the spare bedroom that could barely fit a mattress
and a closet. Harri found herself wishing for them, for the smallness and intimacy of her old life, of
the comfort they provided by allowing herself to remain small, out of the way, out of sight. Here,
she felt too on display, too vulnerable, taking up too much space and making herself a nuisance. No
matter how pretty the bedroom was, no matter how grand, she didn’t fit in among the finery and
large windows, among the endless clothes and sparkling jewels.

Green eyes finally glanced up, unsettled, confused, voice reserved as she struggled for the right
words, “It’s just….a lot.”

Voldemort leaned off the mantle, her words, the hesitance and guarded air about her throwing him
off-kilter. There was something more holding her back rather than just simply disliking the room,
the clothes, that much was clear to him now. With all of the subtlety of a skilled legilimens, he
probed at her mind while she was still distracted, her attention distant. Images of a broom closet,
dimly lit and hazy with dust, materialised before him and painting a confusing picture. ‘Why, now,
is my little horcrux thinking of a closet of all things?’ he mused, mulling over it and abruptly
withdrawing before she could become wise to the fact he was prying about her thoughts. A mental
note was made to investigate it further, to puzzle over its meaning, when he had the opportunity to
do so. Perhaps Snape would be useful and have some insight, seeing as how apparently close he
was to the girl. But for now? Now all he needed to do was to make sure she was content with her
chambers, with him, with his efforts to extend an olive branch.

With long strides, the Dark Lord crossed over the grey wood flooring to stand before her, hand
darting out to lightly, gently, tilt her chin up towards him.

Scarlet eyes met emerald as he stared down into the warring conflict in her gaze, voice confident in
an attempt to ease her unsettled nature, "You are my horcrux , a product of my magic, of my
marrow, an extension of myself. Something as precious, as rare, as you deserves to live in luxury
and not squalor. Do not allow yourself to be fooled into thinking that you are lesser because you
are not .”

Harri blinked up at him in wide-eyed surprise, trying to process his words, the ones he had spoken
as though they were the final and utmost truth of the world. There was such conviction, blazing and
adamant, in his gaze that she found it hard to maintain level contact with him, her stomach
suddenly flipping and heart skipping over a beat. He was so sure of her worth, of her importance
that it was jarring, disconcerting. In her bewilderment, it almost escaped her notice that this was
the first time, apart from that one encounter in their shared dreams, that he had verbally claimed her
to be a horcrux, to be his. An unbidden shiver passed through her, leaving goosebumps in its wake,
and she wasn’t entirely sure of what it meant nor if she cared to find out.

Red eyes broke the connection first to land possessively on the scar that had started it all. Their
story, their connection, everything was owed to that little lightning bolt half obscured by her
auburn hair. He was reluctant to let go of her, to release her from his hold, but he did so anyways
after a few seconds had passed. After all, he had another surprise that would, hopefully, rectify any
misgivings she was having about accepting his gifts. A sharp snap and a small cage, draped in
velvet fabric, appeared a few feet behind him, his hand cupped and extended for her to take it.
Voldemort savoured the warmth of their contact as she slipped her delicate fingers into his, vastly
delighted as she allowed herself to use him, to lean on him once more, to accept his support.

Widened eyes were glued to the covered cage, an indulgent smirk on his plush mouth as he guided
her over to it, “Let it be said that Lord Voldemort will always reward good behaviour. Despite your
little outburst in front of Miss Skeeter, you still performed rather admirably last night Harri.”

She let her hand slip from his, heart rate elevating, spiking, at what might be concealed under the
fabric. An uneasy glance towards him, trying to ignore the spreading warmth in her chest at his
praise, before he nodded in permittance. Her fingers trembled, in both anticipation and excitement,
as they curled into the covering. She tore it away hastily to reveal amber eyes blinking slowly up at
her, a beak chirping excitedly and great wings flapping.

“Hedwig!”

A rush of elation, of pure joy, of animated bliss swept through her as she hurried to undo the cage’s
lock, the owl good-naturedly pecking at her fingers in the process. Tears sprang into the corners of
her eyes, clinging stubbornly to the lashes as she lifted the bird onto her arm, face burrowing into
the softness of its snowy feathers. In the whirlwind of the past few days’ events, she had forgotten
about her faithful companion, her truest friend that saw all sides to her life. The fame and the
mistreatment, her existence as both ‘Harri Potter’ and, during the summer, ‘Girl’ or ‘Freak’. So
great, so immense, was her joy that Harri didn’t even think to question how Voldemort had
acquired the owl that she had left in Hagrid’s care, how he had managed to get her back, or when
he had found the time to do so.

“Thank you,” she rushed out, not even caring that she had just thanked the Dark Lord for
something, by all accounts, that was hers already to begin with.

Hedwig trilled noisily on the perch of her forearm and she found herself laughing a bit, smile
growing when she realised how much she had missed the sound.

He towered over her, watching in appraisal, in approval, at the redhead witch’s reunion with her
pet, at her willingness to openly thank him. It was almost humourous at how the smallest of things
could move her to tears, to make her tremble with happiness. After all, she was standing in a
bedroom that any right-minded aristocrat would go weak in the knees for, with a closet that most
witches could only possess in their dreams, and yet it was the owl, one that didn’t cost him even a
sickle or knut to procure, that moved her.

“Of course,” he started slowly, moving closer to her crouched form on the ground, eyes glinting
with obsession as he drank in her carefree smile.

How often he had seen it directed at others, in memories he had viewed, at the party towards the
Malfoy heir. And even if it was being aimed towards the owl on her arm, the fact that he was the
one to induce it by proxy was enough of a feat-- at least for now. Something dark blossomed in his
chest, writhing in delight, in self-congratulation, at the notion that he had finally seen this side to
Harri Potter, a side she so readily showed to her friends, to those she trusted. He had just proven
that they weren’t as privileged as they believed themselves to be, that he, too, could elicit these
reactions in her. That he finally had the same experience as everyone else. They weren’t special.
But, then again, neither was he.

That delight turned into hunger at the realisation he wanted more. It was a truth he was keenly
aware of, a flaw to his character, one that had marked his childhood and one that pushed him to
steal from the others at Wool’s, to hoard their tattered belongings in his own measly trove. The
matter of the fact was that Voldemort had never been content in sharing his things, in having the
same as everyone else, in blending in with the masses. He needed to prove his distinction from the
rabble in all regards, from his possessions to his appearance to even his experiences. And as he
watched the redhead on the ground before him, his horcrux, his girl, the notion that he wanted,
needed , to see all facets of her took firm root within him. He craved to see those parts of her that
she had never shown to anyone else, to be privy to experiences, any and all, that she had yet to
have, to claim that he knew Harri Potter as intimately as he knew himself. It was an intense urge,
overwhelming that gnawed the inside of his chest raw, that demanded that he show the world their
saviour, their champion, was no longer theirs to claim. It was a toxic desire that sang for him to
corrupt her, taint her, reform her in his image and to make it so she was no longer ‘The Girl-Who-
Lived’ but a special version, a shadow that only he was privy to.

“A witch needs her familiar, after all. Consider it a late Christmas present and encouragement for
your future cooperation,” he mused under his breath, trying to repress the damning thoughts, the
swirling darkness threatening to overthrow his willpower.

He tried to reason one step at a time, not to rush, not to be rash, not to push too much. After all,
they had an eternity together and that time was of no consequence. The Dark Lord forced himself
to retreat from her, from hovering above her and staring insistently down at her small frame, from
drinking in the bright glee in those too-green eyes, in the smile splitting that rosebud mouth.
Instead, he wandered towards the window, deeming it to be an acceptable distance between them,
to collect and reign in his emotions.

“I should warn you, however,” crimson eyes fixed themselves on the white, snow-covered expanse
of the manicured lawn. He could see her reflection in the pane, still crooning with the owl on her
arm, and allowed his gaze to land on it, “She will not be able to deliver letters.”

Harri’s happiness, the floating sensation, came to a crashing halt, sputtering out like a flame doused
in frigid water. One of her first thoughts was that Hedwig meant freedom, the ability to get
messages to those she cared for, to assure them she was alive and to caution them against doing
anything too rash. That, maybe, he finally was allowing her a show of faith for her obedience, an
opportunity to prove herself. A chance that she would be lying if she said she hadn’t been intent on
abusing. But, as always, he was thinking far too many steps ahead, outmaneuvering her at every
turn. A bitterness coated her tongue as she returned Hedwig to the cage, heart leaden in her chest
and beating a touch too dully. Harri struggled to keep her face impassive, to not show her
despondency so clearly at having her plans crumble before her eyes. Her gaze drifted from the
snowy owl and back onto 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 very nearly chuckled to himself, the impulse to do so almost overtaking his discipline.
So palpable was her dismay, her resentment, her frustration that he had guessed correctly in what
the owl had represented for her, what her plans had been, “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 carefully, Harri, about who you let in.
However, should anything go awry, do not fear. I will know right away, after all.”

For the first time since entering the bedroom, she suddenly became aware of the magic dancing
across her skin, humming faintly in the background and thrumming in time with her pulse. Harri
glanced towards the door in horror, his words and tone not slipping by unnoticed. ‘He’ll know,’ her
thoughts were alarmed, ‘He’ll know whoever comes in here.’ She recalled him threatening Draco,
spurred on by her relationship to the boy, and her stomach clenched tightly. As though it wasn’t
bad enough that he was, in a roundabout way, threatening those she cared for, he was now lording
the threat over her head that he would see all, know all. ‘A merciless God,’ she thought bitterly.
Her mind made a distant note that the door, itself, had no lock either and she turned to glare at the
spot between the Dark Lord’s shoulders, ready to protest, to yell that this wasn’t fair.

“And of course, it goes without saying Harri but should the idea ever cross your pretty little head,”
Voldemort spun on his heels, turning away from the window, his crimson eyes darkened by the
lack of light. But even from this distance, she could see the promise in them, the challenge daring
her to even try, “If you attempt to apparate without permission, I can assure you that it will not be a
pleasant experience.”

Emerald eyes tracked his path as he crossed the room, sending her a patronizing smile as though he
had all the faith in the world in her, that she would never dream of plotting against him, “I have
some work to attend to for now but if you find yourself needing me, or wanting for my company,
do feel free to call for me.”

He smirked at the way her mouth was opening and closing in rapid succession, at the way she
looked to be physically fighting a retort on the tip of her tongue.

With an open wave of his hand, he passed through the doorway without a second glance, “I have
already briefed Narcissa on my expectations for you so she will relay them once she arrives.”

The door swung shut behind him and it was only until he had completely left did she let herself
scream, just for a second, in frustration. Only he would turn a gift into a threat, a bedroom into a
prison. Though part of her even wondered why she was surprised by it anyways, considering he
was a Dark Lord and, what she privately referred to him as, ‘a world class control freak’. Harri
finally pulled herself up from the ground on aching legs once she was sure he was gone, a sense of
unease overcoming her and replacing the frustration as her eyes flitted about the bedroom. He
hadn’t revealed how much he would know about what went on among the opulent furniture, what
he would know about the conversations that would take place, and it was the uncertainty that filled
her with anxiety. And while she had always vaguely suspected that was the case, hearing him
confirm that she couldn’t just apparate away, wouldn’t even make it past the wards, made it all the
more apparent of how damned she truly was.

With weak fingers, she hoisted Hedwig’s cage up onto the coffee table, somehow finding herself
wishing to be back at the Dursley’s, back at Hogwarts, back in the confined spaces of the old
bedrooms that she knew so well. With the bout of distracting happiness long gone, evaporated into
the air, she was back to feeling uncomfortable, unsure of herself, hesitant. ‘He just has to ruin
everything,’ she thought grimly, falling down onto the chaise and roughly pushing her hair out of
her face. Her eyes fluttered closed as she pulled her knees up to her chest, not caring that she was
placing her feet on the expensive furniture. The room with its luxury, with its warm colours and
splendor, seemed hostile, unfriendly, malicious now. Voldemort hadn’t given her a bedroom, a
space of her own, a refugee from the world-- he had given her a cage. Albeit a marvelously gilded
one, but still one nonetheless.
 Manners Are Needed
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I meant to post this chapter last night but I ended falling asleep after
work 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!!

“-Ne. ‘Mione! Her-Mi-O-Ne!”

The girl blinked rapidly, caramel eyes vainly attempting to regain their focus, to come back into the
present. The insistent call of her name made her realise that she had done it yet again, had gone off
in her own world in a nasty little habit that she had yet to break. The gears of her mind had been
turning, grinding gratingly against one another as she tried to make sense of the article laying on
the table, attempting to solve a puzzle with too many of its pieces missing. Shaky fingers went to
curl tighter around the steaming mug in her hands, a half-smile, apologetic and troubled, on her
face.

“Sorry, Ron. I was thinking,” she mumbled under her breath, sipping from the scalding coffee and
burning her tongue in the process.

The pain, however, went unheeded as her eyes drifted back over to the newspaper. It had been
another morning at the Burrow, busily fussing in preparation for breakfast and a fast-paced hustle
that she would mostly definitely miss come the time that they had to return to school. The air was
warmed, both by the fire and the mass of bodies seated at the impossibly long table, every chair
mismatched and the plates not from one complete set. Molly had been frying bacon, the sizzle in
the background as the Weasley clan had slowly become more animated, the enticing scent spurring
everyone into action to help themselves. It was a comfortable sort of chaos, one that seemed at
place in the eclectic Burrow with its dizzying colours, happy sounds and magically knitting
needles. In every sense of the word, it was homely, comforting, a safe space, one that Hermione
found herself enjoying coming back to every year.

That is, until the morning post had arrived. Now it had become a grim affair where no one dared to
speak, to venture aloud their thoughts, to give their horror a voice. Molly had abandoned the bacon
altogether while the spread on the table had gone cold. It was a shame, Hermione knew, but her
stomach clenched in repulsion at the idea of food. Somehow, the warmth that had felt so
comfortable just minutes prior had turned stifling, sweltering, suffocating. The ginger matron had
trailed after her husband in an urgent low whisper, heavy footsteps creaking on the rickety stairs as
they sought out privacy. The twins were huddled at the other end of the table, shocked into silence
for once, while Ginny, pale and waned, was incessantly drumming on the worn wood, chestnut
eyes flickering as she reread her own copy of the Prophet. And Ron. Well, Ron was still Ron. He
had managed to find his appetite in spite of everything, eyeing his friend critically across the table
as he shoveled chilled pancakes into his mouth.

It had been disturbing, a shock that she hadn’t expected this early in the morning and providing
information that, for once, left her stupefied and dumbfounded. It was all news to her--
Dumbledore having been Harri’s legal guardian this entire time, Sirius illegitimate and lacking
official papers that would designate him as such. Part of her felt almost betrayed, wondering if
Harri knew herself and chose to conceal the truth. Unfortunately, it had been a recurring theme in
their friendship over the past few months. Recollections came back to her of the love bite on the
pale neck, of the bruising circles under green eyes from nightmares she refused to voice, of a recent
obsession with the library that was entirely out of her character. Yes, it was a pitiful, disappointing
truth that they had grown distant, that lies hung like shackles about the feet of their friendship. And
if the libel being spouted against Dumbledore hadn’t been enough, Hermione was beginning to
think that his disappearance wasn’t as innocent as it originally seemed. With a shaky sigh, she took
another piping hot sip, her mind unwillingly turning distant once again. It wouldn’t have been
unlike their headmaster to disappear in search of answers, of information. After all, she had been
around Harri for long enough to glean it was a common enough occurrence with the older wizard.
But the timing of everything was suspicious, to say the least. Harri stays behind at Hogwarts,
Dumbledore vanishes, and then the Dark Lord claims guardianship over her?

She set the mug down and uncurled her fingers to run them through her voluminous hair, stomach
rolling in a sickening wave. When Harri hadn’t shown up in time for Christmas, they had all
assumed that she was kept at school later than expected and had either gone off to Grimmauld
Place or would be arriving for the New Year. But never did they imagine that the girl, with her
terribly reckless behaviour and sometimes questionable luck, would end up in the hands of Lord
Voldemort. Her gaze had been trained on the magically knitting needles, their fuzzy outlines
becoming clearer as she forced herself to concentrate, to leave her thoughts behind and to come
back to the muggy kitchen.

Truly a disconcerting sight. A photo of a girl she didn’t even fully recognise, despite sharing a
room with her for almost six years, seemingly curling of her own admission into the arms of her
parents’ murderer. An unsettling thought materialised that the redheaded girl looked as though she
were a rendition of Persephone, outfitted in clinging snakeskin and elaborate makeup that befitted
the Queen of Hell, in the embrace of Hades. A power couple destined to rule over the underworld,
to cause mortal strife and terror, to reap chaos and destruction in their wake. ‘Don’t be silly,’ her
common sense berated her for even entertaining such notions, ‘This is Harri you’re talking about.
He wanted her to look like that.’ And despite the truth in that rationale, that he had arranged it all, a
small part, a less logic-driven stream of consciousness, begrudgingly admitted that they looked
rather fetching next to each other.

Against her will, she recalled Harri’s magic and her performance in their newly designed ‘Dark
Arts’ class. She seemed to be able to use the spells being taught without any problem, despite
openly advocating against their purposes. Even herself, having read the textbooks front to back and
avidly practicing the motions, had difficulties summoning up satisfactory results that the green-
eyed witch seemed to do with ease. It was as natural as breathing to her, a second nature. This
inherent ability was what had allowed her to keep her spot as the best student in the class, an
unchallenged role that seemed to be eternally hers. And Hermione couldn’t stop herself from
wondering if her best friend was even aware that her core was grey, at best, that she seemed to be
predisposed to the branch of dark magic. That, as much as she despised the discipline, Harri Potter
was not as light as she believed herself to be.

“Do you-- do you reckon she’s on his side now?”

Brown eyes widened in alarm, in shock as they flickered to the ginger boy before her. His face was
pinched in discomfort as though entertaining the idea made him physically ill.

“Ron!” she hissed out, forcefully setting down her chipped cup and causing the coffee to splash
dangerously up the side.

How he could even entertain such an idea was beyond her comprehension because this was still
Harri . Their Harri. Their best friend. And she would forever deny that she had, briefly, considered
the same question. Ginny abruptly pushed her seat out from under the table, a sharp grinding
screech of wood against wood as she rounded on her brother, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t be stupid, Ron,” the ginger-haired girl protested, voice full of vehement denial, “She
wouldn’t dare! Or are you forgetting that it was Harri who saved me from that monster in the
chamber?”

Hermione followed the younger Weasely’s shaking finger. It had landed directly on the handsome
visage of the Dark Lord’s face, the glow of triumph in those red eyes, the cheshire grin revealing
too sharp, too perfect teeth. Her thoughts varied, jumping far too quickly as she watched the
moving photograph again. She noted, this time around, at how possessive the hand seemed about
her friend’s waist, at how he had slotted her closer to him. He seemed dominating, pulling at
invisible strings that directed the girl’s actions, positioning her so it made it seem as though they
were on friendlier terms. And while it was true that Harri had leaned in first, the wide-eyed panic
in those green eyes relayed the reality of it all-- she hadn’t been told of the press’s appearance and
was taken off guard. Hermione thoughtfully bit her lower lip as she recalled her best friend’s
dismay, her anxiety about having her photo taken, at being bombarded with interview questions.
How she had been a nervous wreck during the entire tournament for the mere fact that reporters
had been hovering at every corner and turn in the castle.

“I mean, you have to admit,” the boy protested, ear tips scarlet at being chastised by the girls, the
breakfast sausage half-eaten and forgotten on his plate, “She’s looking pretty cozy next to the
slimy git.”

“No, Ron,” Hermione’s words were calm, contemplative and breaking up the increasing volume in
the bickering between the siblings, “I don’t think she is.”

The raised voices had finally quieted down in the face of the levelheaded attitude of the brown-
haired witch, the sister content to glare mutinously at her brother.

Ron looked down to his plate, using his fork to push around the blueberries before finally,
tentatively, asking, “Do you think that the Order is going to get back together?”

Caramel eyes trailed over to the doorway where the Weasley parents had disappeared through, their
tones hushed and quiet, nervousness hanging about them and grave looks in their eyes. It seemed
more than a possibility that it was already in motion, that something was already underway. And,
judging by the fact they had yet to return, she imagined they were discussing the likelihood of it as
well. She finally flipped the paper over, unable to stand the sight of the photograph any longer, of
the flashing bold titles. Despite not being a battle strategy expert, nor having ever been privy to the
Order’s inner workings, she had come to the conclusion that it only made sense that they become
fixated on retrieving Harri. And if that was to be the case, Hermione decided, firmly and in the
moment, then she wanted to be a part of the underground organization. If it meant saving her best
friend, sparing the girl any more hardship, if it meant finally being able to do something other than
sitting by idly, then she was fully willing. Down the table, the twins rose from their spot, a
detached ear hanging by a string in the hands of George. She made eye contact with them, their
faces serious and a tightness in the corners of their eyes, in their frowns. A slight tilt of Fred’s head,
an open invitation to follow if she wished, and Hermione rose from her seat.

“I believe it’s a strong possibility,” she took a final sip from her mug, eyes blazing as she followed
determinedly after the Weasley twins, ready to find some answers even if it meant eavesdropping,
“And if so, I want in.”

Narcissa had promptly arrived half an hour past the stroke of 9, pausing hesitantly outside of the
door with a lightly curled hand poised to rap on the wood. It was an odd location for a bedroom,
she had to admit, having to go through the Dark Lord’s own personal study to reach the door.
However, she supposed it made sense in a way. It was only natural that he would want to keep her
close, within reach, secluded from the rest of the manor and with only one way to enter or exit to
monitor any foot traffic. Still, his reasons for being this protective, this cautious, had fully escaped
her. Harri Potter was officially deemed his charge and only a fool with a desire for a painful death
would even attempt to raise a hand to her. And, judging from what she had seen, the witch was
more than capable enough of handling herself, of standing her own ground. Though there was at
least one comfort to be found-- they were not sharing a room, specifically a bed, like she had
originally feared.

Two sharp knocks were given out of pure courtesy before she twisted the ornately crafted handle.
Stepping into the gorgeously done chambers, her suspicions, and bewilderment, about her Lord’s
preferential treatment towards his prior enemy were only encouraged further. It was apparent that
he held her in high regard, confirmed by the amount of wealth, by the opulence, he had afforded
her. Even Severus, who had performed admirably in his appointed task in the Hogwarts raid,
hadn’t been this generously rewarded. True he was given a cottage in the English countryside for
his efforts, one where he could brew potions in peace during his downtime, but it was nowhere
near as luxurious, as costly, or lavish as the apartments bequeathed to Harri Potter.

The older woman had found the girl curled on the couch, still in her lace-trimmed silk nightgown
and head buried between her knees. Seeing her so distraught and so blatantly adrift made her heart
squeeze in an uncomfortable way, the vaguest sense of guilt overcoming her that she had
participated in uprooting such a young life. However, the best she could do at the moment was to
follow through on her Lord’s orders. To help prepare the young witch, to guide her, teach her the
ways of high society and to, hopefully, give her some armour that could be of use. She squared her
thin shoulders, a wave of determined fire blooming in her chest. While she could claim to have no
involvement in the actual capture of the girl, she had been equally culpable in forcing her into this
by proxy. Yes, to atone for her sins, she would take it upon herself to thoroughly educate her in the
ways of the Dark Lord’s inner circle and to help impart onto her ways to survive the cruelty of
men.

A soft sigh and a straightening of her spine before she moved towards the lounge, keeping her
voice soft, gentle, as calming as she could, “Child, come. It’s time to get dressed for the day.”

Harri slowly lifted her head from her knees, blearily blinking the sleep from her gaze. She had
fallen asleep, she realised, her body still stiff, still sore, from the merciless amount of dancing the
night prior. A yawn threatened to claw its way up her throat as her dazed attention focused on
Narcissa before her, an encouraging smile on those painted lips. She looked as elegant as ever,
Harri noticed, with her snowy blonde hair piled on her head and in a rather modest high cut
champagne dress. Ladened by the lingering pulls of exhaustion, she could only nod in cooperation
as the older witch placed shapely hands on her shoulders, carefully guiding her to the bathroom.

She had found herself seated at the vanity, eyeing the space in incredulous wonder as Narcissa had
fluttered away to the closet. Much like the main room, it was over the top and richly done. White
marble with gold veins covered the counters, delicate gold filigree outlined the vanity’s mirror,
and, for reasons that escaped her, a crystal drop chandelier hung in the center of the vaulted
ceiling. While it was missing the sunken-in pool that had been in Voldemort’s chambers, there was
an ornately carved clawfoot tub, its feet, she was sure, molded from real gold, that overlooked the
manor’s spiraled hedge garden. It was all ridiculous, far too much, and it made her head spin.
Rising panic made itself known as an itch in her chest and Harri had taken to staring resolutely at
her hands in her lap, trying to desperately will away the splendor she had found herself surrounded
by. That, perhaps, if she ignored it, it would all cease to exist.

“I think these shall be suitable enough,” Narcissa came back with fabric draped over her arms and a
firm approving nod of her head.

Harri eyed it suspiciously, wondering if she could just refuse it all and beg for her oversized
sweater, for her tattered sneakers, their holes be damned. However, she just knew the request
would go unheeded, viewed as blasphemous to even suggest wearing something so muggle
amongst aristocratic purebloods. Reaching out, she rubbed the fabric absentmindedly between her
fingers, noting how smooth the dark grey wool felt. The Malfoy matriarch had managed to find one
of the less intricate dresses, much to Harri’s immense relief, a heavy piece suitable to chase off the
winter chill. It was almost black in its colouration, a floor-length affair with slightly puffed sleeves
and a scooped neckline meant to draw attention to one's collarbones. Her fingers skirted across the
fabric to the silver buttons. Each one was intricately stamped with the design of a rose and ran
along the length from the nipped v-shaped seam at the waistline to an inch under the collar. In a
way, she supposed that she should get used to wearing such things as this appeared to be what her
life had come to-- ornate dresses and being pampered on in the mornings.

Something peeking out from the corner of the dress had caught her attention and she gingerly lifted
away the fabric, nearly choking at the sight that had greeted her. A brassiere, a dark emerald green
with delicate matching lace covering the silk fabric, lay innocently in the folds of the wool. She
blinked a few times trying to process it, eyebrows knitting together in confusion at whether or not
this was meant for her. But then again, who else would it be for?

Harri turned to Narcissa in mortification, voice slow, pleading for this to be a mistake, “Mrs.
Malfoy, can I, um. I mean. Well, what is that?”

Pale eyes lifted from the task of sorting out stockings, debating about which ones would best match
the outfit, to follow the pointed green gaze. The blonde witch frowned as she turned to stare at the
redhead seated at the vanity, her own thin brows mirroring Harri's confusion. Her own response
was lilted with a question, unsure as to why the girl seemed so taken back, so shocked. Perhaps
such things didn’t exist in the muggle world? And, if so, what did they possibly wear instead?

“Dear child, those are your undergarments?”

Harri had figured that would be the case but somehow it made her even more unsettled hearing it
confirmed aloud. Of course, she had seen lacy bras in her life. Lavender, for one, had always been
quite proud of her collection of lingerie, all too eager to flaunt it. And, of course, she knew that
people wore them even under everyday clothing, that many had no problem spending exorbitant
amounts on beautiful underwear. But those people were not Harri Potter. Throughout her entire
life, she had only ever worn the plain, yet functional, white underwear that came in the plastic 3-
packs from the supermarkets. And she never really found the need to replace the original ones her
Aunt had, reluctantly, bought her when she had entered puberty. They had been one of the only
items she had ever received new from the Dursleys and she was more than content with them,
much to her roommate’s horror and dismay. After all, she had always thought who was ever going
to see it anyways?

But now, seeing the perplexed look on the prim pureblood’s face, the one that relayed confused
alarm, she suddenly felt that, perhaps, she had been doing something wrong her entire life. That,
maybe, she didn’t know what it meant to be a girl, that being one was completely wasted on her as
Lavender had once accused her of. Reservedly, she picked the bra up in an attempt to see it from all
angles, confused by the unnecessary frill of it. There was lace where lace wasn’t needed, silk that
was useless in function and mesh where it most definitely didn’t belong.

Then the strangest thought occurred to her, holding the lingerie in her hands and spying the
matching underwear that went with it. And she wasn’t even sure what had prompted her to ask
other than the burning curiosity that she would, more likely than not, regret in the end, “Mrs.
Malfoy, did you pick out these clothes or--?”

The blonde woman had appeared behind Harri, frowning as she lifted up the auburn hair before
letting it fall, undecided on the style. However, at the unusual question, she paused in her fussing to
quirk a single eyebrow.

“I did not. It was the Dark Lord, in fact,” she responded slowly, deciding that keeping the hair
down was the best option.

An emerald silk scarf materialised in the air and she, loosely, gathered the long fiery locks into a
ponytail at the nape of her pale neck before securing it with the strip of fabric. Elegant hands
landed on small shoulders, giving a slight squeeze and her tone turning sly.

“And I must say, he has rather impeccable taste,” she hummed as she indicated for the girl to rise
from the vanity, “It’s quite a rarity to find a man with such. Now, do you require assistance to get
dressed or shall I leave you alone?”

It took her a second to recover from the admission that the Dark Lord, of all people, had gone to
the lengths of personally buying her clothes. And not even just clothes but underwear as well. She
wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry out in horror at the mental image, at the fact that he
somehow knew all of her measurements, or laugh at the absurdity of it. ‘Merlin he’s such a control
freak,’ her thoughts were dismayed, mildly unsettled that he knew so much about her body when
she wasn’t even aware of the last time that she had been measured for anything.

With an adamant shake of her head, she tried to convince Narcissa that she was fully capable of
getting dressed by herself, that she could be afforded that simple task, “No, no. Please! I’ll be fine
on my own.”

Green eyes trailed after the pureblood woman, letting out a shaky sigh when the door clicked
closed. Harri stood there for a second, in her nightgown, hands on her hips and biting her lower lip.
Part of her wanted to rebel, to say screw it, to not wear the ridiculously offending brassiere. She
was, after all, her own person, qualified of making her own decisions and if she wanted to wear
functional underwear that most girls would snub, then she would do so. But then part of her was
also curious about it, having never even considered herself being the kind of woman that would
dare to wear such a thing. It was a war in her mind until she groaned, throwing her hands in defeat
and pulling the night gown over her head. Shivers from the cold passed through, pebbling her flesh
as she reached for the delicate lacy pieces. Doing up the complicated clasps, embarrassingly
fumbling her way through it, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

She couldn’t help wincing, having found that she truly did look as ridiculous as she thought she
would. Harri had suspected that it wouldn’t suit her and she found herself, oddly enough, relieved
at the discovery. That she was still her same old self, still unchanged no matter how much the Dark
Lord may try to fiddle with her outward appearance. After all, things like this, lacy and delicate,
were made for girls like Lavender Brown. Feminine young women who took pride in their
appearances, who had large chests and possessed all of the grace afforded to the notion of a fairer
sex. Not a too thin wisp of a tomboy who spent her time playing Quidditch and collecting bruises
as a hobby. ‘All things considered, however, it does feel quite nice,’ she thought idly as she stepped
into the dress pooled about her feet, mildly disturbed by the fact that it fit her like a glove as she
did the up the front buttons.

Narcissa was waiting for her in the parlour with a pair of small kitten heels in her hands, black and
matte leather. With a tilt of her head, she motioned for Harri to sit on the lounge as she slipped the
shoes onto her feet. ‘She’s quite delicate,’ her inner thoughts assessed appraisingly, her feet small
yet shapely, the ankles thin and proportionate to her weight. Truly, she was a product of her
lineages, of centuries of fine breeding and it was the largest tragedy that she had been raised
amongst muggles. However, Narcissa Malfoy was nothing if not a woman of determination, wholly
set on remedying that oversight.

“My Lord has instructed that I teach you our ways and instill etiquette into you,” the blonde
woman explained absentmindedly, nimble fingers doing the last silver clasp on the shoe before
placing the foot gently back to the ground.

Harri frowned at that, scoffing and slightly offended that he felt her manners were lacking. And
while it was true she rarely used ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ around him, she felt it was warranted
enough considering he was the one to kidnap her. After all, someone would have to be completely
mental to be nice and courteous to the person who was the cause of all of their strife, of their
worry, of their misery. But she never chewed with her mouth open or sneezed into her hands and
she believed that it had to count for something.

Her arms rose to cross defensively over her chest, voice holding no small amount of resentment, a
scowl pinching her features, “Maybe he should learn some etiquette as well, considering he
kidnapped an underage girl without her permission. I’m pretty sure that most wouldn’t consider
that very ‘proper’ of him.”

Narcissa rose from the ground to take a seat next to Harri on the chaise, trying her best to stop the
quirk of a smile at her spirit, at her backbone. A gentle hand went to rest on the girl’s knee, trying
to implore her to see some reason, “The clothes and your looks will only take you so far, dear
child. Unfortunately, you are now a part of our world and it is best to make sure you are prepared
in all areas.”

A hand strayed to tuck an errant lock of auburn hair behind her ear, pale eyes alighting in glee, in
excitement, “Besides, it could be fun, you know? Or, at the very least, be helpful. My sisters and I
went through the exact same thing and, not to flatter myself, but I do know a thing or two on
ladylike behaviour. I was never allowed to educate a daughter of my own so I’m hoping you will
allow me to teach you.”

Harri blinked startled at the sudden display of motherly affection, her stomach wrenching and a
burning lump beginning to form in her throat. This woman, who barely even knew her, was
offering her guidance, to impart onto her knowledge that a mother would to a daughter. Unbidden,
unsummoned, unwanted tears began to sting, blurring her vision as she stared into the openly
kindhearted face. Suddenly she was not quite 16 anymore but a 4 year old girl, finally
comprehending her Aunt’s sneers, why she had slapped away greedy small hands clutching for her,
reaching for her, the livid protests of ‘I’m not your mother. ’ Suddenly, she was 5 and
understanding her own was dead, never coming back and never saving her. 6--realising that she
was a freak and that freakish girls don’t deserve lullabies or bedtime stories. Memories of the dark
broom closet under the stairs, an ear pressed desperately against the metal vent, eyes closed to
pretend that her Aunt was speaking to her and not her cousin. An ache gnawed at her chest and her
hands quickly rose to press their heels into her eyes, grinding desperately down in an attempt to
vanish the hollowness, the desperation, that feeling that scratched and tore in time with her
heartbeat. She tried to tell herself that she was almost an adult. That she had survived on her own
this long without a mother, that she didn’t need one. It all felt like a lie but it was a lie she was
entirely too comfortable with.

Reluctantly, the hand had 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 when the woman was not
touching her. It was her pitiful truth--she was used to not feeling kind hands and it was only when
she was faced with them that she didn’t know what to do. In an attempt to distract herself, to move
forward, to not linger on her embarrassment, on her weakness, she questioned in an uneven tone.

“Sisters?”

Narcissa eyed the girl in wary hesitation, the squeezing in her heart increasing tenfold at the sudden
display of emotion, of the abrupt appearance of tears. She had retreated her touch in surprise that
such a simple gesture had reduced the girl to a shaking mess, terrified that it had been something
that she had done and fearful to make it even worse. Perhaps she had overstepped a boundary in
voicing her wishes for a potential relationship with the girl? Perhaps she made her remember her
own mother, long dead by the hands of her Lord? In either case, when presented with a segue, with
an opportunity to move on, she gladly took it.

“Oh yes, I have 2 older one,” she hummed, training her gaze forward stubbornly to allow the girl at
her side an illusion of privacy, “I don’t speak to one of them but the other you have met. The witch
with the dark curls? Her name is Bellatrix. She’s the eldest of us.”

The residual tremors were slowly fading and Harri sent a quick thankful prayer to the universe for
letting her escape further mortification by openly crying in front of the refined woman. She
allowed the hands to fall back to her lap, satisfied that she had managed to suppress the tears
enough, that she had stamped down the stinging throb. That she had successfully managed to bottle
up all of that painful yearning, had convinced herself to leave it in the darkest recesses of her mind.

“Bellatrix?” she echoed, a small strained laugh escaping her at the memory of the witch yelling at
her, at the lust in those dark eyes whenever she gazed upon the Dark Lord.“She’s a little--.”

“Much, I know,” the blonde woman supplied, joining in with the forced laughter, “But I love her
nonetheless. Oh--before I forget!”

She clapped her hands as realisation dawned over her on what she was forgetting, a small wooden
box appearing in her lap. Her fingers trailed over the lid, an apologetic look shimmering in those
light blue eyes.

“One last addition to your outfit needs to be made before we head out.”

Narcissa clasped a black ribbon around her neck, a broach similar to the one she had worn last
night proudly gleaming at the hollow of her throat. Harri’s hand drifted up on its own admission to
touch it, frowning that the metal was warmed rather than cold. She finally questioned after a
second of her finger tracing the raised impression of the snake consuming its own tail.

“I noticed that Voldemort was wearing the same one last night. What is it?”

The Malfoy matron tried her best not to outwardly flinch at the carefree usage of her Lord’s name,
a habit she was quickly learning that the girl seemed inclined to. Part of her wondered if she should
try to break her out of it, to instruct her that those under him can not, dare not, say it aloud. Then
again, Harri Potter wasn’t like the rest of them, was she? She bore no mark on her forearm and
never publicly bent the knee. No, she was an oddity among the Death Eaters, a special case.

A frown pulled on her painted lips, trying to figure out how to carefully word her answer so as not
to alarm her, "It’s My Lord’s own personal insignia. His crest, if you will. Many houses create one
unique to their family and it is customary for the wards to wear them on their person. It serves to
identify who belongs under the care of what house when blood relations are not present.”

She blinked once, then twice, acid in her mouth as her hand retracted from her throat. For some
reason, she found it humiliating despite recognising that there was some merit in the idea. What
made her upset, however, was the fact that he was openly branding her as his, despite everyone
already having a rather clear idea of whose care she was under. It felt like overkill, completely
unneeded.

“It’s a collar,” she stated plainly, resentment bleeding into her voice.

Narcissa frowned, trying her best to deny it but finding herself unable to. With a small, sympathetic
smile, a grimace at the bluntness of her assessment, she helped the girl off the couch before linking
her arms through hers.

“Come, we have much to do before the day is over.”

As Harri was led from the bedroom, she tried to ignore the heavy weight of the silver at her throat,
at how the luxuriously thick fabric seemed constraining, at how the silk underwear seemed to
chafe her skin. She tried to ignore the fact that she had been dolled up, once again, to suit his
preferences, that she was going out into the world looking a bit less like Harri. That everything she
was currently wearing was his, a testament to his claim, to his influence and power. And as they
strolled down the empty marble halls of the manor, she tried to block out how it felt as though the
phantom of him was embracing her, draping about her body in a possessive hold, a whisper
materializing in the back of her mind that endlessly looped ‘Mine.’
 Just Another Day At The Office
Chapter 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!

Also, I kept some things canon in this chapter:

1. I've kept the friendship between Rufus Scrimgeour, Tiberius Ogden and Bertie
Higgs intact
2. I kept the idea of the "Magic is Might" fountain in the Ministry but added my own
twist to it

I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! <3 Thank as always for all of the love!!

“Your Majesty, please! I am innocent, I swear it,” a balding man, wiry framed and with a too-long
nose, pleaded.

The desperation had turned his normally deep voice high and reedy, the confused fear making him
quake. The older wizard was seated on a single wooden chair in the recessed pit of the sunken main
floor, forced to be under scrutiny by those floating above him-- an animal on display for a cruel
audience. Chains were heavy about his squat neck and wrists, suppressing his magic and denying
him his right, his access to his core. Even in the dim lighting of the auditorium, it was evident that
he was sweating profusely.

Voldemort wondered how it must feel to be abruptly cut off from something one had known their
entire life, a wizard’s constant companion since the moment of birth, from nature’s greatest gift. To
feel suddenly useless, 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 equivalent to the
feeling of a lost limb? Were there any phantom pains, sensations, where one might think, for the
briefest second, that they could discern the severed connection? How did it feel to suddenly
become a muggle, to be lesser than, inferior? Part of him hungered to know, a vile side whispering
in encouragement to leave the chains on the man, to see how long it would take for the quivering
wizard before him to crumble, for his mind to disintegrate.

He crossed his long legs, one over the other, as predatory satisfaction bloomed warmly within his
chest. It was intoxicating, a rousing experience to see such visceral effects of fear in another
human. The desperation in those wide eyes, the heavy layer of a cool sweat glistening on the bushy
brow, the way the chest rose and fell too quickly in panicked breaths. He could almost imagine
having the man’s heart within his grip, the flutters and pulsating rhythms of it still beating, the
warmth, the blood, the very elixir of life, coating his hands, the crevices and dips between his
fingers. And oh, how tempting it would be to just squeeze . Elegant fingers curled into the wooden
armrests of the high-backed throne, knuckles bleeding white from the pressure as he tried to
smother the violent tendencies attempting to overwhelm his control. These trials always brought
out his more sadistic side. The corrupting illness that reveled in bringing those who had irked him
to heel, to see them plea and beg, to prostrate themselves before the might of Lord Voldemort.
‘Calm yourself,’ logic murmured, cautioning against the surmounting darkness.

He leaned back into the ornate chair, fingers steepled as he drew in a calming breath. It took more
effort than he would like to admit to fend off the malicious smirk, to shield the unholy thoughts
from showing on his face. After all, he had an image to protect-- one of a benevolent Sovereign
only seeking equal justice and reparations. And as much as he would like nothing more than to
give into his baser side, he also knew that the masses were more willing to follow a leader they
adored, one they believed to be fair. His jaw ticked, teeth grinding, as he desperately tried to hide
away Lord Voldemort and summon forth Marvolo Gaunt.

On the dais alongside him were two of his most faithful, Nott and Malfoy, hovering a respectable
distance behind him and standing at attention. The other members of his council were scattered
about on the staggered platforms floating above the pit and seated on the black wooden benches.
The room, outfitted in dark marble and casted in a green glow from the flames on the wall-
mounted sconces, was silent, breathes held until he gave the indication for the trial to start.
Voldemort eyed the man in shackles in contemplation, wondering how long he should draw out the
torment of waiting. It was a heady feeling to know that the wizard was already trying to procure
favour with him, to acclaim his innocence before even being accused of anything. A bestial
delight, savage and calloused, danced in crimson eyes as he motioned with an open hand for the
blond pureblood to read the charges.

At the nonchalant wave from his Lord, Lucius stepped forward on the platform, clearing his throat
as he unfolded the scroll. For a brief second, he allowed his pale eyes to bounce about the room
before projecting through a sonorous, “Bertie Higgs stands accused of a breach against one of most
sacred tenets of our world: The International Statute of Secrecy. Witnesses have testified to his
usage of magic in the presence of no less than 5 Muggles, as well as willingly cohorting and
seeking intimate relations with the intent to expose our 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. According to the Law of Wandholding, section A, paragraph 3, 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 United Kingdom. ”

“Your Majesty, I didn’t, I swear! I would never,” Higgs pleaded with tears in his eyes, starting to
thrash in earnest against his bonds. His words, however, were quickly drowned out by the gasps of
disgust and jeers from the crowd.

It would truly be a damnable crime if it had happened. But, as it currently stood, everything that the
wizard was accused of was a lie, a fabrication in the name of suppressing a potential rebellion. ‘It
was almost too easy,’ the Dark Lord thought absentmindedly. Paying off a handful of his more
obscure followers for their testimony, of slipping an unregistered wand into the wizard’s
possession, making sure that the Aurors found it on him when he was captured. Voldemort
motioned for the false witnesses to deliver their rehearsed speeches, propping his chin up in an
effort to look contemplative. He made sure his gaze would follow as each one stepped up to the
podium and that he gave a nod, or a frown if required, to appear as though he were listening. After
all, the Dark Lord needed to seem as though he were weighing all of the presented ‘facts’ for the
press scattered on the edges of the room. And, of course, that too was a lie. Higgs’s fate was
already predetermined the second he had been shackled to that chair, the reality being that
Voldemort knew exactly what he was going to do with the man.

It was almost a shame as, by almost all accounts, Bertie was a rather outstanding citizen.
Moderately wealthy, clean track record, not too outspoken and seemingly content with his lot in
life. His fatal flaw, however, the damning of him rested in his connections. Upon researching the
half-blooded man, it was found that Higgs had been rather close to both Tiberius Ogden and Rufus
Scrimgeour, the trio spied often hunting in Norfolk on the weekends. And that meant, to some
degree, he might hold similar beliefs as those of his deceased friends. Dangerous thoughts that
were aligned more with Dumbledore, with revolution, with the old headmaster’s vendetta against
the Dark Lord. And, quite frankly, he didn’t need the headache of another potential political
uprising when he was already dealing with eradicating the poison left behind by Albus’s presence.
Of course, it was also entirely within the realm of possibility that Bertie Higgs did not hold the
same principles as his comrades, as his hunting buddies. But the threat of potentially adopting the
ideology in a show of solidarity, of loyalty to his fallen companions was one that was too great.
‘It’s best to cut out the root early,’ he thought, leaning back as the last witness provided their
entirely false account. The thought of convicting an innocent man did very little to burden him with
guilt, especially not if it meant securing his reign even further.

“I have heard enough and have come to a decision,” Voldemort rose from his throne in
deliberation, forcing his voice to sound grave, to hold the twinge of false regret, “I hereby sentence
Bertie Higgs to life in Azkaban for knowingly, and intentionally, breaking The International Statute
of Secrecy and for illegally possessing an undocumented wand. Furthermore, all assets, properties
and bank accounts shall hereby be seized by the Citadel, all titles, both personal and familial,
henceforth stripped.”

He barely had heard the man’s screams for mercy, for reconsideration as he turned on his heel in
retreat. Distantly, he could register the commotion of the Aurors dragging the old wizard away to
rot in a cell, the last of the trio as good as dead. Only when he was turned, shielded from the public
eye, did he allow for the smirk to settle, to let that false sympathy wither away. This is where his
true power lied, where he could exercise full and complete control over their society. Not only was
he more magically powerful, his tendencies and ruthlessness knowing no bounds, but now he had
the ability that every respectable pureblood feared-- he could completely erase their standing in
society. Voldemort had spent his entire life around them, getting to know their circles quite
intimately and had come to the most fundamental truth about their existences: they clung to their
titles, their legacies, their wealth as a beggar would to a gold coin. Their reputations and
connections provided with them with a false sense of security, merit afforded to them through
inheritance rather than earned. Getting them to comply, the scattered couple that seemed hesitant to
openly align themselves with him, was easy enough when all it took was a damning word from
him, a sign of his name, to render their great houses to ash. After all, no one wanted to be marked,
to be remembered as the one who had reduced their noble family to squalor, to end their dynasties
of luxury and prestige. And, of course, the remaining few that wouldn’t be cowed by threats
against their families or titles quickly fell under a well-placed Imperius.

He had retreated to his office in hopes of making progress through the stack of paperwork towering
on his grand desk, of finally completing projects that direly needed his attention. After all, he had
been quite negligent over the past few days, occupied far too much with his little horcrux to even
bother. But the Dark Lord had found himself unable to, his mind restless and pacing, his thoughts
too scattered to collect. For the past ten minutes, he had been tapping in an irritated rhythm on the
wood grain as he reread the bill before him, the words distant and unable to register. Finally
deciding enough was enough, he rose in annoyance, pushing his chair out with far more force than
necessary, and pouring himself a glass of scotch from the crystal bar cart. With an absentminded
sip, relishing in the burn as the alcohol slipped down his throat, he crossed over to the grand
windows overlooking the atrium below.
The previously labelled Ministry building looked, for the most part, the same as it always had.
Dark and grim with wood floors that were almost reflective in how much they were polished, the
black brick still making up the concaved walls. The grand fountain in the center of the foyer was
still there, as well as the panels of glass that denoted offices reserved for the higher ranked
officials. However, if paid enough attention to, one might observe that several key details had been
changed upon the start of his reign. For one, there was a rather impressive statue of himself, sitting
on a throne with Nagini draped about his shoulders, made from solid gold and hovering in the
center of the fountain. The stone base supporting his likeness had muggles carved into it, being
crushed under him and straining to hold up his weight. It had been Lucius’s idea, that final touch,
and even Voldemort had to admit it sent a rather powerful message. Banners made from emerald
velvet now hung from every corner, a silver ouroboros superimposed onto them with its one visible
eye a startling red and animated to swallow an inch more of its ever-lengthening tail. Voldemort
took another sip from the crystal-cut glass, gaze flitting about at the workers below. He had kept
some of them, the ones that were more akin to sheep rather than people, to carry on with the tasks
that he, himself, felt were far beneath his precious attention.

But, on a whole, it had been a purge. Entire departments, ones that he felt were useless, pointless in
their existence, had been eradicated-- such as the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. The
Wizengamot had been thoroughly disbanded to be replaced with his followers, a minor sprinkling
of some of the more neutral parties kept only for appearance’s sake. But the main power rested in
the newly formed Acting Council of the Sovereign, a hand-selected few given the privilege to, at
least publicly, enact laws and appear to give him council: Vincent Avery, Bartemius Crouch Jr, ,
Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Cantankerus Nott, Evan Rosier, Thorfinn Rowle, Marcus
Travers, and Corban Yaxley. The new branch was composed of several members belonging to the
Sacred 28, his most loyal and his most obedient. Of course, his other followers had found positions
within the new government, particularly in replacing the previously atrocious security at the
Ministry. But it was the core families that he had appointed to be directly underneath him, the ones
whose names had meant something and who had garnered their own pledged loyalties from lesser
houses. This was his new Citadel, his new rule.

And while he usually would find some joy in it, relishing in seeing his image captured in gold, in
seeing his banners proudly staking his claim, he couldn’t find the energy to do so. Voldemort
knocked back the glass, draining the last remnants of the amber liquid as he, idly, tracked the
blonde head of Malfoy crossing the atrium’s floor. Without the trial to distract him, without the
feelings of twisted savagery and a bloodthirsty need to destroy the trembling man before him, his
thoughts, as they usually did, drifted back to his horcrux. The image of the broom closet still
haunted him, still puzzled him and, no matter how much he mulled over it, he couldn’t quite fully
understand it. Then there was the matter of her reluctance, of her discomfort in accepting the
luxury he bestowed onto her. The look of being lost so clear in her eyes. His fingers tightened
around the glass feeling the swell of vexation at the lack of answers, at not being able to
understand. Very few things escaped him, could claim to leave the Dark Lord bewildered, but this
was one of them.

He summoned the bottle of scotch, holding out the cut crystal to let it refill itself. With narrowed
eyes and a distant mind, the Dark Lord thought of Severus Snape. He was the one man that might
be able to fill in the blanks, the one that had spent the most time around the girl. Not caring
whether or not if the potions masters had prior engagements, he pushed his magic through to their
connection, summoning the man and adding in a healthy dose of impatience to the mix. A minute
had passed, the ticking of a clock filling the background. And then- there it was, a hesitant rap on
the grand double doors. They opened up of their own accord as he faced the windows, watching
the scurry of the crowd below with mild interest. The Dark Lord took another contemplative sip,
fully ignoring the reverent proclamation of a greeting in the background.
“My Lord”.

“Severus,” he finally greeted in return, looking over his shoulder at the dark-haired man kneeling
a respectable distance away. The ice in the glass had clinked, a deafening sound in the quiet of the
office. Voldemort turned on the spot, hand shooting out to grip the high back of the chair at his
desk.

“Sit,” he motioned only with a tilt of his head, choosing to stand and tower over the subservient
wizard.

Crimson eyes impassively tracked as the man had risen on hesitant feet, taking the empty seat
across the desk in uncertainty.

“I am hoping you could help me with something, Severus,” his tone was low, a lilt to it as though it
were a request, a wish, rather than a command. Of course, only a fool would think otherwise,
“Your muggle-born love, Lily Potter, she had a sister, did she not?”

Snape went rigid in the chair, heart pounding erratically in his chest. A vague sense of dread
overcame him at the casual mention of Lily. Why his Lord suddenly felt the need to bring her up
escaped him, putting him on edge and making his teeth grind. He tried so desperately to suppress
the fury behind his occlumency shields, the anger that wanted to lash out in grief, in sorrow, in
vengeance. To demand why he had dared to even voice the woman’s name aloud, what gave him
the right to do so. It was an anger rooted in the fact that his Lord dared to act so blasé in
mentioning her in passing when he had been her murderer, the one to take her from him despite his
begging to spare her. Outwardly, his face was schooled into a neutral expression though he could
feel the tension in his cheeks, in his jaw, at how pinched he must look. And, judging by the shrewd
look the Dark Lord was leveling him with, he knew all too well what Severus was feeling, what he
was thinking.

“She did, My Lord,” he finally responded when he felt that the suppression of the grief, of the
resentment was adequate enough, “Petunia Dursley. She is Potter’s aunt.”

It vaguely amused him that Snape still felt such intense feelings for the woman and such great
hostility towards him for ending her life. And oh how he wanted to sneer, to cruelly point out that
she chose to marry the potion master’s greatest tormentor. That she had been the one to willingly
leave Severus behind for something grander, for the wealth and luxury that came with a
prestigious family. That he was pathetic for still holding onto this notion of ‘the great love’ that
they had shared, of the tragic story of Severus Snape and Lily Potter. But, in the end, it would be
easiest to have the man cooperate and, frankly, it was too much of a hassle to cast an Imperius on
him or to tear through his mind for answers.

“And Harri, she went to go live with her muggle relatives, correct?” he questioned finally after a
beat of a second, staring down into the amber liquid and swirling it in a brooding manner.

Snape blinked in surprise at the usage of the girl’s first name, mildly thrown off guard by how
casual it had sounded coming from him, of the vaguest sense of fondness in his tone. Briefly, he
wondered when they had gotten so close and what was the extent of their relationship.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Tell me, you spent time with this Petunia correct? How did she feel about magic?”

Voldemort lifted his gaze from the glass to stare evenly into coal eyes, already guessing the answer
but wanting verbal confirmation. Muggles tended to have either one of two reactions to magic, both
usually rooted in subconscious jealousy. It was particularly common among muggle-born siblings
when one had inherited the gift while another hadn’t.

“My Lord?” the potions professor echoed, brows drawing together in confusion at where this
conversation could possibly be heading. He wondered if he had misheard the question, that his
brain had become addled. But upon seeing the impatience enter those scarlet eyes, the fingers that
were beginning to drum on the side of the glass in his hands and ringing dully with each tap, he
decided he hadn’t.

So he started tentatively, trying to recall the Petunia from his childhood, from all of those years
ago, “She seemed rather disturbed by it all. Lily had once confided in me that she was envious,
however. Apparently, she had even written a letter to Dumbledore, once Lily had received her own
Hogwarts acceptance, begging to come along with her sister. She was denied, of course.”

Crimson eyes narrowed even further, humming pensively at the information. And there was the
truth of it, the crux of the issue and why he was trying to put a plan into motion where muggle-born
children would be kept within magic-based foster homes instead. Those who didn’t possess magic,
who couldn’t feel it, often considered it a disease, something dangerous and to be feared.
Sometimes even corrected, depending on the religious beliefs of the parents. But in all cases, envy
was the true underlying cause for such actions, for such callousness.

“I see. And pray tell, in all of your years watching over Harri, did she ever mention her home life?”

Snape frowned, trying to remember anything, any complaints or bemoaning of hers about her
muggle relatives. However, he, admittedly, had never been close to the girl while at school and
therefore wasn’t privy to her frustrations, if there were any. But as he was about to admit his
ignorance, a specific memory suddenly came back to him with startling clarity.

His mouth thinned into a grim line, “There was one incident, in fact. At the beginning of her
second year. She had arrived with a broken wrist and had to be healed by Madam Pomfrey before
the feast even began. According to the diagnosis, it had been broken for at least a week or so and
was improperly mending. The girl had claimed that she had gotten into a fight with a muggle boy
and had broken it by accident. Dumbledore wasn’t concerned by it nor was I. Potter had always
been a reckless child with an infamously short temper and it wouldn’t have been the first time that
she had gotten injuries in a scuffle she had initiated.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes widened just fractionally, astonishment overcoming him for a brief moment
before a cold fury began to make itself at home in his chest, burrowing deeply and swishing its tail
in agitation. The liquid in the glass began to swirl threateningly on its own accord. She had come
back from the summer vacation with an injured wrist, one that had occurred a week earlier, and her
muggle guardians didn’t even see fit to take her to a hospital?

“Her relatives saw that she had broken a bone and still didn’t allow her to receive muggle
treatment? And yet Dumbledore was dismissive of this negligence on their part?” he asked far too
calmly.

Hearing it aloud, and put in that light, it did sound rather suspicious. Abrupt images formed in
Snape’s mind of the green-eyed girl returning from the summer holidays, thinner than when she
had initially left, her eyes a touch duller, her usual vibrant energy lacking. Little details that he had
originally dismissed as her own doing-- bruises on her arms, her shoulders, her skin, scratches and
scars that he had thought she received from careless behaviour. Her flinching at sudden loud
sounds, her despondency when the school year was nearing its end. Coal eyes searched crimson
ones in alarm, things suddenly clicking into place and horror filling him. He had visited the home
himself. Had seen how she withered under her aunt’s sharp gaze, how she was content to hide
behind him until the muggle woman had left. What else had he missed? What other warning signs
had been flagged before him that he had been blissfully ignorant of?

“My Lord, it couldn’t be possible, could it?” Severus finally ventured to ask in the space of the
silence that followed, catching on to the underlying implications in his Lord’s questioning.

Voldemort took a long, slow sip from his glass, draining it completely as his mind began to turn. It
could entirely be a coincidence, he knew, but her actions, her despair and guilt that he had felt as
real as his own, her feelings of being unworthy. No, those were too real to stem from anything
innocent. And if anyone was painfully aware of the cruelty of muggles, of how much suffering
they could reap, it was him. Distant flashes of his time spent at Wool’s, of the visiting priests
determining him to be possessed, of being starved and beaten in an attempt to make him ‘normal’.

“I believe,” he finally said, words slow, purposeful, quite clear in their meaning, “That a visit with
the Dursleys is in order.”

Another knock on the wood had him looking towards the door in exasperation, his foul mood
worsening at the intrusion. How overwhelming the urge was to seek out those parasites, to demand
answers, to hear from their own lips the vile things that they had committed against what was his, a
gift from nature. And yet, someone was here to distract him, to stop him from doing just that at this
very moment. Voldemort, wisely, chose to set down the crystal tumbler before his hold could
tighten around it, before he could shatter it.

“What,” he bit out in vitriol, in annoyance.

The cold wrath had given way to something far darker, something far more dangerous, begging
him to act on it. He could only pray that whoever was interrupting him had a worthy enough
excuse because the need to hex, to find an outlet for the savagery in him that was twisting cruelly
around itself, knotting up inside of him, was almost blinding.

“My Lord,” Nott had entered, flinching inwardly at the tone of the Dark Lord and dreading the fact
that he had caught him at the wrong time.

After a quick bow, he straightened his spine in an attempt to feel calmer, to assure himself that he
was bringing news that would earn his Lord’s pleasure rather than his fury. Silence fell over the
room as he, jerkily and unsteadily, made his way over to the desk, sending a sharp questioning
glance over to Severus still seated in the chair.

“I felt it was prudent to bring this to your attention,” the Death Eater explained, hesitantly
extending the file out for the Dark Lord to take, “You wished to be alerted on any activity in
relation to Sirius Black.”

The Dark Lord allowed his gaze to flit across his follower’s face, eyes narrowed as he tried to
discern the nature of the news that Nott had brought him. He had placed an alert on the man for the
simple reason that, out of all of the members that had participated in the first war, he was the one
most willing to stake everything on retrieving Harri. That, if anyone was foolish enough to band
back together the underground organization, it would be the man who had just lost the last piece of
his dearly departed friends.

Voldemort snatched the report from shaking fingers, unable to help himself from sneering at the
trembling man, at his so blatantly obvious fear. If this is what he had interrupted him for,
something as mundane as Sirius Black waltzing about London, then he wasn’t sure if he would
even be able to lift the cruciatus in time to preserve the man’s sanity. However, upon opening the
red folder, the anger began to ebb away to something more excited, something twistedly gleeful in
nature. He lifted his eyes in incredulous regard before turning back to the paper before him.

“You are sure?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Nott dipped his head respectfully, cool relief flooding through him at the abrupt
change of mood, “Grimmauld Place has had an unusual amount of activity over the past few
hours.”

Voldemort tore his eyes from the file back to the windows as he digested the information. This is
what he had been waiting for, what his patience had sown. After all, he had placed Wormtail
outside of the Black home for almost a day now, instructing him to keep track of any arrivals
coming and going. And oh how he had delivered. His very own Judas, betraying his friends once
again in desperate attempts to secure favour and praise within his inner circle. It almost made him
want to laugh at the lunacy of the fact that Pettigrew had, essentially, repeated the same
surveillance that had led to the deaths of his dearest two friends, that he was so readily turning on
the remaining two. Truly, the rat did suit the sniveling man the best, finding that he contributed
more as a rodent spy than he ever did as a human.

Voldemort spared a quick glance at Snape, his gaze hardening for a second, “You are dismissed
for now. But do be ready, Severus, for when I call you again. I have a feeling that you will be
quite useful in my little excursion.”

As the dark-haired wizard nodded in his periphery, eagerly fleeing the room, he retrained his
attention back to the logs detailing all of the apparitions that had occurred just outside of Number
12 Grimmauld Place. If memory served him correctly, however, the residence was declared as
abandoned which meant a sudden increase in foot traffic could only point to one thing.

“Bring me the registry of Sirius Black’s holdings,” the Dark Lord instructed.

A snap of fingers and thick tome of a book appeared, its pages magically parting for the entry he
had been looking for. A wide smile, full of teeth and predatory in temperament, blossomed on his
features as his eyes darted wildly across the page. They landed obsessively on the properties listed
under the Black name, particularly on the line for Grimmauld Place. ‘Tertiary residence; Vacated,’
he mused, triumph blooming in him as his theory was confirmed.

It was clever, in a way, for Sirius to allow the Order to gather in a supposedly empty ancestral
home in the middle of London. After all, they were generally well warded and the masters of the
house could dictate who could come inside and who was outright denied entry. However, Sirius
seemed to be ignorant of a little secret, of a not so well-known fact regarding the function of
familial wards-- they could never refuse those who had the blood running through their veins of
the one that had originally casted them. In light of this, in the face of something so ancient and
resolute, the wishes of the master of the house were completely nulled. And how lucky for the
Dark Lord to have currently 4 descendants of the Black family tree at his disposal. The Order was
doomed, within his grasp, ready for the taking and an eagerness overshadowed all other
emotions.

Voldemort tore his gaze up from the file, eyes alight with twisted glee, with warped elation, “Fetch
Bellatrix.”
 12 Grimmauld Place
Chapter 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 and stressful day and ended up going to bed pretty early because of it.

As always, you guys are amazing and just lovely people Thank you for reading
along and for every comment, kudos, and bookmark! It's been so awe-inspiring to see

Hope you guys enjoy!

More members had appeared on Grimmauld’s doorstep than Sirius Black could have ever
expected, so many of them holding onto their coins, their summons, their beacons for the same
reason as Remus did-- a memento of the past. However, many had resigned the coins to be just
that. A relic from a long-forgotten era, symbolic of the time when they had all been freedom
fighters. Though that had changed when the morning post arrived, a memento suddenly more than
something to be hidden away in a drawer. They had all heard the trill of birdsong emitting from the
coin, had felt the heat, and saw the phoenix diving in endless loops around its edges. In fact, some
had even anticipated it, were eyeing the golden trinket until it had done so, willing it to life.
Needless to say, it was an emotional sight upon seeing those old friends, comrades who had
survived the first war, flood into the expanse of the kitchen. These were people who had witnessed
the horrors that had happened decades ago but were still stepping forward out of hiding. Sirius
couldn’t even recall when he had last seen some of these admirably brave wizards, had last laid
eyes on Hestia Jones or Charity Burbage, had last been in the same room as the Advanced Guard.
But, of course, it was all welcomed nonetheless.

Whoever could fit had found themselves seated at the long wooden bench in the galley, while
those who couldn’t were content to be scattered about, either standing or leaning against the walls.
He noted that some of Harri’s own friends were here as well. Lovegood’s daughter, Hermione
Granger, and the 3 youngest of the Weasley clan. How they had convinced their mother to let them
come was beyond him but Sirius still smiled fondly, touched at their show of loyalty towards his
not-quite-goddaughter. He had risen from his seat, a glass in his hand and ready to toast to them, to
their eagerness to come out of the shadows, to band back together an organization long thought to
be dead, when a sudden pop filled the room.

Standing atop in the middle of the table, its dirty bare feet amongst the fine china and looking
around in a daze was a house elf. Minerva, seated nearest to the creature, reared back in shock by
its sudden appearance, a hand flying to her chest. Sirius, likewise, had found himself at a loss for
words, instantly recognising that it wasn’t Kreacher and more than confused by who it could have
possibly belonged to. He slowly lowered the toasting goblet as silence stretched on between the
gathered party. The being was turning in dazed half circles on the wooden surface, purple eyes
bouncing from wizard to wizard and wringing its knobby fingers in a show of nervousness.

“Sirius?” it questioned, voice quivering just slightly, “Sirius Black?”

He blinked a few times before stepping forward, feeling even more bewildered by its purpose or
where it had come from. And the briefest thought crossed his mind, a distant warning, that
questioned whether or not it was wise to verbally admit his identity, to confirm who he was to an
elf that could have been employed by just about anyone.

“Yes?” he answered slowly after a second of silence, Remus’s hand shooting out in caution and
gripping at his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder to take in the stern face, the tight-lipped
expression, a subtly minute shake of a sandy brown head.

However, nothing bad had happened nor was calamity wrought, as he had been anticipating. On the
contrary, it was an instantaneous reaction of joy, of excitement. The elf leapt down from the table,
its bare feet slapping against the stone as it rushed forward. Those too long fingers clutched at the
hem of his tailored coat, yanking on it as tears misted over its impossibly large eyes.

“Oh Mr. Black! Zivvy has been looking everywhere for you, Zivvy has!” it exclaimed, ears
fluttering as it hurried out its words, “You was not at your main house, you was not! Zivvy had to
go to every property you have to find you! I bring news from Miss Potter, Sir.”

Sirius stared down at the elf, unnerved, as though he couldn’t quite believe what it had said. Its
words were distant, foreign, unable to stick in his addled brain. ‘Miss Potter?’ he echoed vaguely,
eyeing the creature in disbelief. There was only one Potter it could have possibly been referring to
it and his stomach did a nauseating flip. He barely registered the inward gasps and the
exclamations of delight from those hovering about the room, sinking to one knee and desperately
clutching at the thin upper arms of the elf. A logic-driven stream was shooting up warning flags
that this could very likely be a trap. After all, it would be just like the Dark Lord to toy around with
one’s emotions first, to give them false hope, to make them see a light before blowing out the
flame. However, there was still a chance that the creature wasn’t lying, that it had truly been her
trying to contact him and he clung to it as a man would to driftwood during a tempestuous storm at
sea.

A maniac look shone in his grey stare, one of desperation, his voice strained in its urgency, “Harri?
Harri sent you?!”

The elf gave a spirited nod of its too-large head, attempting to recall the message the kind witch
wanted it to relay, “Miss Potter says she is fine and well at Malfoy Manor. But she wanted Zivvy to
caution Padfoot against doing anything too rash and to think first.”

Relief and despair flooded him simultaneously, his shaky low laughter a bittersweet thing. It truly
was Harri if she referred to him as Padfoot but that only made the words all the more damning. On
one hand, it was a comfort to know the exact location of where she was hidden away, that she was
apparently unharmed and still holding onto her fighting spirit enough to defy Voldemort to send
him a message. On the other hand, it was his worst fears confirmed-- Voldemort had put her right
in the middle of his snake pit, a next to impossible feat to infiltrate. And where would they even
start in formulating a plan that involved breaking into a manor constantly patrolled by Death
Eaters? A villa, undoubtedly, well-warded and with a Dark Lord hidden in its tower?

Sirius’s mind began to turn, a dizzying pace that made his head start to throb, reeling as he rose on
shaky feet. The mumbles and whispers from the gathered Order members went unheeded as he
began to aggressively open the kitchen drawers, frantically searching for something to write with.
This elf was their one way to contact her, it seemed, his one way to let her know they hadn’t,
wouldn’t , give up on her. A fondness, a swell of pride, at her cleverness, of her resourcefulness,
subdued the rising panic just a little. ‘That’s my girl.’

“Sirius,” a low whisper interrupted his frenzied search for parchment, manic eyes lifting for a
second to take in the hovering form of Remus at his shoulders.

There was a pinched look on the werewolf's weary face and alarm bright in his gaze. A hand, large
and firm, settled on his shoulder, imploring him to stop his crazed search as the man pointedly
glimpsed over his shoulder at the huddle pockets of people around the room. Their heads were
bowed in whispers, trying to formulate strategies, the vaguest notions of a plan to storm the manor,
to start making their presence known again.

“We need to leave. If that house elf came from Malfoy Manor, they’ll know where we are,” Lupin
reasoned, tone low, urgent, trying to avoid inciting panic amongst the wizards that they had invited
here.

They had welcomed all of these people, those who had managed to escape the first war with their
lives, to their home to sign away their names to the newly-constructed Order of the Phoenix. And
while it should have been a joyous affair, an occasion to celebrate, it would quickly turn into a
slaughter if the Death Eaters arrived. Green eyes took in the forms of Lovegood with his daughter,
of the Weasley clan with their children, of Hermione Granger hovering amongst the sea of ginger
hair. If a blood bath was going to occur, he would rather it happened without having children
present, especially ones that had yet to even complete their schooling.

“I know,” Sirius snapped back, a soft sound of victory escaping him as he found a spare corner of
parchment stuffed into a drawer full of knick-knacks, crumpled and torn, discoloured in some
spots. ‘Just need a quill,’ he rummaged desperately for one, frowning when he only found a nib and
an almost dried up inkpot.

“I just have to write this and then we can go,” he explained, eyes turning unfocused as he
considered the words, of what he should even say to her.

The old professor groaned in exasperation as Sirius pinched the nib between his fingers, scrawling
messily onto the aged-worn scrap. An urge drove him onwards, an obsession that whispered
endlessly that Harri needed to know that they still cared, that she couldn’t lose hope. That he still
remembered his promise of always coming to her ‘Dark Lords be damned’. It was lunacy, he
understood, taking the time out to write a note in the face of something as urgent as fleeing, as
leaving, but he had a sneaking suspicion that if he didn’t, he would regret it. That if she didn’t see
the note, could read how much he loved her, of how he still thought of her as his own, that she
might fade away, might lose faith, might give in to the Dark Lord. ‘Just a little more,’ he thought
frenzied, eyes scanning over what he had previously written in haste, trying to figure out what else
to add.

“I mean it,” Lupin warned again softly, an itch in his chest, a sign of his anxiousness, his eyes
bouncing between his friend and the people scattered about the edges of the room.

Sirius had felt it before anyone else did, the shimmers and quakes of the wards giving way, the
sharp sounds in the background of wizards apparating onto their front step. Grey eyes glanced up
towards the long hallway in alarm, willing his hand to write faster, for his words to come quicker.
Shacklebolt, dressed in brilliant purple robes, had come rushing into the kitchen not even a second
later, his wand out and clenched tightly in his hands. He seemed out of breath, undoubtedly having
sprinted across the entire expanse of the narrow mansion to deliver his warning.

“We’ve got company,” he announced grimly, nodding towards Remus with a grave look, “I’ll try
to hold them off while I can but we need to leave.”

There was a beat of silence before Diggle and Vance rose from their spots on the bench, their
wands slipping from their holsters and silently trailing after Shacklebolt to the front parlour. Part of
Sirius felt relieved that they were the ones to volunteer to help stave off the incoming Death Eaters,
the pair famous amongst the Advance Guard as rather proficient duellers.

“Sirius! We need to go. Now,” the werewolf hissed at him, irritation flaring at the fact that the man
was still writing despite being told that the Dark Lord’s followers were at their front door.

Fishing his own medallion out of his waistcoat, Remus paced over to the group of children, placing
it firmly into the hands of the brown-haired witch. The sounds of spellfire, of a crackling in the air,
of distant shouts echoed into the kitchen. It appeared that the trio at the front of the mansion were
going on the offense.

“They act as portkeys, tuned in to a secondary base used in the first war. Everyone put a finger on
it, make sure you are touching it, and say “Ignis te invoco”. It will get you out of here,” he
explained in a rushed manner, glancing over his shoulder at the abrupt pounding on the front door,
“We will meet up with you as soon as possible. Molly, go with them.”

Another round of shouts, desperate and barking out orders. Remus winced at the grating sound of
something shattering, most likely one of the grand bay windows in the parlour. The Weasley
matron sent him a grim nod and hurriedly split the group of children in two halves. She gave a
reassuring squeeze to her daughter’s face, nodding in encouragement as the twins repeated the
incantation, their bodies blurring away as a streak of orange. Lupin whirled in alarm as, from
further down the hall, the front door was blown off of its hinges, crashing to the ground in
deafening clatter. He took that as a sign that Shacklebolt’s team had failed in their mission of
holding off the Death Eaters, of securing Grimmauld Place for just a second longer.

“Oh, cousin dearest!” a deranged voice, feminine and high pitched, crooned in an off-tune way. A
cackle, reedy and maddening, followed in suit of the sharp crack of spellfire, the abrupt smell of
smoke suffocating in the air.

Blood turning to ice at the voice, knowing all too well who had come after him, Sirius swallowed
thickly as the final group of children had been spirited away. Heavy footfalls were the only warning
he had received that people had begun to flood into the halls, his thoughts bitter, ‘So much for
ancestral wards.’ Despite being the master of the house, the last of the male line, his authority had
been nulled in the face of something more ancient. The house was treating himself and his cousin
as equals, recognising them both as products of the Black lineage and giving them a stance of
mirrored rights to be in the house. The manor was refusing to play sides, to favour one over another
and, not for the first time, Sirius found himself vehemently cursing the Black family name. His
ears strained at the echoing footsteps, of the jostling of bodies squeezing themselves down the
corridors, a slew of profanities escaping him at the realisation. Apparently, the wards not only let in
his dear cousin but her ‘guests’ as well.

“Everyone needs to leave. Get to the second base and wait for us there,” the dark-haired wizard
barked out, prompting the remaining few that hadn’t activated their portkeys, frozen in place by
the turn of events, into action.

‘So much for a happy reunion.’ Grey eyes darted furiously about the kitchen for the small frame of
the house elf. Slipping his wand out of its holster, fingers tightening around the warming wood in
his grip, he looked down the dimly lit hall in apprehension. Distantly, he registered Remus
reminding everyone of the incantation, of ensuring those who didn’t have a medallion could be
paired with someone that did. But all of it was lost on him as he spied the bald head and too large
ears, darting towards the confused elf still standing in the middle of the kitchen.

Roughly grabbing its hand, he shoved the rushed note into its palm, voice quiet, commanding,
urgent. “Find Harri and give this to her.”

He watched as comprehension dawned in its eyes, a firm nod of its head, before it blurred away
from Grimmauld Place. Perhaps it was foolish of him to think that the elf, a creature bound in
servitude to a family that revered the Dark Lord, would follow through on his request. After all, he
was putting his entire faith into such a small being. But if it had delivered Harri’s message to him
originally, he figured that there had to be some merit in the idea. That it must feel some form of
loyalty towards the redheaded witch to do her bidding, to actively seek him out for her.

A scream, the smell of burning flesh, bright colours being traded across the walls in a sickening
light show behind his lids. Crashes of things being broken, shattered, furniture that had lasted
through the decades intact suddenly crumbling before the might of the wizards dueling within its
walls. Shouts were drifting closer towards the back of the house, magic heavy in the air as
Dearborn, and another young man that he hadn’t recognised, charged out of the kitchen’s
threshold. There was a particularly startling thud not soon after, the dull sound of flesh hitting the
wooden floor, and Sirius had the vaguest notion, a sickening thought, that it was one of their own
that had fallen. A flick of his wrist and the heavy door closed, providing a false sense of security
and isolating the kitchen from the rest of the manor. He knew a locked door wouldn’t do much but
perhaps it could give them enough of a respite to leave. McGonagall had Jones at her side and the
latter passed her coin to Remus in a solemn nod, flint eyes hard in a warning for the two Marauders
not to do anything reckless. A second later and they were gone, the coin held up between the
professor’s two fingers and mouth pressed into a grim line.

“Kind of Hestia to lend us this since someone has apparently misplaced theirs,” Lupin tried to make
a light-hearted jest at Sirius’s expense but it fell flat, whirling on the spot as the kitchen door fell
from its hinges. As natural as breathing, a second nature to him, the werewolf immediately fell into
a dueling stance at the side of his companion.

And even despite the situation they had found themselves in, despite the horror and destruction
being reaped in his home, despite the fact they had yet to still escape, a thrill of rush passed
through Sirius. It was like they were back in their youth, him and Remus shoulder to shoulder,
ready to take on the world. And, if he concentrated hard enough, he could have sworn that James
was there too, cocky smile and all.

“It’s just like old times, eh Moony?” he threw up a hastily constructed shield as a yellow spell
came shooting forth from the shadows, a sickening sizzle as it melted against the protego.

He didn’t even want to know what that would have done if it had landed on him but, considering
the scream from earlier and the revolting smell of burning flesh, he could make an educated guess.

“That letter better be worth it, Sirius,” Lupin muttered vehemently, wrist snapping to send a blindly
directed Impedimenta down the corridor, “Because if we survive this, I might just kill you myself.”

He had been about to laugh, to point out his friend loved him too much to ever act upon such a
threat, to ease some of the tension, when the werewolf was suddenly blasted off of his feet. The
wizard had landed, sprawling onto the dining room table with a sickening crack, his head colliding
with the table’s sharp edge.

“Remus!” his tone was distressed, rising several octaves at seeing those dark green eyes roll back
into his head, his body slumping into a lifeless heap.
Sirius spun on the spot, grey eyes blazing and ready to seek retribution, to seek vengeance when he
saw who was waiting in the doorway. It was as though he had been doused in cold water, a bracing
experience that shocked him into numbness, into stillness.

“Fuck,” was the only coherent thing he could say, his first and foremost instinct upon seeing his
cousin leaning against the frame.

He had had the displeasure of crossing wands with her before during the height of Voldemort’s
first reign. It was when he had refused to join her at her side as part of her twisted idea of family, a
betrayal that she had never quite forgiven him for. Or, at least, that’s what the rather gruesome scar
on his back said.

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you, cousin?” Bellatrix questioned with a saccharine quality to her
voice, clicking her tongue in apparent disapproval. Her wand, as warped as she was, tapped
thoughtfully against her chin as she took in the crumpled werewolf on the ground, giving a soft
tutting noise in apology, “So sorry about your little friend . I find it difficult to sometimes control
my power.”

It was jarring at how casual she had sounded, how quickly her attention was diverted, how flighty
it truly was. One second she was occupied with the wizard on the ground then the next she was
rounding on Sirius. Those dark eyes were frenzied, holding an unsettling shine that relayed how
distant her mind was, how unstable, how deranged. The witch suddenly pointed her wand at her
cousin, vermillion lips parting to reveal a row of gleaming teeth, a stray wild curl falling into the
refined features of her face.

“But oh, how My Lord would very much like a word with you.”

A beat of a second, a moment of pause where they took in one another, family who hadn’t seen
each other in decades. Then she moved, fluid and as quick as a viper striking its prey, her wand
movements almost a blur. He could barely react in time, his shield poorly constructed and fizzling
out the second a rather nasty strain of a cruciatus had come into contact with it. Just behind his
shoulder, the kitchen’s window shattered as it took the brunt of the deflected spell. He rolled to the
ground, casting out a poorly directed stupefy as he fled from the kitchen, the maniacal giggling
chasing after him a chilling warning of her pursuit.

Harri officially, thoroughly, without a doubt, hated anything having to do with etiquette, pureblood
manners, and ladylike behaviour. Her day had been spent learning proper place settings, about
which forks to use for what, how to politely cut up her meal and all sorts of useless information that
made her head feel too small and her brain throb. ‘Why, for the love of all things holy, is a salad
fork different than the one used for the main dish?’ she complained inwardly, having retreated to
the balcony for some much-needed air. Narcissa, as she had come to quickly learn, was a merciless
teacher, strict in her rules and high in expectations. And it was only after a no small amount of
begging, of finally picking up the stem of her wine glass correctly, did the Malfoy matriarch allow
her a momentary respite.

Even though it was still winter, the snow heavy about the ground, Harri had found herself enjoying
the outdoors. Of being in the meek sunshine, of feeling the mild bite of the wind, of hearing the
subdued birdsong. She closed her eyes, tilting her head upwards to the sky and allowing the mild
midday sun to warm her skin. Unfortunately, her moment of reprieve had come to a crashing halt
by a sharp pop at her side. Her eyes opened in alarm, frantically casting about the empty veranda in
an attempt to figure out who had just appeared. A sharp tug on the wool fabric of her dress, she
glanced down, and there was the wide-eyed house elf she had been missing.
“Zivvy!” she exclaimed, in both relief and joy at seeing the creature alive and well. It had been
almost two days since she had instructed it to find Sirius and she had begun to fear the worst at its
prolonged disappearance.

Chancing a glimpse over her shoulder to ensure they were still alone, she crouched down towards
the creature, whispering for an added sense of privacy, “Did you manage to find him?”

It gave a hasty nod, pride swelling up in its small chest at seeing the delight in the witch’s eyes, at
how pleased she was. Knobbed fingers, gnarled and thin, held out a crumpled piece of parchment,
“I did, Miss. He has given Zivvy a letter for you.”

A frown crossed her face, tugging the corners of her petal pink mouth downwards. She had
expected him to give a simple message to the elf, a verbal one like hers, but for him to write a
letter? It both touched her but also worried her beyond all logical reason. After all, what had to be
said in writing that he couldn’t say aloud? Just making sure once more that Narcissa wouldn’t
appear out of thin air, her fingers, hesitant and turning numb from the cold, unfolded the piece of
scrap paper.

Prongslet--

My dear, brave girl. You truly are your parents’ daughter, as Gryffindor and fearless as
they were. Absolutely genius on using a house elf to communicate with us. The Order
is being reborn, as you have probably already guessed. Dumbledore is still missing but
we are prepared to fight, to rise up against the Dark Lord. We will rescue you, have no
doubt about that, the very second we figure out how to get into Malfoy Manor. “Dark
Lords be damned”. Until then, be strong, Harri. Do not give in to him and do not bend
to his wishes. 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 will always love you,
no matter what happens. Continue to use the elf to reach us for the time being.

We are coming.

- Padfoot

Her green eyes flitted over the note, reading it again and then rereading for good measure. Part of
her wondered if this was a figment of her imagination, of a cruel trick her mind was playing on her
to incite hope, to make her believe. The usage of her nickname, the assurance of their love despite
seeing that damned photo in the morning post-- it all made her heart squeeze, for something warm
to bloom in her. Tears began to blur the words together and she hastily wiped them away once they
had started to dot the parchment, terrified of ruining the note. ‘They still care,’ she felt like floating,
a sensation of relief that they saw through Voldemort’s little ploy, making her chest feel airy. They
were going to save her, he still remembered his promise even if he had been forced to break it
before. But now? Now, the main difference was that there wasn’t a Dumbledore to stop him from
coming this time. She did her best to ignore the dark seed of guilt trying to overshadow the joy, the
unbridled happiness. ‘Just wait until they learn what you are,’ a sobering thought crossed her mind
and she shook her head in a physical attempt to banish it, content to deal with that little hangup later
on.

Harri was drawn back to the last line of the note, the part of it bolder than the rest, more pressure
applied when writing it out. A finger traced over the recessed indents into the parchment, her frown
deepening. ‘They are coming but does it even matter?’ The inner dialogue had turned morose as
her attention wandered back to the manicured lawns of the manor before her, jaw ticking in a
nervous habit. ‘This place is crawling with Death Eaters, not to mention Voldemort. If they come
here…’ It would spell carnage, destruction, spilled blood on both sides. And, as much as she
despised his followers, the thought of Narcissa, of Draco, getting caught in the crossfire made her
stomach turn sour.

“Zivvy,” she said hesitantly, squinting into the distance of the lawn, “How did they seem? When
you told them not to do anything rash?”

The elf began to squirm, fingers knotting into its ratty pillowcase, its mind torn between telling her
and causing undoubted stress or purposefully lying and risking her distrust should she ever find
out. Without meaning to, it blurted out, “Miss, when Zivvy was leaving, more wizards had arrived.
They were not nice at all, Miss, not at all. Mrs. Lestrange was there, I heard her, I did. ”

She whirled in alarm at the admittance, at the fact that Death Eaters, that Bellatrix of all people,
had apparently been at Grimmauld. Kneeling down to be eye level with the creature, pale hands
shot out to grip firmly at its thin shoulders, tone pleading, “Did they escape? Did you see if they
got out in time?”

“I didn’t see,” the elf explained slowly, a pang in its chest seeing the crestfallen look in those green
eyes, at seeing her so worried, “Zivvy left to give you the letter, Miss.”

‘What if they didn’t get out,’ her thoughts were a whirl of panic, of alarm, of distress. Images
assaulted her of Sirius, bruised and bloodied, of Remus shackled like a wild animal and spirit
broken, of their heads awaiting the proverbial chopping block. Fear, clawing her insides raw, made
her shoulders start to tremble, a sensation of uselessness rendering her desperate. She couldn’t
protect them, not this far away, couldn’t save them and it was all of her fault. Her fault for getting
captured, of spurring the Order on, of forcing them to be reckless in an attempt to get her back. It
was her fault for not escaping fast enough, for lingering to help those in the halls back at Hogwarts
when she should have been running, for not doing more to fight against him. It was entirely all of
her mistakes and they would be paying the price. Harri tried to swallow back the tears, to force
down the lump in her throat so she could speak.

“Zivvy, please,” her words were shaky, unstable, wavering as her vision began to blur, to distort
with tears, “Zivvy, please, you have to help them.”

The house elf opened and closed its mouth in a futile attempt to refuse her, to explain it couldn’t.
That it was only a simple servant, bound to its family, that it was no hero. But hearing her beg,
something that no respectable witch or wizard had ever done before, seeing her treat itself as not a
mere retainer, a slave, did terrible things to its conscience. How could it refuse the one human that
seemed to treat it as an equal, who had always asked rather than demanded, who was horrified
when it had punished itself for failing her the first time? Plus, it was instructed to assist Harri
Potter in any tasks that she needed done so saving Sirius Black didn’t technically go against any
explicit orders.

“Please,” Harri begged in the silence that followed, watching the conflict war in those owlish
purple eyes. She may be incapable of helping them but the elf, who could so freely move about the
wards, was not. Perhaps if she pleaded enough, it would listen, and would see how important this
was to her.

A slow nod of its head, a dip that showed it was acquiescing to her requests, mouth set into a
determined line.

“I’ll do it, Miss. Zivvy will help Sirius Black and the others escape at any cost.”

Relief washed through her, an errant tear or two finally slipping past her lashes as she placed a
quick peck to the leathered skin of the elf’s cheek. Harri pulled its small body into hers for a
second, arms constricting in the gentlest of ways in an effort to convey her gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered, releasing the dazed being from her hold, shoulders going rigid when
she heard her name being called.

Harri rose on unsteady feet, fingers pressing into her eyes to hide the traces revealing that she had
been crying, trying desperately to put herself back together. In her hands, the note from her
godfather rested, tender sentiments that now made her heart squeeze for entirely different reasons.
Part of her wondered if this was the last thing she would have from Sirius Black, if a hastily written
note in barely legible scrawl would be the last physical reminder of the man. ‘Stop it,’ she
chastised herself, glancing over her shoulder at her name being called once more. There was a soft
pop and the creature had disappeared, though whether it was too late or not had yet to be seen.

“Harri, it’s time to resume your lessons,” Narcissa’s voice floated out clearer, her footsteps now
distinct.

She roughly shoved the scrap parchment into the emerald green bra, cursing the fact she had no
pockets but not daring to hide it anywhere else where it could be possibly discovered. Drawing in a
calming breath, trying to find her center and to hide her distress, to suppress those feelings of guilt
and dismay and terror as best as she could, she turned on the heels of her feet.

“I’m coming,” was her response, sparing one last peek at where the elf had stood, its imprints left
behind in the snow. Green eyes tore themselves from the spot to briefly flit up to the sky, her silent
prayer an earnest one. ‘Please let them be safe.’
 Blood Is As Good As Gold
Chapter 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 an absolute 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 than previous chapters.

Also, there's a warning for sexual content in this chapter so please be aware of that if it
makes you uncomfortable! 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, I swear**

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 installments.

As always, thank so much for the love and the kudos you guys have given this fic!

When the house elf had finally arrived back at Grimmauld Place, a soft pop as its existence
materialised in the parlour, it was to the sight of absolute carnage. The air smelt of lingering
smoke, of sulfur and brimstone, several of the walls now sporting charred patterns where errant
spellfire had consumed the faded floral paper. Glass littered the floor from the shattered bay
windows, a once grand feature of the mansion now destroyed, reduced to glittering diamonds that
caught the reflection of the midday sun. Large splinters of wood were interspersed about the room,
originating from the destroyed bits of furniture whose original configurations were beyond the
point of recognition. Most disturbing, however, was the fact that a body lay askew across the
threshold of the grand front door-- a middle-aged woman with caramel hair streaked through with
grey, her brown eyes glassy and staring up at the ceiling, unfocused and dulled. A portion of her
neck and shoulder had been burnt away, the skin singed and blackened in a testament to the
suffering she had undergone before the final moments of her death.

The creature recognised the woman as belonging to the Order, the severe dark robes and intricate
mask missing that would have identified her as a follower of the Dark Lord. Fear jolted through its
small frame, some part of it dreading that it had arrived too late, that the damage had already been
done. ‘No,’ it thought firmly, shaking its head as it forced its disinclined feet to move, ‘I promised
Miss Potter that I would look.’ A frown crossed its pointed features as it gingerly picked its way
through the chaos, noting with slight bitterness at how ruined the portraits on the walls were. Some
had large chunks of their canvas thoroughly obliterated, their inhabitants missing from their frame
and the halls lacking their usual chatter. The house was quiet, eerily so, as the elf moved through
the dim corridors and past two more bodies slumped over one another-- a Death Eater and an older
man with a grey beard. Zivvy suppressed a shudder at seeing the further evidence of the brutality
of wizards, of seeing how quickly humans were to turn against their own kind, to kill. ‘But not
Miss Potter,’ a small part of it defended the redheaded witch, vehement in its declaration and
thoroughly believing in her kind heart.

A clattering sound from the back of the house drew its attention and the house elf crept stealthily
along the shadows, thin body pressed flat against the wall to avoid drawing attention should
anyone still be lingering. The kitchen door was hanging by a single hinge on its frame and Zivvy
peered curiously through the hole, eyes widening. There, sprawled in the middle of the room and
below the table, was an unconscious man with sandy brown hair. And two more were hovering
about him, dressed in cloaks and bronze masks, lower-ranked followers of the Dark Lord the elf
realised.

“What should we do with ‘im?” one questioned, kicking the foot of the unresponsive man at his
feet, his hands resting at his hips in a show of exhaustion.

“Wait until Lestrange is done with her fun, I guess,” the other had responded idly, head shooting up
as the ceiling above them quaked.

Zivvy followed their gazes, nodding to itself in excited determination that Sirius Black was more
than likely still in the house and, probably, alive as well. Purple eyes trained themselves back to the
unmoving wizard, drawing in a breath and refusing to exhale as its body bled from view. When it
had slipped into the galley, the unstable door had creaked causing both dark-robed men to whirl on
the spot, their eyes flickering behind their bronzed veils to see who could have possibly come back.
Naturally, they were entirely caught off guard as an unseen force levitated them off the ground, the
house elf doing so easily with a snap of knobbed fingers. Their cloaked bodies slammed roughly
against the ceiling before crashing back down to the earth, masks falling from their faces as their
eyes rolled into their heads from the impact. The transparency veil had melted off the creature’s
skin as the body of Remus was tenderly lifted off the ground.

“No touching Miss Potter’s friends,” it stated determinedly, unwaveringly, a quick nod of its head
before it hurried up the stairs.

There were very few things that Sirius Black could say he genuinely feared in his life, most things
not even coming close to phasing him. It was his recklessness, his bravery he supposed, that
afforded him the luxury of having the list of things that made his blood run cold be quite short. But
his cousin, undoubtedly, was at the top of that very small list. And for good reason too-- only a
fool would not be terrified, to not be scared witless, when having to face Bellatrix Lestrange in
battle. He had currently found refuge behind an overturned coach, having sent a spray of black
mist through the room to give him momentary respite from her onslaught, to let himself catch his
breath and to allow his frantic mind to formulate a plan.

It wasn’t that he was a terrible dueller, no that was far from the truth. In fact, all pride aside, he was
probably the best amongst the Marauders, having defeated his friends several times in their low
stake matches. No, the truth of the matter was that his dear cousin was just that good . Whereas her
sisters had always been avoidant of violence, Bellatrix had thrived in the face of it, in using her
magic for offensive manners, in using it to make those before her cow and tremble. She had no
problem utilizing even the darkest of spells, in tapping into the endless reservoir of her magical
core and it was frightening to see how imaginative she could be, how ruthless and unforgiving. The
witch bathed in the heady shadows, in the corruption, of the Dark Arts in a way that was
unprecedented, forever driven on by its alluring call. In fact, if anyone had ever asked him for his
honest opinion, he would argue that’s part of the reason why she had slipped into the infamous
Black madness so quickly, barely even in her late 30s and already of unsound mind. And if her
brutality and impressive core wasn’t enough of an issue, there was the problem of how quick she
was. Her reflexes were almost inhuman, her wrist movements a blur to the extent that he couldn’t
even predict what spell she was going to fire next, though try as he did. Their entire fight had
pushed him into the defense, so much so to the point that he was now hiding behind a couch and
trying to rethink his tactics. Part of him was, begrudgingly, impressed with her as he was painfully
reminded why she was considered the Dark Lord’s right hand, his most trusted general, his own
personal Cerberus. She truly was a nightmare personified.

A pained wheeze escaped him as he clutched desperately at his lower thigh, just a few inches
above the knee. His dearest cousin had hit him with a rather nasty diffindo and the resulting gash
was bleeding rather heavily, spurred on by his constant movements. He could already feel the
endless bruises blooming under his skin, the soreness in his body, the sweat that clung stubbornly
to his skin. It was a simple and damning fact that he was taking quite the beating, that he would
soon give out from exhaustion if this continued on any longer.

In the background, Sirius could register her coughing as she inhaled the black mist, the sound
giving way to a delighted squeal of a laugh. It truly was an irritating sound, one that reminded him
all too well of her fragile sanity, sending chills down to his very bones. He occupied himself by
hitting his head against the couch’s upholstered back in a vain attempt to figure a way out of this
mess, trying to spark ideas through the rhythmic motion.

“Well, little cousin, aren’t you just full of surprises!”

A wicked smile parted her painted lips, her tongue running over the front-most set of her gleaming
teeth as she released a curl of wind about her feet, the fog swirling away from her as a result. The
mist had mostly disintegrated by now, dark eyes bouncing about the destroyed entertainment
parlour for where her target could have possibly hidden himself.

A reedy chuckle and her pointed boots began to thread their way through the rubble on the floors,
stray pieces of glass being crushed under her weight. The once handsome oak floors now sported
splinters and cracks where entire boards had been ripped up from their nailed in positions, other
spots escaping with the simple mercy of scorch marks. Remnants of an ornate chandelier lay in a
fine dust about her feet, the drapes burnt from the wall and upholstery from the settees scattered
about. This is what she lived for. Seeing the chaos, the product of her destructive magic, of seeing
that she had the power to incur such wrath, such damage upon her environment. That she wasn’t
limited by, confined and shackled to the expectations of her mother, of the cursed role of being a
simple docile ‘lady’. In a way, Bellatrix found herself beyond delighted to see this damned house
being ruined, the root of her childhood misery, that she was able to eradicate everything Druella
Black had once stood for. A wicked thought crossed her mind and she couldn’t help herself from
vindictively spitting onto the floors, daring her mother to watch her, to turn in her grave at the sight
of what her most disappointing daughter had become.

“Though, Sirius, I must confess myself a tad disappointed,” she muttered, circling about the room,
her heels clicking as hooded eyes landed obsessively on the couch.

A swell of anticipation filled her chest, the moment before a predator corners its prey, before the
wolf sinks its teeth into the rabbit’s beating heart, “After all, you’ve only been defending all day. I
wonder if that’s what happens when you run with mudbloods and traitors-- you get soft .”

He gritted his teeth at her goading, at her insults, ears straining as he could make out her nearing
footsteps. However, even he wasn’t a fool enough to rise to the bait, to give away his location
when it was the only ace he had in his hand. The doorway, a few feet away, caught his eye, his
only hope to escape and he exhaled shakily at how reckless of a plan it was. After all, who knew
how many Death Eaters still remained downstairs, if Remus was even alive, if he had the strength
left to apparate away. But it was the best chance he had and he would be damned if he let himself
be slaughtered like a pig.

Two things ended up happening at the exact same time, both cousins having similar thoughts
regarding the one exit to the room. Sirius had twisted around the edge of the overturned couch,
willing his sluggish body to move as quickly as it could, to cast the spell in haste before she could
become none the wiser.

“Diffindo!” he yelled, putting a good deal of power behind the curse, happily giving her a taste of
her own medicine and returning the pain he felt in his leg tenfold.

It was blindly directed, unfortunately, his hiding spot not allowing for much aim, and all he could
do was pray it would strike true its intended target.

However, the very second he had done so, the witch had casted a flipendo towards the furniture he
was crouched behind, having sent it flying into the wall and clipping his shoulder in the process. A
sharp cry of pain escaped him as he was knocked backwards, grasping at his shoulder and groaning
at the tenderness of it. He just knew that she had forcefully caused its dislocation with that little
stunt of hers. Unsteadily, he rose to his feet with gritted teeth, swapping his wand to his non-
dominant hand with some difficulty, the wood feeling foreign in an alien grip. He supposed their
duel had just gotten even more one-sided now. Grey eyes trained on the dark-haired witch before
him in wide-eyed surprise, however, upon seeing where the slashing spell had landed.

Bellatrix stumbled back a few paces in an outraged cry of pain, her hands frantically grappling at
her face to staunch the bleeding. While the curse had, luckily, missed slashing through her eye,
there was now a rather sizable gash from the top of her brow bone, splitting the dark hair to skirt
past the eyelid, curving towards her ear and ending just below the pulse point at her jaw. Her hands
were coated in scarlet, the crevices between her fingers dripping as she latched onto her injured
face, bestial sounds of fury and pain tearing from her throat.

“You little bitch!” she screeched in her wrath, Sirius frozen in place with temporary shock that he
had landed his first blow on her all day and quite by accident.

And then it was like a switch had been flipped, the groans and shrieks of pain suddenly subduing
as she lifted her stained hand from the wound. Blood was now flowing freely without having
something to restrict it, to help hold together to the flayed skin. Thick droplets splattered the floor
under her feet, the paleness of her skin a stark contrast to the gore marring it. Hooded eyes stared
obsessively down at the hand she had pulled away from her face, at the tacky warmth covering it.
Then, ever so slowly, she brought it to her mouth, her tongue swiping a long stripe across the palm.
Her lips were stained, glistening wetly in the dim lighting, her teeth coated in her own life’s
essence as she trained her malicious gaze back onto Sirius. A new madness had entered it,
darkening yet lighting up those black eyes simultaneously, a small demented smile tugging her at
the corners of her crimson mouth.

“Oh, dearest cousin, you are going to fully regret doing that,” she warned ominously, a soft lilt of a
laugh, as sharp as glass breaking, accompanying the words.

A chill ghosted through him at the expression in her fixed stare, at how gone she truly was to be
lapping at her own blood, to not even be attempting to heal herself. Sirius bolted for the door,
spurred on by her promise and not wanting to test how earnestly she had meant it. While it was true
that she hadn’t thrown a single killing curse at him throughout their entire duel, his faith in her self-
control was quite waned and stretched at the moment. He had been so close, the pain in his leg
forgotten, the ache in his shoulder suppressed by his adrenaline, when a sickly blue light had shot
through his leg, a revolting snap filling the air.
It was a moment of a delayed reaction, too quick for his brain to fully be aware of what had just
happened. A moment of nothingness, of numbness. Then his world exploded in pain, one that
escaped words to describe, as he sank to the ground screaming in agony, in suffering. Hands
fumbled blindly for his leg, the sight of the bone splintered and piercing through the skin greeting
him. He felt faint at the sight, at seeing the amount of blood weeping from the puncture, at seeing
his own shin, his own marrow exposed to the air. The urge to retch overcame him and he promptly
did so, leaning to the side and throwing up on the charred wood. It was mainly stomach acid, a
burn in the throat that made his sinuses sting, one that encouraged him to be sick all over again. He
couldn’t help the hot tears of anguish, the howls of torment from tearing his throat raw as his body
curled in on itself, hands gripping tightly around his knee in an attempt to stop the pain.

“My Lord said he wanted you alive,” the witch had murmured, nonchalant and blasé as though the
suffering of another human was something to scoff at.

She circled about his prone form, the heels of her boots clicking loudly as she hovered above his
face. Scarlet droplets, large and darker than the puddle that was currently staining the wood below
him, fell thickly onto his tear-stained cheek. The room was heavy with a metallic quality, heady
with the scent of iron, and it did little to calm her down, to make her see some sense, to see reason.

“But he never said I couldn’t have some fun first,” she crouched down, her warped wand trailing
almost tenderly across his cheek, dragging through an errant spot of her own blood and smearing it,
“I believe a little bonding time is in order, don’t you? Cousin to cousin?”

Grey eyes trained themselves on the door, barely registering as Bellatrix straightened her spine, the
sickening feeling of her blood falling onto his skin delayed in processing a grimace. The words
‘crucio’ were perceived and even more pain flooded him, just one cruel layer atop another. The
world around him was becoming increasingly dimmer, his vision darkening on the edges as his
nerve-endings felt scraped raw, twisted and exposed to a flame. In the moment, he almost wished
for death, for the sweet relief it would most certainly supply. To be reunited with his dear friends,
to escape the shudders of shock tearing through his body. He thought of Harri, of failing her, of her
trapped and unable to escape. That he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise of liberating her, that
he would surely die right in this moment at the hands of his deranged cousin. And, at this point, he
wasn’t even aware if he was still screaming or not, his throat feeling shredded, warmed, as though
molten copper had been forced down it.

And then the door flew open, the image of a small creature fuzzily outlined to him. Sirius blinked a
few times, trying to determine if it was real or a figment of his imagination, a mirage his brain had
concocted as an escape from the searing agony. But no--he determined it was genuine the moment
Bellatrix reared back in surprise, her pout mouth forming a surprised ‘oh’, her brows drawn up. If
she saw it too, it meant that the creature had to exist. That or they were both equally mad and
suffering from delusions associated with rather extreme blood loss.

“What are you doing here,” the witch hissed, staring in shock as she recognised the elf belonging
to the staff of her sister’s household.

Maybe Narcissa had sent it to check up on her, to ensure she was fine and following through on the
Dark Lord’s will? It wouldn’t be the first time. ‘Dear old Cissy, always worrying,’ she thought
with a bittersweet fondness, brandishing her wand in a dismissive wave.

“You can tell your master that I’m perfectly fine and will be back shortly,” she barked out in an
order, eyes flickering back to the shaking form of the man at her feet. When the house elf made no
indication of moving, however, she frowned and looked back towards it.

“Well?” she questioned, her tone haughty at its insolence of ignoring such a straightforward
command, of refusing a witch, its superior. Her fingers tightened about the bloodied wand, having
no reservations about teaching the defiant thing some manners if need be.

“You will not touch Sirius Black,” Zivvy intoned proudly, chest puffing out in pride that, for once,
its direct orders allowed it to defy the entitled pureblood. She wasn’t its master, not the one it was
bound to, so the rules of protection weren’t afforded to her. Admittedly, a giddy feeling coursed
through its petite frame at the thought.

The witch only had time to blink before a burst of magic, a powerful gust, threw her backwards and
into the overturned couch. A crack, the sound of wood splintering, followed as the frame crumbled
beneath the force of her body, the back of her head colliding with it. The elf gave a satisfied nod as
Bellatrix slumped down into the wreckage, a triumphant sound escaping its chest as it hurried over
to the bleeding man.

“Mr. Black, Sir, Zivvy is here to help!” knobbed and twisted fingers ran over the broken body,
willing magic into it, to right the bone and to staunch the bleeding.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a perfect fix but it would have to do for now until he could see a proper
healer, one that specialised in human bodies. The creature gave a delighted clap of its too long
hands at the sight of the skin slowly mending back together, relieved as the pained groans trailed
off.

House-elf magic was a strange thing, Sirius had ascertained, and he wondered why they were ever
subservient to wizards in the first place considering what they could accomplish. After all, the
creature just took down Bellatrix Lestrange in the blink of an eye, something that he had been
struggling to do all day. He could feel the wounds closing, the bone righting itself with a numbing
twinge despite the dull pain that still remained. While his mind was still addled, dazed from the
torture, it was coherent enough to mumble out a thank you and to stare in incredulous wonder at
the small being.

“You,” he mumbled, forcing to sit up as thin hands pushed his body upwards, propping up his
torso, “You’re back?”

“Yes, Sir. Harri Potter sent me to protect Sirius Black, she did,” it explained hastily, purple eyes
flickering over to the unconscious witch among the debris, alarmed at the moan she had just
given.

“But we must go now, Sir. Before she awakes,” a tilt of its head to Bellatrix’s indisposed form and
it was, apologetically, pushing the wizard to his feet.

Part of the elf regretted having to move the man so quickly, knowing that the pain in his leg was
still there, but they had to act fast if they were to leave. It gave a quick snap of its gnarled fingers
and Remus’s body suddenly floated into the destroyed room.

Upon seeing the devastation crumple the grey-eyed man’s expression, the drawn features of grief,
Zivvy rushed out to explain, its hands thrown up in explanation, “Oh no no, Sir. He’s not dead! Just
unconscious.”

Sirius eyed the elf numbly, a grateful low exhale, shaky in nature, escaping him, his body
favouring his right side to avoid pressure on the splintered bone. He sent a silent prayer to every
god he knew for being merciful, thanking death for not taking the last remnants of his old life, his
truest friend from him. Then he registered a cold hand, childlike in size, slipping into his, a tug at
his navel his only warning. Number 12 Grimmauld Place, in all of its smoking glory and chaotic
destruction, bled from view.
Lord Voldemort was a man of high expectations, one that liked to see things followed through, to
be completed without delay and interruption. So when his most faithful, his most dangerous and
well-equipped general had wandered in, bruised and bloodied with half of her face mangled, it
made his teeth nearly crack from the pressure in which he had clenched his jaw. Crimson eyes,
burning in displeasure, in tempered irritation, spared a glance at the two bronze-masked Death
Eaters flanking Bellatrix. They were currently kneeling in prostration, the witch’s blood soaking
into the dark carpet running the length of the office, her head bowed in shame and mortification.

“Get out,” he hissed at the men by her side, sneering at their quick scramble to escape, to flee from
punishment.

He had half the mind to drag them back, to rip their entrails from their stomach, to personally tear
out every single fingernail and tooth they had, to crush their beating hearts under his heel for their
incompetence. A rational part tried to remind himself that they were disposable chattel, nameless
faces that made up the bulk of his ranks, that he shouldn’t waste the effort on them. Needless to
say, it did very little to sate his fury upon seeing his own mind, his own reason, work against
himself and his impulses.

The Dark Lord rounded on the kneeling woman from the other side of his desk, leaning against it
and steadying himself as his hands gripped the table’s edges. He eyed her in contemplation, gaze
narrowing into slits in a show of his ire. Very rarely did Bellatrix disappoint him and, even less so,
did she show up in defeat looking as bloodied as she did now. He found himself wishing, for her
sake, that she had a valid enough excuse for letting the Order slip through her grasp, for her
inadequacy, for so spectacularly failing a direct command. Because, at this point, he highly
doubted even her years of companionship, of her loyalty, could spare her from being on the other
end of his wand. The darkest parts of him were singing for retribution, to divine her punishment
without even hearing her excuses, to cause her further pain and suffering, regardless of what she
might say. It was a losing battle to completely stamp it down, to fully ignore it.

“What. Happened,” he finally grit out, unable to stand the silence, the damnable ticking of the
clock in the background any further.

Knuckles bled white from the pressure in which he was holding his desk, mildly surprised that
wood had yet to give way, to splinter under his administration.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix swallowed thickly, the feeling of his magic, of the electricity in the air,
warning her to be careful.

As much as she enjoyed his presence, of the lesser and intimate discipline he usually bestowed onto
her in private, his true penalties were ones that she had been careful to avoid at any cost. After all,
he wasn’t exactly known for his patience nor for his leniency.

“We invaded Grimmauld place, per your instructions,” she explained hesitantly, her tone meek,
trying to implore him to be merciful, “And had even gotten inside. Most of the Order members had
escaped through portkey but we had successfully captured both Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.”

A tick jumped through his jaw, an eyebrow quirking in dismay, at her audacity for even admitting
that she had captured not one, but two of the key targets. And yet, she still let them slip away,
escape under her watch, her command as leader. The Dark Lord was faintly aware of the magic
seeping out from him, lashing about as a feline does with its tail when angered, of its oppressive
force as it settled heavily over the still bowed form of the witch, forcing her to keep looking down.
With malicious delight, a spiteful glee, he observed as she shuddered under its weight, under its
bestial outrage. ‘Good,’ he thought vindictively, baring his teeth in animosity.

“So. You are telling me, Bella, that you had not one but two of your intended targets acquired And
you, what? Let them escape? Defied my orders and disappointed me?” he questioned callously, his
tone growing frigid, vexation spiking at the clock still ticking away. It abruptly shattered, falling
from the wall in a rain of glass and a deafening clatter as its metal face bounced against the wood
floor.

Bellatrix flinched at the sound, stifling her whimper at the sudden unexpected display of violence.
She finally looked up in earnest, her eyes pleading and blinking furiously to shield her gaze from
the blood dripping steadily above her bow. “

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! My loyalties are to you
and you alone.”

His gaze widened fractionally at the confession, leaning off from his desk and releasing his vice-
like hold on the wood. The anger was suppressed slightly, overshadowed by confusion, by
bewilderment, his brows drawing together as he mused in an echo.

“A house elf?”

The witch on the ground nodded eagerly at his expression, crawling forwards only a few paces, not
daring to rise to her feet or to encroach any closer without his explicit permission, “Yes, My Lord!
It was a house elf who had incapacitated me and spirited away my filthy blood traitor of a cousin.”

Crimson eyes went distant as he stared, unfocused, towards the door, trying to comprehend the new
information, to digest it. His mind mulled on it, turning the details over again, replaying her exact
words. It was true that elves were powerful creatures, capable of extraordinary feats, their magic
only bound in a contract to avoid using their abilities against the immediate family it serves. But
who would send such a servant to a raid, who would have had the time or the insight to do such? It
wasn’t exactly common knowledge that the creatures could even attack a witch or wizard, most
believing them to be inferior and incapable.

“But please, My Lord, you have to understand that my sister is loyal to you! She would never
willingly stand against you,” the dark-haired woman rushed out, trying to retrain his attention back
to her, to find clemency for her sister, to grant her a pardon for something that was surely a
misunderstanding.

He blinked once, then twice, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown, baffled as to why she
was bringing up Narcissa. Red eyes dragged themselves from the door to the witch still on the
floor, her lower lip quivering as she begged.

“Your sister?”

A spray of wild curls lifted into the air as she nodded vigorously, soberly, feeling a well of hope
bloom in her that he was listening, “Yes, I recognised that elf. It was employed by the Malfoy
family but believe me when I say Narcissa would never dare to go against you, My Lord.”

The fury was back with a vengeance, cold and undulating in his chest, the urge to humorlessly
laugh suddenly overcoming him. ‘Of course.’ Things began to click into place, an idea already
forming of who had sent the creature, the only person who could be foolish enough to actively
inspire his wrath. His lips thinned in displeasure, a bitter taste coating his mouth at the revelation,
his fingers twitching involuntarily in a pressing urge to seek her out, itching for his wand. It would
appear that his horcrux had been busy, willful, finding ever new ways to spite him. His tongue
brushed over his canines, trying to stop them from elongating as his temper rose to a surmounting
wave, spurred on by her disobedience. Apparently, he had yet to instill into her that a rebellious
nature would only bring her suffering, that being a spiteful unruly thing was not in her best interest.
But fine. If she needed another lesson to get it through her pretty little head, he was more than
game.

Long legs crossed the short distance to his most faithful, a pale hand reaching out to lightly tilt up
her chin towards him. Judging from the look in her eyes, the fear dancing in them, the expression
that he had been wearing was one that openly relayed his frustration, his dissatisfaction and that
she must think he meant ill will towards Narcissa.

“I believe you, Bellatrix,” he murmured softly, trying to reign in his temper, to not so blatantly
wear his emotions on his sleeve, to lock it all away.

Of course, it seemed that was Harri’s special talent, her hidden skill-- she made it so hard for him
to keep his self-control intact, constantly pushing and prodding his limits. He supposed that it
would be wise to calm down a bit before finding her, that a distraction was direly needed to redirect
some of his wrath before it was all unleashed upon her.

The Dark Lord watched in mild interest as the witch relaxed minutely into his touch, her hooded
lids fluttering closed for the briefest of seconds as she relished in his contact. It was at this point
that he allowed his gaze to wander to the considerable cut on her face, finally taking the chance to
discern its cause, the extent of its damage. His hand lifted to gingerly, tenderly, almost lovingly
trace the outline of it. It was next to impossible to stop the smirk from blooming on his face when
she hadn’t even flinched at his thumb running over it, far too gone in finding comfort in his
contact, in his apparent forgiveness.

“What a shame,” he muttered, the digit running absentmindedly over the worst of the wound,
pressing and digging just a tad harder into it.

The blood began to flow more freely under the unrelenting pressure, and he stared, fascinated, at
the way it had begun to well, dripping profusely as it was disturbed from clotting. He watched
from the corner of his eyes for her reaction, for any indication that she wanted to pull away, to deny
him, to cry out that it hurt. Of course, there was none. She was his most loyal dog, after all, trained
far too well to disobey him, to shy away from his touch. ‘So obedient,’ an idle thought came to
mind, a faint pull at the pit of his stomach, the imperceptible tell-tale sign of something ravenous
unfurling in him.

“To ruin such a beautiful face, it’s almost a sin,” he finally whispered softly, voice low, a heady
quality to it.

Quite reluctantly, he removed the pressure, fingers retreating from purposefully prodding, from
instigating and testing her limits to pain. He willed his magic into the gash, to fix it, to mend it, but
to leave the faintest trace of a silver scar behind. After all, she did need a reminder of her failure, a
lesson to not to underestimate her opponents no matter who they were. To warn her he wouldn’t be
so lenient, so forgiving, the next time she slipped up. Voldemort withdrew his hand from her face,
the fingers of it dyed in her blood, the scarlet finding its way into the dips, the crevices, into the
grooves of his skin and under the nail beds.

There was the softest sound of a whimper, of dismay at him removing his touch from her bare skin.
A trembling hand reached forward, hesitant fingers curling around his, guiding it back to her, dark
eyes flickering up to see if he would protest. He allowed it, curiously absorbed by the action, by
her intentions, as she placed his fingers to her lips, tongue darting out to run along his index finger.
The pull at his navel, the hunger, the desire he was all too familiar with since regaining this form,
increased, stoking the flames as she pulled his fingers into her mouth. The Dark Lord granted her
the opportunity to clean him, to lap away her blood staining his skin, to take responsibility for the
mess she had created. His very own Mary before him, prostrating herself and willingly dirtying
herself to make him pure once more. The feeling of the flat pull of her tongue, of the desperation
and the heat as she lapped at his skin certainly was an unexpected surprise to his day, perhaps even
the distraction he needed before seeking out his horcrux.

His fingers abruptly curled in her mouth, mercilessly pushing down on her tongue, eyes glittering
in perverse amusement. His nails bite into the soft muscle, a surprising strength as he refused to
yield the strain on it, her bottom jaw being forced open at the firmness of his hold. ‘How easy it
would be to tear her tongue out,’ he thought idly, wondering if she would even resist, would even
try to stop him.

She had begun to squirm, choking slightly as he forced his fingers down her throat, a soft exhale of
a laugh, breathy and relaying his enjoyment, escaping him. Tears sprang into her eyes but she kept
her hands planted firmly on the ground, refusing to raise them to push him away, to deny him. This
is why he loved his Bellatrix, so willing to please him, so willing to entertain him.

He finally retracted his punishing hold, eyeing how the blood that had stained her lips only
smeared further across her chin, diluted in colour by her saliva. How she truly had done a terrible
job in clearing the scarlet from his own skin, traces of it still lingering on his hand, between his
fingers. She glanced up at him from her reverent position on the ground, desire blowing her pupils
wide until those brown eyes turned almost black. Hands, trembling and shaking, unsure but asking
for permission, greedily clutched at the fabric of his trousers. Her long nails were a distracting
pressure against his skin as he stared down at her impassively, an arched eyebrow raised in a
question.

“My Lord,” she implored, her voice breathy and reflecting her poorly-concealed desire, begging for
him to fulfill a need she had come to know quite intimately over the past few months.

An indulgent smile spread across his face, his crimson eyes nearly aglow with lust, with a perverse
satisfaction at seeing her so desperately wanting to please him. He merely nodded in permission,
not deeming it needed to be verbally expressed, as those quivering fingers excitedly, clumsily from
a loss of blood, fumbled for his belt. Voldemort watched silently as she undid the buckles, the
buttons, the zippers, his head tilting to one side as he reflected on the woman kneeling before him.
It always amazed him at how keen she was, at how much she desired him-- how she wanted to
please him even when she stood nothing to gain. While he had countless followers, and had had
multiple partners, Bellatrix truly was on an entirely different level than the rest of them. A diamond
shining among coal in the extent she went to for him, never rebuking him nor refusing. He
wondered, idly, if obsession was part of the famed ‘Black madness’ or if it was simply her
personality.

His fingers went back to reach for the desk’s edge as she guided him into her mouth, insistently
running the flat pull of her tongue along his length, his head. The lightest shiver passed through
him as he allowed himself to feel it, to let the earlier anger be overshadowed by pleasure, to have
that resentment fade slightly so he could, hopefully, be calmer when he faced his horcrux. His lids
slipped shut for the briefest second at a particularly determined drag, at a rather demanding
swallow, marvelling at her audacity, at her bravery when she had been cowering before him in fear
just minutes prior. She truly was something else altogether, her tongue tracing a pattern as her
cheeks turned hollow. Voldemort forced his crimson eyes open to watch as those dark curls
bounced in time with the rhythm of the dipping of her head, a hand releasing its crushing hold on
the desk to knot itself, firmly, into their wild mass. He mercilessly pulled her closer, his hips
snapping forward as he did so, a breathy laugh escaping his chest at the fact she went lax rather
than fight him. His hand finally eased up after a few brief moments to let her pull back, to get some
air, eyes glinting in demented satisfaction as she did so without ever stopping, her gaze flickering
upwards to watch him.

His head tilted back towards the ceiling, the pale column of his throat exposed as a smirk bloomed
brightly on his face. She had begun to move earnestly around him and he felt the darkness in him,
the toxic desire, the monster that urged him forward-- encouraging him to take what he wanted,
rise in an all-encompassing tide. It felt as though liquid fire had been poured directly through his
veins, a honeyed feeling pushing him sweetly towards a cliff, whispering for him to fall, to sink, to
succumb. And so he did. Behind closed lids, a flash of green eyes, too bright to be human, an
exotic colour entirely of their own making. A rosebud mouth, cream-coloured skin, red hair that
was taken directly from nature’s own portraits of autumn.

Bellatrix pulled away from him after a few seconds, swallowing down the evidence of what had
just occurred, her dark eyes burning with adoration at the fact that she seemed to have earned his
pardon, his leniency for failing him initially. The Dark Lord finally, slowly, uncraned his neck,
letting his eyes slide slowly back open as she redressed him, a contemplative expression in his
narrowed gaze as he reached down. A thumb slowly, carefully, assessingly brushed over her high
cheekbones, flickering across her features as he saw where the similarities between her and Harri
both started and ended. The digit had wandered down to her chin, pulling absentmindedly at the
bottom lip, slipping for a moment into the heat of her mouth. And not for the first time had he
found himself wishing it was a certain girl kneeling before him, wanting to please him, basking in
his attention, begging for more.

“My Lord?” she finally questioned when he hadn’t said anything, her devotion bleeding away into
worry that she might have done something wrong, that she hadn’t pleased him like she had thought
she did. That he was going to cast her aside, tell her to vanish altogether from his sight for failing
him, to denounce her entirely.

“Wonderful as always, Bella,” he finally reassured her after the silence had stretched on for too
long, the anxiety in her gaze not going unnoticed by him.

He extended a hand to her, helping her up from her sore knees as a hand brushed an errant curl
away from falling into her eyes.

“Go get clean up,” he instructed firmly, retracting his hand and returning back to his desk, “You
have blood all over you.”

She nodded keenly, eagerly, the pride in her eyes telling him all he needed to know about what she
was feeling. As the door behind her clicked closed, crimson eyes drifted over to his hand, the blood
she hadn’t cleaned off starting to flake, to dry on his skin. He figured he should seek out his
horcrux, to demand to know what she had done, to berate her for being so rebellious, so defiant. To
make her understand the consequences of what she had done, to make her see the fault in her
actions.

“What to do you with, Harri?” he murmured to himself, willing away the caking blood from his
hands, leaning back into his desk chair and letting his attention be consumed by the window
overlooking the atrium.
 Let's Take A Walk
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter you've been waiting for! I have the one after
this already written and 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 very much! As a writer, whenever I see a
comment posted down below, it's honestly like seeing a little present you guys left me!
I get so excited to read them and to see your thoughts + reactions. So just thank you to
everyone who has been commenting and just showing this fic some love You are
all amazing!

I hope you enjoy!

It had become difficult to concentrate, her mind, understandably, wandering, distant, leaving far
behind the informal dining room she had found herself seated in. Somehow, Harri was no longer at
Malfoy Manor but at number 12 Grimmauld Place, frantically searching the endless rooms, the
countless parlours, for any sign of those she held dear. It was too quiet, too still, as though the
house had been suspended in a void without time or sound, forever immortalized. Dust was her
only companion, the swirls of it floating hazily in the air as she disturbed its final resting place,
dancing upwards in quick puffs to relay its agitation. A mocking reminder that no one else was
here, that its owners had abandoned its corridors decades ago, had left it vacant as a standing tomb,
a mausoleum in the middle of London. The floorboards creaked, ridiculing her, taunting her with
each step, whispering that her quest to find life amongst the peeling walls was futile.

Suddenly, she was rushing down the rickety stairs, taking two at a time as an urge pushed her
forwards, drawing her to the kitchen. Her heart pounded between the spaces of her ribs, her mouth
suddenly too dry, too parched, swallowing a surprising difficulty. The oak door loomed before her,
slightly askew on its hinges as light flooded out from the crack underneath. ‘No, don’t go in there,’
some part of her screamed, trying to regain control over her body, over the hand that had placed
itself of its own admission against the splintering wood. ‘Stop it,’ it grew louder, increasing in its
urgency to make her turn back, begging her to forget, to leave.

But she didn’t listen. Instead, she pushed insistently on the dismantled door as it parted with a
deafening groan, the only sound she had heard since finding herself in the middle of the dreary
manor. Harri felt her mouth drop in a silent scream, her body turning cold, a mute horror unable to
be voiced. At the long table, slumped over it and with glassy eyes trained towards the threshold,
was Sirius Black. His skin had gone blue, lifeless, his lips pale and starting to crack at the lack of
moisture. A wild black curl had fallen listlessly into his face, obscuring one eye but there was still
a look in them, one that accused, that condemned. Across from him was Remus, his throat slit and
staining the wood a darker shade, the blood gone long chilled and starting to congeal in a puddle.
She wanted to scream, to deny that it wasn’t true, that they were still fine, alive, that she could save
them-
“Merlin, Potter. You really are terrible at this,” someone had scoffed, their tone full of humour and
disbelief as the voice bounced about the kitchen, a bodiless specter to the scene of horror before
her.

Harri blinked rapidly in a stupor, the daydream falling away and evaporating from her mindscape
as she came back into the present. Malfoy Manor had materialised around her, the room with its
cream coloured wallpaper and oak wood furniture, with its ostentatious luxury and opulence. Green
eyes darted about frantically, trying to calm her unsettled heart, to regain her center, to convince
herself that none of it had been real. Outside, snowflakes, perfect and symmetrical in nature, had
begun their lazy descent onto the veranda, a captivating show beyond the double french doors.
There was the crackling of a fire behind her, warm sparks contained in a metal grate that did very
little to ward off the chills tormenting her. ‘It was a dream,’ she reasoned firmly, frowning in
confusion as she finally noticed the cool metal placed into her hands. A polished knife, gleaming
and wickedly serrated, her fingers curled around its ivory handle. Before her, an incomplete place
setting, none of the utensils straight or aligned, scattered with abandon on the blush silk placemat.
‘Right,’ addled thoughts tried to piece together what she had been doing before her mind decided to
wander, to conjure up such revolting images, her hands moving automatically while her brain was
preoccupied. Apparently, Narcissa had tasked her to valiantly attempt to set a table and, judging
from the stifled snorts, she had been going about it entirely wrong.

“I mean, really. This is quite basic stuff,” Draco chastised in good-humour, smile pulling wide and
shamelessly goading her. It wasn’t everyday, after all, that he had found something that he could
lord over Harri Potter, could best her in and prove his competence.

Then he noticed how waned she looked, the grim line of her mouth, how her eyes looked a touch
too glassy, her fingers trembling. He had been hovering by her shoulder, providing his commentary
and correcting her in an, admittedly, rather smug manner but upon seeing her face, he held his
tongue.

“Draco! Manners,” Narcissa reprimanded sharply from her seated spot across the pair of teens,
brilliant red lips twitching in their corners to fight off a frown.

A look of consternation, of dismay, of horror was flitting across her face, just under the surface of
the politely indifferent mask she wore. The blonde woman found herself unable to fully stop her
manicured fingers from drumming on the woodgrain, a physical indication of her disappointment.
And, as much she would never dare to admit it aloud, she found herself partially agreeing with her
son. The girl truly had no talent for the refined art of place setting, despite having spent most of the
day repeatedly going over its basis and rules. Pale eyes were set determinedly on the poorly
arranged plate, finely shaped brows lowering in distress at the haphazard way everything was
thrown together with no regard to size, function, or colour. The sight of it was almost physically
painful. Narcissa eventually gave into the impulse to let out a shaky sigh, trying to find her
composure, to find her calm. After all, there had to be some understanding involved in the process
of teaching her-- the poor girl was practically raised by heathens, muggles with no refinement. It
wouldn’t be fair to entirely fault her for her shortcomings considering the environment that she had
been brought up in.

“I believe a short break is in order. Let me see if afternoon tea is ready to be served,” the Malfoy
matron finally stated slowly, her gaze tearing away from atrocity before her.

With some hope, and wishful thinking, the younger witch would get it someday. But, for now, it
was wisest to enact on a tactical retreat until she could gather back up her wits, to conjure up some
direly needed patience.
Draco watched as his mother fled the room in a rather hurried manner, wincing at how particularly
loud the clicking of her heels were. As much as he loved the woman, would always continue to do
so, her largest fault was in her lack of patience when it came to poor manners. And the pureblood
found himself, for the thousandth time since his childhood, blessing the fact that he had been born
a boy rather than a girl. After all, he could only imagine what hell it would have been to grow up
with his mother’s helicopter parenting as a daughter rather than a son. The briefest flicker of
sympathy filled him at the thought that Harri would have to suffer that role, his lips thinning as he
turned back to the girl at his shoulder. A hand, tentatively, reached out to unfurl her fingers from
the knife’s handle, setting it down and fixing her in his periphery with a wary stare. His mother
may not have noticed it, too consumed by her disappointment, but Draco had been around the girl
long enough to recognise when something was bothering her. After all, he had spent almost seven
years watching her ever since she had rejected his hand, his friendship, all those years ago in front
of the Great Hall.

“What’s wrong?” he finally questioned, voice soft and calming, as those too green eyes started to
regain their clarity.

A hand drifted to rest at her upper back, between her shoulder blades, and he guided her down into
the chair. Once she was settled, he pulled the one next to it out from under the table, rotating it so it
would face hers.

Harri stared helplessly at the boy in front of her. Admittedly, it touched her that her nightmare
hadn’t escaped his notice and that he, apparently, had a sixth sense regarding things that upset her.
And part of her considered being truthful, wanting to tell him everything. About the house elf,
about what she had done, about the hastily written note currently stuffed into the recesses of her
bra. About how the Dark Lord was intent on slaughtering those she cared for and how he had sent
his Death Eaters to march on Grimmauld Place this very morning in an attempt to do so. To repeat
the ominous warning he had given her regarding his wishes to erase them, to annihilate, to
obliterate every single person associated with the Order, no matter their age nor their degree of
involvement. She wanted to tell him that she was scared beyond reason, that she felt like it was her
fault, wanted to explain how the guilt that she hadn’t escaped in the first place was eating her alive.
That it was all due entirely to her mistakes, to her existence, everything happening because she was
his damned horcrux, shackled to a monster and unable to escape. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t .

“It’s nothing,” it sounded false even to her ears, too hollow, too unconvincing.

She bit her lower lip, resolutely looking towards the window to stop her tears, to stop herself from
breaking down and worrying him further. If the Dark Lord ever found out what she had done, she
at least wanted to afford Draco the ability to claim innocence, to say he wasn’t privy to it and
completely clueless. That it was entirely her own doing, her own admission, her own volition. And
she desperately wanted to spare him from being put into that position as well. One where he was
forced to choose sides, to morally afflict him by coercing him into keeping her secret, into sharing
the burden.

Pale blue eyes, almost impossibly light in the reflection of the weak winter sun, danced across her
face. ‘God, she’s a terrible liar,’ he thought idly, observing the way she was gnawing on her lower
lip, refusing to even make eye contact with him. In a way, it was almost endearing, reassuring, to
see that she hadn’t changed. That she was still the same old Potter who wore her heart on her
sleeve, who was still shouldered all of the weight so no one else would have to. It was an
infuriating habit of hers that he could never understand, a saviour complex so damning and
ingrained into her character that it was almost admirable.

“Come on, Potter,” he nudged her knee with his, trying to keep his tone light, to coax her into
telling him, to make her relieve herself of whatever she was feeling, “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 Slytherin authourity, you are absolutely terrible at it.”

A scoff of a laugh, one that she didn’t mean to do, but one entirely of its own free will, came
bubbling up her chest. It was just like him to find a way to both insult yet comfort her at the same
time and she found herself unable to stop the retort, missing their usual snide banter.

“Almost seven years, Malfoy? Huh, that makes you sound like a stalker. Should I get a restraining
order?”

He smiled a bit at her reply, at seeing the fire be stoked just slightly, her emerald gaze regaining
some of its lost shine, “What? Don’t you realise how lucky you are to have the attention of the heir
to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy? I dare say Parkinson would be frothing at the
mouth to be in your position. Consider yourself blessed, Potter.”

Harri shook her head slightly, a small disbelieving smile quirking the corners of her mouth
upwards. She turned in her seat, the tension leaving her shoulders at how comfortable it was, at
how normal. If she tried hard enough, she could almost picture them back at the secret spot near
the lake. Huddled next to each other against the autumn chill and skipping rocks in a competition to
see whose could go the furthest, accusing one another of cheating and jesting at the other’s lack of
skill.

“Careful there, Draco,” an eyebrow raised in mock incredulity, a carefree wit to her voice as the
alarming daydream bled away, “I’m worried for you. Don’t you know that an inflated ego can
cause your head to swell up? And then where would you be without your pretty face? Though, all
things considered, Pansy would still probably drool over you.”

His smile widened as he leaned back into his chair, arms crossing over his chest. A suggestive
gleam lit up his eyes as he considered the girl sitting before him, “Is that a note of jealousy I
detect?”

Harri couldn’t quite resist the urge to roll her eyes, a minute shake of her head at his audacity, at his
gall for even suggesting such a thing. Only Draco Malfoy, even after being accused of a large ego,
would continue to make the conversation all about him. Her fingers drifted over to the table
setting, skirting around the silk cloth, the ivory handle utensils.

“Oh, please. Of Pansy? Never.”

Silence followed a second where all he did was study her, a warmth in his chest that he had
managed to distract her, had gotten her to clear the storm, to ease away the worry for the time
being. His tone turned serious, though his grin was still light-hearted, bumping her knee with his
once again.

“Good. Because she doesn’t even compare to you, Potter.”

The redheaded witch glanced up at him from the corner of her eye, index finger halting in tracing
over the knife’s base, mild surprise making her eyebrow rise even further. Part of her wondered if
this was just him teasing her, of him playing along in their little game of banter, of him trying to
goad her into further retaliation. Or if it was genuine, that he had actually meant those words, was
earnest in his assessment of her. And, judging by the look in his eyes, the determination in them,
she had guessed it was the latter. For some reason, it caused a twinge in her heart and a sharp taste
to flood her mouth. Talking to him became suddenly uncomfortable as she thought on the prospect,
recollections coming back of him telling her that she looked divine, of her kissing him in a drunken
haze, of him eyeing her in a light she was entirely unfamiliar with. She wished that he would stop
it. That he would go back to being just Draco, the boy she could be snide with, could joke around
with, could trade stinging retorts and always count on to be a pain in her side.

The smile on his face faded as he saw her contemplative expression, an uneasy air about her. Draco
leaned in closer, hand rising to the table and resting near hers, not quite touching but hovering
close enough, “I mean it, Harri. I’m not alone either, most of the student body would agree. And
now that you’re dressing like this. Well. It suits you.”

Voldemort had been watching from the shadows, not quite materialising into a solid form as he
watched in interest the way the two teenagers interacted with one another. The earlier mood that
Bellatrix had helped put him in was slowly fading, dissipating at seeing how carefree she had
become around the boy, how she was doling out those cursed smiles, her infectious joy. How she
was so casual and, much to his irritation, bordering on flirting with the blond. Crimson eyes tracked
the hand, the audacity of it, to linger near hers and spite flooded him. Stepping forth from the
darkness, gaze narrowed and hands clenched behind his back, the corners of his mouth slid
upwards in a show of congeniality that seemed a touch too fake.

“I find myself agreeing with you, Draco,” emphasis was put on his name, pleased when both of
their heads snapped to the corner of the room where he had emerged from. Very two similar
reactions for quite separate reasons, “Our Harri is quite beautiful, is she not? Especially now that
she’s out of those rags.”

And even though he had said ‘our’, the implication behind the word was quite the opposite. There
was a warning hidden in his gaze, a deterrent to keep the boy from verbally agreeing, from
acknowledging that Harri belonged to anyone else but his Lord. It sated him well enough when the
Malfoy heir had retracted his hand as though it had been burnt, at the wide-eyed ashamed look
lighting up his refined features at being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. A quick
mumbled out “My Lord” followed as the chair was pushed out from the table in haste, the
pureblood rising quickly to bow at the unexpected intrusion. But the Dark Lord’s attention was
altogether consumed by the witch, noting in approval her doe-like stare, at the fear and shock
hiding so blatantly in it. It was a completely different strain than the one shown in Draco, her
reasons for such being more personal. Honestly, he found it heady, alluring, almost enough to
make him forget his anger or his reason for being here.

“Harri, come,” he tilted his head towards the door on the leftmost side of the room, a hand
extended out in less of an invitation and more of a demand, an ultimatum that left no room for
questioning. “Let’s take a walk.”

She looked uneasily to Draco at her side, at his bowed head that seemed relaxed but noticing,
almost immediately, the hidden tension in his shoulders. Harri swallowed thickly, her mind reeling
as to why Voldemort had arrived, heart hammering as she considered the possibilities. ‘What if he
knows,’ her thoughts were panicked, aimless, terrified. Somehow, a ‘walk’ didn’t sound as
innocent as he was trying to make it appear and, though he seemed calm enough at the moment,
she knew how temperamental he was. How quick the mood was prone to changing, how his anger
was a storm appearing out of nowhere. ‘Calm yourself,’ rationality berated, trying to find grounds,
justification, that things were fine. After all, who knew? Maybe he truly did want to just take a
stroll with her, maybe he was none the wiser to what she had done, maybe she should give him the
benefit of a doubt? After all, if he knew, wouldn’t he have come in with his magic lashing about,
destroying the room and with vehement threats on his tongue?

Her head gave the small of a nod, an acquiescing motion to his request, as she rose from the chair
on wavering, unsteady legs. It was more of an effort than she would like to admit to get her feet to
move, disinclined to go any closer towards him, choosing to stall for a second by smoothing out
the folds of her dress. ‘Calm’, she chanted as an inner mantra, trying not to let the guilt show on her
face, the nervousness, the anxiety. And then she was crossing the room, eyeing the elegant hand
offered to her before slipping her smaller one into his. Harri tried to ignore how cold he was
against her skin as he led them out of the room, leaving behind the crackling fire and dancing
snowflakes.
 His Greatest Masterpiece: "The Girl Who Lived"
Chapter Notes

Hello to all of my lovely readers! Guys-- wow, we reached 1,000 kudos on this fic and
my mind is just blown. Absolutely speechless over here. I never thought this fic would
receive this much attention! Seriously, thank you to everyone who has been reading
along and showing me that you've been enjoying this story and my writing!

Also, to everyone who has commented on the previous chapter--- gems and angels, all
of you! Seeing comments truly does make my day and I always get so excited and
eager to see a new one pop up! Thank you for taking the time out to write your
thoughts and reactions, they mean so much to me as a writer and I just want to hug
every single one of you for doing so

As a thank you, I made this chapter a tad bit longer than usual! I hope you guys love
this

Voldemort had guided them down an empty corridor, the girl at his side jerkily trying to keep up
with his pace, a single step of his equating to two rushed ones of hers. From his periphery, he was
studying her reactions, the pressed line of her mouth, the straightened spine, the stubbornly lifted
chin, her gaze set forward and unblinking. It was as though she were openly declaring her guilt,
admitting to what she had done, unashamed and unapologetic. Furious disbelief welled up in him
that she didn’t even have the foresight to attempt to hide it. Exhaling softly through his nose, a
small voice reminded himself of the plan that he had concocted--to give her the chance to confess,
to explain herself and seek his forgiveness for so dearly costing him what he coveted.

He steered them into a gallery, a long hall with a mirrored ceiling and walls featuring an array of
fine works, sculptures and paintings alike. A collection in the making over the past few centuries, a
testament to the wealth and prestige of the Malfoy lineage. The room was disturbingly quiet, a
tranquil space that felt sacrilegious to even breathe too loudly in, to draw attention away from the
magnificence of the art scattered about. Harri followed on tentative feet as the Dark Lord paused in
front of an empty portrait frame, squinting at the gold plaque that read: “Druella Black (née Rosier
) (fl.1955)” .

It was a dark painting, featuring a high backed chair in front of a fireplace, the woman in question
missing altogether. ‘Enchanted then,’ she had idly decided, watching the flames dance in the
mantle and the curtains framing the window sway with an invisible breeze. Confusion coloured her
expression as she peered at the rendition of an old entertainment parlour, trying to puzzle out as to
why Voldemort had felt the need to show her this in the first place. After all, it wasn’t like she had
ever met the woman before nor had any connection to the painting that would indicate it as being
important. ‘Perhaps it was someone he knew?’ Harri thought to question him, to ask who she was,
but she felt intimidated, unwilling to disturb the silence.

“Narcissa felt the obligation to bring the frame with her,” scarlet eyes slid from the empty canvas
to the bewildered girl at his side, her hand slipping from his the second he had spoken. The
strangest urge to grab it again appeared in the back of his consciousness, to tighten his fingers
around hers, to demand that she only let go when he allowed it.

“It was after Grimmauld Place was labelled as vacant. She explained that she would have felt
terrible to leave her mother behind in an empty house.”

The perplexity encircling her mind only increased at his explanation. Finely shaped brows knitted
together as she busied herself with making out the details in the dim background of the illustration.
It was a vain effort, a difficulty, to avoid looking over at him. To her, it was entirely news that her
not-quite-godfather’s home was supposed to be abandoned and she couldn’t resist the impulse to
know why.

“Vacant?”

The Dark Lord hummed noncommittally, feeling triumphant in getting her to respond, her interest
quite damning. Her body language, the tone of her voice, the way she seemed to hunger for more
information. The girl was all but admitting that she knew that the Black residence was far from
being empty and it was almost laughable at how quickly she was falling into the trap.

“Whenever a pureblood inherits another estate, they are required to register it in the Ancestral
Properties Holding codex. Sirius Black had labelled Grimmauld Place as a tertiary residence and,
therefore, vacated. Quite a terrible shame, really.”

He had moved on from the portrait, smirking to himself as she hurried behind him after a brief
second of pause. The gears in her mind turning were practically audible, her puzzlement brightly
bleeding through to their bond. Once his steps had halted in the center of the marble showroom, he
indicated with an open hand for the girl to freely explore. She skirted by him warily, marvelling at
the statues lined against the wall and letting the weighty silence settle between them. With her
back turned, her attention consumed by her thoughts as she drifted about the exhibitions, circling
the sculptures in mild interest, Voldemort allowed himself a moment to study her.

Contentment bloomed, a distracting sensation from his anger, as he noted she was wearing one of
the dresses that he had personally chosen. It clung to her form in a flattering fashion, the bodice
tight and the nip of the waist defining before flaring out just slightly at her hips. The scooped
neckline did wonders for her shoulders, for her decolletage, the auburn hair pulled back to highlight
the recessed grooves of her collarbones and the well defined hollow of her throat where his
insignia lay. And there, on the right side, a shimmer of silver where his bite mark had never fully
healed, scarred over as a permanent reminder of his claim. He would be lying if he said that the
sight didn’t fill him with pride, with smug triumph, had almost been enough to make him forget her
shortcomings right then and there.

She appeared at home amongst the artwork, her cream skin almost the same shade as the marble
busts, its texture just as smooth, as unblemished. If she had remained still, she easily could have
been mistaken as part of the installations, a lifelike rendition of autumn personified. And he
wondered if, perhaps, she should just remain in this gallery forever. That it would be easiest to
curse her with eternal sleep, to lay her on a bed of roses amongst the grandness of the showroom
and keep her locked away as his own Sleeping Beauty. With her eyes sealed permanently shut, her
willful nature wouldn’t be a problem, and he would be content to stare at her, to enjoy her
loveliness without the disobedience that accompanied her waking state. But of course, he knew
that, deep down, he was lying to himself-- he would never be content with just looking.

“Of course, the strangest thing has been happening over the past few days. There’s been quite the
flurry of activity coming from the manor, despite it being supposedly vacant. One can’t help but
wonder if Mr. Black might be attempting to move in, considering the foot traffic,” he stated
casually, pale fingers wandering to trace over the nose of a rather handsome bust.
And there it was-- her rigid reaction, the quickening of her heart, the stumble in her next few steps.
He wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he wanted her to verbally confess to her wrongdoings or to
keep playing ignorant. The latter sounded far more enticing than the former, if he was being
truthful.

‘He knows,’ emerald eyes shot up in alarm, fixating on his nonchalant expression, on the calmness
in his posture. The image of a coiled snake, ready to strike at any minute, came to mind. Harri
cursed herself for being this stupid, for not seeing it sooner, for not hazarding a guess as to why he
had shown her the portrait, for hinting about the Black home. There were so many clues and she
hadn’t seen any of them. The empty gallery suddenly seemed too quiet, too removed from the rest
of the manor, too secluded. It made her stomach turn sour as she managed a soft ‘Oh’ in response.
Her feet instinctively moved on to another statue, eager to put distance between them, to keep out
of his arm’s reach. Logistically, she knew he wouldn’t kill her, would refuse to do so in fear of
harming his soul within her, but she didn’t feel like testing the boundaries of his patience
nonetheless.

‘It appears that she wants to keep playing dense,’ his thoughts had taken a spiteful turn, tongue
running along his teeth at seeing her back away on faltering legs. An image of a newborn deer, a
fawn trembling in the face of a greater threat, formed in his mind and he mirrored her steps. A few
forward while she took a few back. It was a delightful little game, a dance they were engaged in but
he found himself tiring of it rather quickly.

“Did you know, Harri, that whenever a house elf leaves the wards, its destination is magically
logged? Well then again, judging from your expression, I’m guessing you were unaware of that
little fact,” he explained, his clipped accent drawling in his ire.

Those blood red eyes narrowed marginally as her hip clipped a podium in her haste to stumble
backwards, the marble bust atop it wobbling precariously.

“So you can imagine my surprise when a certain house elf, one that I had assigned to you out of
good faith that you wouldn’t abuse its powers, appeared not once, but twice at Grimmauld Place,”
his voice had dropped an octave, the opportunity for her to confess, to explain herself, long gone.

Distantly, he registered a sharpness, both acidic and astringent, coating his tongue, his fangs
threatening to elongate in an intuitive response to his rising temper.

A slew of curses ran through her mind as he insistently moved closer, the glow of hellfire clear in
his gaze, the lines of his body both entirely too tense and too relaxed to indicate anything good was
about to happen. Her pulse was drumming in her ears, her heart beating at an unrelenting tempo
that caused her ribcage to ache, the tips of her fingers numb, vibrating. Hovering over his shoulder,
at the end of the narrow stretch of the room, stood the door. Every instinct within her was
screaming, begging for her to leave, to just get out and plan later. Fight or flight was starting to
kick in and, it appeared, her conscious was heavily favouring the notion of fleeing.

It was an uncomfortable reminder, a sickening sense of deja vu, as she recalled the graveyard from
last year. Caked in dirt and darting behind tombstones to evade the demon that had emerged from
the cauldron, cornered and with only one chance for freedom. ‘And look where that got you,’ a
snide remark that she tried to ignore, her hands curling in on themselves and gasping in pain when
the softness of her hip bumped against a sharp corner. A damning revelation overcame her, one
that made her squirm--the man before her was still the same monster, the same devil, despite now
wearing a different face.

He stalked closer to her, noticing in sadistic delight that she was running out of space, that the back
wall was drawing nearer and that one of two things would happen-- either she would submit,
realise she had no escape, or she would try to bolt, to try to sprint past him. And oh, how he so
desperately wanted her to do the latter, to attempt, to struggle, to give him further reason to act
upon his darkening mood.

“And how ironic is it, Harri, that this elf managed to show up the very day I sent my Death Eaters
to raid Grimmauld Place? That it just so happened to appear amidst an attempt to capture the
Order?” he was nearly whispering at this point, the words carrying nonetheless in the deafening
silence of the room, “That this elf managed to spirit away both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin from
right out underneath my most faithful?”

Despite the situation, hope filled her and an odd sense of optimism, of relief, distracted her for a
beat of a second. ‘They got away,’ she thought in breathless wonder, ‘Zivvy did it.’ But then she
was brought back into reality as the sculpture nearest to her suddenly ruptured, exploding with a
deafening crack, a startled yelp of surprise escaping her at the violent display that had caught her
off guard. Uneasily glancing back to the Dark Lord and seeing his jaw ticked, shoulders drawn
taut, made her realise the gravity of the situation. His magic was an electric pulse in the air,
suffocating, one that made her head hurt, for the ground underneath her to spin, for dizziness to
overcome her. She bolted for the door.

As though he were humouring her, Harri had made it a few paces past him, past the sculptures,
when a sudden force slammed into her side. One minute she had been sprinting then the next she
was pinned against the opposite wall, her feet leaving the ground for a second as she was airborne,
tossed about like a ragdoll. A wheeze of pain, a low groan, as the air was forcefully expelled from
her lungs during the impact, her shoulder throbbing as it collided with the glass. It was a blur of
black-- one second had been standing a few feet from her and then the next he was crowding her,
caging her in, his face pulled close to hers.

“You foolish girl, do you have any idea of what you have done?” he seethed, tone quiet and level, a
direct contrast to the heat in his eyes.

Harri had come to a frightening conclusion, staring up into his face and trying to regain her breath,
that he was not the type of person to yell when he was angered, not the kind to scream and turn red
like her uncle. No, he was the type to remain outwardly intact, composed, to not raise his voice but
to get his point across with cold words and forceful displays. And part of her desperately wished
that he was the first kind. The one that she was used to dealing with, the one that she had come to
know so well on how to avoid and how to de-escalate. Here, standing before his wrath with his
magic constraining her, smothering her, she was at a loss for how to respond.

“I was going to grant whoever would renounce the Order clemency, to forgive and pardon them. I
even instructed my followers to bring back your precious friends alive for this very reason,” his
tone had become a hiss, almost bordering on parseltongue as his glowing gaze searched hers for
comprehension, “But you have marked them as traitors, as fugitives. Sirius Black, Remus Lupin,
that house elf, all damned because of your recklessness.”

The world had finally come back to her only to melt away just as quickly in a dizzying whirl of
colours, his words registering and sinking in. It was like she had originally feared--it was her fault,
Voldemort having all but confirmed it aloud. ‘They could have been safe,’ her thoughts were
turning over in a horrified circle, an endless loop. ‘But I ruined their chance.’ Her breath suddenly
seemed too rapid, too short, too shallow, not enough, a rising sense of panic blinding her. He
wasn’t the forgiving type, that was a truth she had come to know intimately, and she doubted he
would extend that kindness, that mercy, to them once more in the light of what she had done. Harri
winced as his hold on her wrists tightened, her mind reeling from his admittance, obsessively
clinging to the fact that he had specifically mentioned Zivvy. Why was he bringing the elf into the
mix when all it had done was follow her orders, like it was forced to, when she had been the one to
take advantage of it?

She fumbled for words, her tongue too heavy in her mouth, her coherency scattered and lacking,
“What did you do?”

His burning gaze slipped down for a second at her gulps for air, at her chest heaving in an effort to
even out the intake of air, at the terror causing her to hyperventilate. And a portion of him,
vindictive and twisted, thought that this was perfect, that she should understand what her rebellion,
what her spitefulness and rashness, would reap in the end. His lips parted to explain the fate of the
creature, the cruel words already on his silver tongue, when something odd caught his attention
instead.

Sticking out from the very corner of her neckline, tucked away in her undergarments, was a scrap
of discoloured parchment. Voldemort latched onto it, a man possessed, his fingers skimming
callously past the scooped opening of her dress and only barely registering the softness of skin that
brushed against his. Judging by her protests, her screams for him to stop, she hadn’t wanted anyone
to find it, to read it. Least of all him.

It was a crumpled scrap, barely legible scrawl, and he frowned in puzzlement at what this little
piece of paper could have meant to her. With a flick of his finger, he pushed his magic outwards to
keep her against the wall, pinning her in place as he released his hold on her. Turning slightly
away, deft fingers quickly undid the wrinkles and creases. She was struggling in the background,
trying to uselessly lift her hands, yelling that he had no right to read it, to look at it, to hold it. Of
course, her reaction only spurred him further on. He was driven by a curiosity, a thirst to know
what had gotten her so worked up.

A moment of stillness, a disturbing hush, followed as he processed the note, its bold declaration
that they would not yield to him. The encouragement for her to do the same, no matter the cost, to
not to bend to him, to submit. Then he had landed on the bolden words, the indentations indicating
that they had been written with force, with passion: “We are coming.”

A delayed reaction as the Dark Lord mulled over the letters, the brave message, its intentions to
steal away what wasn’t theirs. To take her, to claim what rightfully was his and what had been kept
from him for 16 long years already. The lights overhead began to flicker dangerously, a savageness
erupting that made him want to bare his teeth, to maul and maim whoever was foolish enough,
mindless enough, reckless enough to oppose him in such a way, to dare thieve her away from him.
If the urge to destroy the Order, to annihilate Sirius Black, was an ember before, a simple burning
coal, it had now been fanned into an inferno. The rising wrath bled outwards as it consumed the
note in his hands, lifting it upwards in brilliant flame.

Those red eyes, narrowed in incensed ire, slipped back to the wisp of the girl pinned against the
wall, scrutinizing her, studying, dissecting. He had initially thought it was a simple request for the
elf to save her parents’ friends, a demand made in passing and without any further contact from
their side. But, apparently, he was wrong. She had been passing messages, or at least that’s what
the note had implied, and had been receiving them as well. That there was more to it than a wish to
save them, a hope they’ve been trying to inspire in her, a promise they would rescue her, save her,
whisk her away. It was one that he wanted to crush beneath his heel, to grind into the dirt.

“You’ve been communicating with them,” he accused slowly, attempting to reign in the
tempestuous fury welling inside him, begging to be unleashed, to break free, to sow destruction,
damage, chaos.

No small part of him was terrified at the idea of her being stolen, spirited away with no clue as to
how to get her back, of her being destroyed the very second they found out what she was. That they
would, undoubtedly, eliminate her when they discovered how precious she was to him, what she
meant, use her as leverage against him. And the slip of the girl, the one thrashing against the
mirror, was entirely clueless as to the danger she would be in if they had succeeded in their
mission. Suddenly, the idea of putting her behind a case, a crystal coffin, keeping her forever at his
side in containment was more than appealing.

“What did you do?!” she demanded, her eyes pleading with him to answer, keening to know what
had happened to Zivvy, why he had even brought the creature up in the first place.

Images of the purple-eyed elf materialised in his own minds eye as he, unintentionally, slipped into
hers. It only served to further increase his displeasure upon seeing her attention had wandered, that
it drifted away from him. Voldemort stalked over to the witch, the ashes of the note falling to the
ground in a blackened heap. A hand shot out, bruising, as it wretched her face towards him,
squeezing experimentally on her jaw.

“That elf was damned the second it raised its hand against its superiors,” his words were cold,
practical, clinical, “But if you must know, Harri, should I bring out its body? Let you look upon it
until you’re satisfied, until you come to understand what you have done?”

She blinked owlishly up at him in shock, his words slow to register, the implications unclear for
just a second. Flashes abruptly materialised behind her lids-- a decapitated body, a small frame
coated in scarlet, the head rolling away on the ground with glassy purple eyes. Somehow, though
she didn’t know how she exactly knew, it was real, too vivid in detail to be anything fake or a cruel
trick. Then a horrified dawning overcame her as to why. It had been his memory. Voldemort had
purposefully let her in, forced her to see it through their connection. Of its own admission, a pit
formed in her stomach, a lump in her throat, the concept of time slipping away as the urge to retch
made itself known.

‘He murdered her. Put Zivvy down like a dog,’ her inner thoughts were filled with horror, with
nausea as she desperately searched his eyes for any sign he was lying, any sign he was aiming to
deceive her. There was none. The vision of him before her began to blur, to distort, to obscure and
she was distantly conscious of the fact that an errant tear had slipped past her lashes, another
following in quick pursuit.

“You’re a monster,” she hissed out with bitterness, with meaningful venom. Harri wrenched her
head from his hold, red hair slipping out from the emerald silk tying it back, green eyes blazing
behind their wet sheen.

“That may be so,” he agreed lightly, a heavy weight in his chest as he forced his magic to remain
inside, the feeling uncomfortable as it shifted under his skin. He allowed her to break from his hold
as he took a step back, desperate to find the eye in the mounting storm, “But I am the monster that
you can never escape from, love.”

A flick of his index finger and the invisible force holding her against the wall evaporated. Harri
slumped down against the floor, her auburn hair spilling over her shoulders in a startling contrast
against her pale skin, fluid fire, her gaze trained mutinously up at him. A hand of its own accord
went up to rub at its twin’s sore wrist, the bruising of it fueling her forward, feeding the sparks in
her chest as dry kindling. Overwhelming resentment began to bubble under the surface and she
wanted nothing more than to make him hurt, to make him pay, to have him feel her grief for once.

“Let its death serve as a valuable lesson to you, Harri. 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 that you must be prepared to face,” he sneered down at
her, her emotions spilling over into their link.

The Dark Lord bared his teeth, fangs elongated and catching the light wickedly in an attempt to
make her submit before him. If she wanted to fight, then he was more than willing to oblige. The
logical side of him that cautioned for leniency was long lost in the cacophony of his emotions,
disappearing when confronted by something more primal, more bestial, savaged and untamed.

Harri rose on shaking legs, her unearthly green eyes flashing at his attempts to make her yield to
him, to make her surrender. ‘Well screw him,’ a small voice encouraged in the back of her mind,
full of vitriol and prompting her to stand her ground. He was treating other’s lives like they were a
game, something that he had control over and she would be damned if he tried to exert that
influence over her family, her friends, any longer.

“So you what, ” the words came out as a hiss, her tongue slipping into their shared language under
the influence of the swirling anger inside her core.

Her vision began to tint red as he unwaveringly took a step forward to meet her own. As usual,
logic and common sense were overruled in the wake of her temper, Harri finding herself ignoring
the fact that he was the one with a wand, the one who towered over her, the one that had most
power in their relationship. But, sweet Merlin, could she care less. Her chest felt as though it were
on fire, her blood molten and unbearably warm. “You murdered a house elf for obeying its orders?
For what it was forced to do? For following its nature?”

Voldemort could practically see the frayed cords of his self-control slipping away, twisting and
breaking at the sight of her continued defiance and spite. He supposed that he shouldn’t have been
surprised, considering where she had gotten her resistance to authority from. Yet, somehow, that
made it all the more damning. A distant portion of himself did appreciate her bravery, her
confidence, her spirit. Had valued the magic he could taste on his tongue, a signature so close to
his own but holding just a tinge of something unique. But that admiration was altogether eclipsed
by the fact she was spitting on his mercy. He had been generous in using the death of one measly
servant, already doomed to the gallows, to impart a valuable lesson onto her that may save her life
one day, hadn’t even forced her to witness the execution, could have used someone far more
important to her in his example. In all sense of the word, he had been forgiving and she was
scoffing at his efforts.

“Harri ,” he warned, willing her to hold her tongue, to stop talking as he struggled to suppress the
feelings coiled tightly in his chest.

The Dark Lord couldn’t help himself from flicking his gaze downwards to the column of her
throat, the hurried pulse a siren’s song attempting to obliterate the already crumbling walls of his
control, of his restraint. How easy it would be to bleed her out, to bite and tear, to find the piece of
him deep inside her and crush it between his teeth. It was as though she possessed zero clue as to
how fragile she really was, how vulnerable, how he could extinguish her life as easily as snuffing
out the flame of a candle.

“You’re upset because I-what, exactly? Chose the side of my friends, my family, over you?!” She
felt adrift, consumed by both ends of the bond filled with irritation, with unsettling rage. Part of her
even wondered if these feelings were solely her own or if they belonged to him as well, influenced
and swept along by the tide of his emotions. “I’m never, ever, going to willingly choose you or
your side. I’ll never abandon them for you, ‘horcrux loyalty’ be damned! Because, guess what? I
don’t owe you a single god damn fucking thing!”

Small hands reached up to push firmly at the center of his torso, enough force put into the action
that it caused him to stumble. Crimson eyes blew wide in momentary shock at her physicality, at
her undaunted attempts to create space between them. One of the mirrors on the wall cracked,
splintering in a spiderweb pattern down its center, and, for once, he couldn’t figure out if he was
the one to do it or if she had.

Voldemort trained a frigid stare down at her, recovering rather quickly from the surprise of her
shoving him. The flames in his soul froze over in the wake of something darker, something far
more dangerous than rage, than simple anger. It was an unknown entity that was acrimonious,
deified, a consecrated power that separated him from lesser men. The kind that brought the world
to his feet, made nature quiver and bow to his will. That forced the heavens to part and for the stars
to shine his name, divine his glory, in their celestial bodies.

“That is where you are wrong, Harri. You will choose me and do you want to know why? Because
you are mine, made from me, a piece of my marrow and magic. I hear your insipid little thoughts,
your worries about what will happen if your friends ever discover your true nature,” he stepped
forward calmly, once, then twice until the tips of his shoes bumped against hers.

The Dark Lord towered over her, stare glinting with cruelty, with a savage truth, his tone entirely
too composed, too factual, “Let me save you the trouble of guessing-- they will kill you .”

“You’re wrong, they would never-,” she blinked up at him in protest, unnerved by the sudden
switch in his personality, at the abrupt coldness. The dancing flames within her stomach, within
her chest had been reduced to a smoldering ember, slowly dying in the face of so glacial, so
inhospitable.

“They will turn on you. Tear you to shreds for being divergent, for defiling the scales of nature.
For corrupting the very essence of what makes them mortal,” he interrupted her before she could
even finish her sentence, those usually brilliant crimson eyes darkening. His mouth twisted wryly
as though he were mocking her naivety, her unwillingness to see the truth of the situation.

“No, they-” Harri fumbled for a response, eyes widening in the wake of his words, at him twisting
the knife in her wounds and exposing her deepest fears. Somehow, hearing it fall from his mouth
made it the sinful truth, one that she couldn’t bring herself to deny. Images of Dumbledore came
back to her unbidden, of the green light aimed towards her back, of how easy it had been for him to
turn against her. Those slender shoulders began to tremble, her knees turning lax against her will,
her weight becoming a struggle to support.

“They will rip you limb from limb if it means destroying my soul,” he pressed onwards, eyes
glinting in malevolence upon seeing her physical reaction.

“Shut up-,” she whispered softly, her words directed more to herself than to him, shaking her head
in adamant disbelief at his cruelty. Her friends, gentle and kind, would never dream of such
atrocities. Hermione, Ron, Lavender--- they loved her too much to ever consider it. But if she was
so sure, then why was she trembling?

“The second that you admit you’re a horcrux, they will burn your body alive. Break your ribs and
crush your heart to find the piece of me inside of you,” Voldemort seethed, his tone a soft caress of
a whisper, as though he were speaking tenderly to a lover. The words tumbling from his upturned
lips, however, relayed quite the opposite.

“Stop,” she begged him, her heart beating too quickly, nausea overcoming her at the images he was
so vividly painting. An acrid taste filled her mouth, her senses, something squirming and clawing
her insides raw in search of relief, of escape.

“They will immolate, renounce, and forsake you. Peel you from your skin and reduce your bone to
ash all in the name of the ‘greater good’,” he refused to heed her pleas, unrelenting, unwavering as
he drank in the sight of her quivering lower lip, of the hopeless look spreading across her face.

“Shut up!” she finally screamed, his words too much, too real for her to take. Green eyes clenched
shut as the itch in her chest imploded, pieces of the shattered statue and errant glass levitating from
the ground and flying towards them at an alarming speed. All she wanted was for him to stop
speaking, to stop saying such hateful things, to stop planting his seeds of doubt.

Without even tearing his hungry gaze from her, a hand, flattened and with spread fingers, shot out
behind his back in response, an undulating silver shield encasing their bodies. The debris fell apart,
disintegrating and fracturing into a fine dust before his might, harmless particles drifting about
their feet in a whirl of white powder, “I have seen your heart, Harri Potter, I know it like the back
of my hand, and it is mine .”

“You owe me your everything. Every breath you take, every morning you open your eyes, every
feeling you have, every laugh, tear, smile. They are all due to my mercy, my soul for bringing you
back to life 16 years ago when you were dead in your crib,” Voldemort crowded closer, the girl’s
body forcefully pressed against the mirrored wall as a knee slipped between hers, locking her into
place. He had leaned down so his face was level with hers, a forearm resting above her head to
stabilize himself. She truly was a small thing without her anger to prop her up, without having her
chest puffed out and her magic lashing out.

“Please, just stop it,” she begged, a hollowness in her chest at how honest his words were, at how
painful and raw they felt. Every inch of her feared that it was true, that he had seen her heart, the
anxieties that had found a home within its chambers and that he was manipulating them all. Her
mouth suddenly felt too dry, her throat parched, her words feeble and trailing off in the space
between their bodies, “I-I’m not yours. You can’t control another person like that.”

He scoffed at her reasoning, a sardonic smirk lifting one corner a touch higher than the other, “Oh
but can’t I?”

“I can make you feel pain,” he stated simply, eyes drifting up to the lighting bolt scar and willing
his displeasure into it, to feel and respond to his intent to punish.

A scream tore through her throat as white-hot pain blinded her, radiating outwards from the curse
mark on her forehead. She was reminded of when he had touched her scar for the first time upon
his rebirth, a searing agony that made it feel as though she were being flayed alive, the skin peeled
from her flesh. Every nerve ending was licked by an open flame, scraped raw as a branding iron
was shoved down her throat, blistering and burning. It made her want to die, to faint, to collapse, to
beg to do anything to escape it. Her spine had arched away from the mirror as tears rolled down her
cheeks, a hot trail across waned skin, her teeth almost cracking as the taste of iron danced over her
tongue. And then it abruptly ended, a small mercy, a blessing. Harri was secretly glad that he was
supporting her weight as her knees gave out, her head slumping forward into his chest as she
blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze of pain from her blurry vision.

“Or I can make you feel pleasure,” a hand drifted up to the back of her neck, parting the curtain of
red hair to lightly wrap long fingers around it. Nimble fingers massaged gently along the knobs of
her spine, insistent in pressure, the buoyancy he had used against her before coming back with a
vengeance.

A sharp contrast to the earlier pain, a soothing balm to the tremors and she cursed herself for
exhaling, for the sigh of relief. Her eyes slipped closed at the feeling, a glow superimposed behind
her lids that she never wanted to disappear, to fade. Fingers twitched for entirely new reasons as
her lips parted, instinctively wanting to move closer to the source of comfort, of the warmth. She
was only distantly aware that she had burrowed further into him, breath hitching as a particularly
strong wave of the feeling rolled through her. Harri was aware she should be disgusted, should rear
back, should protest that he was using something so underhanded against her. To scream how dare
he, especially after the pain he had just caused. But she was lost when the scent of sweet smoke, of
petrichor, of something she had no name for filled her, the taste of metal being chased away by its
pleasantness.

“I can make you sleep forever, suspend you in a void if need be. I can read your every thought, if I
so wish, force myself into your dreams, possess you as I do with Nagini,” Voldemort explained,
reaching deep down inside for the iron will to ignore the feelings of their bond, the pull of the
light, in the interest of making his point.

It was harder to do than he would like to ever admit. The Dark Lord watched in curiosity, in
satisfaction, as she had leaned closer into him, gritting his teeth as he tried to forget what had
occurred just a few hours ago in his office with Bellatrix, at whose face he had imagined upon
achieving his ecstasy. The hand that was not rubbing unyielding circles into her neck lifted to
thread itself through the auburn strands, clenching slightly so he could tilt her face up towards
him.

The look on it was one that he had seen multiple times before in his dreams, in his mind, in his free
time. It was one of inhibition, of pleasure, of rapture, one that he found hard to not act upon. Her
lips parted slightly in a daze, a wet shine to them, her eyes glassy and unfocused, the pupils
overshadowing the ring of emerald. There was a flush to her cream skin, a rosy shade across her
cheeks, across her chest, the lines of her body relaxed in the face of the honey coursing through
her. Part of him sympathized with her, understanding all too well what it felt like, especially for
one so young, so inexperienced. Though, the other part relished in it, in being the sole cause of her
pleasure. He knew, of course, that she could still hear him, was still cognizant, but oh how it
chipped away at his withering control to see her this way in his grip. ‘Focus,’ his conscience
reprimanded him, actively fighting off the effects, trying to keep his goal in sight, the aim that
needed to be achieved.

“Did you truly think that it was normal for me to be able to control you this way? That it was only
due to the strength of my magic? All of these things, Harri, are within my control because you’re
my horcrux,” he finally explained, releasing her from his hold, from their bond.

Almost immediately, it was easier to breathe, the air not as suffocating without having to deal with
the distraction of the syruped feelings, of the thrum between them.

Harri’s head fell back against the mirror as the hand left her hair, the auburn crown resting against
the splintered surface as she tried to regain her wits, to refocus herself. The aftereffects of what he
had just done, the light he had summoned, was still circulating in her veins, pulsating in time with
her heartbeat, making her feel lost, adrift. Her breaths came in shallow bursts as she stared squarely
into the overhead light, her body twitching minutely as it tried to process through the queue of both
being tortured and suffering that damningly sweet fulfillment. She noted, dimly, that Voldemort
was still supporting her, that he had yet to move away, and, judging from the sound of his own
hitched breathing, he was just as susceptible, as affected, as she was.

‘Serves him right,’ she thought bitterly, her skin feeling stretched too tight, too thin, as she became
hyper-aware of how close he was to her. She could feel the heat of his body, could feel the rise and
fall of his chest against her own, and she refused to lift her eyes away from the ceiling, too afraid of
what she would find awaiting her. The words, the warnings, played in her mind, turning themselves
over and over again as panic started to overshadow the bliss. ‘He’s right,’ she thought in a frenzy as
the euphoric bright flares began to fizzle out, ‘None of this is normal.’
A beat of silence followed where he collected himself, a low shaky exhale as he straightened his
spine, looking down at her before removing himself from their entangled legs, “I don’t want to
spend an eternity doing this with you, Harri. The sooner you accept everything, the better, and
easier, life will be.”

The redheaded witch slumped against the mirror, finally lifting her head to stare evenly at him, an
embittered look flickering in the shadows of her eyes. However, he was already turned away,
heading towards the door and only sparing a glance over his shoulder as he was about to turn the
handle.

“I am assigning a guard to watch over you, day and night, until I can trust you not to behave
foolishly when you are alone,” he stated, his tone final and leaving little room for argument.

Voldemort drank in his horcrux still propped up against the mirror, her green eyes swirling brightly
with indignation, with animosity, her skin retaining the agreeable flush to it. His jaw snapped shut
resolutely, refusing to rise to the bait of the defiance she was determined to still show him.
Forcefully, the door closed, locking with a resounding click, before he could find the urge to do
anything more and cause even further damage. She truly did know how to test the limits of his
patience, to prod at its boundaries, to overexert it. And as he apparated away to seek refuge, to put
space between them, a vague notion materialised that she truly did look as though she belonged in a
museum, a living sculpture created from magic.

His own greatest masterpiece-- “The Girl Who Lived”.

 An Extended Olive Branch
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone-- apologies for not posting yesterday! We've been having some terrible
storms here 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 a kudos to this
story! I so appreciate every single one of you and you have no idea how blessed I
feel to have such active readers!

I hope you guys enjoy!

Harri felt sick, nauseous, as though there were too many voices, too many emotions, crammed
inside of her. Entirely overfilled, overflowing, her conscious stretched thinly across too many
planes of thoughts, ready to snap and implode in the wake of the slightest breeze. And yet, oddly
enough in spite of the feelings of being overstuffed, there was a hollowness, a gaping maw, in the
very center of her chest. With every inhale and exhale, with every shaking breath, the frosty
tendrils seeping from it spread through her, down to her limbs, robbing her of heat and turning her
fingers numb. ‘He’s right, you know,’ a singular strain amongst the endless chattering had spoken
above the cacophony of white noise. Silence ensued in her mind, a vacuum of space, of stillness.

‘None of this is normal. You’re an abomination against nature’s most sacred laws--no living thing
should exist to house another’s soul.’ And though there was no cruelty, no bite, to the thought, it
still stung nonetheless. After all, he had made sure it would when he painted the horrors of her
friends’ hypothetical betrayals, their willingness to turn on her, to destroy her. An auburn head had
finally lifted from the hidden space between her knees, the coolness of the fractured mirror at her
back serving as an indication of where she was, of what had just occurred. Sharp pieces, digging
into her skin but not quite puncturing, made her grimace. Harri arched her spine, lifting her back
away to lessen the contact, to ease away from the physical reminder of their anger.

Green eyes reluctantly cracked open to study the white powder amidst the folds of her skirt, the
remnants of a bust that had been obliterated in the face of the Dark Lord’s anger. It clung to the
wool, insistently refusing to part, tarnishing the dark grey material with its invasive dust. The room
had become quiet, disturbingly so, and whereas she had once found it beautiful, it now seemed
more akin to an inhospitable space. The sculptures’ eyes appeared colder now, as though she were
the one to cause the death of their brother and were openly accusing her of such. Absentmindedly,
numb fingers plucked at the felt, trying to remove the lingering traces of the finely milled marble
from the pleats and wishing for magic to spirit it all away.

Voldemort had said she would be getting a guard, that much she remembered through the haze,
through that damning pull of light at her navel. But he hadn’t said who it would be nor when to
expect them to arrive. Her emerald gaze lifted mutinously towards the door, having heard the
resolute sound of a lock turning when he had left, the message quite clear that this was to be her
own personal waiting room, her new purgatory. As it currently stood, Harri didn’t possess even the
faintest clue of how much time had passed since he had stormed off, how long she was supposed to
remain shut away in here, what she was supposed to do-

As though the universe had been privy to her thoughts, had decided to finally humour her, to
indulge her, the door handle turned. Standing in the doorway, whistling to himself in the face of
the damage of the showroom, was a rather handsome young man with straw blond hair and rich
chocolate coloured eyes.

Her head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud, groaning inwardly at who, she guessed, had
been assigned to her, “Merlin, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Barty took a step into the room, and then another, eyes flitting about the gallery as a cheeky smile
slid the corners of his mouth upwards. The Death Eater spun in a wide circle as he took in the
cracked mirrored ceiling in awe, the splintered and half-shattered walls, the remnants of a
destroyed podium and marble sculpture coating the ground.

“Oh, Narcissa is not going to be pleased,” he commented dryly, a mischievously knowing gaze
landing on the girl curled on the floor, a look of utter distaste pinching her features.

“Blame your Lord,” she mumbled to herself, quite embittered, as she eyed the hand offered before
her in mistrust, “So I’m guessing you’re my babysitter?”

A roguish smile spread across his face as she eventually accepted his assistance, lifting her off the
ground and bowing in over-exaggeration, “Barty Crouch, at your beck and call, My Lady.”

Harri studied him as he swept into his dramatised show of reverence, groaning at the wry smirk,
the gleam of his eyes. She wanted to scream in frustration, to declare this wasn’t happening, that
she refused to accept it. Part of her wondered if Voldemort had even chosen the man for this exact
purpose--that he knew it would get under her skin, that she would be disinclined to trust the wizard
after he had spent almost two years in a disguise, lying to her, deceiving her. And as she swept
determinedly from the room, the Death Eater practically nipping at her ankles, she tried to ignore
the delayed shiver, the disconcerting feeling of dread, at the fact that he had referred to her as ‘My
Lady’.

Severus Snape had come to the conclusion, as he busied himself with sorting through the ledgers
and the endless written requests refilling mandatory classroom supplies, that operating a school was
far more work than he could have ever expected. And as he squinted at the slanted scrawl of the
previous headmaster, eyes straining to figure out their meaning, a brief question crossed his mind
regarding how intact Dumbledore’s sanity actually was. After all, who, in their right mind, would
willingly inflict such a torture upon themselves? It was enough to make his head pound, a sharp
unrelenting throb, to darken his mood and almost make him want to reach for a drink. With a
heavy sigh, one that betrayed his irritation, the man threw the scrolls back down onto the grand
desk, wiry fingers reaching up to massage his temples. Though it may have appeared to be a great
reward, a responsibility afforded to him as a testament to his capabilities, a part of him wondered if
this was his Lord’s punishment in camouflage. A way to seek retribution for all of those years
playing both sides, never fully committing to one or the other, of toeing the grey areas in both
camps. It certainly would seem to be in character for his mercurial mood-- a double-edged sword
that cut his patience down to the quick.

The office was silent and bare, mostly cleared of Dumbledore’s belongings by this point, a clean
space to start anew in. Though, out of all of the things from the old office, he had retained the
hourglass sculpture in the corner. A massive and refined curved glass that was suspended
magically in its frame, tilting over on itself every hour with a soft chime. It was this sound, the
twinkling of a bell, that caught his attention as weary eyes trained on the turner resetting itself, the
fine grains of obsidian sand slowly trickling through the funneled opening. Severus supposed he
had kept it as it was relaxing to watch, a much needed distraction that provided momentary respite
from the chaos. And, as he obsessively watched the steady stream, he found the tension bleeding
out of his body, his mind settling. Of course, that peace could only last so long-- a tentative and
flighty thing in his life. One second it had been still, calm, quiet, and then the next, there was a
sharp sting radiating through his left arm, a deafening crack as the newly-constructed wards bent
around their creator, bowing to his will.

Snape’s head snapped upwards, scrambling to get to his feet but relaxing in confusion as he was
motioned to remain seated. Coal eyes, narrowing a fraction after getting over the momentary shock,
observed the Dark Lord pacing about the length of the office, his movements as fluid as a snake
waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Apprehension overtook the headmaster as he probed at
his mental shields, ensuring they were firmly slipped into place. Though there wasn’t much to hide
at this point, it had been a reflex, an instinct, to have them up in the Dark Lord’s presence, one that
made him feel safe. The relative peace had been destroyed, disturbed, tattered remains he could
practically see drifting in front of him, only to be replaced with the palpable irritability rolling off
of the wizard before him.

“My Lord,” he greeted in respect, tone lilting towards the end in an unspoken question.

Normally, he would be the one that was summoned, would be the one called to suffer the man’s
whims and wishes. Very rarely, however, was it ever the opposite-- to have Voldemort come to
him, to seek him out on purpose. And, truth be told, it filled every inch of his body with dread at
what it might entail.

Crimson eyes slid over to the potions master, the residual distemper from his encounter with his
horcrux still humming brightly within his system. While it had quieted down from its deafening
roar, reduced to a susurrating whisper in the back of his mind, the urge to enact violence, to make
her forcefully submit, still had its claws wrapped tightly around his self-control. A scoff, one that
he didn’t mean to do, escaped his chest as he crossed over to the rather empty bookshelves, fingers
interlaced behind his back as he tried to find his center. Upon fleeing the gallery, leaving behind a
girl with too green eyes and flushed skin, an idea crossed his mind to pick Severus’s brain, to hear
his thoughts on her, to try to understand her infuriating nature. And, more importantly, how to get
her to accept and surrender herself to him.

“I confess myself needing your advice, Severus,” he finally broke the tension in the study, idly
reading the gold-leafed spines of the titles before him, “You have spent years around the girl, have
you not? So, tell me, has she always been this defiant? This vexing?”

Snape blinked once, attempting to understand if this was a poorly conceived dream, if he had fallen
asleep at his desk amidst his reading, or if one of the darkest wizards in their history was truly in
his office and asking about the ill-behaviour of an ex-student of his. However, even he had a lack
of faith in his imagination’s ability to conjure up such a thing. And wasn’t that disturbing?

“I have found that Harri Potter has always been quite ungovernable, My Lord,” he was prompted
into a reply when those hellish eyes had glanced past his turned shoulder, a look in them that
relayed his thinning patience

Frustration, sharp and acidic, welled up in him at the lack of a satisfying answer. Voldemort
whirled around, long strides crossing the room before landing his hands, forcefully, upon the desk.
He leaned forward, his lips pulled back into a sneer as a disapproving callousness shone in his
gaze.

“Really, Severus? 6 years of watching her and that is all you have to report? ‘Ungovernable’?”

A pit formed in his stomach at the sudden snap in his temper, at the outward threats of intimidation
and biting tone that usually only appeared when he was thoroughly incensed. For the briefest of a
second, his attention wandered over to the hourglass and he debated about whisking it away for its
own safety, to attempt to save it from his Lord’s wrath, from its inevitable destruction should his
fury rise any further. And then it bounced back to the seething man before him, wincing at the
harshness colouring his words, at the sight of his bared teeth. ‘Merlin, what did the girl do now?’
No small part of him felt concerned fear, not entirely for his own wellbeing but for hers, over what
recklessness she had done to incur his wrath. Every bit of his consciousness berated her, chastised
her, for not heeding his warnings to endear herself to him, to comply and avoid inciting his wrath.

And then the strangest notion occurred to him, puzzling out as to why the Dark Lord was asking
him for his opinion, for his assessment of the girl. ‘Perhaps, this is my chance to sway him,’ an idle
thought, a dangerous one that, once formulated, refused to leave him alone. If the girl would not
listen, then maybe he could implore his Lord to see reason, to have some compassion towards her.
This could be his chance to save her, to spare her from further pain and torment. It could finally be
part of his lifelong mission for atonement.

“She is resistant to authority, My Lord, much like her reckless father was. If pushed too hard in one
direction, she will most certainly rebel in the other. From what I have seen, she admires her
freedom and the autonomy to lay down her own terms, more so than other teenagers,” he explained
carefully, trying to be selective in his words as a calculating glow flickered in that scarlet gaze.

Snape knew it was a risk he was taking, that his judgments could reap the opposite effect he was
intending for, but he needed to try nonetheless.

“Praise is also something she tends to respond rather well to. It was how Dumbledore had managed
to draw her to his side, I believe,” onyx eyes tracked the movement of drawn up shoulders relaxing,
relieved at seeing the sneer fade into a frown, “I had witnessed it multiple times in fact. He would
always compliment her, commend her for her efforts, before requesting something of her. And she
had always acquiesced in the end.”

Voldemort straightened his spine, his exasperation fading in the wake of new information, of little
particulars about her that he could spin to his advantage. It had appeared that he guessed correctly
in coming to the headmaster, that Severus knew her weaknesses quite intimately. His brows drew
together in contemplation as long fingers drummed against the wood, filing away the details for
later.

“Most importantly, however, is that she admires her comrades--her friends, her family,” Snape
continued, taking it as a hopeful sign that the air in the room was becoming more breathable, less
heavy and hostile. True, he felt as though he were betraying her slightly by revealing such
fundamental truths about her character to her greatest enemy. But, in the light of it potentially
making the Dark Lord more lenient towards her, he figured the girl would have to come to
understand his intentions.

“Family,” he echoed distantly, mind mulling over the word, its implications. The rhythmic beat of
his fingers on the desk abruptly ceased.

“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 even pointing her wand towards him.
However, upon finding out he was innocent and her supposed godfather, her opinions quickly
changed about him,” his mouth pressed into a grim line at the memory of the Shrieking Shack-- of
being rendered unconscious, caught off guard and blasted off his feet by her overpowered spell.
His shoulders and head had smarted for days afterwards, his ego bruised by that little transgression
that, only quite recently, had he forgiven her for.

A smile, cunning and sharp, pulled the corners of his mouth upwards, a feeling of triumph swelling
in his chest. ‘So, she wants family,’ a sly thought, a dawning of light at the end of the tunnel.
Voldemort took a step back, too many ideas, too many plans, already formulating in his mind’s
eye, being put into motion and playing out as several hypothetical scenarios.

“You’ve been quite insightful, Severus,” he muttered out softly, eyes glazing over in an unfocused
manner, so consumed by an inward monologue to even care about the man before him any longer.
The office abruptly bled from view as he sought refuge to scheme, to reset the board and his pieces.

A shaky exhale left the headmaster as the Dark Lord disapparated, a sharp pop and a blur of black
before he was gone. It was at that moment he realised that his fingers were shaking, vibrating in
the face of what he had done, at how he had attempted, and hopefully succeeded, in manipulating
his Lord into mercy. And Severus found himself desperately wishing, praying, that, for once, no ill
consequences would arise from his actions.

“So you’re really going to follow me everywhere?” she questioned after a beat of too long silence,
the small heels about her feet clicking against the marble tile as they carried her to the once place
she knew to go-- her glorious cage.

She didn’t feel like returning to the informal dining room after what had happened, didn’t feel like
witnessing Draco’s concern or Narcissa’s worry. And she most certainly wanted to avoid
accidentally bumping into a certain man with red eyes, her tolerance as frayed as her nerve endings
at the moment. The tension had yet to leave her shoulders, her throat still feeling inflamed, her
wrists beginning to show the first signs of bruising. Everywhere there was dust, marble and glass
particles alike, in her hair, on her clothes, and she just wanted it gone. To strip off his stupid
insignia from her throat, the weight of it increasing with every step, to remove the wretched clothes
she had been forced to wear. The underwear he had personally picked out had begun to chaff
incessantly at her skin, an unpleasant reminder that she wasn’t even allotted undergarments not
approved by himself first. A bath sounded glorious, the purifying kind that scorched her skin, the
kind that could burn every trace of him away.

“Everywhere you go, I will also,” he muttered from behind her shoulder, his strides purposefully
shortened to stay in her shadow, “But it could be fun, couldn’t it? A little bonding time outside of
the classroom.”

From her periphery, she saw two men lingering down the corridor, heads bowed as they carried
their conversation in whispered tones. However, when they realised who was watching them, their
heads lifted, their gazes glittering in apprehension, in assessment, a cold detachness in them that
made her squirm. Then, in harmony, they dipped into a slight bow, their eyes sliding from her and
to the ground. Harri hurried past the pair, unnerved, disturbed, by the odd display and not wanting
to dwell on it.

The redheaded witch swept into the stern study, the fireplace empty and void of life, the hush of it
indicating its owner was absent. Unrelenting rigidness left her shoulders, thankful for the small
mercy as she marched to the carved door wedged between the two bookshelves and stepping into
the cold room. Much like the office, there was no fire, the winter chill seeping in through the tall
panes of glass and blowing frigid air through the window she had left open. ‘Hedwig’s still gone,’
she noted, glancing over at the empty cage impassively. When the footsteps didn’t follow her into
the overly-done bedroom, with its finery of cream and gold, she spared a questioning glance over
her shoulder.

“Can’t come in, remember? Not unless you invite me,” the man explained, leaning against the
doorframe and taking in the grandiose finery beyond the threshold, “Sweet Merlin, our Lord has
really outdone himself, hasn’t he?”

Her jaw clenched, a twitch jumping through her brow as fingers reached up to her throat, undoing
the velvet ribbon and tossing it down forcefully onto the low coffee table. It bounced with a clatter
before rolling off and under the lounge, out of sight and abandoned. ‘Good, it can stay there for all
I care.’ At least there was one grace afforded to her-- the illusion of privacy in her chambers, one
that she knew wasn’t truly there.

“He’s not my Lord,” she finally bit out venomously, appalled at the notion, at his gall for even
suggesting such a thing.

The silence that had followed her answer, an indication that he didn’t fully believe her, that she was
so blatantly lying, made her want to gnash her teeth, to destroy something, to break things and find
a physical outlet for her frustration. A vindictive thought crossed her mind to shred the dresses,
toss them out the window, to refuse to wear anything but her old ‘rags’, as he had put it. But it
quickly evaporated at the reaction, his retaliation, to such a childish display, one that he would,
undoubtedly, take out on her or those residing in the manor. Plus, knowing how sadistic he was, he
would probably be more than content to let her wander around in a bathrobe until she begged for
the clothes back.

The imagined scenario caused a bitter taste to dance across her tongue as she whirled around on the
spot, her tone flat and relaying her annoyance, “I’m taking a bath.”

A dip of his head, that wry smile never once leaving his upturned lips, the knowing glint still in his
stare, “And I’ll be here.”

She watched in disbelief as he settled into one of the armchairs in the study, a book floating out
from a shelf as he made himself comfortable. Apparently, guarding her night and day truly meant
every single hour, minute, and second. Harri slammed the door shut behind her, kicking off her
shoes in vehement exasperation.

The bath, as it turned out, was as glorious and wonderful of an idea as she had initially thought.
And while she may have made it a touch too hot, the steam curling off of the water’s surface
fogging the mirrors, the heat scalding her skin and making her hiss in suffering, she didn’t fully
mind it. It provided the relief she needed, to calm the spasms still convulsing in her muscles, the
lingering headache from her curse mark slowly ebbing away under the steam’s influence. A
breathy sigh escaped her as she tilted her head back, the usually vibrant strands floating about her
chest darkening to a shade of burgundy. It felt wonderful to be in the searing water, to experience a
pain she had complete control over. A sensation entirely of her own making, one that reminded her
she was still alive, that she still had a mastery over her body, was the one to decide its fate and
could exert her dominance over the flesh. If she focused hard enough, she could vividly picture the
lapping water burning away his touch, his persisting handprints, setting aflame the vile piece of
him inside of her. It was comforting, a welcomed distraction.

“Why did you not call for me, dear child?” a woman with ivory coloured hair and a champagne
dress suddenly appeared amongst the swirls of mist, disturbing the moment of peace, “I could have
drawn the bath for you.”

Harri reared back in surprise, the water splashing dangerously over the sides as her arms flew to her
chest, her legs drawing upwards in an attempt to retain some modesty, some privacy. Though it
was a needless thought, one of stupidity, it unnerved her to be so naked in front of a woman so
refined and elegant as Narcissa, to show her the too sharp curves, the lingering scars.

She tried to shield her bare body from the pale gaze watching her in dismay, in disapproval, “Mrs.
Malfoy-!”

A click of her tongue and she was kneeling down by the side of the clawfoot tub, a delicately
arched brow rising at the rather physical reaction, at the mortification so clear in that heart-shaped
face, “Oh, come now, Harri. We are both women, there is nothing to be shy about.”

Brilliantly painted lips tugged into a frown at the temperature of the water, at how the pale
alabaster skin was reddening to a punishing glow. Then she saw the slowly darkening circles about
her wrists, the purple discolorations already starting to bloom. She had been warned of the art
gallery being reduced to a war zone, thinking the worst when Draco, waned and troubled, had
alerted her to the fact that the Dark Lord had whisked the girl away in her absence. In truth, that
had been the main part of her reason, of her haste, to find her, to seek her out and to affirm for
herself whether or not the girl was whole and unscathed. But, it appeared, once again, that she did
not escape without a mark or two in the wake of their tempestuous encounter. An embitteredness
unfurled in her heart as elegant hands, gentle and calming, reached for one of the witch’s hands, a
thumb running in a soothing manner over the fine bones of its back.

“What happened, child,” Narcissa questioned, crystalline eyes not lifting the bruising marks,
impressions of fingers left behind so distinct, “Why was he so angered?”

Harri stared down at the fingers absentmindedly massaging her hand, a jarring realisation at how
kind, how tender, the action was. This woman held nothing but benevolence, nothing but concern
and compassion towards her. And a part of herself wondered that, when Narcissa would come to
know what she had done, when she knew what sins Harri was committing by simply breathing,
would any of it change? Would that open heart shutter close? Renounce and forsake her? After all,
Voldemort was rather certain that her friends, people she had known for years, would do so without
hesitation-- why would a woman who had only been in her life for a few days be any different?
And what if, by just talking to the witch, by harbouring these feelings and getting so affected by
her, was enough to put a target on her back? To inspire the Dark Lord’s ire against the blonde, to
use her as a playing card against her when convenient? She remembered all too well his warnings
about the room, about knowing what would happen within its walls, that nothing was safe nor
sacred. The redhead retracted her hand, cradling it back to her chest, gaze flickering downwards to
the ripples in the water.

“It’s nothing,” she muttered finally, resolutely, a tone that communicated that she didn’t want to
say any more on the matter and that begged for the Malfoy matron to leave it be.

The frown on those scarlet lips deepened, tugging down further at the girl’s withdrawal, at her
deniance and distance. But then again, she supposed it couldn’t be helped-- it wasn’t as though she
knew her intimately enough to be privy to the things that she might consider as private matters. For
now, it could only be her hope, her wish, that the girl would come to trust her enough to, one day,
share her burdens, her mind. It was difficult to try to conceal the disappointment, the hurt, as she
rose on stiff knees, reaching for a bathrobe on the vanity and holding it out.

“Come, before you scald your skin any further.”

Narcissa turned her head to give the girl some privacy as she stepped out of the water, firmly
wrapping the plush fabric around the shivering body. And judging by the violence marring her
skin, by the lack of a Dark Lord in the manor, and by the shattered mirrors, she considered that all
the witch wanted was to remain in her apartments, to collect herself, and to have some time alone.

The older woman began to gently rub the strands of her hair dry with a towel, watching them part
from their damp clumping under her administrations, before uttering out in a quiet tone, “I’ll have
an elf bring dinner to your rooms. Just for tonight.”

There was an instantaneous reaction. Her shoulders went taut, alarm bright in the wide-eyed gaze, a
heavy swallow as the column of her throat bobbed. The pureblood glanced up, taken back by the
abrupt fear in the girl, at her discomfort.

“N-no,” Harri fumbled for the correct words, tongue heavy and heart hammering.

Guilt began to gnaw at her insides, a hungry and unrelenting force, the kind that made one’s
stomach turn to stone and for the heart to stop beating. Images of a decapitated body, of trusting
purple eyes, of blood running down bony shoulders, of fluttering excited ears. It was a warring
juxtaposition in her mind as her memory recalled the two versions of the kind creature-- dead and
alive. Whispers floated in the back of her mind that she had been the one to kill Zivvy in the end,
could easily damn another to the same fate, that she was, by proxy, a murderer. And she just knew
that she couldn’t take seeing another one appear before her, not when they looked all so painfully
similar to one another.

“Please, no elves,” she finally begged, fingers darting out to clutch at the older witch’s thin arms,
brows drawn together in desperation.

A look of confusion on Narcissa’s face before she gave the slowest nod of her head, mildly startled
by the protests, “Of course, dear one. No house elves.”

The women had found themselves in the entertainment parlour of the chambers, Narcissa hovering
at her shoulder and watching her critically from the corner of her eye to ensure she ate. Harri
distantly wondered when the last time had been that she had eaten a proper meal, her appetite
waned and nonexistent since arriving at Malfoy Manor. Even now, everything tasted of ash, of
dust, crumbling in her mouth tastelessly and difficult to swallow. A shame, she figured, as the lentil
stew before her, the baguette and assorted greens on the side, were probably all exquisite. Spoon to
mouth to swallow. Spoon, mouth, swallow. Rinse and repeat.

“Draco is leaving to go back to school soon,” the pureblood finally commented after a few
prolonged seconds, content when the girl was eating of her own admission and not having to be
prompted into doing so.

“Oh,” she muttered, brows lowering in reflection. If Draco was already leaving, that must mean
that the winter holidays were coming to an end and that meant-- well, what exactly did it mean for
her?

“The Monday after New Years. I will miss him, of course, I always do when he goes back. But it is
for the best, nonetheless. Children all have to grow up at some point,” she supplied, trying to make
conversation and humming tunelessly as she glanced about the dimming bedroom. The fire in the
mantle had come to life, the shadows it cast stretched long across the walls, its crackling heat
chasing off the evening winter’s chill.

Harri set the spoon down, unable to stomach the soup any further. She knew that time had been lost
on her, slipping away, but she didn’t realise that it had been this long already. That Monday would
mark 16 days, a full two weeks, almost half a month since she had been taken. And the thought of
having been here this long, of having that much time missing, made her heart drop. The flames, an
array of bright warmth, danced before her and she found herself mesmerized by them, an
appreciated diversion that seemed to lessen the nausea.

“Did he say anything?” the redheaded girl finally ventured, finding her voice amongst the dulling
throb of her panic. The logical side of her already knew the answer, could hazard an educated
guess, but a foolish sliver of her still held out hope, “About me? Going back to Hogwarts?”

Narcissa allowed her pale gaze to drift over to the witch, taking in the profile turned firmly towards
the mantle, at the orange glow about her face. The lowered line of her brows, the tightness in her
mouth, the delicately pointed chin held in tension. It would appear that she already knew but was
wishing for a verbal confirmation. And, as much as she hated to be the bearer of bad news, to
further the ever-mounting disappointment and despair in Harri’s life, she felt that honesty was the
best policy in this situation.

“I’m afraid,” a hand drifted to land on her knee, a slight apologetic squeeze as those painted lips
thinned into a grim line, “You will not be returning.”

And though she had guessed it, had already foreseen the truth, had known it in her bones, Harri still
couldn’t help the pang of disappointment from coursing through her.

New Year's Eve had arrived and, with it, a knocking on the door. Harri had been busy letting
Hedwig preen her fingers, running a gentle finger over the downy silk of her feathers in an attempt
to settle them, to sort them back into place, tenderly cooing to her companion about how lovely she
was. Green eyes snapped sharply towards the threshold, still in her night robe as she had been
throughout the entirety of the afternoon. It had been days since she had left the bedroom, not
feeling too thrilled at the fact that someone would be following her everywhere, and she was more
than content to remain here until Voldemort called off the ridiculous idea. And, after all, if she
never left her chambers then the Death Eater would have nothing to report back.

“The party is starting, My Lady,” the voice of the follower in question, her guard, drifted through
the heavy oak, the words slightly muffled by the wood.

A wince at the term ‘My Lady’-- he had taken to referring to her in that way and it always made
her feel sick, put her on edge, made her want to grind her teeth until only the nubs of the roots
remained. Harri frowned and turned towards Hedwig, the amber gaze of the owl fixing her in a
reproachful stare as though the bird had already guessed where her thoughts were going. But she
would be damned if he thought she would go to a party, pretend to have a good time and be forced
to dance with him again for hours. They hadn’t seen each other since the encounter in the
exhibition room, both mercifully absent from the other’s life, and Harri was more than content to
let it stay that way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she begged her friend, the chirp of its beak relaying its message-- you
can’t stay in your room forever.

‘Try me,’ she thought bitterly, lifting herself off the lounge to open the window.

“I’m not going,” she called over her shoulder, not deeming it fit to even open the door.

Her gaze followed as the snowy owl flapped its wingspan, a flurry of motion, before it dove
gracefully out the window and into the night sky. An ache in her heart made itself known as she
watched the glowing pinpoint of its body fade away, a yearning to escape with her, to be back in
the sky and feel the wind lashing about her face.

Harri finally glanced towards the door at the silence that followed, of a lack of reply, and victory
rushed through her. Apparently, her babysitter didn’t have the ability to force her to do anything
and it was a power trip she was more than willing to ride out.

And so she had greeted the New Year curled up in front of the fire, wiggling her toes in front of the
dying flames, as the ruckus from downstairs alerted her to the closing end of December.

He had wandered into the study, the pleasant thrum of alcohol in his system a much-needed
distraction and a sensation that he had greeted as an old friend. When Barty had alerted him that his
little horcrux would not be attending, it almost made him see red. How tempting it had been to drag
her out of that cursed bedroom, to throw her in the middle of his hounds and command them to turn
on her, to tear into her flesh and to teach her to come to heel when he instructed her to. But no,
instead he allowed her the little defiance, a mercy on his end, an olive branch he was attempting to
extend. And, if he was truthful, as much as he would have loved seeing her at his side, her
undoubtedly sour mood would have only led to flared tempers and, most likely, regrettable actions
on his end. He was so desperately trying to heed Snape’s assessment of her, of her need for
autonomy and, in the grand scheme of things, missing one soiree was a singular drop in a much
larger puddle. Voldemort could only hope, however, she saw the compromise as a gift-- after all,
he was not known for them and did not like to get into the habit. Though, truthfully, spending the
past few hours in the company of beautiful women and high-quality champagne did certainly
soothe the sting of her blatant rejection.

Now, however, standing in the shadows of the study and dismissing Barty, his ever so loyal, from
his guarding spot, the irritation was back in full force. Crimson eyes trained themselves obsessively
on the door, the earlier bliss diminishing at an alarming rate at the offending sight of it. How long
was she going to avoid him, to play out her little tantrum, to continue her act of rebellion? And all
for what? Because he told her the truth? The one she needed to hear? Because he had been
attempting to teach her a lesson?

Plush lips pulled back into a sneer, fangs bared, as he glared at the affronting carved oak that was,
figuratively and literally, shutting him out. While he could have easily opened it up, forced his
presence onto her, make her writhe in pain for her defiance, he found himself not doing so. A tick
jumped through his jaw, clenching tightly, as he stood for a moment before the ornate silver
handle, manifesting her to come out, to open willingly up to him. Of course, she didn’t.

It was the biggest mystifying conundrum of his lately-- he wanted her, Merlin only knew how
much, to be near him, to smile at him, fawn over him, worship him. But, somehow, it all seemed
meaningless if it wasn’t of her own accord, of her own admission. She was the grand prize he
coveted, the one on the top shelf that seemed to evade him, remaining always out of reach. Yes,
Harri Potter was unique, special, someone that could never be substituted for, though try as he
may.

The hand hovering about the handle retracted, heeding the voice that warned him not to give in, to
listen to Severus, to grant her the illusion of freedom for now. A growl of frustration, metal
dancing over his tongue, clawed nails scraping his chest raw. Voldemort turned on his heels, his
stride carrying him away from the inches of wood separating her from himself, seeking refuge in
his own sanctuary. One sparing glance over his shoulder, a hopeful notion that she might still come
out, before slipping into his chambers, the door behind him closing on its own.
 His Summons (pt. 1)
Chapter 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! Please don't hate me**

Also, just a quick shout to you guys because I love taking every chance I get to shower
you all with my affection and gratitude! You guys are seriously amazing and such
gems for commenting, bookmarking, and giving kudos to this story! Seriously, every
day I log on and see another comment or bookmark and my heart just soars So just
thank you for your love-- you guys truly do motivate me to write!

**also, ps to anyone else who writes their own fics. This browser called ZenWriter--
seriously the best discovery ever. I swear my productivity has increased tenfold using
it I highly suggest everyone to check it out if you want to change it up a bit!**

The Monday had arrived all too quickly for her liking and she woke up in a sullen mood, a
bitterness in her heart and disappointment heavy in her soul. Draco would be leaving later in the
morning, joining the influx of returning students as they escaped to the stone halls of Hogwarts in a
bid for prolonged freedom until the summer could begin. He would get to pass his free time in idle
chatter or gossip, waltz about Hogsmeade on the weekends, partake in bouts of friendly house
rivalry, and have his biggest worries center around upcoming exams or deadlines. He would get to
enjoy all of the privileges and independence that was afforded with being out on his own, a self-
determination that accompanied the distance from the watchful eyes of his parents. It would be a
joyous time that would mark his youth— one that he was, undoubtedly looking forward to. He
would be regaining a sense of normalcy in an otherwise unstable life. And, had it been like any
other year, Harri might have been inclined to feel the same excitement and anticipation. But, as it
currently stood, she couldn’t summon the energy— Hogwarts, it seemed, would remain out of her
reach indeterminately.

A restless sigh, a heavy sound that bemoaned the entire situation, escaped from the cavity of her
chest. The motion of rising and falling, her ribs expanding then collapsing as she lay amongst the
nest of pillows, gaze aimed in betrayal towards the cream coloured ceiling. She couldn’t help but
wonder if Hermione would be returning. If Ron and the twins and his sister would as well, flashes
of bright orange scattered amongst the Gryffindor table. Would they find themselves in the
common room in front of a warming fire, laughing at stupid jokes and nursing mugs of hot
chocolate with far too many marshmallows? Would they be cheering in the stands during quidditch
matches, bundled up in their house colours to ward off the early morning chill? Or going to parties
on the weekend, passing the night away with firewhiskey as their companion only to regret it the
second the sun rose? And even though the rational side to her knew that they would feel her
absence, and more likely than not miss the Express today, it still made her eyes sting and a hollow
ache to flourish. The thought of everyone moving on without her, the vivid imagery that had been
conjured as a cruel joke, was enough to make her feel sick. Would they all eventually forget her,
carry on with their daily lives while she was stuck in this gilded prison, locked away from the
world?

‘But wouldn’t that be for the best?’ a small voice had whispered. And, as much as she hated to
admit it, there was some truth in the sentiment. If they left ‘The Girl Who Lived’ in the past, a
ghost to only exist in the furthest recesses of their memories, they could avoid needlessly risking
their lives for her— of dying with her name on their lips.

A sharp rap, quickly followed by another, and Harri lifted her head from the ostentatious array of
cushions, auburn hair spilling over the ivory sheets. It would appear that Narcissa had finally
arrived, ready to dress her for the day a tad earlier than usual. Just yesterday, Harri had pleaded to
be there to send Draco off, begging the woman to allow her that small mercy— to oblige her the
most pitiful wish. Exhaustion dug its claws into her unrelentingly as she slumped back down
against the pillows, the effort to crane her neck a tiring one. The girl hadn’t slept for most of the
night, already painfully conscious when the sun rose, and she was starting to feel the effects of the
deprivation. Wearily, green eyes slid over to the sheer curtains, impassively blinking when she
found the glimpses of the winter sky to be in an equally depressed mood— a never-ending sea of
grey.

Harri considered that she would never get used to the ordeal of dressing, of how much effort it was
in the mornings to become ‘presentable’ by pureblood standards. Today alone had taken almost
two hours to properly wash, dress, and style herself. And part of her just knew that, without
Narcissa providing her expertise, it would have taken her twice as long to thoroughly meet the
woman’s high expectations. Under normal circumstances, the girl would have just sat back and
relaxed under the nimble fingers combing through her scalp, the gentle lull of conversation, the
comforting scent of the matriarch’s perfume. But today she had had no patience for it. And it was
as though the woman had been able to sense her mood, or perhaps even that she had felt the same,
as the coordinated ensemble was rather simple. The redheaded witch had been outfitted in a simple
black cotton dress, a sharp dip of a v in the collar and the lace-trimmed hem grazing her ankles.
The sleeves were sheer and puffed, ending tightly at her wrists with silver buttons. There was a
theme, Harri had been quick to note, in the overall cut of the gowns she had been forced to wear
— always tight in the bodice and nipped in the waist but flaring out around the hips. If it was true
that the Dark Lord had personally picked them out, then it was becoming slightly obvious where
his obsessions lied regarding the female figure.

Even her hair had suffered from the impatience of the morning, the normally intricate style lacking
altogether. The fiery strands had been kept down, a cascading curtain falling loosely to her low
back with only a few pieces twisted artfully away from her heart-shaped face. The insignia, much
to her dismay, had been fished out from under the couch and rested proudly in the hollow of her
throat on a length of velvet ribbon.

After a rushed few hours, the women had finally found themselves in the dove grey room of the
floo parlour— an awkward affair of prolonged silence. The entrance was usually locked, a
precaution she guessed that was only recently put into place upon her arrival, and Harri couldn’t
help herself from letting her eyes bounce around the room, mind drifting. It was plainer than the
other areas of Malfoy Manor— and though she had referred to it as such, it was still luxurious.
Especially so when compared to the one at the Burrow. There was a singular fireplace, grandiose
in its size, a crystal cut bowl on its mantle holding the black powder. Tall windows lined the walls,
floor to ceiling, framed by drapes of lilac silk— the excess of fabric was tied back with navy cords.
Weak winter sunlight flooded the room, casting a sullen air about the wizards gathered in it.
In a way, Harri supposed that she should have felt some shame for intruding on the Malfoy
family’s intimate farewells— that she was encroaching on the final moments between a son and his
parents. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so as it was completely fascinating to watch their
dynamics. The cold affront of Lucius— only giving his son a quick handshake and a firm dip of his
head with a warning to behave. The warmth she had come to expect from Narcissa— a tender glow
as she rubbed her thumbs over her son’s high cheekbones, a mistiness in her eyes as she tenderly
referred to him as her ‘little dragon’. The mortification on Draco’s face as he glanced helplessly
over to Harri, stepping abruptly out of his mother’s hold and begging her to not embarrass him. It
all painted an interesting portrait, one that made something dark writhe around her heart— to coil
and squeeze, to further grow that gaping pit in her stomach.

And Harri couldn’t help but wonder that, perhaps, she might have had this. A parent’s stern
message to keep out of trouble, a mother’s tender touch and a lovingly bequeathed nickname— an
unwillingness to let her go back to school after the holidays. Their tears over her departure and a
reluctance to let her pull away, soft words relaying how much they loved her. She had certainly
fantasized enough about it, a lovely dream that always made reality seem a touch more bitter when
she finally awoke. ‘Freakish little girls don’t have parents’. Her aunt’s voice played on an
unwelcomed loop in the back of her mind, a painful leftover from a childhood of darkness and
unkind hands, a constant reminder of what she could never have.

A tightness flourished in her smile and what was genuine before now seemed forced. A facade, a
mask. Suddenly, it was her turn to say goodbye and she rushed forward, not caring about the
parents hovering in the background nor the calculating judgment in her guard’s eyes. It was as
though her body had acted of its own accord, seeking out the comfort the Slytherin always
provided, the gentleness of his presence that could be relied on to chase away the encroaching
clouds. Her arms went up around his shoulders, pulling his thin frame down to hers in a hug, a
heavy realisation overcoming her that he was truly leaving. One of the few allies she had in the
manor, a remnant of her old life, a friend to make her laugh and whose calming aura she would
surely miss. Warmth around her middle, an imperceptible tightening, and he was returning the
embrace— apparently, Draco was feeling the impending separation as well.

The smell of sandalwood and orange peel, a decidedly boyish scent most suited to him, wafted
from slicked-back hair.

She smiled slightly, her lips barely moving but the whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “If
you see them, let them know I’m okay and miss them.”

His response came in the form of a slight squeeze at her waist, a nonverbal communication that he
would try. And then she was stepping away and releasing him from her hold. It was a bittersweet
thing, a goodbye that Harri hadn’t wanted to come. ‘He’ll be back,’ a logical side justified,
chastising her for overreacting, for being so dramatic. But, without Draco, who else did she have
here besides his mother? Who else could she count on?

“Don’t get into trouble. Or, at the very least, don’t get caught. Merlin only knows that you’re
terrible at sneaking out,” she tried for a lighthearted jest, the smile not quite reaching her eyes as it
fell flat.

Distantly, she could register the watchful stares of the adults, an ever-present warning for neither of
them to overstep their boundaries.

“Of course, Potter. And hey, at least with you gone, Slytherin might actually stand a chance of
winning a few matches,” Draco tried for their usual banter, his hands shoved into his school
trousers as he took in the redheaded girl before him.
It sounded fake to his ears, shallow sentiments that meant nothing. And he couldn’t help but fear
for her, wonder if she would be able to thrive in the den of the Death Eaters. That, when he
returned in a few months’ time, what would he find? The same girl, with defiant emerald eyes and a
smile that could blind the room? Or a shell, broken down and spirit defiled, forced to crumble
under the unrelenting pressure and whims of the Dark Lord? Truthfully, the very notion, the
concept, the uncertainty frightened him.

The pureblood tried to return the wry smile, a dry chuckle in response to her disbelieving scoff at
his jabs. It was all an attempt to hide his worry, not wanting to unsettle her or turn the affair into an
even more gloomy occasion than it already was. Draco parted his mouth wanting to speak, to say
something else, but his jaw snapped closed with an audible click at the sharp look of admonition in
his father’s gaze.

Lucius finally stepped forward, having had enough of their friendliness, glancing critically at the
proximity of his son to the girl. A sense of unease, of dread, thrived in him seeing their closeness,
their attachment and camaraderie. How many times before had he warned Draco to distance
himself from her? To end their congenial terms and back off before their Lord took notice? And
yet, the boy was willing to defy him on this matter, to not heed his cautions— to continue to remain
stubborn and foolish. A pale brow twitched in annoyance as his hand shot out, an unrelenting
authourity that made Draco flinch under its weight.

“Come, Draco, or you will miss the train,” Lucius roughly shepherded in his son into the mantle, a
cold stare fixed on the dumbstruck girl as his free hand grasped for a healthy dose of floo powder.

Harri could only return the small wave the blond boy had given, mildly taken back by his father’s
abrupt and disdainful interference, before they were consumed by green flames. Draco was freed,
allowed to spread his wings, and roam without a collar heavy about his neck. ‘At least one of us
gets to be.’ And she tried her best to fight down the jealousy, the wave of envy crashing through
her as he disappeared in a flash of light.

In the wake of their disappearance, a hush settled over the empty space. The mother hovering near
her sighed deeply in an uncommon show of distress— it relayed how much she was already
missing her son, the heartbreak at having been separated from him once again. And Harri thought
to comfort her, to tell her it would be fine. That she felt the same, that it was only a few months of
waiting. A small pale hand reached out for the older witch’s only to withdraw abruptly at a sudden
cough, a deafening reminder that her actions were still being watched and scrutinized.

She looked blankly over her shoulder to see Barty leaning off of the door’s frame, tilting his head
towards the hall as his tone bordered on almost the apologetic, “He’s summoning you, My Lady.”

The guard had led her into a dining room, the same one, she belatedly realised, that her unveiling to
the Death Eaters had taken place in. The wooden table, long and polished to a dark sheen, the
ornately carved throne at its head, the impossibly grand fireplace made from obsidian, the dim
lighting of the imposing space. It did very little to quell her nerves, recalling what had occurred the
last time she had been in this very room, and she couldn’t help but dread whatever it was that he
had planned for her now. Narcissa was faithfully at her heel, flanking her in, and Harri craned her
neck uneasily towards the older woman. The elegant hand that landed on her shoulder, the
reassuring squeeze it gave, hadn't told her much as to what to expect—only that the witch would be
by her side through it all. Suddenly, it was difficult to swallow, her frayed nerves constricting her
throat.

The room was, mercifully but peculiarly, empty when the trio had stepped through its austere
doors, her bewilderment only increasing at the turn of events. ‘So he summons me and he’s not
even here,’ a resentful thought crossed her mind, a scornful scoff escaping her at his audacity. Of
course, she shouldn’t have been too surprised-- he did appear to take some sadistic enjoyment in
dragging things out and making everything all the more dramatic. Those refined fingers curled
deeper into the softness of her shoulder, a show of nervousness, as they steered her disinclined feet
towards the carved chair on the right side at the table’s head. It was the same one she had occupied
during the last meeting she had attended, the one in which she was put on display and forced to
sign away her rights. High backed, scrolls in the dark wood for the armrests, images of snakes
curling about its legs and unfurling roses scattered amongst the intricate filigree design. She would
be lying if the sight of it didn’t make her feel uncomfortable, a distressing notion of what its
placement had meant, of who it was reserved for—someone important to the Dark Lord, someone
who was above the common ranks of his followers, someone held in no small amount of regard.

Harri was pushed down into it, perturbed, as Narcissa’s lips thinned into a grim line, a tightness in
the corners of her crystalline eyes. And as she retreated to a seat further away, the girl took the
chance to observe how plain the other spots around the table were-- her own a less grandiose
version of the throne, one made intentionally lesser but still fit for a ruler. ‘Almost perfect for a
queen,’ something traitorous whispered, an unbidden notion that refused to leave her in peace, one
that made her stomach lurch in a disagreeable way. And try as she did to fight it off, to stamp it
down, to cease that line of thinking, she just couldn’t. Recollections of their photo in the Prophet,
how she had been dressed to match him, of the bowed heads of the Death Eaters in the halls,
Barty’s insistence on referring to her as ‘My Lady’ despite her pleas for him to stop it. The hunger
alight in crimson eyes, the not-quite subtle hints that he wanted something more from her, the
intense desire for her cooperation, his declarations about them having all of eternity together. It
made her want to retch as things began to settle into place with alarming clarity.

And then the door clicked open with a resounding sharpness, a dark-haired witch with hooded eyes
and a mass of wild curls stepping past the threshold. Her appearance was a much-needed
distraction to pull Harri out from her swirling thoughts, to make her forget and suppress the
appalling betrayal of her conscious, the treasonous idea. As per usual, the dress the older woman
was outfitted in clung too tightly to her frame, too revealing, too immodest for polite company.
Behind her were the twins, ‘Rabastan,’ her mind supplied as she recognised the one that she had
stopped from being tortured into insanity. They were trailing faithfully in her tall shadow as the
severe doors closed with a muffled thud, the air around the heavy wood parting with a soft
whisper.

‘Bellatrix,’ a swirl of vehemence, of venom, of viciousness. Green eyes, nearly aglow in their
distaste, watched as she crossed the expanse of the room with an exaggerated sway of her hips, a
smirk pulling wide on scarlet lips. There was a new scar, she noticed in a delayed reaction, skirting
around on the contours of her face and Harri, though loathe to admit it, found that, somehow, the
woman made it look almost beautiful. Zivvy’s words were replayed in a ghostly vignette, the ones
declaring that Bellatrix had been at Grimmauld Place that day, at how she had come equipped with
a vengeance and a bloodthirsty attitude. And Harri would have to be an idiot not to realise where
she had gotten that silver mark from, the one splitting her brow and ending at her pulse point. Not
to mention, someone had to have recognised the murdered elf, to be the one to point out which
family she had served. The feeling of liquid heat, of her blood turning molten, coursed through her
veins, a no small part of her wanting to leap up, to yell, to unrelentingly demand to know how the
Death Eater had gotten the line across her pale skin, who the vile witch had attacked to deserve
such a thing.

“Harrikins,” Bellatrix crooned, teeth gleaming and far too sharp behind a simpering mouth.

There was the slightest flicker of animosity, of jealousy, in those coal eyes upon seeing where the
girl had been seated, where she was placed in accordance with the table’s ranking. But it quickly
bled away into something more dangerous, a twisted glee, an excitement, a chance for some fun to
liven up her otherwise boring day, “I was hoping I would run into you again.”

Harri gritted her teeth in the face of the saccharine voice, at the overfamiliarity hidden in the
falsely sweet nickname, at the belittling tone, “Funny. I was hoping for quite the opposite.”

Narcissa abruptly rose from her seat to flit worriedly over to the woman, an elegant hand placed as
a subtle warning on her forearm, silver eyes pleading. She understood her sister’s need for
entertainment, that it usually was at the expense of others, that she always pushed it too far too
quickly. But it truly would be madness, suicidal almost, to attempt such a thing with the girl, with
their Lord’s charge— especially after he had declared Harri Potter was not to be touched. And even
if the witch had occasionally warmed the Dark Lord’s bed, Narcissa was fairly certain that their
familiarity wouldn’t spare her from his wrath should he find out.

“Bella,” she tried to greet with warmth, voice strained and nervous as she attempted to distract the
black-haired woman, to make her forget about the redhead on the throne, “How have you been? I
have not seen you in ages, it seems. Really, you must come by for tea more often and stop torturing
your sister by withholding your company.”

Bellatrix’s eyes drifted over to her younger sister, briefly flickering downwards to the hand
hovering on her arm. ‘Ever so cautious,’ she mused, her mirth bleeding outwards, a fondness
erupting at the sight of her concern. Clawed fingers, nails painted black and wickedly pointed,
lifted to pat lovingly on the cheek of the blonde woman.

“Cissy! It has, hasn’t it? I’ve been better, especially now that this is healed,” she trilled, jerking her
head towards the pureblood to bring attention to the new scar across her face, a dry bout of laughter
tearing from her throat.

“But you know our cousin, such a temper,” she added slyly, onyx gaze sliding over to the girl, a
vicious smirk on her face as she ignored the cautioning squeeze of her sister’s fingers, “Sirius truly
doesn’t hold back. No matter though, we had our fun. I imagine he’s far worse off than a little scar
considering the number I did on him.”

Harri’s fingers twitched on instinct, reaching for a wand that she didn’t have at the goading of the
witch. The heat began to burn brighter in her chest, the conniving voice and taunting smile a dry
kindling to feed the anger, to coax the swell of her wrath. The world around her bled away as she
processed through the words, as she took in their hidden meaning. Bellatrix had all but confessed to
torturing her not-quite-godfather, of laying a foul hand on him, of causing him pain. It made her
see red, the embers sparking into twisting flames, threatening to consume, to destroy.

Though she may not be able to act out against Voldemort, to cause him suffering, to divine
vengeance, she sure as hell felt capable enough when it came to one of his followers. ‘Hurt her,
make her pay,’ that rich voice chanted from somewhere inside of her, the residual soul of the Dark
Lord encouraging her, pushing her towards the edge. It sang for her to earn her pound of flesh, to
draw blood, to taste it between her teeth and revel in its glory. ‘She touched one of your own and
has the audacity to gloat about it.’ Something tart bloomed brightly across her tongue, metallic in
nature, and she was only distantly aware that her gums were beginning to ache, to throb, tender to
the touch. The pain in them only served to further stoke her fury, to inherently make her even more
uncentered, unhinged. One minute, she had been seated, and then the next, her feet were moving of
their own admission, carrying her in a direct path to the woman standing a few feet away.

“What did you do?!” Harri demanded, her breaths shallow and body vibrating as images of Sirius
in agony, of Sirius bleeding, of Sirius screaming out for mercy assaulted her mind. The grey-eyed
man who always held a smile, who joked around with her, who referred to her as his ‘Prongslet’,
who always tried to see the best in people had been tortured— and she wanted revenge, karmic
justice, an eye for an eye.

A reedy laugh, strung too high and grating, escaped Bellatrix as her husband rose from his seat in
uncertainty, not quite stepping in but watching in thinly-veiled interest, in mild agitation. Roughly
shrugging off Narcissa’s increasing grip, the older woman took a step forward and then another
until the tips of her shoes bumped against the girl’s. ‘What a small little thing,’ she thought in idle
assessment, far too delighted at the delicate stature of the redhead, at how she trembled in her rage,
at how those green eyes danced like a curse. There was certainly some appeal to her, that much
Bella could see, her boldness, her spine, something to admire. And it was so amusing to see how
riled she was over something as insignificant as a blood traitor, to see how quickly Harri had lost
her temper without even fully admitting to what she had done. That cheshire smile widened, a brief
note made to later ask her Lord if she could have some fun with the young witch-- after all, there
were so many things she could teach her, could impart onto her, could instill into her.

“Are you sure you want to know? After all, such details aren’t made for children,” she clicked her
tongue in mocking sympathy, giggling at the way those eyes were blazing, at how that jaw seemed
to clench even further, at the trembling fists forming at her side. ‘I think I may have found my new
favorite toy,’ a deranged train of thought, one in which she couldn’t resist the urge to clap her
hands together in excitement.

“I wouldn’t want you to have nightmares, after all, Harrikins. Such nasty things shouldn’t be put in
a pretty little head like yours,” a hand strayed to pat lovingly on the top of the auburn crown,
retracting it with a peal of laughter when the witch had lashed out, the girl’s hands firmly shoving
at the center of her chest.

Bellatrix stumbled back a step, urged on forwards and feeding off the sharpening ire, the drastic
responses, completely disregarding her sister’s hands about her shoulders and their attempts to pull
her away.

“Temper, temper!” Bella chastised in a fake show of disapproval, tongue clicking as onyx eyes
flickered over to where the mantle had suddenly sprung to life.

It appeared that the teenager was still prone to bursts of accidental magic in the face of her anger
and that lack of control only inspired further giddiness--she was a powerhouse, a catalyst for talent
that could flourish under the right guidance. There was something so beautiful, so chaotic, in the
notion of corrupting Dumbledore’s golden child, of ruining her in the eyes of the Light, of damning
and twisting the precious last remnant of her dear cousin’s long-dead friends. How poetic would it
be to dye something so pure in the colours of the Dark, to stain her until that innocence existed only
as a whisper of the past. And the taste of it on her tongue, the headiness, the inebriating shadows
swirling in its traces— it was glorious, familiar. It took her a second to work around the
overwhelming sense of deja vu, her mind whirling as she tried to place where she had felt such
magic before, had experienced it already countless times. Then it hit her— it was her beloved
Lord’s.

Harri tried to control her temper, truly she did. She had tried to distract herself by counting down
from 20, had tried through the pain of her nails biting half-moons into the softness of her palms,
through imagining her happy place at the Burrow. But it was so difficult in the wake of Bellatrix’s
words, her taunts, the squeals of laughter, the mocking tones and hands. And so when the fireplace
suddenly erupted into wild flames, when the lights began to flicker overhead, she had decided to
just go along with it. The horcrux in her, that alluring little voice, seemed to enjoy it, revel in it,
savour it, and truthfully? She just felt so spiteful, so angry, at being treated like a child, at being
kept in the dark about what appalling things the woman had done to Sirius, Harri’s only family. All
she wanted was revenge for the man, to make the Death Eater pay for daring to lay a single finger
on his head, for betraying him despite being his blood.

“Call me ‘Harrikins’ one more time, Bellatrix. I dare you,” a sudden gust of wind, as sharp and
uncontrollable as her emotions, suddenly tore through the room, her body vibrating in the power of
it.

It felt electrifying, a thrill and shock to her system, her control lost as something unfurled in her, a
shadowed mist dancing behind her lids. Everything felt alive, too much yet too little at the same
time, a feeling that whispered that it wasn’t quite enough. ‘Good, Harri, good. Listen to your
instincts, feel them.’ It was the truth when she understood that she couldn’t be sated, not like this.
Not until she bled the woman out, not until justice was reaped, until Sirius, Zivvy, her friends,
could be avenged. And she debated, was more than certain at this point, that her body, her skin,
held a charge, could light up the room as her nerves sparked, a shot of something volatile in her. It
was delightful to see Bellatrix staggering backwards, unable to withstand the onslaught of the gale,
of the sheer force. Distantly, she registered that the chairs had clattered to the ground, the panes of
glass rattling threateningly in their frames, the drapes whipping around dangerously in a bid to
escape their confinements to the ceiling, the oxygen becoming thin as she stole it away.

And then as quickly as it manifested, the howling died down, an abrupt sense of loss, of fatigue, of
weariness. Harri panted slightly, eyes glazed, her fingertips tingling with pinpricks at a lack of
sensation, numbing and turning cold. ‘Careful. Your core is still too unstable to handle such magic
without a wand. You’ll end up exhausting yourself at this rate,’ the baritone whisper, seductive and
sweet, warned her, cautioned her. It was as though the flame in her had dipped down too closely to
the wax, running out of a wick and extinguishing itself in the process. A shaking hand rose to rest
over her heart, trying to slow its punishing tempo, to calm it, as she eyed the shocked witch with
curls that seemed even wilder now.

It took Bellatrix a second to overcome the initial surprise, to regain her footing after being forced
away from the girl by the unexpected assault. A beat of silence and then coal eyes narrowed in
contemplation, in critical assessment of the teenager before her, the delight ebbing away into
something more serious. Just who was Harri Potter to the Dark Lord to have a magic signature so
close to his own? To hold such power, to be able to conjure up bouts of violence without even
having a wand? Something in her was strung taut, an appraising review of the witch, apprehension,
a ravenous desire to find her answer. There was the strangest need, almost overwhelming, to
dissect The Girl Who Lived, to tear apart her body, to find whatever piece of her was so similar to
her Lord’s and cradle it in her hands. To scream how dare she try to be privy to any part of him, to
mock him by trying to replicate something so great, so grand, that it was beyond the
comprehension of mortals. To accuse that someone like her was unworthy of having such potential,
that it was wasted on her, that nature’s favour was entirely misplaced. To find the column of her
core, the glowing traces, and consume it, to sink her clawed nails into it and take it as her own.

“Give me your wand,” Harri gritted out after regaining her calm, her breath finally evening out
from its laboured gasping. The command was directed towards Barty hovering at her shoulder, her
guard all too ready to put himself between the two women, to intervene at a second’s notice.

“You know I can’t, My Lady,” the Death Eater responded after a beat of a second, stepping
forward to shield the petite girl from the obsessive hunger, from the violence of Bellatrix
Lestrange.

He spared one glance over at the girl before refocusing his attention on the older witch, the
maniacal, and crazed look in those onyx eyes all the indication he needed to know that she had felt
it too. Those who were used to dark magic, who regularly practiced it, who bathed in its glory,
were finely attuned to its nuances, to the underlying currents that lent a unique flavour to each user.
And while he had only glimpses of it before while teaching her, the barest flickers that he had
chalked up to his imagination, feeling her magic in its unbridled glory was damning. Whatever
Harri Potter meant for their Lord, their strange connection, he hadn’t deemed it appropriate, or
justified, for his Death Eaters to know-- and it wasn’t in their place to try to figure it out either.
They were his followers, not privy to, nor needing, a reason for his action, or inaction, and trying to
toe that line was a dangerously reckless thing to do.

Brown eyes locked with the witch’s hooded ones, the slightest shake of his head the only warning
she would receive not to say, or do, anything else. And though he held some respect for Bellatrix,
her capabilities and skills nothing to scoff at— and as much as he would never want to cross wands
with her— none of it mattered in the face of following his Lord’s orders.

A moment weighty tension, palpable in its astringency dancing across tongues, a beat of stillness
where no one dared to move, to voice aloud their thoughts. It was a game of seeing who would
make the first move— either backing down, acquiescing in surrender, or letting tempered chaos
ensue. And then the grand doors swung open of their own accord, six heads snapping in unison
towards the interruption, towards the sound that had disturbed the hush. Horror, mutually felt by
all, swept through the room upon seeing the Dark Lord hovering in the threshold, those hellish
eyes narrowed in displeasure.
 His Summons (pt 2)
Chapter 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!! Seriously guys, comments are
the best gifts you could all possibly give me! Whenever I log on and see them, they
really do make my heart sing and it's getting to interact with you all in the threads that
makes it worth writing a fic! So just an overall thank you--you all have my undying
affection and love!

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 beautiful-- please enjoy!

Flashes of lights, the lingering smell of powder curling out in wisps from the cameras, reporters
jostling forward to get their exclusives. And though he was outwardly smiling, acting congenial
and amicable, allowing the press to capture the best side of himself, Voldemort was quickly tiring
of it all. His patience was stretching, wearing thin, the endless buzzing and white noise bringing
about a vexing headache. And he couldn’t quite help himself from letting his attention slide over to
the clock, counting down the minutes and seconds until he returned to the manor, would finally see
her again after days of separation. It had been difficult to grant her autonomy, distance, every inch
of him demanding to know why she even needed it, that she should get used to him already—every
fiber singing for him to go to her, force his presence onto her whether she wanted it or not, to make
her understand that she could never be rid of him. A tight smile at another burst of flash.

“Your Majesty, tell us, how is your new ward faring? I noticed she was not at the New Year’s Eve
soiree you hosted last weekend,” a voice floated from the mass of bodies before him, a nameless
specter demanding an impossible answer.

Recollections of his destroyed bedroom, an art gallery reduced to finely milled dust, her arching
away from a shattered mirror in agony, screaming in suffering until her throat turned raw, the
flushed skin in the wake of ecstasy, eyes blown wide with a feeling that she couldn’t fully process.
His fingers twitched imperceptibly, teeth sharp and voice purposefully misleading in its sympathy,
“Harri is still adjusting, as you can imagine. It is a big change, after all, considering her past trauma
inflicted by a neglectful guardian.”

The sharp chime of a clock, the signal the hour had ended, and he was dipping his head with false
regret, “My apologies 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.”

Voldemort stepped away from the podium with a final wave, smile slipping once he was out of the
keen stares of the reporters. ‘Finally,’ anticipation filled him, a hunger, unconstrained and
unbridled, as feet carried him of their own accord. He had alerted Barty of his wish that she would
already be in the meeting room when he had arrived, a present just waiting for him, one that he
didn’t feel like having to track down himself. But then the strangest thing occurred, a glimpse of
emotion that gave him pause. Her anger, bright spots in his consciousness, a feral kind that he was
starting to recognise that always reaped destruction in its birth. Exasperation filled him at the
thought, briefly wondering what she was rebelling against now, what had set her off when this was
supposed to be a pleasant affair—one in which he afforded her a gift, bestowed onto her a charity, a
mercy, a kindness.

His office bled from view as he clutched at the red string, the traces of their connection, the living
filament of their bond, an instinct carrying him to her.

The Dark Lord was given pause outside of the grand doors, momentarily overwhelmed by the
magic seeping through the wood. It was one he was getting to know quite intimately, as complex
and intoxicating as a finely-aged wine coating his tongue, subtle nuances, raw in its refinement. A
heady and alluring siren’s call, one that wrapped tightly around his consciousness in a loving
embrace, a shock to his system that begged to draw closer to the source— it was hers. A magic so
similar to his own but with just enough variation to make it unique, a mystery he had yet to
understand, to puzzle out. And as quickly as he felt it, could feel it vibrate in his very bones, in his
marrow, it bled away. The beast in his chest paced, crying out to feel it again, to demand to know
why it had disappeared, had left it unsated. His eyes narrowed into slits of displeasure, both from
being cut off but also from the fact that something, or someone, had to coax such violence in the
first place. He waved the doors open with a nonchalant hand. And they parted readily for him, the
Red Sea bowing to something greater, granting him access as he took one step inside.

The scene that greeted him was one that induced an array of reactions, his face schooled into
impassivity. There was a shock in seeing the room overturned, the chairs laying about the ground
and the drapes ripped from their rods, the flames lashing out of the metal grate and the lights
strobing overhead. Then there was awe, her inherent abilities never ceasing to surprise him that she
could be the source of such destruction. Concern in watching her stumble, her exhaustion palpable
to him, her chest rapidly rising and falling in its exertion, a slight sheen on her brow. But, most of
all, it was anger, discontentment, irritation, displeasure. ‘Foolish girl,’ his first thought upon seeing
her burn herself out so quickly, as reckless as ever in trying to perform magic without a wand as a
conductor while her core was still underdeveloped.

And then he saw the confrontational stance of his horcrux and Bellatrix, the helplessly hovering
forms of the other Death Eaters surrounding the pair. There was a look in his most loyal’s coal
eyes, one that he was quite familiar with— an obsession and a thirst for blood. He would have to be
dimwitted not to guess as to what had occurred between the two witches in his absence, blind not to
see their outward hostility. The scarlet gaze briefly flitted over each one of his followers as their
heads snapped towards him. A delayed reaction followed, a moment before they recovered their
wits and sinking into a bow, their mute horror as clear as day. The Dark Lord took long strides
forward, the heels of his Oxford shoes clicking deafeningly on the marble tile and disturbing the
quiet of the room. Without even pausing, the elder wand snapped outwards in a wide arc, the
parlour resetting itself before returning to its holster under his black robe. Around him, the chairs
were corrected, the fire submitting and receding, the curtains reattaching— but he was barely
aware of any of it as his eyes were latched firmly onto the redhead standing amidst it all.

The defiant girl refused to even budge, to acknowledge him past the blazing wrath still dancing in
her gaze, those curse green eyes of hers almost glowing. And try as she did to hide it behind her
bravado, he could sense her exhaustion, her fatigue, the way she was swaying on unsteady feet.
And while he was, begrudgingly impressed with her, plans already being made to teach her to
control wandless magic in the future, he couldn’t quite help the sneer from flickering across his
face. ‘Truly ‘ungovernable’, ‘reckless’,’ he thought viciously, finding there to be truth in Snape’s
words regarding her character. The girl was going to kill herself at this rate, burn herself up in the
untamed usage of her core, in trying to improperly utilize it. Yet she didn’t even seem to recognise
the dangers in her actions, the effects it was having on her body.

Harri couldn’t even remember the last time she had laid eyes on him, had last been in his presence,
her luck in avoiding him finally having run out. As she watched him in silence, his dissatisfaction
so vividly painted on his face, she couldn’t help but remember their last conversation and how that
had gone. The torture, the harsh words, the bliss-- all of it a whirlwind, an influx of sensations that
gave her whiplash by just recalling it. The ache in her gums, in her teeth, only seemed to increase
the more she focused on the memory, the ground underneath her suddenly unsteady. Some part of
her realised that she probably overdid it, having manipulated an element without a wand, and she
truly wanted nothing more than to sit down as waves of nausea overcame her. But she refused to
look as though she were backing down from him, her reeling body be damned. Stubbornly, Harri
lifted her chin, leveling him with a fixed look that dared him to point out that she hadn’t greeted
him, hadn’t bent the knee, to start this meeting off with the fight she so desired.

Voldemort paused in front of Harri, looming and towering, his shoes meeting hers as he let his
eyes roam over her, taking in the shaking shoulders, the ragged breathing, how she was tilting to
one side so precariously. ‘Calm yourself. Do not be angry that she was using her magic,’ a rational
side justified, a sharp inhale and exhale leaving him as he tried to heed that small voice. Of course,
she hadn’t any idea of how dangerous it was to inappropriately cast wandless spells—how could
she? No, instead he should redirect his anger towards those in the room that had let her continue,
who did nothing to stop it, who were fully aware of what effects it had on an underaged witch.

Determining himself to be calmed down enough to face her without losing his control, the Dark
Lord quirked a delicately arched brow in a silent question at her combative manner, at her need to
apparently act so hostile when all he had done was walk into the room. His expression was one that
asked if she truly wanted to be confrontational, if arguing and quarreling with him was something
she could take at the moment considering the state she put herself in. A scowl came as her
response, her arms crossing definitely over her chest. And though it did mildly encourage his ire,
he found it somewhat endearing, a fondness that she still seemed so opposed to him, was still the
spitting stray that was attempting to bite the hand that feeds it.

“Barty. Is this your idea of guarding and watching over her? Standing by as she does whatever she
pleases? As she endangers herself to the point of exhaustion?” he questioned finally, tone cold in
his address to the man still kneeling before him. However, before the Death Eater could even
speak, could get the chance to explain himself, Voldemort raised a hand to silence him.

“And Bellatrix-- did we forget my warning? The one in which I had specifically declared Harri
Potter to be off-limits? That any affront to her would be one to me as well?” he further demanded,
eyes never leaving those of the horcrux before him, her resentment so evident in the tightness of
her drawn features.

Much to his pleasure, he noticed she was starting to lean closer towards him, apparently
subconsciously, instinctively, seeking out strength from the original source of her magic. A slight
tug on the borders of his consciousness, one that he realised as her, a pleading pull that was asking
for the light of their connection, for the comfort it lended. The Dark Lord’s eyes darted across her
face, wondering if she was even aware of what she was doing, what she was asking for. Was it
being executed with intent or was it the soul shard in her acting of its own accord? Judging by her
stubbornly turned head, the auburn hair creating a curtain that hid her profile from him, the
clenched jaw and the closed-off posture, he was guessing it was the latter— still, intentional or not
on her part, it was a significant enough development. After all, it indicated that the connection
between them was becoming established enough that the horcrux knew when to turn to him, to
actively seek him out. A smirk bloomed on his plush mouth at the very thought.

Then there was a whimper behind him, a simpering sound of despair, that caused the elation to
come crashing down. Voldemort had altogether ignored the begging sounds, the horrified keen of
Bellatrix, a part of him already guessing that, the second he gave her permission to speak, she
would be crying out for his forgiveness, to deny her part in disobeying him. ‘Good. Let her know
that I’m displeased,’ a savage thought, cruel in nature, crossed his mind. The witch had
overstepped her boundaries, despite his warnings regarding Harri, and, frankly, a little humility
would do her some good.

And though he knew that, more likely than not, his horcrux had probably been the one to instigate
the conflict, to rile up Bellatrix with her reactions, to spark the confrontation in the first place, he
knew he would never dare to punish her in the usual sense-- especially so not in front of his
followers. Pushing his irritation, his disfavour and vexation through to the marks born on their left
arms, contentment unfurled in him upon hearing their drawn inward gasps of pain, at the
practically audible termors racking their shoulders. And, for good measure, so they wouldn’t forget
anytime soon, potentially disobey future orders, he encouraged the tattoos to crack open, bleed and
weep dark ink, to scorch and blister. Higher pitched groans, acutely sharp cries of suffering filled
the dining room.

The Dark Lord craned his neck over his shoulder to take Bellatrix grasping at her arm, clutching it
desperately in a vain effort to stop the invisible flames from licking at her, to lessen the hot oil
dancing across broken skin. Blackened blood was dripping steadily from the design, the snake
writhing against her paleness, a sight that filled him with a bestial gratification, a sadistic
fulfillment. ‘Appropriate reparations,’ he thought idly, sliding his gaze to the kneeling form of
Barty at the redheaded witch’s feet.

“I want both of you to stay behind afterwards,” satisfied enough with their choked out
acknowledgments of his request, their words strained in the light of their pain. And then those
crimson pinpoints snapped back to his horcrux, exasperation causing them to spark.

“And you,” he hissed out in their shared tongue, choosing to do so for privacy, for the sake of
keeping the image of untouchability about her, to keep her reprimand a matter between themselves,
“You need to calm down.”

Harri gaped at him, taking an unbalanced step back in offense, in shock, that he had the nerve to
tell her to be the one to calm down. After all, who was it that always lost his temper? Had tossed
her about like a rag doll when he saw fit? The one to always get physical and destroy their
surroundings? Granted, she was guilty of that as well but, considering their track record, Voldemort
was certainly more of the repeat offender. Even now, he had punished his followers, enacting such
cruelty upon them, causing them to suffer under his wrath. Only distantly did she register the soft
groans of torment, not even bothering to look over at the prostrating wizards scattered around them.
And the smallest part of her, a dark side she would deny ever existing to her personality, felt
vindictive joy that Bellatrix was in agony after what she had done.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she retorted in response, arms crossed over her chest and glaring
mutinously at him. Her eyes drifted over to the ornate chair, the world about her becoming just a
tad bit blurry, her only thought being how desperately she longed to collapse in it.

“Harri, you are acting like a child and I need you to stop,” his frustration was mounting, rising in a
wave at her lack of compliance.

He had been so lenient over the past few days, giving her space, not forcing her to come to the
party, and was about to give her a gift, bestow onto her something priceless. And yet, she still
dared to act this way towards him, to argue and protest, to run herself ragged in doing so.

“I’m not a child-” she scoffed, the words dying on her tongue, ceasing to exist in her throat when a
hand shot out to grip at the back of her neck.

The unrelenting press of fingers digging into the softness, into her pulse point, the heavy heat of it
as it ran along the topmost knob of her spine. And there it was, the light, the pull, the syrup, the
bliss that melted away the anger, replaced all negativity she felt. The honey that seemed to give her
strength, to make the world stop swaying and tilting for a second. The buoyancy, a floating
sensation, the warmth in her chest--

It ended as quickly as it had begun, her eyes wide in a dazed shock as tried to comprehend how he
could have ended it so quickly, could have taken that pleasure away from her without even a
second of remorse. The nausea was back, something in her whispering that it wasn’t enough, not
yet— it more than a simple desire, it was a need. Harri blinked owlishly up at him, at his pleased
smirk, at the knowing glint in those scarlet eyes, a look that was all too smug and triumphant. It
was one that just screamed ‘I can control you, make you wish for more’. He dropped his hand from
her neck as she glared up at him, the urge to kick him suddenly seeming to be quite tempting. It
would appear that he had no remorse in utilizing whatever he could against her and how that made
her want to scream, to march from the parlour, to slam the bedroom door in his face and never
come back out. Suddenly, the hand was curled around hers, not so much as gently interlacing their
fingers but rather a constricting pressure, one that nearly crushed the fine bones and made them
ache.

Then he was leading her over to the chair at the throne’s side, pulling it out with one hand and
forcing her to sit with the other, a bruising force upon her shoulder. ‘Merlin,’ she thought in
bitterness at how much strength rested in those very fingers, their delicate elegance entirely
deceiving—and how she hated herself for being mildly impressed by it. And though she would
never say thank you, would be loathed to admit it, it truly did feel wonderful to finally sit down, to
be off legs that felt like jelly, the bones in them brittle and threatening to snap.

Green eyes tracked his path as he took the throne, fingers steepled as the scattered Death Eaters
finally rose from the floor and taking their seats only when he gave the slightest nod of his head to
do so. And how at home he looked in the position of a king, of a leader, his magic settling over the
room in a weighty blanket, his dominance secured in the face of the subservient wizards seated
below them. Harri glanced down the table to take in their waned faces, the weeping, much to her
relief, finally halting on Barty’s arm. He sent her a small half-smile, a cocky little thing that didn’t
quite hide the pain in his eyes, as he seated himself down three rows from her. Bellatrix, with her
hands covered in ink as black as her heart, was staring venomously at the redhead— a look that she
gladly returned tenfold.

Suddenly, a vial appeared in front of her, a soft pop into existence. She looked over at Voldemort in
confusion, her brow lifting as she noticed the pleasant orange liquid, the fizziness making it jump
in the glass bottle. It was a potion she was quite familiar with, having developed a dependency on
it after spending her nights in the company of firewhiskey laced punch— a pepper-up potion.

“Drink it,” he commanded, leaning back in the throne to observe her, crimson eyes tracking
obsessively as she raised the vial to her lips after a moment of hesitation. A man possessed, he
followed the movement of her throat, the bob of it, a desire to reach out and hold the pale column
in his grasp, to feel it constrict in his hands, to trace his crest resting in its hollow.

Abruptly, the mantle lit up in green flame and Harri looked over, in alarm, at the unexpected sight.
She had been the only one, apparently, to be caught off guard as the others seemed nonchalant,
entirely unaffected. The faintest traces of amusement flickered to life in their bond, and Harri
glared at him, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the fireplace. Desperately, she tried to distract herself
from kicking him under the table by pinching the softness of her upper arms, the pain welcomed
and sufficient enough to consume her attention.

Stepping forth from the dazzling display were two goblins, hooked-nosed and with teardrops of
onyx for eyes, beady and unnerving to look at. They bowed to the man on the throne, the ever so
slightest dip of their heads, and, much to her surprise, Voldemort returned the gesture. The entire
exchange unsettled her more than she would like to admit, startled by his respect towards them, his
modest show deference. ‘Since when does he bow his head?’ Knowing who he was, the little
regard he held for those below him, how quick he was to lord over his underlings— Harri decided
that humility wasn’t his strongest virtue nor did it suit him. And, for some strange reason, it made
her feel uncomfortable, disturbed, guarded, and wary towards the pair that had stepped forth from
the flames, something about them earning what the Dark Lord 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, and this is Fargor, certified
in notaries and official documents,” the slightly taller of the two had stepped forward, his hair tufts
of white on a balding head and face more lined than his partner’s.

Harri considered them in morbid curiosity. Her knowledge of, and past interactions, with goblins
had been limited solely to the bank. Truthfully, she had always found them confrontational, curt, as
though dealing with wizards was a chore that they deigned to be a necessity and not a pleasure.
And, of course, only a fool would try to deny that they weren’t in complete control of their
economy. Goblins were known to mint their currency, as well as most metal objects that wizards
took enjoyment in, and they could very easily tank their entire society if they so wished. But the
respect the pair was showing the Dark Lord threw her for a loop, had upset her previous
impressions of the race. Were they all like this if you had enough money to flaunt? Or was the man
by her side just that powerful, frightening, that even goblins, beings who were neutral in their
world’s politics, felt it wise to show him some version of reverence?

Either way, she decided that they disturbed her. Their teeth were too pointed, too sharp, their eyes
glinting in a cunning way, an air about them that they were always scheming. And she thought
back to her charms professor, dear and kind Flitwick, how he was nothing like the two standing at
Lord Voldemort’s side. ‘Thank Merlin for that small mercy.’

“And this is the girl in question, I am assuming?”

Harri was brought back to the present and out of her thoughts as the one with a gold pocket watch,
Fargor, leered at her. She supposed he was attempting to smile, to be amicable, but the mouth of
sharpened teeth made it unfriendly, inhospitable, foreboding.

Green eyes drifted over helplessly to Voldemort, inwardly cursing herself for the fact that she had
looked towards him for an answer, for guidance. But, as usual, she had been kept in the dark,
unsure, stumbling around blindly until someone finally took pity on her and nudged her in the right
direction. The image of a marionette with cut strings came to mind and, along with it, a surge of
animosity.

“It is,” he stated casually, watching her rigid form in his periphery, at how startled she was to
suddenly be addressed.

A smirk crossed his features as he indicated for the goblin holding the roll of parchment to unfurl
it, the long strip placed across from her. He could feel the tension rising in her, entirely all too
pleased that she was imploring him to tell her what to do, clinging to his presence for counsel, for
instructions.

“Excellent. All we need is a bit of her blood to begin,” Alnott explained as an ornate knife, gold-
handled and inlaid with rubies, materialised in his gnarled hands.

Harri stared at the blade, curved and ending in a rather malicious looking point, the light in the
room catching the metal with an ominous glint. She couldn’t help herself from paling at the words,
flashes of Wormtail forcefully carving into her arm, at how long it took for the flayed skin, jagged
from a serrated blade, to finally stop its hemorrhaging, its weeping. Even now, she could still feel
the phantom of it pressed into her skin, a zealous cut while she had been gagged and bound
—‘Blood of the enemy forcibly taken’. The unbidden memories made her feel ill, dismayed,
alarmed.

While she may not be the most competent witch, one who spent her days burrowed in books like
Hermione, she knew well enough that anything regarding blood was dangerous, binding--
especially when two goblin officials were demanding it from her. Alarm bells went off in her mind,
the voice cautioning her against acquiescing to them sounding an awful lot like her best friend’s.

“No,” she stated plainly in her refusal, eyeing the knife in distrust, in apprehension.

It made her queasy, her heart to quicken its tempo, for it to lurch uncomfortably in her chest.
Voldemort hadn’t even given her a reason for being here yet and now he wanted her to give up her
blood without a second thought? Harri couldn’t even begin to fathom a single reason, not even one
justification, as to why that might be a good idea on her end. After all, she had already been forced
to sign away her name to him, her properties, things that were, by right of inheritance, solely hers--
what more did he need and how much more would he require until he was satisfied?

“No?” he echoed in confusion, turning in his throne slightly to stare at her in incredulity, the hand
that was propping up his chin falling away in his disbelief.

Voldemort watched the girl at his side in a gauging manner, as though trying to understand if he
had heard her correctly. But upon seeing the determination in her eyes, the outrage dancing in
them, he considered that he had. His teeth ground against one another in cracking pressure, his
fingers twitching for the wand strapped to his forearm, an instinctual reaction to be told ‘no’, being
denied his requests. Once again, it appeared that Harri Potter was spitting on the face of his mercy,
his kindness, being outwardly willful even in front of their company and his followers.

“I’m not giving you my blood, you can’t make me,” she protested adamantly, watching in relief as
the goblin set the knife down onto the table in uncertainty, blinking its beady eyes in shock at her
vehement denial.

“Harri,” Voldemort warned softly in the wake of her rising voice, at her unwillingness to comply,
the fear and anger leaking through their bond.

Crimson eyes narrowed a fraction, his fingers drumming against the wood as he tried to remind
himself of patience, of Snape’s assessment that, if pushed too hard in one direction, she would rebel
in the other. But compromising was never his strongest quality, even as a child, and he found
himself rather disinclined to do so. ‘Always fighting and scratching, even when it brings nothing
but trouble,’ he thought idly, scowling at her antics.

The tension in the room became a weighty thing as emeralds met rubies, a battle of wills to see
who would win out in the end, neither wanting to bend to the other. It was as though the available
oxygen was being consumed rapidly, the crackling of his magic electrifying the space and causing
the panes of glass to rattle ever so slightly in their frames. And though she tried to rise to the
challenge, to push her own outwards, she found herself unable to, a physical pain that made her
wince in her attempts. It would appear that her little elemental stunt had drained her more than she
would be comfortable admitting, a fissure in her core that only served to widen the gap in their
abilities, in their dynamic.

The Dark Lord grappled for reason, for mercy, for leniency upon seeing her flinch, knowing that
she was in undeniable pain. Though that didn’t stop the inward vindictiveness at the sight, part of
him cruelly wishing to gloat that that is exactly what happens when you overexert yourself, when
you act childish, and give in to a tantrum spurred on by anger. Instead, he exhaled shakily, an
unstable thing that relayed his waning tolerance, “It is just a little blood, Harri. You can surely
spare some.”

“No!” she pushed her chair out from the table, a screech of wood against marble, her hands landing
forcefully on the parchment in front of her, shoving it away and towards him. His audacity, his
gall, for not taking her denial as the final answer inspired her temper, made her fingers curl inwards
and the ache in her gums to flare.

Last time it had been just ‘a little blood’ that was taken from her, it was used in a ritual to
reanimate him, to bring a monster back from the void, from death. In fact, it was the entire reason
she was in this mess in the first place, the very cause of her misery and why she was confined to
Malfoy Manor rather than being at Hogwarts. And she would be damned if she was forced to
comply again, especially since she wasn’t even aware of his intentions, his goals. Her gaze burned
as she glared down at him, shoulders in a strained taut line, her pulse a punishing rhythm in her
veins, in her ears. Even though she was acutely aware of everyone’s stare on her, their flickering
fear as they watched the standoff between her and the Dark Lord in uncertainty, she found herself
not quite caring. ‘Let him be embarrassed by my scene,’ she thought resentfully, ‘he deserves it.’

"Once again, you are acting like a child,” he hissed out, seething at her continued rebellion, at this
exhausting game of pushing and pulling.

The patience in him was slipping through his grasp, grains of sand falling between the empty
spaces of his fingers, smoke vanishing into thin air. And try as he did to summon forth some more,
to extend the already vast sea of it when it came to his horcrux, he found himself rather unable to.

He scowled at her continuing show of defiance, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth at her. A
sliver of him wondered if even following Snape’s advice was the correct thing to do--he had given
her space for the past 4 days, had granted her the autonomy like he was counseled to do. Yet she
was still acting out. And the Dark Lord was becoming all too painfully aware of what this must
look like to his followers, to the goblins. Here he was, allowing this public display of
insubordination, a teenaged girl with glowing eyes denying him what was, by all rights, a simple
request. But he refused to rise to the bait, to relinquish his spot, to stand up out of the throne in his
anger, to cede his power of the situation over to her and to submit to her spiteful will.

“Sit. Down,” his tone had dropped to an octave lower, cold and hostile.

A crook of his finger and the chair she had pushed out aggressively slid back into place, slamming
into the backs of her knees and forcing them to give out. It locked her in, expelling the air from her
lungs as her torso was pressed, unyieldingly, into the table’s edge. The sympathy he had harboured
for her earlier, for the fatigue and exhaustion she had brought upon herself, fizzled out like a
campfire exposed to a torrential downpour.

Her eyes widened for a second, dazed as she comprehended what had happened in a blur, at the fact
that the elaborately carved chair was refusing to relent, to let her leave. And then suddenly his hand
shot out, constricting around hers and roughly wrenching it towards himself. There was a strength
in his hold that made her flinch, the delicate thin bones being crushed under the pressure, the ugly
purple ring at her wrists undoubtedly about to have another companion. There was no kindness, no
light, no buoyancy in this touch and it made her squirm, to struggle, to try to pull herself free as his
empty one reached for the knife.

Voldemort eyed her frigidly, hellish eyes dancing with ire, as he pressed the cutting edge of the
blade unyieldingly into her soft palm. A sharp hiss tore from her as he dragged it along the length
of her lifeline, tears springing to her eyes as she clenched them shut, head-turning resolutely away
from him. He knew she was upset, held resentment towards him, could feel it coursing through his
very soul, through their connection. An acidity in his mouth, a sourness on the back of his tongue.
But she would see-- her opinions would change soon enough once she realised what he was doing
this for.

Refusing to allow his gaze to move away from her trembling form, he took note of the wince as his
fingers maneuvered hers into a fist, a tightening squeeze. Several drops of scarlet, dark and
glistening, fell onto the parchment before her, blooming greedily across the ivory scroll before
suddenly vanishing. Voldemort released his hold on her, returning the bloodied knife to the goblin
as the paper started to flicker, to glow and crackle in its animation.

Harri opened an eye in reluctance at the rustling down the table, those seated abruptly jostling
forwards in an attempt to get a better look, easier access, their necks craning. And then she saw
why. Before her, written in her own blood, her very own essence, was the formation of an elegant
scrawl rippling across the otherwise blank scroll. A crest, the head of a knight surrounded by blue
roses, appeared by one name that had emerged--House of Peverell: Iolanthe.

A frown tugged at her rosebud mouth as she glanced uneasily towards Voldemort. There was a
smug expression on his aristocratic features, an arched eyebrow and a tilt of his chin for her to
keep watching. House of Potter: Euphemia was the next to materialise, two stags rearing as a coat
of arms. And then-- she felt sick, beyond ill, the world slowing down as her heart nearly stuttered
to a stop.

House of Black: Dorea, three ravens under the name staring up at her mockingly, and she was
unable to keep her lips from parting in shock. She had already figured out what the parchment was
doing, what its purpose was-- to identify her magical bloodline. It was obvious when Potter had
appeared, Peverell being the only one she was unfamiliar with. As for the specific names, Harri
was entirely unaware of who they actually were--perhaps her most recent female ancestors of that
line?

But to see the Black family name? Harri blinked once, then twice, glancing towards the Dark Lord
in pleading, in search of any sign that he was just as confused, as utterly bewildered as she was.
Perhaps, even, a hope that the test had been faulty. However, the triumphant glint in his eyes, the
smirk pulling one corner higher than the other, his relaxed and victorious posture. ‘He already
knew.’ No small part of her, a biting grudge, felt disgusted, upset, that this was just yet another
thing that he had purposefully kept from her. Who knows what else she was missing? Was
completely unaware of? And while she was relieved that her blood hadn’t been used for anything
too nefarious, the information it revealed was equally damning.

Harri couldn’t help herself from letting her attention drift down to the equally surprised face of
Narcissa, knowing it must have been news to her. Yet, for some reason, the idea of having the
kind-hearted woman as part of her family felt oddly reassuring. That, perhaps, it wouldn’t be all
that terrible to be related to the Black family--even if they were notoriously unstable and infamous
users of dark magic, ever so faithful to the Dark Lord.
And then, unbidden, Sirius’s words came back to her regarding how much he had hated the lot of
his family. His mother’s extensive sadism. His brother lost in service to Lord Voldemort,
apparently a maniac exalted by his parents. How he had run away to the Potter’s after his father
beat him close to death, his name burnt from the family tree and labeled as a ‘blood traitor’ for
doing such. Cruelty and insanity. It was nauseating to know that was her lineage, her ancestry. And
speaking of unsound mind— it would also mean that a certain infuriating witch was related to her
as well.

Seated beside the Malfoy woman, dark where her sister was fair, was Bellatrix Lestrange, an
assessing gleam in her eyes and a cheshire grin plastered across her face. She was leaning forward
on the table, her elbows propping herself up, a look of hunger, of greed, of sadistic delight,
colouring her expression. Those wine red lips parted to reveal a row of perfectly shaped teeth, ones
that looked ready to tear into Harri the second they had the chance to do so.

"Welcome to the family, Harrikins,” she had nearly purred, crooning out in an off-tune way as she
devoured the witch further down the table, her arm stained with bloodied ink.

This was the sanest Harri had ever seen her. No mad cackle to follow the words, no unstable burst
of anger--instead, there was something far worse in the depths of those coal eyes. She felt faint,
uneased, disturbed. Like her entire life had been a lie, a facade that was finally crumbling down
around her without having anything left to prop it up. A curse green gaze fixated obsessively on the
name Dorea Black, the blood welling up along her lifeline ignored as it steadily dripped down onto
the floor in thick scarlet tears.

Just who exactly was Harri Potter?

 Lineages
Chapter 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. I am starting to go through previous chapters and giving this fic a facelift if you
will! So if you see the chapter numbers change-- don't worry. I'm just consolidating
and editing through the previous ones but nothing major to the story will be changed.

3. 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 and the parents of James Potter
though.

4. 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!! Once again, you have my thanks and undying love, you
beautiful angel

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 I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well!

Dorea Black-- the name felt foreign on her tongue, unfamiliar, one that wouldn’t register in her
mind no matter how hard she had tried. ‘Who was she?’ the line of thought was insistent, begging
to know an ancestor that she had been entirely unaware of. Though, truth be told, Harri was
ignorant of most of her lineage, of her potential relatives. Petunia had never really let too much
information slip by, guarded secrets contained behind thin coral lips, and apparently even found it
unnecessary to inform her niece of the names of her deceased parents. Nevermind those of her
grandparents, her cousins, her muggle family. For most of her life, Harri had been known as
‘Freak’ or ‘Girl’, hidden under the stairs in a broom closet and locked inside whenever she became
too curious. And even though she knew, logistically, that she had to have come from somewhere,
that she hadn’t appeared out of thin air on the Dursley’s front doorstep, the secrecy had been
enough to make her consider that she had.

Well, that was until her 11th birthday had arrived. That stormy July night had symbolized her
rebirth in more ways than one as Hagrid bestowed onto her an ancient familial name— ‘Potter’.
But, even more importantly, he had given her those of her parents as well. And that had been
enough, to fill in the gaping hole of her longing, to sate her yearning. Just knowing that she once
had parents, that she wasn’t so much of an abomination to have popped into existence one fateful
day. Harri had been satisfied with that gift, clinging dearly to the two words that had become her
entire world in the course of a single evening-- ‘Lily’ and ‘James’.

But now, staring down at the parchment and seeing what was written before her in blood, dried and
flaking to the deep colour of wine, she felt discomposed. ‘Iolanthe’, ‘Euphemia’, ‘Dorea’. Three
little names that incited sparks in her, an offsetting disquiet to her center. It was one of hunger, the
aching kind that caused an insatiable itch to flourish, one that made her skin feel too constricting,
too tight, her heart threatening to rupture and burst. A holy revelation. There had been more to her
heritage than just her parents— ghosts of the past that lived on through every fiber, every nerve,
every crevice, bone, and marrow in her body. Suddenly, she was no longer just the girl under the
stairs, the freak, the orphan— she was made up of so many more people, a family that she craved
to know.

Green eyes refused to budge from the slanted scrawl, trying to understand, to piece it all together. It
was disconcerting and the longer she stared, the more her head began to swim with too many
thoughts. Dumbledore had been so certain that she had no magical living family left, that her
muggle relatives were the only ones that could have a claim to her flesh. But this parchment? It
was telling an entirely different story, one that contradicted what she had been told— everything
that she had based her entire world, her existence, her truths, around.

A symphony of chairs being pushed out, soft grinding noises as wooden feet scraped along the
floor, mumbled out acknowledgments of their dismissal. However, none of it mattered as a shaking
finger, the cut across her palm lethargically dripping in greedy blooms, trailed across the crests in
reverence. Somehow, seeing an insignia next to their names lended them an official air, an
irrefutable union, an unshakeable kinship. And they were, by way of pedigree, her own as well.

Sudden warmth surrounded the weeping hand, a cradle of long fingers, and she blinked as her
reverie was broken. Voldemort was dragging his thumb along her lifeline, a smear of gore as bright
as his own eyes, the action almost tender in nature, an insistent pressure on the softness of her
palm. Harri tracked the motion, the idle swipes, uncertain as to how to interpret it— there had been
no buoyancy, no pull of light in the wake of their contact but, oddly enough, it wasn’t exactly
unpleasant either. It just felt strange.

And then heat warmed her skin, radiating from the center outwards in a slight prickle that made her
nerves dance as magic was willed into the curved line. The girl watched in a daze as the skin
knitted back together, the smoothness suddenly unblemished, unmarred. Graceful fingers lingered
for a second, as though not quite wanting to relinquish its grip, the slightest twitch of them a silent
plea for her to indulge him. A heartbeat, then two, before, with reluctance, the soothing hold
dropped away.

“Barty, Bella. I am sending you both into Diagon Alley. There have been reports of alarming
whispers, nasty little rumours that I want eradicated. Track down their source,” he commanded
evenly, attention fixated on the mystified girl at his side.

Confusion flickered across her face in a telling sign of knitted brows as the Death Eaters, stained
with blackened blood, bowed in her periphery. Harri tracked as her guard had trailed faithfully from
the room without even so much as a blink. Bellatrix, however, remained rooted in place for a
moment, her mouth opening as though she had something she wanted to say, to protest. But, in the
face of the lengthening silence, her jaw clicked shut before finally ceding to his orders, a look of
bitterness and spite thrown towards the redheaded girl.

Harri flexed her hand as a distraction, noting in mild relief that there had been no lingering pain, no
soreness, or throbbing. If Barty was to be gone for the day, then would that mean she was free?
That she could roam around without being watched for once? As much as she may have disliked
the man, she did find his company to be more tolerable than Voldemort’s other followers— and
there was a nagging sense of guilt, deep down, that he had been punished for her own temper.

Sparing a nervous glance over to the Dark Lord, a king in his throne, a look of unsettling
contemplation lit up glowing eyes as he considered her. A beat of silence, of momentary hush and
stillness, before he abruptly rose, the rustling sound of his robes shifting magnified in the quiet
chamber. A tilt of his head, an indication for her to follow. ‘Guess not,’ was a sullen thought as she
pushed the chair out from the table to reluctantly accompany him.

The pair was walking down an empty corridor, his strides, she had guessed, purposefully shortened
for her benefit but a difficulty to match nonetheless. Harri’s mind was a whirl of sickening speeds,
a tempestuous gale, thoughts circling endlessly around each other, and thriving in the lull of
conversation. What did it mean that she was a Black now? Why had he done it? What was he
referring to when he said there were rumours in Diagon Alley? And why did he have to send two of
his Death Eaters to find out? It made her head pound, for any shred of coherent comprehension to
slip away, her tongue uncomfortably heavy as she paused in her steps. Her attention became fixated
on the spot between his shoulder blades, a distant thought wondering if he had always been this
imposing, his back always this broad, his frame always this towering.

“Who’s Dorea?” Harri had finally blurted out, the runaway track of her thoughts seeming to settle
on the name, on the vivid crest of the ravens that had emerged in the wine-hued ink.

Voldemort paused when she did, the vaulted halls a touch too quiet without the echoing clicks of
their footsteps. He spared a glance over his shoulder at the taut lines of her body, a heart-shaped
face pleading but with the strangest guarded look in emerald eyes. It would appear that she was
already setting herself up for disappointment, for being denied an answer to such a simple inquiry
— a smirk thrived of its own free will. He had been waiting, after all, for her to simply ask, to
question, to turn to him for enlightenment. More so than anyone, he could understand what it was
like to grow up around Dumbledore, could relate to her being dismissed at every turn, to be denied
time and time again. After all, half-baked truths and honeyed lies did very little to sate the appetite
of curiosity, growing pains that he had to work through by himself, answers that he had to fight
tooth and nail to uncover. But not her. No, he was more than willing to spare her that misery, that
struggle, as long as she willingly turned to him. And if honesty was what would draw his horcrux
to him in the end, to keep her by his side, then he wasn’t above granting her it.

“Your great-great-grandmother on your father’s side, 4 generations removed from you. She was
the aunt of Cygnus, Alphard, and Walburga Black, as well as the great-aunt to Regulus, Bellatrix,
Narcissa, and yes, even Sirius, Black, ” he responded indifferently, contentment a weighty thing in
his chest as he resumed his footsteps, the hurried ones of hers falling into line as sweet as birdsong
in his ears.

A frown flitted across her expression at the admittance, at the information, her legs working
double-time to keep up with his pace. ‘Sirius is my cousin,’ a distant thought, a sharp throb in her
head as she tried to understand by how much and how far removed he was from her in terms of
blood. Voldemort was leading them to the study, she quickly realised, as they rounded the corner
with a two-tiered bubbling fountain tucked into an ivory alcove. Why someone felt it was crucial to
have a garden fixture inside was beyond her understanding, but at least it provided a distinct
enough landmark to indicate where the East wing began— the side to the villa that no one else
dared to encroach upon. The redhead trailed after him in a rushed manner as he began to ascend
the staircase, wide and made of mahogany, severe in its grandness and austerity.
In her distracted introspection, images of the Black family tree floated to the forefront of her mind.
A muted tapestry covering the expanse of a wall, splotches burned and frayed away, specific
names blackened in fits of rage. Yet, so clearly could she visualize Dorea Black on the tree, the
name ‘Charlus Potter’ an added on hyphen to her solemn portrait. But the more she thought back to
it, the more ascertained she was that there hadn’t been a branch below her, no indication of a
progeny, a result of their coupling.

“That’s impossible though,” she muttered more so to herself, a toe clipping the tread of a stair in
her absentminded daze.

The world around her abruptly tilted forwards, a blur, her stomach dropping in instinctive panic at
losing her balance- and then a firm hand was at her shoulder, steadying and firmly uprighting her.
Harri winced sheepishly under the sharp reprimand in his gaze, a look of stern exasperation, the
single arched brow above questioning scarlet eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ a mortified thought as he finally
withdrew his hold, horrified at the fact that she had stumbled in front of Voldemort of all people,
that Fate felt it was appropriate to humiliate her just a touch further. And part of her wanted to
retort that she knew how to walk, that she was normally quite graceful, his expression one that
accused her of lacking such an inherently basic skill. Instead, however, she swallowed it down, not
wanting to dwell on the embarrassment or to invite scathing scrutiny as he waved the doors to the
office open.

“Dorea never had a child. It wasn’t on the tapestry,” Harri finally finished her original sentence,
faintly registering as the mantle lit up in warming flames and the drapes pushed themselves open.

The Dark Lord rounded on his desk, hovering over it as he shuffled through the papers in an
attempt to look busy, to hide the excitement he felt in having information to hold over her.
Choosing to drag out the anticipation, he hadn’t responded right away, scanning critically the
running letterhead of a report, and deciding only to humour her when the flickers of her irritation
appeared on the boundaries of their connection. In pensive absorption, he shrugged off the black
outer robes, the material floating of its own accord to hang on the three-pronged coat rack by the
fireplace.

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Harri,” try as he did to stop from gloating, it had coloured
his voice anyways, “She did have a son— Henry Potter.”

He took the plush office chair, sinking down into it and watching her bewildered expression, her
parted mouth, the undeniable confusion. Some part of himself was starting to recognise a forming
habit, a new vice of his, that seemed to particularly relish that specific look on her. After all, the
girl did wear confusion almost as beautifully as she wore her anger, as enticingly as fear, as
alluringly as despair. Crossing one long leg over another, deft fingers interlaced as elbows propped
themselves up on the oak table. A self-satisfaction, a cat who got his cream smile, flourished as the
Dark Lord watched the minute movements, the traces, on her face as she processed the reveal.

“Also, what’s this about a ‘tapestry’? So you mean to tell me that you have been to Grimmauld
Place before, despite its supposed abandonment?” a slight chuckle escaped him at her look of
unease, the one of an ill-behaved child being caught amidst a lie, her hand in the proverbial sweets
cupboard despite being told to stay out of it.

Of course, he had already guessed that she had been there before, figured that Sirius Black had
taken her to its halls countless times—her puzzlement in the art gallery when he had confessed the
official vacancy of the property confirming all suspicions. But still, he wasn’t above goading her,
provoking her, taunting her, assuring her that nothing would remain hidden from him for long.
Especially so not when she gave such appealing, such engaging, reactions. Her rigid stance, the
darting eyes, her mouth being absentmindedly bit in her shame, the culpability as clear as day to
him in her body language.

“She had hidden him, of course, from the knowledge outside of her immediate household, going as
far as to refusing to add his blood to the Black family tree,” he pressed onwards, crimson stare
lingering just a second too long on the teeth sinking into the plushness of the bottom lip, the pull of
it into her mouth. The Dark Lord forced himself to look away, directing his attention downwards to
the report in his hands, a valiant attempt to deflect the beginning pulls of toxicity, the unrelenting
want, rising in his chest.

If she hadn’t been before, Harri was, undoubtedly and irrefutably, perplexed at this point. Seeing
Voldemort busy himself with sorting letters, assuming that she was meant to stay in the office with
him for the time being, the girl drifted over to a shelf to study some of its trinkets. There was an
hourglass, held aloft by intertwining snakes with vivid green scales, and she let her fingers skim
across the coolness of the glass. Some grains of the gold sand clung statically to the sides and she
flicked the thin walls to loosen them, tracking their path as they fell through the funnel. It was a
puzzling notion, a mother concealing her son from his own family— one that she couldn’t even
comprehend. After all, she personally would have given anything, sacrificed her own limbs if need
be, to understand her ancestry, her bloodline, to know her true family. But if the boy had never
appeared on the Black heritage wall, then it would make sense, she supposed, as to why Narcissa
had been equally as shocked upon seeing the scroll.

“Why did she hide him?” she ventured to ask, the whispers of shuffling papers in the background
stilling, the heavy weight of scrutiny settling over her shoulders, her back, a look that made her feel
transparent and thin.

“I have my theories. Did you know that I went to school with her? Along with her nephews and
nieces? Of course, she was already entering her 7th year by the time I had arrived,” he mused,
entirely too off-handed, too composed, too nonchalant, a quill twirling lazily between his fingers.

Harri wasn’t quite sure as to why she had expected a laugh to follow, an indication it was a joke, a
giving tell that he was trying to jest with her. But when nothing came, she whirled around in wide-
eyed alarm, attempting to fathom how that was even possible. After all, he looked so young—it
was jarring, entirely disconcerting when she realised that she had forgotten he was immortal,
somehow that fundamental truth of his being pushed into the furthest reaches of her mind. ‘And so
are you,’ a small voice nagged, stomach lurching as she strived to banish it, suppress it. Now
wasn’t the time, nor the place, to deal with the newly found issue of never aging, never dying,
forever tied to the earth as long as the horcrux in her was unharmed. ‘One thing at a time.’

“Sweet Merlin, how old are you?” she managed to choke out, even now finding it hard to connect
the pieces when he appeared so youthful, so untouched and unravaged by the passing decades.
And though she knew that, logically, wizards enjoyed far longer lives than their muggle
counterparts, having someone almost as old as her great-great-grandmother sitting before her,
looking not even a day over his early twenties—and even that was a generous estimation on her
end— was beyond baffling.

Voldemort was unsure whether he should be offended by her question, her disbelief, or amused that
she was so thrown out of her element, the concept of an everlasting life still eluding her. He placed
the black plume down, the slightest shake of his head as he leaned back, idle fingers deftly undoing
the cuffs of his collared shirt and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. ‘No awareness of social
boundaries,’ a flash of a thought, one that made him scoff at her lack of awareness that asking
someone’s age would be considered, by most polite company, an offending slight. It would seem
that Narcissa’s etiquette lessons weren’t progressing along as quickly as he would have preferred.
“Even by wizarding standards, inquiring about someone’s age is quite rude, Harri. But, to answer
your question, I was born in 1926. I trust that you can do the math,” his eyes narrowed a fraction at
seeing her waned face, the paleness and barely-concealed look of horror as she processed the
numbers, “As for my theories on Dorea’s decision, I imagine she hid her son due to her family’s
connections.”

The Dark Lord shifted and uncrossed his legs, an introspective light in scarlet eyes as he watched
the twisting flames in the mantle, memories of the distant past coming back to him, “Walburga and
Alphard were in my inner circle during my time at Hogwarts, ready to take the mark when I started
to band together the Death Eaters upon graduation. I suspect that Dorea had acted upon a motherly
concern, worried that her son might be influenced by his cousins into joining my ranks.”

A wry smirk, a dry scoff as his attention drifted over to his rapt horcrux, a knowing glint in his
gaze and a musing tone, “That or she was all too aware of her family’s predisposition towards the
concept of blood-traitors. While she may have married into another pureblood family, the Potters
were quite known for their acceptance of muggle-borns and muggles alike. Walburga was
especially quite enthusiastic about purity and respectability. Having a child with a man that
regularly interacted with those considered lesser would have been enough to inspire a degree of
hatred towards her son.”

And despite the horrifying notion of it all— 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 away her
son just because his father was close to a few— Harri couldn’t stop the swell of pride. She had just
learned that the Potters were quite tolerant and accepting, straying from the typical pureblood
morality. That’s what she wanted to consider as her legacy. Not cruelty and bigotry, savagery and
insanity.

But there was still something nagging at her, a piece of the puzzle missing that she couldn’t quite
figure out, a disturbing little detail that remained unaddressed.

“You said she had hidden her son and therefore he wasn’t on the family tapestry,” Harri started
slowly, frowning as she began to pace the room, mind turning over rapidly in her thoughts. A sense
of deja vu overcame her, far-off memories of being dressed only in her pjs as he obsessively
tracked her movements, a predatory expression much like the one he currently wore.

She tried her best to ignore it, to stay focussed, her attention drifting up from tracing patterns in the
wood grain of the floor to fix him in an even stare, “But when Dorea’s name appeared on the
scroll, you didn’t look the least bit surprised. In fact, you looked as though you had already
guessed it. How?”

The smirk widened into a leer, an unreadable look in hellish eyes, his body leaning closer as though
he were about to tell her a secret, to let her in on the world’s greatest truth, “You look remarkably
quite a bit like Bellatrix when she was younger, Harri. It wasn’t difficult to guess that there was
some relation.”

Disgust pinched her features as she reeled back, offense clear in her posture and rosy lips parted in
shock, in vehement protest. He cut her off before she could deny it, teeth gleaming and mirth
lightening the scarlet gaze by a few shades, “Of course, there are some key differences,
particularly around your eyes and mouth. Bellatrix has a sharpness in her jaw that you lack and the
nose is entirely your mother’s. And then there’s the matter of the softness in your chin that makes
it less pointed than hers— did you know that you are missing the cleft that’s signature to the Black
family? Bella’s cheekbones are also angled a touch higher than yours are. But if you had darker
hair, I might have considered you a closer relation than just a distant cousin.”
It was a startling notion to come to that she and Bellatrix Lestrange looked even remotely alike—
that he was so freely comparing the two witches without any regard to the fact that they were polar
opposites, as contrasting as night and day. He was treating them as though they were mere
installations in an art exhibit that invited open critique, privy to be dissected and picked apart at his
leisure. And being under that perusal made her squirm, made her want to hide away from such
prying observations, to seek refuge from being forced on display. Her eyes narrowed in the wake of
his words, arms crossing firmly over her chest and a finger tapping in an unsettled rhythm against
the crook of her elbow. It would have been fine if he had just said they looked alike and left it at
that— but no, he had to point out key differences between them, an indication that he had spent
more time watching her, looking at her, than she would have liked.

“Seems like you’ve spent quite some time comparing Bellatrix and I. Just a tad stalkerish, wouldn’t
you say?” she couldn’t help the retort, an automatic defense whenever she found herself in a
situation that set her on edge, her tongue turning silver.

Voldemort hummed in response, attention fixated on the nervous tick of her drumming fingers.
‘She truly doesn’t like attention, does she?’ And yet, even though he was aware of it, of her
disinclination towards the spotlight, he found himself unable to resist the urge to goad her, to elicit
any further reactions. After all, it was a rare chance indeed when they were able to be civil towards
one another, to banter without chaos and destruction.

“I am a man, Harri. And, like all men, I tend to admire beauty— especially that found in women,”
a delighted satisfaction coursed through him in seeing her choke, the blatant shock and surprise at
his confession.

Harri regarded the Dark Lord with affront skepticism as he spared her one last smirk, a smug glint
in his gaze before he turned back to his writing. A hand drifted up to firmly pinch the sensitive skin
of her underarms, trying to determine if this was an odd dream, something that her mind had
conjured up to torture her or— no, it was decidedly real. The slight pain had confirmed it. The
Dark Lord, in the most round-about way possible, had just referred to her as beautiful. And wasn’t
that just the most ironic thing considering he, himself, looked like a descendant of the gods, a
seraphic being not destined for the mortal plane. ‘Could this bloody day get any weirder?’ she
thought in vain, trying to regain her composure, to fight down the threats of an embarrassed blush.

The witch whirled on her heels, trying not to show how much his casual assessment had affected
her, a startling theme over the past few days that she was becoming all too acutely aware of. ‘First
Draco and now him.’ Apparently, it was a hot topic to discuss her appearance and only the heavens
knew how much she hated it, despised it. The rough scratch of the nib of a quill against parchment,
the crackling of the fireplace, were her companions as she drifted about the perimeter of the study,
trying to distract herself, to find a semblance of calm. ‘He seems to be in a good mood,’ was an idle
assessment, a contemplative frown as she ran her tongue over aching gums. For whatever reason,
the Dark Lord was being amicable, hospitable, friendly even towards her, the usual bite of his
explosive temper nowhere to be found. It was almost off-putting, daunting, a new tentative grey
area that was treacherous to maneuver— but one that also invited opportunity.

Harri considered that now was as good of a time as any to pry, to try to make him see reason, to
perhaps earn a bit of freedom.

“It’s the first day back at Hogwarts,” she muttered hesitantly, gaze flickering to his bowed over
form before landing back to the golden globe she had been spinning in a distracted manner.

An inward curse when all the response she had gotten was a soft hum, the Dark Lord apparently
not seeing fit to deign her with a fully formulated answer.
“Everyone is returning, including Draco,” Harri tried again, grappling for the right words, to find a
way to get him to understand her, to see from her perspective without having him dismiss it as the
passing whims of a teenager.

“Do not think I do not know what you are doing, Harri,” Voldemort mused, dipping the quill back
into the inkpot while he scanned the missive he had written, gaze resolutely not lifting up to her,
“Draco has a purpose at Hogwarts. You, however, do not.”

And there it was. Him trying to shut her down, to make her obey his wishes, to not question his
actions. She ground her teeth in exasperation, trying to stifle her groan of annoyance, of objection.
Of course, he had already guessed where she was trying to go with the conversation— but he had
forgotten who he was dealing with, a girl quite known for her stubbornness and tenacity in getting
what she wanted, in being listened to. And Harri would be damned if she gave up this easily, would
let it go without a fight.

“Oh? And what purpose does Draco have there?” she questioned in her best impression of
nonchalance, trying to mimic the same inflections of his tone whenever he used it on her. And
though it may have been petty, she wanted him to understand how much it irritated her whenever
he sounded so dismissive, to give him a taste of his own medicine.

It was more of an effort than he would like to admit to stifle his scoff at her childish antics, her
goading inquiry, knowing all too well what his horcrux was trying to do. Although it did inspire
some amusement in him, some fondness at her willingness not to back down, her spine, he also
forgot how vexing it could truly be. And he distantly wondered if he had been like this as a
teenager as well— too stubborn for his own good, unrelenting until he had gotten a satisfactory
answer, and his demands were met. ‘Yes, you were,’ a traitorous little voice that he batted away,
suffocating and ignoring it.

“I was not aware that I had to explain every action and decision regarding my followers,” he
commented bitingly, his tone just twinged ever so slightly with a warning as he signed his name in
a flourish, placing the scroll to the side and reaching for another.

And this time, the agitated expel of air, the huff that made her chest rise and fall from its force,
came out entirely of its own accord. ‘Typical,’ she thought with venom, glaring at the crown of his
dark head, his hand still busy writing. Then her attention, quite by accident, had landed on his
exposed forearms. A dangerous plan, the swirls of a reckless idea— entirely too foolish and daring,
completely and utterly Gryffindor in nature.

Harri glanced uneasily down at her own palms, remembering how he had used the light, the
warmth, to make her comply in the past. Recollections flitted in her consciousness of his own
glazed expression, his laboured breathing, how his pupils had dilated ever so slightly in the art
gallery— the compulsion was a two-way street and, as much as he might try to deny it, Voldemort
was not entirely immune to the pull. ‘If he can do it, who’s to say that I can’t?’ a whisper that only
served to encourage, pushing her forwards, rearing for a chance to level the playing field. If this
was how she could get her way, to make him see some sense, then why shouldn’t she give it a go?

On uncertain feet, she cautiously made her way over to the high-backed chair, regarding him as he
didn’t seem too bothered or alarmed by her sudden approach. The heart between the spaces of her
ribs began to pound erratically, a giddiness outweighing the caution, the apprehension. ‘Focus on
the light,’ her mind instructed as she rounded on the desk, attention latched onto the exposed
expanse of the arm resting on the table. A shaky inhale of breath was drawn and held. Harri
considered that this was a terrible idea, that he might become, undoubtedly, upset and angered with
her attempts to manipulate him should she fail. But he did it so often to her and, if it was a side
effect of the horcrux, then why shouldn’t she exploit it? Capitalize on any advantage she could?

A tongue darted out to wet suddenly chapped lips as she drew ever so closer, pausing only when
she stood by his shoulder. Yet, he didn’t seem to really notice nor care that she was behind him, his
gaze trained firmly on the report. ‘Last chance to back down,’ logic urgently shouted, desperately
wanting to make her understand what she was attempting to do, to have her see the bigger picture
and the consequences should he react negatively. Harri resolutely shook her head, a spray of
auburn hair, trying to find her spine of steel—her courage, the flame that always inspired bravery
whenever she needed it most.

Her hand landed hesitantly on his forearm, mildly taken back when the cord of muscle flexed
instantaneously under the feather-light touch. The girl had almost pulled away, spooked by the
sudden jump under marble skin, but forced herself to stay the course for her plan. She briefly
wondered if he could feel the punishing tempo of the pulse in her veins, could sense her
nervousness, her wariness, the reckless abandon through her fingertips. Could he figure out what
she was attempting to do?

It was an odd sight to behold— her hand on him for a change, the delicate bones visible under the
thin skin somehow seeming even smaller, even more fine in comparison to the Dark Lord. ‘Focus,’
swallowing past a too-dry throat, she tried to visualize the feelings of the light, the pull, the syrup.
She considered that’s all he had done whenever he used it on her— just thought about it, willed it
to life. Brows furrowed in concentration, a sense of overriding panic when it hadn’t automatically
appeared, the bond not heeding her call. Had she guessed wrong in his methods? That, perhaps, it
was a spell after all, one that he could do wandlessly, wordlessly? ‘Am I doing it wrong? What
does he-’

Then there it was. The ever so slightest flicker, the weak flame of a candle that was ready to be
extinguished in the face of the slightest breeze. But it was there nonetheless— that’s all that
mattered. Even though it wasn’t as strong as when he called it forth, not as overwhelming, it was
enough to make its presence known. Harri suddenly felt like singing in her victory, to bounce in her
joy, to dance, to revel in the accomplishment. To gloat that he wasn’t the only one to have power
over their connection any longer, that she now had the chance for equal control.

Voldemort willed himself not to move as she had gotten closer, not wishing to startle her into
withdrawing, into running away. The image of a doe ready to flee at the slightest tell of danger
materialised, one inspired by her uncertain steps. It was a curious thing, seeing her be the one to
approach him first, and his mind was turning with possibilities as to why. Then her hand had
landed on his forearm, crimson eyes drifting over to observe those gracefully frail fingers, the
almond shape of bare nails tinged just slightly pink. The contact was warm against his skin, the
lightest brush as though she were unsure of herself. It had been an entirely instinctive reaction, the
tightening of the muscle, and he cursed himself for reacting in such a physical manner — however,
she hadn’t pulled away like he thought she would, hadn’t reared back in her surprise.

The Dark Lord held his breath, the hand in his lap twitching as he felt the lightest strain of their
connection, the faintest pleasure of two fractured souls merging for the briefest of a second. A
smirk unfurled, the urge to laugh in incredulity threatening to override his self-control. ‘The little
minx,’ fond disbelief at her attempts to manipulate him, to control him. And he wasn’t sure
whether to be outraged at her audacity, impressed by her nerve, cynical at how miserably she was
failing, or pleased by her efforts to connect with the horcrux— all four emotions whirled in him as
he obsessively watched those fingers trace over his skin.

“It isn’t fair that everyone else gets to go back and I have to stay here,” she explained after a few
seconds, her concentration focused solely on the failing attempt to make the bond flare to life, to
make it grow and become overwhelming.

However, it was harder than she could have realised, the light seemingly content to remain a dim
glow. Her brows lowered in frustration as the triumph evaporated from her system. No small part
of her just prayed it would be enough, that the buzzing flickers of warmth would be sufficient in
catching him off guard.

At her words, he truly couldn’t help himself from scoffing, from letting loose a breathy chuckle.
‘So that’s her goal.’ The Dark Lord let the girl continue her power trip for a heartbeat longer,
content that she was touching him of her own accord. And then the hand in his lap shot up,
gripping her elbow to yank her forward with an abrupt strength. A surprised yelp as her free hand
pressed firmly into his chest, an attempt to keep herself balanced, to avoid tumbling into his lap.
Something predatory settled as a dense weight in his heart, a darkness that sang for more, a
depraved satisfaction as the arm on the desk shrugged off her touch— it latched firmly onto the
back of her neck, drawing the witch down to him with an unyielding pressure that made her go lax
in the face of an unspoken threat.

“It is best not to mess around with things that you do not quite know how to control yet, Harri,” he
mused in a soft warning, lips moving against the shell of her ear.

With their closeness, their proximity, he could feel the inconsistent drumming of her heart, the
flutters in her pulse, the quiet gasp of a breath. And how glorious it was— a song made solely for
him.

“After all, it would be a shame if you got hurt,” a whisper, a contemplative thought, an
overwhelming urge that he decided to act upon.

His teeth sank into the cartilage of her ear, a firm hold that didn’t quite draw blood but had just
enough pressure to make her thrash in shock. There was something base and primal in him that was
always drawn to the surface in her presence, instincts hard to suppress— though try as he usually
may. But he supposed that she had brought it upon herself for having willingly, knowingly, tried to
coax it out of him, to make him bend to her will. A quick lave of his tongue, a heated pull to soothe
the sting, his fingers twitching minutely around her neck and digging into its softness. There was a
quiet inward hitch in her throat, the breathiness indicating its nature didn’t stem entirely from just
simple surprise. Then Voldemort released her, watching in elation, in delight, as she stumbled back
a few steps with an owlish stare, mouth dropped in shock.

Harri staggered back, mortification flushing her skin as a trembling hand grasped at her ear, trying
to comprehend how terribly her plan had backfired. He was leering at her and, despite the
composure on his face, there was a hellish glow in his eyes that made her ear throb, her heart to
flutter uncomfortably. A sinking feeling, a heavy pit in her stomach, that, somehow, despite being
the one trying to manipulate him, to exert some influence, it was her who had gotten played in the
end.

“You bit me! Why are you always biting me!?” she accused, her voice pitching in indignation,
trying to ignore the phantom sensation of too sharp teeth latched onto her ear, the residual warmth
and heated pull, the lingering ghostly fingers about her neck.

“I warned you, did I not? Do not start things you can not handle,” he shrugged, self-satisfaction
evident in the way the left corner of his mouth slid higher than the right, an eyebrow pointedly
arched as he regarded her appalled expression, the slightly dilated pupils, the blush dusting her
cheeks. It suited her and he decided, in the moment, to add embarrassed arousal to the ongoing list
of his favorite reactions from Harri Potter.
 She floundered for words, for an appropriate response to his taunts, to ground herself and
willfully suppress the heat fanning across her skin. Somehow, him so blatantly throwing her failure
into her face, the complete misfire of her actions, fuelled her forward. At least enough so to make
her try to bury her flustered discomposure under the mask of outrage.

A valiant attempt to move forward, she clung to what had spurred her on in the first place, eyes
flashing as she ground out, “It isn’t fair! What—do you expect me never to finish school?! For
Merlin’s sake, I haven’t even completed the year!”

There was a wry laugh, teeth gleaming as he granted her the small mercy of letting her
embarrassment slide for once by not continuing his barbs. Honestly, her reaction to something as
simple as being nipped on the ear made him wonder what her past experience even was in regards
to physical intimacy. A conversation for a different time— unbidden memories of a sudden spike
of pleasure appearing in their bond, the vile jealousy of wanting to know who she was with, a
cleanly cracked in two mantelpiece. ‘Another day,’ a voice cautioned, burying the possessive envy
before it could ruin the moment, a spite that was to be saved for a separate occasion. Anyhow, he
doubted she would react favourably if he started questioning her right now, demanding to know the
extent of her past relations, to tell him who had dared to touch her in the first place.

And then he was leaning back, fingers interlaced and steepled, regarding her in pensive reflection
and all too glad for a distraction, for a different thread of conversation. It was true that her lack of
education was troubling, something he sought to remedy. After all, it was vital that she knew how
to defend herself amidst his hounds— not that those with a wish to continue living would raise a
hand against her— and there was definitely some appeal in shaping her raw talent, in refining it to
how he saw fit, in making her a formidable force that could stand equal with him. He considered it
would be the greatest revenge on Dumbledore as well, should the meddlesome old man be
watching from the afterlife. To take his ‘golden child’, his ‘Chosen One’, and twist her, form her,
make her lean into the darkness in her core that she was so blatantly ignoring.

“I never said that you would not finish school, Harri,” a snap of his fingers and a book floated out
from the shelf, “Of course, it will be a tad bit 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 that you could
possibly learn at Hogwarts.”

Pale fingers reached for the volume hovering in the air, a look of confusion colouring her
expression at its title: The Basis of Wandless Spell Casting. He was offering her answers, a chance
to learn, something that she thought he would never willingly allow. Harri glanced uneasily
towards him at the revealing of his plan, of his intention to personally teach her. True, he was a
prodigy when it came to magic— even Ollivander had made sure she knew it all those years ago
upon obtaining her first wand; “After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things —
terrible, yes, but great.” And, back then, she hadn’t really understood what the wandmaker had
been referring to, unable to comprehend his meaning.

But oh, how the times have changed. Seeing him so casually bend magic to his will, how readily it
responded to him in even the simplest of commands, how he was practically drenched in it to the
point it was sometimes palpable. Magic loved him, adored him, flourished around him, was his
very essence. Voldemort was, admittedly, in a different league than any other wizard she had ever
met, a being carved and crafted by powers she couldn’t even begin to fathom. And while Harri
understood that being taught by him, the most nefarious Dark Lord of their time, a wizard with
questionable morals and a warped core, should unnerve her, scare her— it didn’t. Instead, the
faintest glimmer of giddiness thrived, a feeling that she didn’t want to examine, to even begin to
understand, what it meant for her or her personality.
“Sit and read,” he tilted his head towards the lounge, reaching once again for the quill in the inkpot
and eager to forget the residual sparks of desire in his system, “Starting Sunday evenings, Severus
will be here for occlumency lessons. As much as I enjoy your company, Harri, your bleed through
in our bond is astronomical, and, frankly, it would be quite helpful not to constantly have a
headache brought on by your unrestrained emotions.”

The redheaded witch blinked once, then twice, trying to comprehend what he was offering, what he
was giving her on a silver platter. It was disconcerting, confusing, perturbing. None of it made any
sense. Why was Voldemort wanting to help her, to better her? Wouldn’t it be easiest to keep her in
the dark, powerless and untrained? After all, what if she turned on him? Used whatever he was
going to show her to overthrow his reign? And the more she reflected on it, the more anxious she
felt, her brows knitting together as she nervously thumbed the tome’s pages.

“Why?” it took all of her courage to ask, part of her torn between wanting to know the answer but
also being afraid of it.

“Consider them gifts, an olive branch, and a show of good faith if you will. I meant it when I said I
would like your cooperation,” Voldemort muttered under his breath, his words carrying
nonetheless as the plume danced along the parchment in his elegant scrawl.

Harri wondered if she was a fool for accepting his message at face value, for some reason
believing in its authenticity— despite having no reason to apart from the fact that he never truly
outright lied to her face. She even wondered if it was wise accepting his help, these so-called
“gifts”, all reason warning her against what he would eventually ask for in exchange. What kind of
recompense would he demand from her? And, most importantly, would it be a price she was
willing to pay? Emerald eyes glanced down at the text in her hands, the leather cover worn from
age, a war of two truths in her mind. Logic and caution versus desire and anticipation.

A sigh, a heavy sound, escaped her as she finally gave in, wandering over to the lounge and settling
herself among the cushions. Truthfully, it wasn’t as though she had much of a choice— who knew
what the future even held for herself, for her friends, under the rule of Lord Voldemort. If he was
willing to mentor her, then she might as well take the afforded opportunity—if not for her sake
than for those she cared for. And it wasn’t even like she would be able to defeat him the way she
was now, with a half-baked and half-formed education. It was a bitter truth that seemed to be
universally acknowledged, Snape himself making her aware of it on multiple occasions. The smell
of dust, of antiquity and knowledge, wafted out from the cracked spine of the book as she opened
the cover.

Much like Harri Potter, there were a few others who would not be returning to Hogwarts later in
the day, never destined to board the Express and find themselves wandering the stone halls until
the start of summer vacation. One of these students in question was none other than Hermione
Granger, a witch whose thirst for knowledge often took the foremost importance in her life. Instead
of being on the train, excited to start her second term’s courses, she, along with the Weasley
children, had found themselves hidden in the Order’s secondary base— a two-story house tucked
somewhere away in the rolling hills of the English countryside and overlooking the coastline.

And though she was perfectly aware as to why it would be unwise, and ill-advised, to return to the
castle, it did very little to lessen the sting at being kept away, at being denied her rights to an
education. Though Remus had assured them that he would personally continue their curriculum, a
form of practical home-schooling, the brown-haired girl still found herself discontent, dissatisfied,
and itching from confinement.
After the attack on Grimmauld, it had been unanimously decided that it was best to shelter in
place for the time being. They had lost Emmeline Vance and Kristopher Dearborn in the
unexpected raid, Sirius and Remus only returning bruised, bloodied, and broken by the miracle of a
house-elf. In spite of her and McGonagall’s combined research on healing magic, the women
reading into the hours before dawn to find a cure, Sirius was still left with a rather nasty limp after
the ordeal. He hadn’t been able to identify the spell his cousin had used on his leg, a crucial
missing detail not quite helping his cause, but it was the common consensus that it had been
undeniably dark— the kind of curse that was meant to permanently maim.

There were very few things in Hermione's life that eluded her, made her feel like an utter
disappointment. But seeing the man shamble about the cottage was one of them. It was a nagging
feeling that she had, somehow, failed him, her best friend’s only family, by being unable to restore
him to his full vigor. And, in her pessimistic opinion, the entire house reeked of failure. Their
biggest accomplishment, their only one in fact so far, was that The Quibbler had been restored into
full swing.

The newspaper was the best way, she figured, that they could fight back for now while they still
lacked the numbers— if they could expose their government’s corruption, Lord Voldemort’s
influence, just a little, then perhaps they could rally more to their cause. Of course, it did nothing in
terms of achieving their main goal of saving Harri but there was only so much one could do
without manpower. And so when the time came that The Quibbler’s box in Diagon Alley needed
to be restocked with the newest issue, Hermione more than readily volunteered herself. Anything to
get out of the stifling environment, to stretch her legs, to find a sense of normalcy in the bustling
crowds, and take her mind off her own failings.

That’s how the girl found herself wandering through the steady throngs of the shopping district that
Monday afternoon. A stack of colorful papers clutched in her arms and chest airy from exposure to
everyone’s carefree joy. Ron had offered to tag along— Hermione frowned slightly, a vague sense
of guilt passing through her upon reflection of the ginger-haired boy’s crumpled expression. She
considered that she might have been a bit too harsh, a bit too abrupt, in her vehement deniance but
she prayed he might understand. After all, there was only so much company she could take and this
was her chance to feel freedom, to have some time alone with her scattered thoughts.

Hermione paused in front of the newspaper stand at the center of the strip, a cardboard box
designated with a sign declaring the copies were free to take. Seeing the old pile nearing its bottom,
however, was enough to chase away the frown with a quirk of a smile. People were reading their
words, their message, and were, perhaps, finally becoming enlightened— that was enough of a win
in of itself even if it was slow progress. Brown eyes drifted down to the headline for this issue, an
extensive coverage of the unjust trial of Bertie Higgs, determination unfurling in her. ‘The pen is
mightier than the sword,’ a firm thought as she placed the new stack atop the old, completely
unaware of two dark gazes watching her from the shadows.
 Lessons
Chapter 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 so excited
to get the next two or so chapters up because I think you'll guys like what I have
planned!

Also, I am consolidating some previous chapters so apologies for the changes in

chapter numbers! I am about half-way done with editing previous ones and am trying
to finish it all by next week.

As always, thank you everyone for continuing to read along and for showing me + this
story such love! You guys are all amazing readers and I feel so lucky to have you this
invested in my first fanfic Thank you for every single comment, kudos, and
bookmark-- you guys make my day!

I hope you all enjoy

Bartemius Crouch often wondered about his luck in life. More specifically, what he could have
possibly done to inspire Fate to use him as its own personal punching bag. True, he had tainted
himself with the darkest of magic, had allied himself against the supposed “light” side, had lied,
deceived, and tricked all in the name of his Lord. But he also did wonders of good during his short
existence— like, for example, helping Harri Potter survive the Triwizard Tournament. Though, it
could be said that it was entirely his fault in the first place that she had been thrown into the
competition—but regardless

He had provided his aid, made sure the girl would get to the maze, had propped her up time and
time again. Out of the two Hogwarts champions, he had placed all of his faith into her underdog
status, taking it upon himself to personally guide and teach the witch. Not to mention, he had
ensured his students would have a semi-decent education— and quite frankly, judging by the old
syllabus he had found in the teacher’s desk, it was a miracle that they even passed their past exams
at all. In fact, Barty considered that, in another life where his calling wasn’t in service to something
far greater than himself, he would have become a permanent fixture among the Hogwarts staff.

Yet, despite all of these deeds that were done out of the kindness of his heart, that should have
rightfully racked up plenty of karmic debt in his favour, he found himself here— in Diagon Alley
and being saddled with Bellatrix Lestrange. It wasn’t as though he despised the woman, oh no. He
most certainly held some respect for her as a witch, as a dueller, and as a confidant to the Dark
Lord. But her personality left many things to be desired, her biggest shortcoming that made her
company border on the unbearable. Part of him considered that this was an add-on punishment for
failing to prevent his charge from overextending and magically exhausting herself. Even so, having
to accompany the deranged Death Eater was going a touch too far in his opinion.

Dark eyes slid over to the woman in question, the foul mood a darkening cloud heavy about her
petite frame. Pedestrians scurried out of the way, an instinct quite wise to act upon as they dove out
of her warpath. While Barty wasn’t exactly privy to the nature of her relationship with their Lord,
he considered she wasn’t often punished publicly— or at least that’s what the depressing aura
relayed. ‘She deserves it,’ a bitter thought, grimacing at the phantom sensation of the burn licking
his skin, the cracked and bleeding mark. Honestly though, what had she expected? The witch had
purposefully antagonised the one person that was declared off-limits— and try as she may to deny
it to their Lord, he recalled that look of hatred in a venomous gaze all too clearly. Bellatrix had
been about to curse the young girl if he hadn’t stepped in, a slight that would have, undoubtedly,
led to something far worse than weeping ink and blistering heat

“You’ve spent quite some time around Potter,” a frown tugged the corners of his mouth
downwards as his attention latched on to her words, the tone casual as she inspected painted clawed
nails in a faux show of boredom.

The pair were wandering the Alley with open eyes and ears, seeking out anything of suspicion— to
no availing luck on their end. Barty regarded her critically, dreading where this conversation was
heading. Though, the man figured it was bound to happen eventually, considering the girl’s display
in the throne room— after all, both Death Eaters had felt the magic coming from her, the alluring
call of its signature.

“I know as much as you do, Bellatrix,” sharply cutting her off before she could go any further with
the train of thought, before she could pry and demand everything he knew regarding the redhead’s
relationship to Lord Voldemort, “and it’s not our place to question him or his actions.”

Bella scoffed at the response, tossing a glare towards a group of oncoming children, all too content
when they scattered at the stormy expression shadowing her face, “She has his signature. It
shouldn’t even be possible, we both know it.”

“And yet it is,” Barty snapped back firmly, gaze darting about the crowd in unease as though their
Lord may just appear, summoned and called forth from the void by their defiance.

They shouldn’t even be talking about it, be openly discussing the nature of the relationship.
Whatever had changed between The Girl Who Lived and the Dark Lord was an unknown, a
mystifying secret, a private matter that they, as his followers, were not privy to understanding. If
their leader didn’t see fit to enlighten them, then it must mean it was a matter of importance, a
fundamental truth that was to remain out of their grasp and comprehension. And quite frankly,
Barty was rather fond of his head, his life, the idea of jeopardizing either in search of answers an
unappealing notion.

He had been about to say something else, to warn her to drop the subject if she knew what was for
the best, when a sight further down the strip caught his attention. A mass of curly brown hair,
caramel eyes, a stack of colourful papers clutched in thin arms. The girl had spent almost two years
in his classes, enough so that he would remember her— especially considering the witch was a
close companion of Harri Potter, always occupying a spot next to the redhead. But what was
Granger doing here in Diagon when, by all accounts, she should be back at Hogwarts?

It was a well-known fact amongst the staff that she was the brightest witch of her year, bordering
on being an overachiever at times and always raising her hand high in the air during lectures. As
such, it was impossible to imagine her playing hooky, deciding to skip the first day back when she
so obviously loved learning.

Bellatrix frowned, tracing her companion's line of sight, tongue running over sharp teeth in
contemplation, “You know her?”

Barty tilted his head for the dark-haired witch to follow, ducking into a shadowed alcove and
watching with keen interest as his former student approached the newspaper stand. He stared in a
squinted fashion, trying to make out the words of the pastel magazines clenched in her hands.

“Hermione Granger,” he mused, tracking the girl from the shadows as he trailed after her, Bellatrix
hot on his heels.

“Granger?” an echo from behind, the tone lilt with a question, “Half-blood?”

“No. Muggle-born,” he supplied, ignoring his partner’s inward drawn hiss of displeasure as though
he had admitted to something inherently depraved, “She was close to Potter at school.”

Dark eyes glinted as he watched the mass of curls pause in the throng of the crowd, hovering near a
cardboard box that was propped up beside the official Prophet stand. ‘Interesting,’ a passing
thought as she deposited the flyers into it, sparing a nervous glance over her shoulder before
slipping back into the steady thrum of patrons in the shopping district. A blur of movement at his
side— a flash of a warped wand in his periphery— and his hand shot out in a punishing grip,
whirling around in disbelief, in incredulous shock.

“What are you doing?!” the Death Eater hissed out, fingers squeezing into the softness of the
woman’s forearm, affronted that she was attempting to hex an unarmed teenager in broad daylight.

“You said she was Potter’s friend,” Bellatrix snipped in retort, yanking her arm free of the
tightening hold, “I’m taking her in for questioning.”

“You absolute lunatic,” they wrestled for a second in the shadows of the side alley, two pairs of
dark eyes flashing in outrage, a struggle of flesh and bone as one aggressively shoved, the other
countering in rapid succession.

He had finally managed to pry her fingers from the wand, jumping back just in time as she bit at
the empty air, an audible click of teeth gnashing together. Holding the curved wood over his
shoulder, far from her grappling reach, Barty found himself cursing, yet again, for being burdened
as her babysitter. Somehow, in the dim lighting, the woman looked even more crazed than usual, a
predatory air to her that sent a chill down the length of his spine— an unpleasant reminder of who
he was currently dealing with.

“Our Lord said to track down the source of the rumours,” a sharp voice countered, distantly
wondering if the witch perhaps had a death wish after all, “Not to kidnap an underaged girl in the
middle of Diagon Alley! I don’t know about you but I personally don’t want to experience his
displeasure again— or have you already forgotten our punishment for your little slip-up?”

Painted lips pulled back to reveal a row of too sharp teeth, a muscle twitching in her brow, hooded
eyes glinting with a contemplative light— as though she were considering all the ways to kill a
man without using magic. Fury, a bright and angry thing, blazed in her chest, a tang on her tongue,
smoldering embers in an onyx stare. All attention was fixated on her wand in his hold, at those
daring hands that gripped it, keeping her from the truest companion of her life.

“You dare to take a witch’s wand,” Bellatrix’s fingers twitched at her side, her ire only growing
that how he hadn’t flinched, hadn’t cowed, hadn’t rushed out an apology, “That little mudblood
obviously knows something!”

“You are defying direct orders from our Lord. Are you implying that you know what’s best—
better so than him? If he wanted us to bring someone in, he would have said so,” Barty grappled
for a reason, driven on by an urge to make the witch forget the girl in the alley, to make her
understand that doing unnecessary things that were not explicitly commanded would only lead to
discipline-- triumphant success as the refined face crumpled, shock alight for the briefest of a
second in those dark depths.

A scathing glare, a small part of her finding truth in his rationality. After all, they were never told
what to do with the source if they found it— only to track it down and report it back. A phantom
sensation of the cracked open mark, the ink weeping from it, the tormenting sting that refused to
abate, the acrid taste of his wrath. Nonetheless, despite how correct he was, it was still a bitter
thing to swallow.

“Fine,” a bitter acquiescing tone, pale hand extended expectantly, satisfied enough when he
hesitantly returned the wand to her grasp, “Let the little traitor walk free for now.”

And then she was sauntering out of the shadowed side alley, Barty unable to resist the urge to
scrub his hands over his face, his jaw, in the aftermath of the entire ordeal. A part of him
considered he had just dodged a bullet— one that could have caused a rather devastating amount of
damage. He could already vividly picture the headlines declaring a girl was kidnapped in the
middle of Diagon, the vexation of their Lord at having to create a convincing press release to
combat the disaster, the certainty that they wouldn’t be let off with just a burn in their arms and an
ache in their bones. The man found himself cursing Fate for ever putting Bellatrix Lestrange into
his path, hurrying after the witch once he realised she had managed to disappear from sight.

But there, further down the main drag of the shopping district, a maniacal glee stretching her
features too thin and a pastel tabloid between her clawed fingers. Coal eyes glanced up from
reading it, a smugness in them as she tauntingly waved the newspapers Granger had left behind— a
clear as day gloating that the source of the rumours was found.

The book was, in Harri’s humble opinion, dull and difficult to read. The language was ancient,
clunky, certain words unable to stick— the prose just as dry and brittle as the worn pages. And,
more often than not, had she found herself drawn from the text by the scratch of a quill’s nib, a
louder-than-normal pop in the mantle as a log splintered, the soft exhales from a red-eyed man
whenever he seemed to be particularly displeased by what was written in the missives. Nagini, at
some point, had wandered into the study in search of respite from the day’s chill, a content weight
currently coiled on her legs as the serpent dozed off.

The girl considered what the scene must look like to an outsider--how domestic, quaint. Her, on the
lounge and attempting to read while an idle hand stroked the smooth scales along the creature’s
spine, the Dark Lord making headway through the stack of reports littering the desk. Green eyes
considered him out of her periphery, still attempting to digest, to comprehend, the strangest turn the
day had taken. Some part of her had expected to be disciplined for the earlier defiance in the throne
room, for him to be upset and in a foul mood. However, he was congenial, hospitable, good-
natured almost, a generous offer extended to teach her. And truth be told, she wasn’t quite sure
what was more startling— the fact she was giddy for the opportunity or that she was finding herself
not entirely minding the curiously comfortable atmosphere of the study.

In a vague way, it almost reminded her of the Gryffindor common room. A space of pleasant
warmth, homely in nature, entirely safe. And wasn’t that just the most dumbfounding feeling? The
most laughable thing? Especially so considering what had happened in the office prior— all of the
bloodshed, the inflamed tempers, the violence. Not to mention the fact that there was a Dark Lord,
known in their world for murder and vengeance, seated barely a few feet from her. And yet, Harri
found herself sinking into the idea all the same. A needy and desperate side existing to her
personality that sought out a semblance to her old life, no matter how odd or misplaced it was.

Her attention drifted back to the book, brows knitting together as she tried to focus back on the
opened page. The witch read it once, then twice, a third time just to make sure she was processing
the information correctly before abruptly slamming the cover closed. Voldemort paused in his
writing at the sudden disruption to the quiet, gaze lifting upwards in a questioning manner as his
horcrux twisted on the lounge to face him. There was dismay bright in her gaze, a look of horrified
alarm as she displaced his familiar, a sharp hiss from the snake that relayed its agitation.

“I could have died?!” she fumbled for coherency, the passage flashing in her mind at how
improper wandless casting often led to magical exhaustion, for a wizard’s core to burn up and fully
extinguish.

A sense of nausea as she reflected back to the feelings of illness in the throne room, how her heart
had refused to calm down, and the world unsteady beneath her feet, “Why didn’t you warn me!?”

The Dark Lord quirked a brow at her theatrics, the panic reflected in her gaze. There was the
slightest pull of satisfaction at seeing her so off-kilter, that the girl was finally understanding how
reckless, idiotic, foolish she had been. It was a fitting lesson, he supposed, that she found out of her
own volition. After all, it would make the truth sink in better, would ensure that it hovered in the
back of her mind as a warning if the harsh reality came from a source other than his lips.

“Theoretically, yes. Though, it would not have been a death in the traditional sense. More so that
you would have been suspended in a state of agony until your core had the opportunity to repair
itself,” a nonchalant statement, too matter of fact as he regarded the way her mouth parted, how she
looked a tad paler than usual, “And I tried, did I not? I cautioned you to calm down.”

At the casual dismissal, Harri couldn’t help but gape at him, completely at a loss for words.
Suddenly, the strangest urge to throw the tome at his head, to rip out her hair at his lack of
understanding, was overwhelming. Voldemort was so blasé even when discussing the unfortunate
fate that could have befallen her— teeth ground against one another at the lack of compassion.
‘How can someone be so brilliant yet so bloody idiotic at the same time,’ the thoughts fumed,
trying to string together an impactful enough sentence to portray her shocked incredulity.

“There’s a huge difference between a ‘hey, you’re really upset and it’s ruining the mood,’ and a
‘you’re going to magically exhaust yourself to death’, you git,” at the frown crossing his features,
an expression indicating he was about to correct her, Harri groaned, exasperation practically
palpable in her voice, “Right sorry— void, pardon me.”

Crimson eyes glittered in contemplation, in amusement at her insult and rising anger, the corners of
his mouth lifting ever so slightly, “And would you have listened to me if I told you that you were
going to extinguish your core if you continued?”

Words truly did escape her this time as her mouth opened and closed, logic desperately trying to
turn her off from the idea of hurling something at him, of going up and giving him a well-deserved
kick to the shin. After all, he was, begrudgingly, somewhat correct— she probably wouldn't have
listened, at least not in the heat of the moment. The girl stifled the scream threatening to claw its
way up her throat, fingers massaging at her temples to chase off the impending headache. ‘He truly
is an idiot,’ a resentful passing thought, unable to resist glaring as the Dark Lord hummed in
pointed victory while dipping the quill into the inkpot.

“How does this work anyways? The whole me not dying bit?” Harri questioned after a few
moments, enough time passing that his head no longer looked like a tempting target.

“It is exactly what it implies,” he mused, signing a report in a flourish as the wax heated in the
divot of a spoon, “You will retain eternal youth, will never grow old, never cease to breathe— as
long as the horcrux in you remains unharmed.”
And though so many people would give anything in the world to be in her position, to hold the
secret of immortality in their hands, to cheat death, it made her stomach lurch. What would happen
in the next few decades when those she cared for finally passed away? How was she supposed to
live with herself knowing that she would have to watch them all die? It sounded like a lonely
existence. Everyone finally got to move on, to go forward, while she was stuck in the same static
position. ‘You have him though,’ a traitorous little voice that only served to spike her anxiety,
discomforted at the idea. In the past, his words of them having an eternity together never really
held much weight, was never really something that she had seriously reflected upon. But now the
warning was all too real, too grim, too somber.

“When you say ‘eternal youth’?” the redheaded witch finally mumbled, brows knitting together as
she tried to picture herself forever looking the same.

“If that is your vague way of asking if you will never get wrinkles, then yes,” he supplied, mirth
bleeding into his voice at her line of thinking and all too delighted that she was finally turning to
him for answers, “Your body will be in a perpetual state of vigor. Never aging, your genetic code
never breaking down.”

The lurching progressed into a full-blown ache, bile in the back of her throat the more she
considered it, “But I’ve been aging up until this point? Right?

The Dark Lord hummed in response, pressing his signet down into the emerald wax as an
introspective light glazed over his eyes. There were so many questions regarding her that he had as
well, so many swirling thoughts and fears, ones that he didn’t quite have an answer to. She was
prodigal, a rarity, a case like hers never existing before— and how that both excited him yet filled
him with simultaneous trepidation. After all, any past knowledge he had about horcruxes, about
parselmouths, were thrown out the window when it came to the girl. Most texts only ever
addressed inanimate vessels, ones where, by their inherent nature, aging was never a concern.

And she had yet to even develop her own venom, to go through the final metamorphosis that was
signature of their kind— something that he had already long completed by her age. Though, try as
he did to research it in Salazar’s journals, the existence of female parselmouths were sparse, few
and far in between. As such, texts only really pertained to males. Some sliver of him feared that she
may never transition at all-- that, perhaps, the shard of his soul would prevent her from doing so.
‘Though that may be for the best,’ a voice justified, unable to stop the frown at its point and
partially agreeing. After all, he knew from personal experience that it was uncomfortable, painful,
the change one of agony. Plus, the very idea of having to explain to her the details, that she would,
essentially, be going through a second form of puberty— needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a
conversation he was rearing to have.

“Ah, see that is where I have to do some guessing on my end. You are a rather special case, Harri,”
a soft mutter as he lifted scarlet eyes back to her, leaning back in the chair and fingers interlacing
together, “I have not been able to find any texts pertaining to a living human as a horcrux vessel.
However, I imagine once you reach your magical majority, you will stop. But then again, only time
will be able to tell.”

A bitter laugh, her hands running through her hair as a physical outlet to her agitation, mind still
swimming as it tried to comprehend the new fundamental fact of her existence, “Forever 17. Wow,
lucky me.

He scoffed at her sarcasm, at her inability to understand what a gift he had truly given her. In all
sense of the word, he had spared her from death, from aging, from being saddled with a feeble
body-- one that would, eventually, become too frail and weak to even care for itself any longer.
Then again, he supposed that the girl did still have attachments to her mortal friends, those who
would age and eventually die themselves. Not that he could relate to that particular plight. As it
currently stood, there wasn’t much to be done about those connections except to let them slowly
wither away— they would have to at some point. And there was no small part of him that was
anticipating the day when time’s jagged blade would sever those pesky relationships, leaving her
with very few options for companionship. Voldemort was quite certain that would be the day she
would choose him wholeheartedly, seek him out as her one true comfort. It wasn’t like she had
much of a choice— the availability of other immortal beings was less of a puddle and more of a
raindrop.

But, for now, the Dark Lord supposed he should assure her, make her see the light at the end of the
tunnel, console, and give her some relief. However, as he opened his mouth to do so, to exchange a
platitude, his words died in his throat, cut off by her interruption.

“There’s a way to destroy it though, right?” she blurted out, unable to stand the images
superimposed behind her lids.

Try as she did to banish them, all she kept seeing in her mind’s eye were tombstones all neatly
lined in a row. Sirius, Remus, Hermione, Ron, even Hedwig— countless more to follow, some
blank from their engravings to represent those she had yet to meet. How many would she come to
care for only to watch them perish in the end? How many times would she be forced to witness
burial after burial? To be a ghost standing on the lip of an open grave? And though she didn’t quite
fancy the idea of killing herself, especially if there was a chance she would fail without the right
methods, the witch just needed to know there was a way out. To understand there was a fire
escape, an exit sign in her periphery-- that there was a choice.

The air in the room suddenly turned frigid, the flames in the mantle flickering as darkness clung to
the lines of Voldemort’s body. ‘So, she’s still thinking about it,’ a bitter thought, spiteful, his
fingers digging, clenching, curling into the table’s edge. He desperately hoped that they had moved
on past that thread of conversation, the dangerous thought— that, just perhaps, the girl had come to
understand her position and was finally accepting of it. But yet, she felt the need to ruin the
moment, the tentative peace they had arrived at. Hellfire eyes narrowed a fraction, jaw clenching as
he considered how to appropriately react, rationality weighing the outcomes. Everything in him, in
his core, his being, was singing to retaliate, to make her fear ever bringing up the taboo idea again.
To make her understand that she couldn’t leave, to get it through her stubbornly thick head that she
was in this for the long haul, that there was no escape. Not from him, not from the horcrux, not
from any of it— he refused to allow it.

Harri blinked sheepishly at the heaviness in the air, his temper sparking on the boundaries of their
bond. How his body seemed tense, rigid, the sharp definition of his jaw ticking. It was startling to
see how quickly the pleasant mood of the room bled away, how rapidly it was to sour by his sharp
vexation, his displeasure. The man at the desk was a Dark Lord, was Voldemort, a truth that she
had apparently forgotten amidst their amicable conversation. ‘You did this,’ her conscience
chastised, mentally berating her for being so casual and careless with her words. She knew it was
an off-limit topic, had seen how he had reacted to the question in the past— yet she asked it
anyways in a foolish bid of solace and reprieve from her anxieties.

“I mean, I did it in the chamber with the diary. And Nagini mentioned that they could be
destroyed,” she rushed out, tongue stumbling over the words in a desperate attempt to lessen the
beginning edges of the storm of his fury, “I just figured I should know what to look out for and to
avoid.”

And then the rolling clouds abruptly gave way, somehow less suffocating, less domineering. He
spared a cutting glance to the serpent on the velvet lounge, a look that declared they would have a
chat that was mostly ignored on the snake’s end. ‘Do not fault her for her curiosity,’ a gentle
whisper reminded him, a shaky inhale of a breath as he attempted to calm and collect himself. It
was only fitting for the nature of their discussion for her to ask about potential methods of
destruction— after all, he had been so free with all other information. But still, the very idea, the
very notion, of her being destroyed, accidentally or purposefully. No, he would ensure it would
never happen— and it wasn’t as though he particularly trusted her with the knowledge either, not
the way their relationship currently was.

He was about to respond, to deny her what she sought, when a sharp rap on the study’s double
doors drew his attention. Irritation flared at being interrupted but he waved them open nonetheless,
revealing his two most loyal standing in the frame. Wordlessly tilting his head in a bid for them to
enter, Voldemort attempted to suppress the urge to command them to disappear. The pair had been
banished to Diagon Alley in order to allow himself to bond with his horcrux, an excuse on his end
to spend some prolonged time around the girl. Briefly, he considered why he had even needed one
in the first place— she was his, in soul and in legal guardianship, so having her near him would be
perfectly sensible. But there was an image to maintain. One of an aloof Dark Lord who was not
besotted with a teenager, who did not attempt to bend the world to be with her, his previous enemy,
the witch that once vanquished him.

“What is it?” annoyance coloured his voice of its own admission, disgruntled that they had come
back so soon— part of him had hoped the two would be absent for the rest of the day, at the very
least.

“We have found something of interest, My Lord,” Barty replied, crossing the room with the
newspaper clutched in his hands, bowing as he held it out for him to take.

Voldemort spared a glance to Bellatrix in the background, still hovering near the door and not
missing the sharp looks she was sending the redhead. The older woman’s expression was pinched,
jealousy blatant, and contorting her features in a rather unbecoming way. An itch in his chest, a
giving tell of his thinning patience, of vexed exasperation at the sight— it would appear that dear
Bella still wasn’t aware of her position. Though, he considered, it was fine for now as long as she
didn’t outwardly act upon her envy. He mentally added it to the ongoing list of things that would
need to be addressed at some point, already foreseeing a future discord between the two witches.

Roughly snatching the proffered paper, he glanced down at the headline, frown deepening and
scarlet eyes alight with hunger. This was where all of the rumours, the nasty bits of gossip, were
coming from? ‘Interesting. So the Order has started their own paper,’ he mused, somehow
entertained by the idea as he drank in the pastel blue striped cover. ‘The Quibbler. What an odd
choice of name.’

“Barty, please escort Harri to Narcissa. I believe it is time for her lessons,” he mused, attention
fixated on the tabloid.

Harri gladly rose from the spot, muttering out an apology to the displaced snake but eager to finally
stretch her numbing legs. And she would be lying if she said she wasn’t more than happy to escape
before that temper, that storm, could start to brew again with a vengeance. Placing the book down,
she spied the familiar magazine in his hands, ready to ask in confusion what he was possibly doing
with The Quibbler when she was cut off.

“Oh and Harri? I expect you to finish that by Sunday,” an absentminded order as he set aside the
newspaper, a sadistic glee upon seeing her crestfallen expression.

Aggressively snatching the tome from the couch, she stamped down the urge to protest. It was
thicker than her forearm, a solid few hundred pages, and she had barely made a dent in it.
Resolutely tucking it in the crook of her elbow, refusing to look at him, a sour thought, ‘Tyrant.’

‘I heard that,’ his voice was whispered directly into her mind as she marched from the room, trying
to find her maturity, her will, not to flip him off. Barty silently trailed after her shadow, the office
doors closing behind them with a click, and the witch found herself morosely hoping that Draco
was having a better day than hers.

As it turned out, Draco Malfoy’s day was not any better than that of the redhead’s, having returned
to Hogwarts only to find that it was a rather grim affair. The confusion was heavy in the air at the
welcoming back feast, whispers commenting on Dumbledore’s absence and circulating
speculations about what could have possibly happened. And the Slytherin boy, though he would be
loathed to admit it aloud, found himself almost preferring the older wizard, with his obnoxiously
coloured robes and half-moon glasses, to his sour-faced godfather. The man lacked any stage
presence, the clipped monotone drawl doing very little to inspire excitement for the remainder of
the year.

He could feel for the potions master, of course— it was obvious that he hated being headmaster
and was out of his element. But nonetheless, when the speech ended, the blond boy was all too
relieved, too enthused, to have that form of torture be done. Though, the second they were released,
a new form had begun in the way of his friends. They were scattered about, providing commentary
on their holidays, when, somehow, the tide inevitably turned to focus on Harri Potter and the Dark
Lord.

“I don’t know, it’s weird, isn’t it? Potter and the Dark Lord,” Marcus Flint had been the one to
initiate the thread of discussion, elbows on the table, and leaning forward in a conspiratorial
manner.

“It makes no sense. They have to have a connection, somehow,” Theodore Nott agreed, the
opening floodgate that inspired the endless speculations amongst the pocket of Slytherins.

And how much Draco hated it. Hearing their drivel, their spouted nonsense— it made his blood
pressure spike, the feast before him looking less and less appealing.

“Perhaps Potter is secretly the Dark Lord’s daughter? Or cousin?” Pansy piqued up, pouring
herself a goblet of pumpkin juice as she let the theory settle, “After all, he did claim guardianship
of her. Who would do that if they weren’t somehow related?”

Draco clenched his jaw at the rising voices, all eager to wildly comment on the redheaded girl’s
appearance— what looked similar to their Lord and what didn’t, if it was possible or not, what it
would mean for them. Of course, the Malfoy heir was equally in the dark as to the sudden change
in plans for The Girl Who Lived, something he couldn’t even begin to fathom. But he was certain,
more than a little, that they weren’t related. Not after the party, the way the man had watched her,
had dressed her, the possessive wandering hands. Shoulders went taut as he pushed the peas about
his plate, trying to block them out, to not lose his composure.

“I don’t think that’s quite it, either. I mean, we all saw how they were dancing together. That was
most certainly not appropriate for familial relations,” a girl with ice blond hair and grey eyes
sniffed improperly, Daphne putting forth her own opinion.

A sudden clap of hands down against the table, a dawning revelation as a brown-haired girl gasped
scandalized, “You don’t think they could be—? But with Potter, of all people!”
Silence settled over the group, acid rising steadily in the back of Draco’s throat as he thought back
to it, grimly considering the possibility. It was one that he had been trying to convince himself of
otherwise, had tried to deny time and time again. But recollections of bruises against her skin in
questionable places, how she had been paraded around in a dress far too revealing for anything
appropriate for her age. The hunger in red eyes, the blush she had worn so prettily when he touched
her body, her waist, her skin. How she had been brought up onto the dais, placed by his side for all
to see. It was damning evidence, the odds more so stacked in favour of the notion than against, a
welling anger, stomach tightening.

“I mean, if so, good for her— definitely can see the appeal,” Zabini leered, tone taking on a
lecherous tease, a flash of white teeth against dark skin, “She’s definitely an attractive minx, I’ll
give her that. I just wonder how she managed to seduce him, considering the whole enemy thing.
Potter has to have some moves if she caught his attention. Draco, they’re staying with you, right?
Heard anything freaky?”

“Shut it, Zabini,” he seethed softly, pale eyes flashing in a warning as the fork was set down
aggressively.

Pale eyes critically regarded the boy across from him, an affronted amusement clear in dark eyes.
Of course, Draco knew he was being baited— Blaise had that nasty habit, especially when he was
bored. And that was the number one thing he absolutely detested about his so-called friend. The
way he would twist and prod at an infected wound, would find someone’s weakness and exploit it
with no remorse. How badly he wanted to leap across the table, to grab the wizard by the collar, to
demand he never entertain such vile thoughts ever again, especially not about a girl who was being
forced into this all. After all, he knew of Harri’s suffering— he had seen the look in her eyes, the
crumpled face, the tears she refused to shed.

Draco roughly shrugged off the tentative hand of Pansy, ignoring her soft inquiries of concern. All
attention was fixated on the smug Slytherin across from him, glaring at the calculating look
entering the depths of those charcoal eyes. The atmosphere amongst the small pocket had grown
tense, suffocating, others hesitant to chime in when faced with the confrontation between the two
students

“Don’t worry about it, 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 commented, goading the blond
further, an eyebrow raised in a taunt.

“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,” he snipped back, Draco’s lips pulling into a sneer as the amusement
quickly slid from the other’s face.

The Malfoy heir pushed himself out from the table abruptly, swinging his legs over the sides of the
bench and unable to stand the conversation any longer. Only distantly registering the cries for him
to come back, the Slytherin swept from the Great Hall, eager to find some respite from their vile
rumours, their poisoning speculations. And as he fled to the dungeons, seeking refuge in his dorm,
Draco pondered if this was a sort of punishment on his Lord’s end— to have to listen to the drivel,
the nonsense, while being equally as clueless. After all, how could he deny it when he wasn’t even
aware of the truth? He had been explicitly instructed to come back to Hogwarts to report any
whispers, anything of suspicion, to convince those who had yet to take the mark to do so. While it
seemed easy enough at first, now it seemed impossible, a torment and agony meant just for him.

It wasn’t possible, was it? Harri and the Dark Lord together? Thin hands scrubbed over his face,
cursing Zabini, Nott, his friends for even putting such an idea into his head.
Much to Harri’s relief, the rest of the week passed in a blur. Narcissa had seemed even more
determined to teach her etiquette, claiming now that she was a certified Black it was all the more
crucial, vital, important. But, apart from the heightened expectations, the kind-hearted woman
hadn’t really changed. In fact, she was just as motherly, welcoming, and warm as always, a bright
spot in her existence at the Manor.

Her time was being split more often as well. Most days, she found herself in the study with
Voldemort for a few hours, a quiet affair that was becoming a strange, yet comfortable, part of her
routine. He would pass the time doing administrative work while she read, both apparently content
to bask in the other’s presence, to have some company while going about otherwise laborious
chores. And truly, it was a thankless task reading the tome— the practical applications going over
her head. After all, the Dark Lord wasn’t actually letting her use magic at this point, rendering the
methods chapter useless. But nonetheless, she had finished the entire volume by Sunday, all too
proud of herself for meeting his deadline. His praise and satisfaction had only served to stoke the
embers of her triumph, a warmth elicited from his compliments that she would forever deny
existing.

As it currently stood, the girl had found herself seated across a grim-faced potions master, onyx
eyes regarding her critically, warily. He seemed to be just as excited as she was— neither thrilled or
overjoyed at the prospect of being in the other’s head. The clock was insistently ticking away in
the background, a sharp rhythm that punctuated the silence between the two, the minutes whittling
away.

Things had gotten better between them, she considered, what with him trying to help her escape
and healing her from time to time. Yet, despite the progress, she still felt nervous around her ex-
professor, unsure, ready to be reprimanded over the smallest of slights. Despite him representing
her old life, his sneers and glittering cold eyes bringing a sense of familiarity, the girl couldn’t say
she was looking forward to seeing him every Sunday. But perhaps this was as good as a chance as
any to get information, to perhaps see how the outside world was faring under the Dark Lord’s
reign.

“How was the first week back?” a desperate question, an unspoken one hidden behind its polite
casualness— did you see Hermione and Ron?

Judging by the twitch in the corner of his mouth, Snape had easily ascertained her intent, the
concealed meaning, choosing to indulge her for once, “It was satisfactory. Some students, however,
were missing during the welcoming back speech.”

A shaky sigh of relief yet of simultaneous disappointment at his answer. If her friends weren’t at
Hogwarts, then she could easily guess what that implied— they had joined the Order and were
being kept from the castle. It made sense and she was glad for it, thankful they were safe and far
from the watchful gaze of the Death Eaters hidden amongst the school. After all, who knew how
many were there at this point? How many professors, students, had an owed allegiance to Lord
Voldemort— two already came to mind. But then she feared for her friends’ safety, for their
recklessness, their bold move to join the resistance. It would only further put a target on their backs,
incite Voldemort’s wrath if they were ever discovered. Absentmindedly, she chewed on her lower
lip, mind glazing over.

“The Dark Lord has deemed it a necessity to develop your occlumency. In these lessons,” he
suddenly intoned, catching her attention and drawing it back to him, “I will attempt to infiltrate
your mind and you will attempt to resist.”
Harri arched a brow in confusion, about to ask him how she was exactly supposed to do that, if
there was a spell she needed to know, when a wand tip was suddenly pointed at her face. The
entertainment parlour, in all of its gilded finery and ivory drapes, bled away, a throbbing headache
as colours flashed before her eyes.

Under the stairs, stuffed into a too-small space, dust hazily floated in from the sliding
grate. Reaching for a Hogwarts letter amongst the endless swirling sea, clutching
wildly and crying out in joy. Talking to a garden snake coiled under a bush— “Hello,
I’m Harri.”, elated surprised when it had responded back— “Hello.” Heart
hammering, feet in too large sneakers thudding on blazing asphalt, her cousin and his
friends hot on her heels.

She panted as Malfoy Manor came back into view, eyes darting around wildly, a cooling layer of
sweat above her brow. The girl fixed the potions professor in a dazed stare, barely hearing the
words ‘Concentrate’ before being plunged back under the water, unable to even gulp in a greedy
mouthful of air, to refill her lungs.

A woman with coral lips pinched, vehemently spitting out—“I’m not your mother,”
hands slapping away small greedy ones. A redheaded girl, barely tall enough to reach
the stove, vainly trying to turn the bacon and ignoring the scalding splatters against
bare skin. “Yer a wizard, Harri,”— a stormy night, a giant of a man, complete
euphoria at being freed. Dumbledore at a bedside, grimacing at the offending taste of
Berti Botts, sharing in a laugh. “You can come live with me, if you want,” a full moon
in the sky, a grey-eyed man pulling a girl with a heart too full into a hug. A monster,
skeletal, thin, a creature from the void appearing from a cauldron, demanding her
blood to sate its appetite.

“Resist it,” a faint command to a girl suspended between the past and the present, head splitting
and tears scalding tracks down waned cheeks.

“Freak!” A wince, a sting, trying not to cry as a broken wrist was cradled to a chest.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, they hate it when you make a sound. Barred windows, a magical
floating car trying to pull them off. “Harri, dear, you look too thin! Eat!”, a kind voice,
a spray of orange hair shoving a plate full towards her, a comforting squeeze on
shoulders. Refuge from the cold with mugs of heated butterbeer, soothing and warm as
it slid down chilled throats. A too-thin mattress, curled to one side, a hollow ache in
her stomach as bolts slid shut. Blooming redness across her face, inflamed, cruel hands
so clearly imprinted. Laughing as rocks skipped across a mirrored lake, disrupting
ripples— “Oi, you’re cheating Potter!” Crimson eyes from the shadows, watching,
calculating, refusing to leave her in peace.

“Focus. Expel me from your mind,” a bodiless voice, tone almost uncharacteristically emotional,
not quite pleading but something close to it.

The headmaster raising his wand to her back, a flash of green. Skeletal hands a
punishing pressure on her scar, the world exploding in pain. Carrying Hedwig into the
 night, heart hammering and encouraging the bird to fly far away— “I’ll kill that
bloody thing if I see it again, you hear me girl!”. Diagon Alley, a burst of joy and
chest airy, a wand in thin hands for the first time. Wind whipping about, broom
climbing higher, higher, higher. “Look at me!”— alarmed blue eyes behind half-moon
glasses. A boy from a diary, an ultimate betrayal, a glowing anagram in the air— I Am
Lord Voldemort. The same boy at her neck, teeth sinking into the pulse point and
refusing to let go. Flares of pleasure, a buoyancy, a face familiar but also not quite
tilted back in ecstasy. “I have seen your heart, Harri Potter. I know it like the back of
my hand, and it is mine.” Hellfire eyes, an unsettling truth, damning words that sealed
her fate— “It’s all because you, yourself, are a—”

‘No!’ An inner scream of desperation at where the conversation was heading, the images suddenly
distorting, warping, the entertainment parlour coming back with startling clarity. Harri slumped
forwards in her chair, a pair of stabilising hands shooting out to grasp at her shoulders, to keep her
from tumbling onto the floor. Everything about her ached— her teeth, her bones, her mind, raw and
exposed. And she took a second to try to recover, to piece together the scattered remnants of her
composure, chest heaving with exertion.

The girl finally uprighted herself, breaths flighty and shaky, refusing to even out into a more
comfortable tempo. She belatedly realised she was twitching, physical tremors that relayed how
unstable she felt inside. ‘That completely sucked,’ a cheeky thought that lacked most of its bite, a
hand running through her hair and grimacing at how damp the strands were. There was the vaguest
sense that she needed to retch but her body felt too exhausted, too drained, to even summon forth
the energy to do such a thing.

Snape took a moment to consider the girl before him, allowing her reprieve, a chance of respite.
Though he tried to keep it from showing so clearly on his face, he felt rattled— perhaps as much as
she did. When his Lord had suggested abuse from her muggle relatives, he hadn’t considered to
what extent. But now? Now, no small sliver of him sang for blood, for retribution on her behalf.
The potions professor had tried to prepare himself to go into her mind all day, a naive version of
himself praying it would just be teen angst. However, what he had just witnessed, had been an
unwelcome spectator to, was something that he believed he could never have been adequately
fortified against. For a lack of a better word, Harri Potter was a complete mess— her mind chaotic,
torn asunder, residual trauma rampant.

“Good, Potter,” he stated slowly after a few moments of pause, rising from his chair and
recognising that his own legs were unsteady, “You managed to repel me once but I believe that it
is enough for tonight. I might suggest you focus on daily mediation before our session next week.”

He wanted to comfort her, to let her know that it would get easier in the end. But the man found
himself unable to, the words not coming to mind, tongue a deadened thing in his mouth. After all,
what could he say at this point? How could he claim it would get effortless, painless, when her
mind was so disorderly, torn, and burdened? Instead, Snape had fled from the room, leaving
behind the shuddering redhead coated in sweat and residual traces of tears in search of his Lord.

“My Lord, I have come to report that we have finished our first lesson for the night,” Severus
reported as evenly as he could, the fire in the mantle doing very little to chase the chills from his
frame.

The red-eyed man had been seated in one of the armchairs, a book cradled between long fingers
and the serpent curled at his feet. All in all, it was a calm scene, a quiet one— nothing like what
just had occurred in the room down the stairs. A part of Snape almost felt envious that the Dark
Lord found some calm, and was immensely enjoying a rather pleasant evening. And how he would
wish he could have found the same, could forget the shivering witch and the destructive memories.

Voldemort glanced up from the novel he had been reading, a glass of brandy being nourished in his
hand, a contemplative sip as he eyed the obviously afflicted headmaster, “Ah, I see. And how did
she do?”

“Satisfactory. She had managed to repel my presence once,” the dark-haired man responded
carefully, trying to find the right words to describe the experience, “Though, if I must admit, I was
quite taken back. Her mind is rather unbalanced.”

The book snapped closed, crimson eyes narrowing a fraction. There was a truth to Severus Snape,
he had come to learn in the years following the man’s service— and that was there were very few
things that seemed to shake the wizard. Or, at least, ones that he admitted to. But nonetheless,
seeing the waned face, the minute quivers, set him on edge. Particularly as it meant that his
horcrux was somehow involved.

“Show me, Severus,” he was rising from the chair, draining the last drops of brandy and tossing the
novel down into the space where he once occupied.

“My Lord, I feel it prudent to warn you that they are disturbing,” Snape grappled, torn between
betraying the girl’s trust in him but also wishing not to defy his Lord— and, he figured, if anyone
would take action upon seeing the memories, it would be him.

“Show me,” Voldemort repeated for a final time, tone commanding, forceful, unrelenting before he
was plunging into the potion master’s mindscape.
 "I Used To Think You Were The Only Monster"
Chapter Notes

Hello to all of my lovely readers! Here is the next chapter-- I have quite some things in
store for the one after this and I am so so excited to post it for you guys! But for now,
take this one-- there's some important scenes in here that mark a turning point for
Harri and Voldemort's relationship that I hope you will all love!

As usual, I just want to give you all a shout-out for being so amazing and just so
dedicated to this fic! You guys seriously make writing worth and I can't even tell you
how elated I am to have such kind people reading along Thank you for every single
bookmark, kudos, and comment!

Enjoy!

“And the centaur uprisings are still ongoing in the North,” Nott droned on, a dull even sound as he
read from the report, the words carrying in the silence of the room.

It made her want to scream, to tear the auburn hair from her head, to roll her eyes and groan at the
tedious thread of conversation. A part of her almost desperately wished for one of Fred and
George’s inventions, a wildfire whiz-bang or a thunder cracker to liven up the atmosphere— or, at
the very least, some Peruvian instant darkness powder so she could slip out unnoticed. Harri had
been summoned to one of the weekly meetings, an event that Voldemort had deemed it a necessity
to attend. Why was beyond her comprehension— it wasn’t as though she agreed with his
philosophies, had taken the mark, and bent the knee in servitude.

But Harri supposed this was his perverted way of showing her off to his acolytes, a spectacle for
his followers to play witness to. The triumph in having The Girl Who Lived by his side, seduced
away from the light through his power, his will, his magic. And, quite truthfully, it irked the girl
whenever she reflected on it. After all, she had never formally joined him, hadn’t willingly flocked
to the Dark Lord of her own accord, despite whatever image he was trying to sell.

All things considered though, it was best to allow him that small win, the minuscule victory. Truly,
what was the harm in sitting at his side when it put the man in a relatively good mood for the rest
of the day? And so Harri had acquiesced, settled in the lesser throne, and tried her best to not look
bored out of her skull. But as the grandfather clock chimed from somewhere in the manor, an echo
that signaled the end of the 2nd hour since the meeting had begun, such resolve was quickly
waning. A good portion of the time had been passed in idle observation of the gathered Death
Eaters, each one in stark black robes. The girl had made a game out of trying to discern faces and
place names while picking the lint off the emerald silk folds of her dress— a valiant effort for
entertainment.

Nagini coiled about thin shoulders, as though sensing the girl’s increasing impatience, an expanse
of cool muscle that was only distantly registered. On the whole, the disciples of Lord Voldemort
were determined to ignore the redhead— stubborn blinders on their periphery that kept their eyes
off of her and faces schooled into masks of neutrality. Well, that was apart from two— Bellatrix
Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback. But considering her history with the pair, it made sense as to why
they weren’t afraid to meet the glares of a curse green gaze. In fact, they almost seemed to revel in
her distaste, her anger, choosing to leer whenever she caught their eye. And how it served to only
worsen the irritation.

“Magorian has assured us that-,” Harri couldn’t take it any longer, the precarious cords of her
tolerance, her patience, dangerously twisting and fraying. There was an itch in her chest, a
restlessness at being forced to remain seated for so long, a keening cry for freedom. The chair was
pushed out from the table, a screech of wooden feet that drew the attention of those gathered. Nott
paused in the report, a frown at the abrupt interruption.

Crimson eyes drifted over curiously at the motion, face impassive as he considered the girl and the
silent plea in her expression. The ever so slightest lift in the left corner of his mouth, the vaguest
sense of fond amusement on the edges of their bond before a wave of his hand in permittance. She
blinked once at his reaction, half-expecting to be commanded to sit back down, to remain in her
seat until the gathering was completed. But Harri accepted the gift nonetheless, turning on her
heels as the heavy weight of stares settled over thin shoulders. In the background, she heard his
bid to continue, and, along with it, the hesitant withdrawal of their scrutiny.

The girl found herself drifting about the perimeter of the meeting room, content at just being able
to stretch her stiff legs. The snake was curled about her torso, triangular head resting on the hollow
of a collarbone and forked tongue curiously flicking over the silver mark— a lingering reminder of
canines sunk too deep, of the greed of a Dark Lord intent on consuming her.

“Are the meetings always this long?” she complained to the serpent, ignoring the stifled attempts
of a few hitched breaths, the snap of a couple of heads turning.

Apparently, despite them all being aware that she shared their Lord’s language, they still felt the
need to overreact whenever she chose to use it. ‘Can you blame them though?’ Parseltongue was
jarring, especially when it came from a teenage girl— so no, she couldn’t fault them for being
caught off-guard. And frankly, it was turning into a bad habit, the sibilant sounds becoming easier
to summon, her tongue sometimes lapsing without even being aware of it. ‘That’s what happens
when all you have for company is a snake and Lord Voldemort,’ a pointed and spiteful thought
that lacked most of its bite. While the witch had avoided using the ability in the past, she couldn’t
deny its convenience as of late— after all, it allowed for a private conversation to be held even in
public.

“Sometimes even longer,” Nagini responded idly, a sage nod of a triangular head.

“Lovely,” she groaned in return, wincing at the ever so slight constriction of the snake’s muscle,
“why do I even have to be here?”

A sly tone and the stuttering hiss that Harri had come to recognise as a laugh, “He likes having you
near him.”

“Severus’s report has come back, My Lord,” Lucius suddenly drawled, attention in the room fixed
on him and a superior note in the tone, “Muggleborn students currently make up 35% of the
Hogwarts student body. You will be pleased to know that actions are already being set into place to
correct this oversight.”

Harri gritted her teeth at the condescending and pompous intonations. ‘Correct the oversight?’ It
sent off alarms, grated against her conscience, made her stomach clench painfully. Images came to
mind of Hermione, weary and exhausted after being dragged off the train, of the group of students
coming through the portrait in the early morning hours, dismayed with bloodshot gazes. To her, it
made no sense— why were muggle-born students being targeted? Surely they had the same right,
the same entitlement, as any pure-blood, or half-blood for that matter, to Hogwarts? To access their
birthright, their abilities?

“What do you mean,” she couldn’t quite help herself from whirling around, words dripping with
venom and ignoring the incredulous stares sliding over to her, “ by ‘correct the oversight’?”

Lucius gaped at her, surprised by the sudden address, the lack of formality the witch was showing
him. Pale eyes drifted over to his Lord in uncertainty, half-hoping he would reprimand her for the
interruption, for speaking out of turn. A bitter frown upon seeing the man had no intentions of
doing such— only thinly-veiled curiosity and contemplation in scarlet eyes, the lines of his body
relaxed in the throne as the redheaded witch stalked closer towards them.

“Only that muggle-born students will be removed and placed in a separate learning institution,”
there was a belittling tone in the response, only hastily adding on a title when a sharp burst of heat
erupted in his mark as a silent warning, “My Lady.”

“And why can’t they just attend Hogwarts?” vitriol was in her voice, heels clicking against the
marble tile as she made her way back to the throne, fingers gripping its edges as the look of distaste
in the blond’s eyes was returned tenfold.

“Miss Potter, I don’t think—,” Malfoy trailed off, looking helplessly over to his Lord for any sign
of what to do, of how he should address the girl without inspiring the man’s ire.

“It’s quite alright, Lucius,” Voldemort arched a brow at the pure-blood’s hesitation. And though
his face remained one of impassivity, there was mirth, delight, sparking in a glowing gaze, “Feel
free to defend your position. Harri can handle it.”

The Malfoy head regarded the Dark Lord in suspicion, taking it as a good as any blessing to
continue as his full attention snapped back to the vexed green-eyed girl, “Muggle-borns are known
to adjust more slowly than their peers, often hindering the class as a whole. It would be in the best
interest of everyone to have them separated out.”

Fingers tightened around the throne’s backing, knuckles bleeding white, “Even if that’s true, it
would be because they aren’t introduced to magic until they are 11! They are given their letters and
thrown into the wizarding community without a transitional period. It isn’t their fault for adjusting
slowly!”

Voldemort observed his horcrux, eyes flitting down to the tension in paling knuckles, the fire
lending the gaze a smolder. True, he had been surprised when she had first spoken up, that she was
willing to engage in conversation with his acolytes— but how alluring he found her at this very
second. There was something beautiful in the way she let herself be consumed by fury, displeasure,
the way her eyes narrowed and her chest swelled. And he found that, while he detested when such
feelings were directed towards him, seeing the witch act this way to those lesser, those underneath
her, was thrilling. A long leg crossed over another as the man leaned back into the throne, attention
rapt on their interaction and having no intention of stepping in.

“And yet, despite starting their formal education at the same time as everyone else, they are slow
to learn. It has been proven that their cores are weaker, more prone to fading into adulthood, and,
eventually, becoming squibs. It is a waste of time and resources to spend teaching those who may
not be able to contribute,” Lucius argued, a vein jumping in the planes of his forehead at her
attempts to find fault in the logic in front of his Lord.

“You say that but one of the best witches of my year is a muggle-born. Her grades are better than
most other pure, or half, bloods at the school. Are you saying that she shouldn’t be taught? That it’s
a wasted effort?” she sniped back readily, reaching up to remove Nagini from her shoulders and
guiding the serpent down into her empty seat.

“And while we are on this topic, why wait until 11 to introduce them to the wizarding world? Most
already have tutors before their first year and have been learning magic since they could walk,” the
redheaded witch bit out, something in her itching, rearing, for the pretentious man to continue to
fight with her.

“But following your logic, I guess tutoring would be classified as a waste of time as well,” she
sneered, not missing how Narcissa’s hand shot out to gently grip her husband’s forearm in caution,
“For example, I know your own son has been privately taught. Yet, how many times have I
duelled him and won?”

A quick apologetic glance to the blonde woman, praying that she didn’t take any offense, a cool
relief upon seeing there was none. Then resentful eyes flickered back to the target of her ire, her
anger. It was an instinctive reaction, one she couldn’t quite help, as sparks danced between the
crevices and dips of delicate fingers, an electrifying taste, sharp and acidic on her tongue. The
drivel he was spouting, the nonsense he believed, set her on edge, made her want to smash that
ideology to pieces, to strip him of that faith.

“In your view, those who were raised in the muggle world are incompetent and substandard,” her
voice had dropped just an octave in volume, being urged on by the alarming shade of purple in the
pureblood’s face, his pinched expression, “Would you say the same applies to me as well?”

“What do you mean, My Lady?” Lucius grit out, shrugging his wife’s hand off of him, the idea of
reaching for his wand a tempting one— and he might have acted on it if the Dark Lord hadn’t been
right there, hadn’t held the wisp of a girl in such regard.

“That I’m inferior? After all, I was raised in the muggle world,” a quiet challenge, one that begged
him to answer incorrectly, to see what would happen if he agreed.

Voldemort watched in fascination, unable to tear his eyes away from the witch holding her ground.
It was all too tempting of a sight, too mesmerizing to do otherwise. And though he had always
considered her beautiful, always held an aesthetic appreciation for his horcrux, he found himself
admitting that she was radiant at this very moment. The righteous fury, how he could feel her
conviction through their bond, the flares of her magic calling out to him. An image of a crown, a
queen, an empress came to mind and he found himself leaning into it. There was something so
alive about her, intoxicating, a pull that sang to only him— it was truly glorious. And how badly
did he want to give in to the allure, the siren’s call, to devour her words, her fire, her magic. To
assimilate, become one, to keep her to himself and away from the unworthy eyes currently cast
upon her. The familiar sparks of greed, a smirk, and a sharp ravenous thought, ‘You are far from
inferior.’

“I never said that, My Lady,” Lucius tried for reason, to find a truce before he could lose his
temper, and slipping composure, “After all, you are a special case. Not everyone is afforded the
chance to be personally taught by Albus Dumbledore.”

The anger ebbed away, the uncomfortable coldness of confusion replacing it. Brows knitted
together, trying to understand his meaning. ‘Taught by Dumbledore?’ Recollections of her
interactions with the headmaster came to mind, trying to understand where Lucius’s assessment
was coming from. True, the older wizard did call her into his office more than once— but that was
mainly to check in on her, to see how she was faring mentally, emotionally. And the more she
thought back to it, the more ascertained she was that nothing about their interactions could be
labelled as being educational in nature.
Pardon?” she echoed in a stupor, blinking slowly at the blond man.

“You were taught by Dumbledore, were you not? That he visited you several times prior to your
Hogwarts letter?” he pressed onwards, a pale brow arched in mild surprise at her lack of
comprehension.

‘Dumbledore visited me? When?’ her thoughts were a swirl of bewilderment. Surely if the man
had been at Privet Drive, she would have known about it— but yet, there was no recollection of the
bearded wizard in her childhood memories. Green gaze drifted over to Voldemort imploringly,
begging him for an explanation, for reason and enlightenment. An equally puzzled gaze met hers,
contemplation alight in their scarlet depths as fingers interlaced to a steeple.

“When the Ministry discovered that you had been left in the muggle world, it naturally sparked
outrage,” the Dark Lord explained tentatively, eyes searching his horcrux’s for any sign of
awareness, “After all, leaving the Chosen One in a world not of their own was, by many’s
accounts, an act of political sabotage. To appease the general public, Dumbledore had agreed to
yearly visits in order to mentor you and ensure that you would be well-adjusted upon your
Hogwarts arrival.”

The hands dropped from their bruising grip on the throne’s carved back, her tongue fumbling to
work to make the words coherent, and only managing out a choked, “What?”

A dangerous glint in Voldemort’s gaze, apprehensive darkness unfurling in the cavity of his chest,
“Harri, when did you first see Dumbledore?”

“I-,” the girl trailed off, brows knitting together as her mind swam at the turn of the conversation,
“My first year, at the welcoming speech. But I didn’t actually talk to him in person until he visited
me in the infirmary.”

His jaw ticked, ignoring the outraged whispers among those seated at the table, drinking in her
adrift expression, the disorientation that made her eyes glaze over. It confirmed it all— the great
Albus Dumbledore had kept her ignorant, left her stranded without any ties to a world that was
indebted to her. And he had a pretty clear idea as to why. Who else would be easier to control than
someone who was young, unknowing, weak? ‘The manipulative old fool, well played,’ a scathing
thought, studying the way her chest was rising and falling too rapidly, the bright bursts of her panic
already seeping through their connection.

“I knew it! His sanity truly was slipping,” Mulciber suddenly shouted from down the table, a
passionate jeer that earned a few murmurs of support, “And I say good riddance— his death was
the best thing to happen to the wizarding world.”

A glare, one that spoke of warning and to hold his loose tongue, was shot towards the Death Eater
as Voldemort abruptly rose out of the throne. And even though he could plainly see the look of
pure unfiltered horror in those emerald eyes, he felt it more viscerally through the bond. Her heart
skipping a rhythmic beat, the disquiet of her mind, the one word that stuck out amongst the chaos
of the gale— ‘monster’. A hand subconsciously lifted, extended for her to take, a silent plea to
listen and not to react first.

But she was already fleeing from the room, the heavy doors thrown wide in her rush to leave and
closing with a resounding click.

The Dark Lord apparated in the study a second after, having abandoned the meeting and already
knowing where she was instinctively heading, “Harri.”
The girl refused to speak, the words unwilling to formulate, stuck in her throat, and dying before
her tongue could fumble them out. ‘He killed him,’ it was a circling persistent idea, one that
conjured up images of a snake-faced man and hellfire eyes—of a wraith emerging from a spewing
cauldron, of sharpened teeth and slitted pupils, of a creature dripping in shadows and vile magic.
And that very same devil was on her heels, chasing after her into the gilded cage of a bedroom.
Everything seemed too constricting, too tight, her skin stretched too far, the clothes suddenly a
suffocating weight. Desperately, she wondered where that exit sign was, the fire escape, the way
out— ‘You’re a fool for thinking there even is one,’ supplied a spiteful thought.

Though the room was, by no regards, small, it may as well have been a broom closet, a bubble, the
man closing the door behind them taking up too much of its space. His aura was a pollution, his
presence a toxicity that thinned the air and robbed the oxygen. The pulse in her veins was a
punishing tempo that made the world about her tilt, and for the clarity in her gaze to diminish.
‘Dumbledore’s dead,’ a shaky hand running roughly through long auburn strands, shuddering
breaths, stomach clenching.

Voldemort narrowed his gaze a fraction watching her attempts to process, vowing to make
Mulciber pay for the slipup. He had been planning on telling her eventually, of course he did—
after all, it would have been impossible to keep it a secret for all of eternity. But that was for the
future, far into it, when their relationship wasn’t as rocky, was more steady. Not now. Not when
they’ve only just reached a tentative sort of peace. His attention fixated on the hand combing
through her hair, the ribbon holding his insignia thrown forcefully against the wall, a crumpled
heap of velvet against the baseboard. Delicate fingers were clutching the hollow of her throat,
acting as though it had been burnt, and— there it was, flashes of himself from the graveyard. A
gruesome sight of a demon, a beast, twisted and contorted, her own personal evil. It made his jaw
clench, fingers twitching at his side as an insatiable itch thrived in the empty spaces between his
ribs. ‘Stop thinking of me like that.’

“Harri-,” he tried again, a vain attempt to ease the tension from his jaw, the shoulders, to stifle the
urge to lash out, to forcefully make her see he wasn’t the boogeyman of the past.

“You killed him,” her words were flat and accusing as the petite frame whirled around, green eyes
flashing.

There was the briefest thought to deny it, to say he hadn’t, to obliviate the conversation from her
mind— it certainly would have been easier, “I did.”

“Why?!” somehow, hearing it from his own lips, the casual admittance, made it all the more
damning, an undeniable and irrefutable truth.

“Why?” the Dark Lord echoed in confusion, taking a step closer towards her, then another, “He
was trying to murder you, to harm what is mine.”

And somehow, that’s what it always came back to— her inciting death and destruction by simply
breathing, by just existing. Everyone around her died or suffered as a result of their connection to
her, a cursed relationship. Though she understood the headmaster had tried to kill her in cold blood,
had seen that green as a sickening afterimage behind closed lids every night, it still made her want
to retch. An overwhelming amount of guilt, of despair, coursed through her knowing that
Voldemort had acted on her behalf— had carried out a karmic ‘justice’ she didn’t even want in the
first place.

“He was just scared!” Harri grappled for a reason to explain the headmaster’s actions, some part of
her refusing to admit that the man would have willingly attempted such drastic actions if he had
another choice— or if he saw another way out.
Scarlet eyes widened for the briefest of a second, rendered speechless by her defense of Albus,
before narrowing and taking another step closer. The temperature in the chambers had abruptly
dropped, a swirl of frigid air that seemed to go unheeded by either of the pair. His gaze flitted
across the crumpled expression, the hopelessness, the desperation. ‘She truly is defending a man
that tried to destroy her,’ it was a perplexing thought, a bewildering one, and he couldn’t quite wrap
his head around it. The girl refused to flinch when he moved closer, a misplaced envy blooming
and writhing about his rationality at the show of her steadfast faithfulness. Severus’s assessment
suddenly came back to him— “Her loyalty, once earned, is unshakeable”— and how it rendered
him famished. Craving, longing, lusting, aching to be the one to earn that devotion, that
unwavering commitment, and worship.

“So fear justifies murder, Harri,” he bit out scornfully, long strides pausing only when he stood an
arm’s length from his horcrux, unbridled frustration sparking the crimson flames to life in his gaze.

“Well, it has for you,” she snapped back, unable to help herself in the face of his hypocrisy, “Or
have you forgotten that you were the one who tried to kill a baby all because of some stupid
prophecy?!”

‘Have some patience, she’s only lashing out in grief,’ a small voice whispered, drowned out in the
wake of his disbelief, his fury. She dared to try to turn this back on him, to make it somehow his
fault that Dumbledore had betrayed her? His teeth nearly cracked from the pressure in which they
were ground, a muscle ticking in his jaw, fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. There was
an urge to be cruel, to be vicious, to torment and subdue her— that vile seed in him, the darkest part
to his personality, singing to make her understand, to force her to hold that silver tongue before it
incited irreversible damage

“Oh please, Harri, save me the moral platitudes,” he seethed, lips curling into a sneer as he towered
over her, “Do not act so naive. It shouldn’t surprise you that I killed him, not after what he has all
done. You can not tell me you truly believed the lie about him missing— if you did, you are either
an imbecilic child or willfully ignorant.”

It was as though the light had been extinguished, the switch to her anger being abruptly flipped off.
Because, as much as it pained her to face the truth, he was right— she had seen the signs, had the
sneaking suspicion this entire time but chose to suppress it all in favour of faith. The fact that the
Dark Mark had appeared over the Astronomy Tower, the mysterious radio silence on the
headmaster’s end. The wand in his grasp that always looked a touch too gut-wrenchingly familiar,
unable to exactly place where she had seen it before. Harri had observed it all, purposefully put on
a pair of blinders, and for what exactly? To hold onto the hope that someone was still out there,
strong enough to oppose him? To save her? That another person could shoulder the burden of
defying him? Could do the one thing that she had no strength for? And with Dumbledore gone, it
meant that the responsibility was solely hers now— a terrifying and weighty conclusion to come
to. And how it made her want to retch, to throw up.

The image of the Dark Lord began to blur, to distort and warp as a green gaze started to mist over,
distantly aware of hyperventilation setting in when the edges of her surroundings dimmed. True,
she and the headmaster had had some rough patches— but that didn’t mean she wished death upon
him. Not to the man who had brought her sweets in the infirmary, had given the warmest
welcoming back speeches, had been a constant friendly presence in her first few years at Hogwarts.
Had made her feel like she belonged, welcomed her with wide arms, and invitations for tea. Not to
the man who had gifted her the very first Christmas present within her entire 11-year existence—
an invisibility cloak, a memento of her father— or who had passed the time with her in front of the
Mirror of Erised. Even if that hospitality had faded in the most recent years, that grandfatherly
affection, that kindness, Harri just knew she could never pray for an ill fate to befall him. It was a
complicated relationship, a bittersweet one, that symbolised some of the best, and worst, years of
her life. And knowing that it was all gone, the wizard who had been such an integral part of her
young life, left a hollow ache— a nasty case of survivor’s guilt.

“What has he ever done to inspire such loyalty, anyways? What hold does he have over you?” the
Dark Lord pressed onward, both enjoying yet somehow hating the look of defeat on the girl’s face,
the wet sheen in owlish eyes, “Because, from where I stand, he has done nothing to earn your
concern.”

Her mind turned over, trying to find a suitable answer, one to protest he was wrong— but she
couldn’t. The tongue was too heavy in her mouth, refusing to work, a burn in her throat that
reminded her of when she drank water too quickly or swallowed a larger than normal bite. There
wasn’t a convincing enough response, an answer that would make him see reason, to understand
what she was feeling. And, as recollections of time spent at Dumbledore’s side flashed by in a
dizzying blur, there was some truth in the reasoning— after all, it was the headmaster who had
always requested things of her, who always held the vital bits of information and only doled them
out as a reward for good behaviour, who denied her requests to be spared from the Dursleys time
and time again. So why was she feeling such a gaping ache of loss? It was illogical, irrational, only
serving to heighten her anxiety and the pangs of grief.

“There would have been countless wizarding families that would have jumped at the chance to
foster you, the famous Girl Who Lived. But instead, he purposefully concealed your heritage, left a
child not even 2 years old on a doorstep with nothing but a letter for justification. He didn’t even
give a damn enough to carry you inside,” he hissed out, fingers twitching at his side, an impulse to
grab her, shake her, make her see the truth even if it was unbearable— that spiteful jealousy, that
covetous envy at her misplaced loyalties refusing to abate.

Her heart twisted in her chest, thorns wrapped and sunk in too deeply that tore the muscle with
every beat. There was a warmth on her cheeks as tears slid down, a scorching tacky path, an
auburn head stubbornly turning from the weight of his scrutiny. Suddenly, the coldness of the room
was a welcomed sensation, a numbing chill that provided some respite. Those painfully honest
words lashed at her skin, barbs in the inflections that stripped the flesh from bone, and left it
exposed for all to see. It made her feel raw, off-balanced, off-kilter. ‘He’s right.’ After all, who
leaves a baby alone in the middle of the night— a heated blanket and a hastily written letter her
only earthly possessions? Yet, no small part of her wanted him to shut up, to cease his cruelty, to
stop tainting the few precious memories she had with blasphemous truths.

Harri roughly shoved past him in an attempt to flee from his poison, from his toxic and
contaminating malice. It was an instinct for her feet to carry her away, to seek refuge elsewhere, to
hide the pain and cope with grief like she always had done— by herself and locked away.

“He was raising you for slaughter this entire time,” Voldemort refused to relent, hand darting out in
a bruising grip to grasp his horcrux’s forearm when she tried to leave, “He never once trained you
and yet he expected you to rise up against me? To fight me?”

A sharp yank backward, a hand on a delicate shoulder that aggressively spun her around, crimson
eyes greedily drinking it all in— the shattered expression, the quiver of her lower lip, the brows
drawn together, begging for him to finish. But he couldn’t— the will to remain quiet, to let her
continue living in the disillusioned fantasy gone. Evaporated. And he considered why, exactly, that
was. Why was there such a need to make her see the facts? In the end, it wasn’t as though it
personally affected him if she continued to hold onto the pretense that Dumbledore had actually
cared for her, had looked at her as being more than fodder, than a game piece.
Unbidden images of himself at Wool’s, the excitement and elation at being told he was a wizard—
only to receive a look of immediate distrust once he was told he was too different. That speaking to
snakes was enough to isolate him, to shove him on the periphery, to mark him as a freak, and an
oddity. The same suspicious glares that followed him throughout his years at Hogwarts, an orphan
just wanting, craving, to prove himself. To earn the adoration and the kindness of the professor that
had liberated him from a depressing fate, a pathetic end— only to be constantly rejected, time and
time again.

“If you had, by some miracle, defeated me, make no mistake— he would have killed you in the
end,” there was desperation underlying the savageness, the brutality, fingers tightening about a
fragile wrist, “Only a fool would deny that it’s easier to control a dead martyr than a living hero.
And with you, his sins would have disappeared as well. No one could find out how little he had
done to prepare you, to help you.”

“Stop it,” she finally whispered, voice meek, shoulders trembling as bile rose in the back of her
throat.

Everything seemed too distant, too blurred, too muddled. It felt like a lie, her entire existence a
facade, a mask, orchestrated by those around her. Constantly pulled in one direction or the other by
men with too much power. And there was a nagging thought, one that made her stomach lurch, a
sob to tear out of her throat of its own accord— ‘Had any of it been real?’. Had those smiles, those
conversations, those visits held any semblance of truth? Or had they all been faked? Things done in
order to get her to trust him, to force her guard down, to cultivate a fierce loyalty. Had the
headmaster felt anything for her or was all he saw a political tool, a vital piece to his game of
chess? It was a crushing realization to come to, a betrayal in the way of an unwitting wish that
Dumbledore held some of Voldemort’s honesty. At least, when the Dark Lord had been wanting to
kill her, he was explicit and transparent about it— not hiding behind lemon drops and tea with too
many sugar cubes.

Harri was abruptly pulled into him, the lines of his body firm as arms caged themselves about her
waist. And how she hated herself for relaxing into the hold, for not resisting or protesting. As she
shamelessly clung to the front of his shirt, allowing tears to dampen the starched material, the girl
couldn’t bring herself to push him away. A scent, something comforting in nature, flooded her
senses— the smell of petrichor, of the first rainfall hitting the parched earth, of sweet smoke, curls
and wisps in the winter night. It made her feel safe, a condemning single word coming to mind—
‘Home’. The hand that was rubbing idle circles into the top knob of her spine, the chin resting atop
her crown, all of it was too distracting. The sensations cruelly constricted around her heart, doing
little to lessen the nausea, to fight off the strong pulls of guilt. She was meant to be mourning the
death of the headmaster and was, instead, finding solace in his murderer’s arms.

“Dumbledore never gave a damn about you, Harri,” his words were a whisper, the possessive hold
constraining, “But I do. You are mine— borne from my magic to forever protect and to hold.”

She grit her teeth, burying her face into the expanse of his chest and trying to ignore the pangs, the
unwelcomed flutters following his admission. Though the words should have been comforting to
hear, the message, the threat of them, was less than innocent— it all came down to the fact she was
still his. A container for his soul, irrevocably tied to him. Everything felt like a battle, an unkind
game of tug and war, too many emotions, too many thoughts trying to make themselves fit. Too
much, yet too little. Too bright yet too dull.

“Get out,” the girl whispered venomously into the collared shirt, shaking hands reaching up and
firmly pushing him away to stop the overwhelming sensations that rendered her mind hazy, “Get
the hell out.
Voldemort stumbled back, not entirely too surprised at her rejection as he considered the tears, the
blatant conflict worn so openly on her face. Crimson eyes trailed after her as the redhead marched
determinedly to the bathroom, slamming and locking it behind her. Though they both knew a door
wouldn’t keep him out, he considered it was best to let her have this sham of freedom— “She
enjoys her autonomy more than others,” a potion master’s cautioning. Clenching his jaw, the man
stared down at an open palm, feeling the phantom heat of a girl in his grasp. A lingering reminder
of how close he had been.

The Dark Lord swept from the gilded finery of the bedroom.

At some point, she had fallen asleep on the bathroom tile, the throes of the dreams uneasy, restless.
No matter how hard the girl had tried to summon pleasant images, it kept all reverting back to the
same thing— flashes of green, a sickening light show. Dumbledore, face decayed and flesh falling
from the hollow gaunt of his cheeks, a sense of sickness overcoming her at the gruesome sight. A
lipless mouth, ‘For the greater good,’ the twinkle long gone in a milky gaze, wand raised, a
corkscrew of vivid spellfire.

Harri jolted awake, cooling sweat clinging to her like a second skin, spine stiff and heart
hammering. A shaky groan tore from her throat, eyes stinging from the past hours spent crying.
Apparently, even her dreams felt the need to torture her, to bring about the face of her guilt into full
view, to goad and prod at her conscience. A trembling hand reached up to scrub over a waned face,
unsteadily rising to her feet and allowing herself to be carried away on instinct. The witch wasn’t
quite sure as to why she sought out the study— perhaps a part of her just wanted a change of
scenery, a physical way to leave behind the nightmares. After all, it was her routine at school, often
passing the hours in the common room until morning, finding it preferable to a dark bedroom.

Voldemort had been seated in one of the armchairs as she sheepishly opened the door, frowning at
his relaxed stance. The fireplace had been lit, a decanter of scotch on the table between the two
chairs and a crystalware glass hung loosely in his grip. He lifted the edge to his mouth, taking a
contemplative sip as the two regarded each other for a second in silence— crimson and emerald
stares passively, warily, taking in the other. Her nightmares were what had roused him, the
bleedthrough of the bond increasing in the wake of her emotional distress. And, if someone were to
guess that he was secretly hoping, anticipating, that she would come to the study in search of
respite— then they might be correct. In the background was the crackling of the fire, sharp pops to
punctate the hush, attention fixated on the way she had begun to chew on her lower lip. There was
a conflict warring in her eyes that relayed the inner dilemma— she didn’t want to go back to the
bedroom but she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to be in his company either. ‘Better choose, little
one,’ a mirthless thought, slightly bitter that his horcrux was apparently still this disinclined
towards him— warranted, he knew, but still a difficult thing to swallow nonetheless.

A smirk that he tried to hide behind the glass as she moved, hesitantly, to the opposite chair, falling
down into it with a huff. On his periphery, a surge of pleasure coursed through him at seeing her
get comfortable, drawing her knees up to her chest and locking her arms around them. While under
most circumstances, he may have frowned at bare feet being placed on the furniture, would berate
her for a lack of manners, he considered he could let it slide— especially so after the disaster in the
bedroom. It was a relief just to see her back beside him, that she was, begrudgingly, turning to him
for late-night company.

“Are you always up this late?” a quiet mumble from her with the slightest hint of resentment, gaze
fixed firmly on the flames dancing in the mantle.

“Usually, yes,” he idly responded, swirling the glass and unable to quite help the teasing smirk,
“But someone’s bleedthrough was particularly distracting tonight.”

Harri winced at his accusation, somehow feeling both guilty yet vindictive that she kept him from
sleeping as well, “Sorry.”

They lapsed back into a tranquil quiet, both occupied with their own thoughts and content to just sit
in the shadows next to one another. It was transforming into an alarming habit, she recognised, one
that should have never even formed in the first place— it was becoming more and more
comfortable to be near him. That, against all rhyme and reason, it was a relaxing solace found
whenever his temper was calm. Something irrational in her tried to determine if this was horcrux
related or if this effect was felt by others as well. And a sliver, a small part, found herself almost
wishing that it wasn’t— that this side to him was one that only belonged to her. A condemning
desire, its origins unknown, that she vainly attempted to stifle, to stamp down, to ignore the
possessiveness behind it.

‘Remember why you are here in the first place,’ an inner monologue reasoned, trying to stoke back
up the fire from earlier. A heavy sigh followed suit, shoulders slumping as exhaustion latched its
claws into her. She would love to fight, to argue, to try to make clear that line of distinction
between them— evil vs good, immoral vs moral. But it was all so tiring, the energy required to do
so was long gone from her system. Sleep, peaceful and easy was what she wanted— and how Harri
would kill for it at the moment

“You know,” she ventured, voice wistful and lowered to a whisper as an auburn crown tilted back
to rest on the lip of the chair, “I used to think you were the only monster out there.”

The Dark Lord’s grip tightened about the glass, long leg crossing over the other. He was aware,
painfully so, of how she thought of him. After all, he had seen the image of himself so clearly in
her mind, had heard the damning thoughts. But there was a difference between thinking something
and verbally admitting it aloud. He found himself not quite wanting to know where she was going
with this particular thread of conversation— both morbidly curious yet dreading it.

“But now? Now, I’m not too sure,” the girl continued, brows pulling together as she reflected on
her life, of all those she had met both kind and otherwise, “I think too many people are and they
just hide it well.”

He hummed in response, knocking back the remainder of the amber liquid and relishing in the burn
as it slipped down his throat. She was right in her assessment— he had met far too many that hide
cruel intentions behind honeyed words and flashing smiles. Admittedly, he was one of them. But
he always did consider his saving grace was his awareness of the vile side to his nature. And he
was all too aware that he suited her definition of a 'monster,'-- had reveled in it in the past and was
comfortable in acknowledging it. Though, he supposed, that’s why it was easiest to label him as
the sole evil in the world— such honesty made him the perfect target.

“Tell me about your life, Harri,” he filled in the gaps when she trailed off, finger tapping
rhythmically against the chair’s armrest, “Your muggle relatives, specifically.”

Upon seeing the memories, it had taken the entirety of his will and strength not to hunt them down
right then and there. To tear apart their limbs, to strip the flesh from their bones, to watch the light
fade from their eyes for ever daring to touch her. But it was Snape who, in the end, had cautioned
not to take action until the girl was free with the information, to avoid inciting any further fractures
to an already precariously held together mind. And, after how she had reacted to the news of
Dumbledore, there was some merit in the idea— after all, she may hold the same misguided
sympathies towards them as well.
A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth in the wake of the silence that stretched on. He might
have even guessed that she had fallen asleep-- but no. There was movement on his periphery as an
auburn head buried itself between drawn knees.

“They weren’t kind, if that’s what you are asking,” Harri finally ceded to the question, a sleep-
deprived mind trying to string together a coherent enough line of thought, “It could have been far
worse though. And I 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 picnic basket came to the forefront of his
conscious, the girl having accidentally projected her memories into his. ‘She must be more
exhausted than she’s letting on,’ an idle thought of concern as crimson eyes slid over to her curled
up form. He found no moral dilemma in using this as a perfect chance to question her or to pry
further information out of normally closed lips. It was an unsettling notion to arrive at to know
there were far more memories than those he had witnessed, the beast in his chest pacing, rearing to
lay it all bare.

“What do you mean by ‘they weren’t kind’?” he pressed, switching his legs to cross the left over
the right.

“They hated me, you know,” the words were muffled, fingers curling deeper into the softness of
her calves as she recalled unkind hands, the sneers, the pain, “Well, more specifically, they hated
magic. But Dumbledore always made me go back, no matter how much I begged. He said I had to
because of the blood wards.”

And there it was, another misdeed, another cruelty enacted by Dumbledore all for the sake of ‘the
greater good’. The Dark Lord couldn’t quite help the sneer, the acidity on his tongue— the
headmaster had known what was happening to her but still let it continue on. A grand master plan
to condition the girl to equate the magical world to freedom, to make her want to come back-- to do
anything to save it when the time came. It was beyond despicable understanding that the old man
had purposefully left a magical child, his Chosen One, in such a house and readily ignored the
pleas not to return. Voldemort considered that if he could bring the man back, he most certainly
would—somehow, the death he had given the headmaster seemed too painless, too quick.

“It got a bit better, though, once they realised they couldn’t beat the magic out of me and I started
to go to Hogwarts,” an auburn head suddenly lifted, venomous spite in a curse green gaze, “They
wanted to refuse, initially. Even took us to an island to escape the letters. But then Hagrid showed
up and Vernon nearly fainted.”

He wisely chose to set the glass down before it could shatter in his grip, jaw tensing at her words--
at the fact that such filth even deemed it possibly right to lay their foul hands on something so
precious. But there was some comfort to be found— the girl hated them. The look in her eyes, the
malice in her tone. Voldemort could sense her resentment, her fury, as real as his own, the
beginnings of a storm that swirled perfectly in-sync with the one in his chest. And that was all he
needed, the sign he had been looking for— the Dursleys just had their fate sealed in a passing
sentence.

“Muggles can be cruel,” he surmised, sparing a glance over at the girl staring into the flames, the
orange glow lending that fiery hair a radiance.

“Did you know that I was raised in an orphanage? A Catholic one at that.”

Harri had propped her chin up on a knee, frowning and glancing over in alarm at the red-eyed man.
Somehow, she always forgot that he once was a child as well, hadn’t always been Lord Voldemort,
the Darkest Lord of their century. It reminded her of his humanity and it was disconcerting.
Perturbing. Perplexing. And to hear he grew up in the muggle world as well, in an environment that
hated magic probably just as much as her relatives did? It was a shock to her system. ‘What other
ways are we similar?’ Such a simple thought but one that she clung to obsessively without fully
intending to.

“They tried to exorcise me once my core started to develop, believing I was possessed by the
Devil,” he admitted, mildly taken back by how casually and freely he was in confessing to such a
dark part of his youth— but, then again, if he couldn’t be honest with his horcrux, then with who
could he be?

“Of course, I got my revenge,” Voldemort added wryly, a smirk that was as brittle as his voice.

A beat of silence. A stretch of time between them-- a soul unevenly split between two bodies yet
having undergone similar fates. An introspective moment of how the Girl Who Lived and the Dark
Lord shared more parallels than differences.

“Muggles can be cruel,” Harri finally echoed, stomach clenching at the thought— and not entirely
for the priest’s gruesome end but for the ghost of a boy who had to endure such a thing.

The girl had finally fallen asleep on the chair, exhaustion ultimately winning its battle and claiming
her for its own prize. Voldemort considered her for a second— how peaceful and relaxed her face
was, the sorrow, the anger, smoothed from her expression. Crimson eyes flitted over its detail as
though attempting to commit it all to memory. The fan of dark lashes on high cheekbones, the
slightly parted rosebud mouth, the delicate arch of brows lowered in relaxation. ‘My own Sleeping
Beauty,’ an assessing thought, possessive and content as he rose from the chair to reach for the
limp body

‘She’s truly a light little thing,’ came a passing commentary as an arm tucked itself under her legs,
the other curled about the thin expanse of her back. In fact, the girl felt nearly weightless in his
hold and barely even stirred in his bid to pick her up. Voldemort studied his horcrux for a second,
fixated when she had instinctively buried her head into his chest, curling into the warmth. A glance
spared towards her bedroom door before he turned on his heel to his own. Somehow, the idea of
relinquishing her just yet wasn't a pleasant one.

The entrance to his chambers parted, the dim glow from the mantle providing a soft light about the
monochromatic room. Nagini was curled in front of the lowered flames, lifting her head in a
curious manner when her master had entered with the redhead in his arms.

Voldemort paid the snake no mind as long strides crossed to the ostentatious four-postered bed, the
duvet and silk sheets unfolding themselves under the will of his magic. Tenderly, gently, he
arranged the girl on the bed, eyes glinting with a worshipful appreciation. ‘This is where she
belongs,’ something whispered. Even his own logic had to admit that she looked at home among
the black silk— a startling contrast of colour among a backdrop devoid of it otherwise.

A moment was passed in a reverent touch, admiring fingers drifting across the face and a thumb
absentmindedly tracing over petal-soft skin. It wandered upwards to brush a stray strand from her
forehead, passing over the lighting bolt just above her brow. His irrevocable claim, the little mark
that had started it all.

“Nagini,” his words were distracted as he called forth his companion, hellfire eyes darkening as
the pale girl had leaned into the touch, “Watch over her. I have some business to take care of.”
He barely heard the inquiries, the questioning, from his companion as she slid up the bed’s frame
to watch with keen interest from above. All attention was honed in on his horcrux, the world about
him fading as his gaze flitted hungrily across her features. It had taken every ounce of his self-
control, of his will, to ignore the desire to stay with her, to cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed—
to kiss her awake as her own twisted version of Prince Charming. To keep her here, locked and
chain as a permanent fixture among his sheets.

‘Remember the task at hand,’ reason cautioned, bending to its command as he withdrew his touch
and rising from the mattress’s edge.

‘It is time Severus,’ an insistent command was channeled through the mark, fleeing the bedroom,
and intent on finding a distraction from a certain green-eyed girl currently occupying his bed.
Every inch of him sang for blood, for retribution, for divine justice. To maim and destroy, to
shatter and mutilate. To finally give in to the acrimonious anger and set the heavens to his will, his
design. And he would be damned if he was to be denied any longer.

Number 4 Privet Drive flashed in the forefront of his mind, a tug at his navel as Malfoy Manor
bled away into darkness.
 The Dursleys
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I ended up coming back a bit late today-- it was my birthday on the
17th and guys! The number of comments when I logged on and the number of
subscriptions! You guys are all so seriously amazing and I don't deserve any of you
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 explicit, so don't worry about that. I really
don't like writing very graphic torture scenes so hope you guys forgive me for not
going into a lot of detail

As always, you are all amazing readers and you all have my eternal love and gratitude!
Thank you to each and every one of you who leaves a comment, a kudos, bookmarks,
just anything to show me you are still reading along! You all make it worth writing for

If one were to ask the respectable inhabitants of Privet Drive what they loved most about their
quiet suburbia, they might be inclined to respond thusly— “Nothing out of the ordinary ever
happens here.” And, for the most part, that would be true. It was a sleepy sort of street with
identical houses, save for a few minor variations in sidings or mailboxes, lined in a row, proper
white picket fences, and perfectly manicured lawns. It was the kind of neighbourhood that those of
the middle-class flocked to— not quite the upper tier but also far from being the lowest rung in
society. All in all, it could be considered a quaint place to settle down, to raise children, and to
build a life on.

How little did they know that, on a late winter’s night, the mild temperatures an indication of an
impending spring, everything would change.

Standing under a lamppost, illuminated in the pale yellow halo, was a man. To any passing
bystander, he may have passed for an honest sort of gentlemen— handsome in a tailored 3-piece
suit, hair perfectly kempt, and Oxford loafers shined to a catching gleam. It was almost enough to
overlook the fact that he was smoking a cigarette, a disagreeable sort of habit. Long puffs curling
and crystallizing in the frigid air, the filter raised to a thinned mouth as he watched Number 4, an
unreadable look overshadowing his refined features.

However, upon closer inspection, one would have been quick to realise there was something off
about the young man. The eyes were a bloodied hue, the skin a touch too pale, and almost marble
in its smoothness. There was an unnerving splendor to his appearance, imperfections outwardly
lacking— though one may try to find them. And the aura clinging to his frame, his skin, the lines
of his body. It was one that triggered a fight or flight response, an unsettling heaviness, a warning
of danger.

An evil had appeared on Privet Drive.

‘So this is where she grew up,’ a passing thought as he raised the cigarette to his lips, an idle
inhale. Quite rarely did Voldemort indulge in muggle habits, finding very few desirable— but even
he couldn’t quite resist the urge to lapse back into a vice formed during the tender years of
adolescence. An act of rebellion, a soothing balm of nicotine, the calm found in the repetitive
motion. Raising it, inhaling, pulling away, exhaling. And he considered that, of all nights, it was
warranted. It helped even out his temper a touch, reducing it from an inferno to something far more
glacial. Allowed him to strike a balance that was desperately needed, to ease away the persistent
memory of an auburn-haired girl curled in his bed. ‘Lucius would have a heart attack,’ a snide
thought, smirking at the vision of the prim man having a fit upon seeing his Lord do something as
mundane, and muggle, as smoking.

He flicked the smoldering bud onto the damp asphalt, grinding it under his heel as a scarlet gaze
trained itself on the house across the street. The lace curtains were drawn, the windows darkened
to relay its masters were asleep. In all sense of the word, the residence looked charming, sweet,
cookie-cutter perfect-— how it made his teeth ache. After all, he was too aware of the despicable
acts that had taken place behind its tanned bricks and outward respectability. A farce, a mask, a
pretense that Number 4 was trying to maintain. There was a burning urge to set it aflame, to leave it
as ash, dust, rabble under his feet.

“Severus,” came his quiet greeting, a soft pop at his side, an indication the man had arrived— and
just on time at that.

Voldemort disregarded the rushed reverent acknowledgments, a tilt of his head for the headmaster
to follow as he crossed the expanse of the groomed front lawn. Long strides, a slow casual grace to
his gait— after all, he wasn’t in a hurry. Time was the one thing he never seemed to lack, to crave,
having recently acquired an excess of it. Pausing on the front steps, a second was spared for an
assessing glint to flicker over the dark woodgrain of the door. ‘What did she feel, I wonder, when
she had to come back here?’ He could almost picture the girl standing next to him, shaking and
embittered, school trunks sprawled on the worn concrete.

“My Lord, if I may,” Severus voiced from behind the man’s shoulder, hovering and brows drawn
in confusion, “What exactly is your plan?”

“My plan, Severus,” the Dark Lord spared a quick glance, teeth glinting sharply, and a predatory
look in his eyes, “Is to make the filth curse the very day they were born.”

A glow of soft light from a wand tip, a whispered ‘Alohomora’, a locked door giving way.
Voldemort took a step inside the narrow entrance, squinting into the darkness. There was a wave of
his hand to encourage the lights to come alive, the bulbs slow to respond. It took a second for the
wizards’ eyes to adjust, a hush, and a pastel nightmare greeting them. Not that he had expected any
different, of course, considering how late the hour was. The only noises in the house, it seemed,
were the whir of a heater and the ticking of a wall-mounted clock— completely devoid of life.
‘Now where are the vermin hiding?’

Suddenly, there was a shuffle of movement on the second floor, a door being turned slowly, the
soft hissing of a woman demanding her husband investigate. The cutting smile had stretched
wider, the wand lax in his grip— an entirely deceiving notion of unpreparedness. After all, spells
were already flashing in the forefront of his thoughts, the incantations bursting brightly across an
impatient tongue and begging to be voiced. ‘There you are.’

The Dark Lord gave a silent tilt of his head for the potions master to follow, anticipation an itching
sensation as it tore and gnawed the inside of his ribs. How long had he been waiting for this very
moment? Ever since the day he had observed those blasted memories, a girl battered and bruised, it
had been haunting him, an insistent phantom. But now? There was nothing holding him back—
especially considering that his horcux had given him her unintended blessing.

The pair were half-way up the stairs when a whale of a man had come bowling down them, face
waned and a shotgun clenched tightly between fattened fingers. A moment of shock followed
where the muggle seemed to lose his wits, blinking beady eyes to comprehend the two men
casually standing on the carpet. Then he recovered, an attempt to point the barrel towards them—
unfortunately, he never got far enough to pull the trigger.

“Petrificus Totalus,” a lazy murmur with an equally lethargic brandish of a wand, a corkscrew of
light hitting the muggle square in the sternum.

The effect had been instantaneous as his muscles seized, eyes blowing wide when the firearm
slipped from stiffened hands, balance lost. Voldemort had wisely chosen for a split-second
apparition, a blink before he was on the second floor’s landing, the sickening thud of a body
tumbling down the stairs behind him. Severus, unfortunately, lacked the foresight to do such and
had to dive over the banister to avoid being swept away with the hurtling mass. The Dark Lord
spared a quick glance over at a particularly revolting wet crack, the man having collided with the
wall on the ground floor. The pictures strewn about rattled from the impact’s force, dropping
casually and shattering their glass frames.

“Put him in the living room,” he commanded softly from atop the staircase, eyes glinting
appreciatively at the pained moans escaping the heap crumpled at the bottom, “And then deal with
the woman.”

There was something he wanted to see. Light was spilling from a cracked door further down the
hall, the wife no doubt hiding in the closet or under the covers after the ruckus— but little mind
was paid to it. Instead, his attention honed in on the frame littered with locks, crimson eyes
narrowing a fraction at the sight. Deadbolts, sliding chains, and a padlock about the handle littered
the painted wood— entirely an overkill, in his opinion. It was easy enough to piece together whose
room this was, who was caged inside like an animal and locked away by cruel masters that held
the keys. Though Wool’s was not, by any means, an extravagant existence, at least the matrons had
the common decency to not treat their wards like unruly beasts. The Dark Lord slipped inside,
scanning critically the spartan space when the overhead light finally hummed to life. Acidity
bloomed brightly, something sharp writhing in his chest, an unsettling sense of calm to his center.

It was hardly fit to be called a bedroom— the word ‘storage closet’ far more telling. The floorplan
was barely large enough to hold a frameless mattress crudely shoved against a wall— one lone
ratty pillow, yellowed with age, and a frayed blanket on top— and a precarious-looking desk, a leg
propped up by a stack of phone books. Recollections of her hopelessness, of that adrift and lost
expression when she desperately pleaded that her gifted chambers were too big. It suddenly made
sense as to why the girl had been keen to initially reject them. Understandably, it would be
overwhelming to go from this squalor, a reality she had known her entire existence, to such
grandiose finery. Crimson eyes darted about, landing on the single narrow window, and lips pulling
back into a sneer at the sight. There were bars on it— like one might expect to see on a tiger’s
enclosure at the zoo. ‘As if it wasn’t bad enough that they had to lock her in,’ a spiteful thought,
hand twitching about the knobbed wand, the urge to shatter the glass pane nearly overwhelming.

He might have done so if a creak under his step hadn’t demanded his attention. The floorboard that
he had seen in her mind a few hours ago, the loose plank where she squirreled away her most
prized possessions. The Dark Lord knelt down, fingers hesitantly lifting it away, driven on by a
morbid curiosity to see this private side of his horcrux, an ache to know what she considered
precious. A few scattered packages of snacks, a broken snitch, a frayed snowy feather, a plastic
toy soldier with its paint chipping off, and— a dry smirk as he reached down to retrieve a crumpled
envelope. Ivory, wrinkled and torn at the edges, a crimson wax seal on the back. ‘She kept her
Hogwarts letter,’ an idle thought, a sense of bitter fondness as he turned it over in his hands. A
memory of a young boy in a stone building, devoid of colour and always holding a draft, a similar
one tucked deep into a thin pillowcase. Sometimes, he would pull it out while everyone else had
been asleep, squinting in the darkness as he held it up to the watery slivers of moonlight— read it
over and over again just to assure himself it was all real. That it hadn’t been in his head, not just
some cleverly concocted coping mechanism. For some reason, he could so clearly picture a
redheaded girl, green eyes sparkling with hope, doing the exact same. Instinctively, Voldemort
shoved the memento into the trouser’s pockets— there was one last thing he needed to see.

The cupboard had been waiting for him, tucked further down the cramped entrance and hidden
under the stairs. Though the Dark Lord had played a second-party observer to her memories, had
seen it there countless times, it was entirely different standing before the reality. Elegant fingers
ran along the metal grate, the vent carved and slotted into the wood, a heaviness in the pit of his
stomach. Part of him debated if he even wanted to see what lay beyond the door, to witness the full
atrocity of the girl’s youth— he could remain ignorant, blissfully so. After all, the upstairs
bedroom had been enough to seal the Dursleys’ fates, the barred window and endless locks. 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 yellowed light. A single cot took up its entirety, leaving not even enough room
for one to stand. Exposed pipes ran along the walls, a breaker box, and cardboard boxes of
miscellaneous items for decor. And there, carved inside the frame, childish scrawl, jagged and
uneven— ‘Harri’s Room’. A wandering hand traced over it, a glacial sensation frosting over his
heart, his veins, a numbness spreading its creeping tendrils. The cupboard wasn’t even fit for a
dog, nevermind a child. A magical one, at that, a prodigal creation, something as precious, as rare,
as she was. Yet, this is where his horcrux grew up— in cramped darkness with dust, and spiders for
her companions. Flashes of small hands reaching towards the slitted shafts of light, curled to one
side and legs cramping from not moving, only being let out when absolutely necessary. The closet
reeked of fear, of terror, of despairing loneliness. And how that only served to fuel his outrage, to
push him onwards, to stoke that solemn vow of making the swine pay for what they have done.
Overhead, the single bulb shattered, a rain of glass and a crackling fizzle of wires extinguishing.

In the den, Severus had managed to corral the two muggles, the latter of which were sitting on the
rosy couch and looking near fainting. However, the woman seemed to have more spine than her
husband, glaring at the potions master, and sniffing at the wand aimed at them.

“Severus, well done,” the heads had snapped to the Dark Lord when he entered the living room,
unable to stop the frown at the pastel gaudiness of the den— the floral wallpaper, and the lace of
the curtains.

Voldemort paid them little mind, humming in approval at the bloodied face of the man. The
upturned nose had been broken in his tumble down the steps, alarmingly crooked and blood drying
in flakes on the flabby jowls. There were signs of bruising around the bridge, ugly spots of purple
that fanned under beady hateful eyes. ‘Perfect,’ a vicious passing thought as long strides carried
him to the mantle, sneering at the photos of a fattened little boy staring back. ‘Like father, like
son.’ However, as crimson eyes bounced about the frames, he noticed there was a distinct lack of a
girl in any of them. It only served to confirm what he already knew— she was a servant, a maid, a
phantom that was only brought out when convenient, and hidden out of sight when it wasn’t. And
how familiar that was to him, a realisation that brought on a new edge, a new dimension, to his
fury.
“Your son?” an idle question, a twisted smirk when there was no vocal response— the palpable
tang of their fear was telling enough, “Where is he?”

The Dark Lord whirled around, hellfire eyes flashing dangerously, a wickedly gleaming row of
teeth as he summoned forth a chair. No small part of him relished in the way they had flinched, had
jumped back at the sudden display of magic, disgusted alarm so clear in their spiteful glares. One
hand dragged the chair over, placing it with a finality across from them and settling down into it. A
falsely congenial smile on his expression, an easy grace that made it appear as though he were a
king in a throne. All attention was directed onto the beady-eyed man, the lack of mental fortitude
almost appalling as a single word appeared, unbidden, at the forefront of his thoughts.

“Smeltings, hm?” that smile only widened at the paling of their faces, the complexions turning
waned and waxy. The husband, ‘Vernon,’ his mind supplied, looked ready to throw up.

“We’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he suddenly blubbered, rushing out in panic, in terror,
to appease the man, “We’ll even tell you where the freak is if that’s what you want!”

Petunia nodded eagerly on the couch, eyes flitting over to her husband before landing in
desperation back to the red-eyed man before them. She figured if that’s why the wizard was here in
the first place, it was easiest to acquiesce, to spare her family, her precious son. After all, she
would be a fool if she didn’t learn from her sister’s mistake— and what was the sacrifice of a child
that, by all rights, should have been dead 16 years ago?

Fingers twitched on the wand, spinning it over in his grasp absentmindedly as a cold gaze fixated
on the pair. How easily, readily, they were to give up their own niece, their own family. Not to
mention the way they had referred to her in such a degrading manner. ‘He dared to call her a freak,’
a venomous thought, gums aching, an itch to sink his fangs into that flabby neck. To taste the
copper of his blood, to relish in the spray of warmth as the life drained from him. ‘That’s too easy
of a death,’ another voice countered, eyes narrowing a fraction in reluctant admittance to the
rationale. In the end, he did have every intention of earning his pound of flesh, of repaying tenfold
the suffering of his horcrux. At his shoulder, Snape had abruptly stiffened, a rare occurrence for
the usually stoic man— apparently, he was just as offended.

“Severus,” the thin-necked woman had finally found her voice, attempting a new angle to threaten
the potion’s master, “Dumbledore will hear about this, mark my words! We are under his
protection!”

Voldemort was unable to help the burst of laughter at her audacity, the lunacy, the gall of using the
old headmaster as leverage. ‘Truly insufferable.’ Part of himself wondered if the muggle woman
honestly thought that highly of herself— that Dumbledore, of all people, would care if she died,
went missing, was murdered right here in this nauseatingly decorated living room. The shocked
look in those hazel eyes only served to further incite his delight, a cheshire grin as he leaned
forward. The wand stilled between nimble fingers, a demented amusement shining in his gaze.

“Dumbledore is dead,” how liberating it was to say it aloud, a heady and warped feeling that made
his eyes nearly glow in their contentment, “I killed him.”

The look of absolute, unbridled horror was a beautiful thing, a reaction that Voldemort had always
found to be the most honest aspect of human nature. Fear was a great equalizer, a mode that
stripped a person of their falsehoods, of their lies, their masks, and facades. In his opinion, no one
was ever more truthful than in the moment when they experienced true terror— a light shining into
their very soul. It was so easy to see what made someone tick, what their true mettle was composed
of, during these seconds of vulnerability. And what he found in the woman before him inspired
endless mirth, gleeful disgust, at how plainly she was lacking. How shallow, vapid, one-
dimensional. The muggle was nothing like her niece, nothing like the spitfire of his horcrux.
Because even when the girl was terrified, scared witless, she still had a spirit, a backbone, a blazing
inferno— never quite fully cowing or submitting, never crumpling like the thin-faced woman
before him was doing. Yes, Harri Potter truly was a gem, a diamond, and rarity, among humans.
One that was worth coveting— especially so when compared to this uninspired and anemic display
trembling on the couch.

“Tell me, Petunia Dursley,” he sneered, giving into the malevolence, the resentfulness, chasing
after the despair painting her face, “Do you know who I am?

“I’ll give you a hint— I am the reason why you ended up with Harri in the first place,” Voldemort
rose from the chair to tower over the seated muggles, relishing in the dawning of comprehension,
and how her hand gripped at her husband’s in fright.

“Ah, so you do know me. Excellent,” the elder wand danced between his fingers, a cruel glint in a
burning gaze, “Then you are also aware of the deeds that I have done.”

He couldn’t quite resist the urge to flash the elongated canines at them, the beast pacing restlessly
in his chest more than content at how they quivered once they realised how irrefutably damned
they were. The man standing before them was no ordinary wizard— he transcended all boundaries
of what they thought was humanly possible. It was an alluring call, as sweet as birdsong, the
crumble of their psyche, their fortitude, the way they had succumbed to fear without much
resistance. Spells flashed in his mind, too keen to start the main event, to get on with their final
judgment, their reckoning.

“You see, that ‘freak’ you just so kindly referenced to is rather precious to me. And while Albus
may have turned a blind eye to your past neglect of her, let me assure you,” vitriol laced every
syllable, the air turning static in the wake of his rising temper, “I am no Dumbledore.”

She woke to a cooling hand on her cheek, the softest whisper of her name that dismantled the
dreams. Objectively speaking, it was the best Harri had slept in a long time, somehow finding the
bed, the scent lingering in the sheets, an oddly comforting thing. And while she should have been
thoroughly dismayed, disgusted, that she found solace in it, the girl also couldn’t quite deny that
there was a part of her that felt whole, satisfied, relieved. It was a war of two truths, a split down
the middle of her conscience, a tug in either direction. The camp of logic and rationality versus the
emotional and desire-driven one of the horcrux. A condemning reality that was making itself more
and more apparent as the months stretched on— the pull was getting stronger, the shard’s voice
and wishes increasingly more blatant. And how it terrified her, during the few introspective
moments, that she had no way of stopping it.

“Harri,” the Dark Lord called softly, fingers brushing across cream-coloured skin, watching keenly
as green eyes fluttered open and the lull of sleep bled away.

A twist of her head and she was blinking blearily up at the face of the red-eyed man, a look in his
gaze that could only be described as something close to adoration. Her thoughts tumbled over each
other as the haze tried to clear from her mind, a struggle to become cognizant. Only distantly was it
registered that he was touching her, that he had been watching her sleep, hovering over the
mattress’s edge for Merlin only knew how long. Brows knitted together, groggy and trying to
foresee what he possibly could have wanted at this ungodly hour.

And then the girl was being pulled from the bed, a hand about her wrist tugging her from the
comfort of the covers. An unbidden shiver at the abrupt coldness, the shock jolting her awake—
the fire had gone out sometime during the night and, while spring was well on its way, the
temperatures were still quite frigid. Harri blinked owlishly, having little time to react as the other
arm slipped around the small of her waist.

“Come, I have a surprise for you,” he explained, a smirk sliding the corners of his mouth upwards,
pulling her closer to him as the girl stumbled on sleep-laden legs.

There was a jerk at her navel, a disorientating sensation of the air being pulled from her lungs, the
lines of her body squeezed through a narrow tunnel. Around them was a dampness--- a cold sting to
the air, a staleness, and a distant drip of water. Harri looked around wildly, shivering as bare feet
turned numb against the chilled flagstone, and frowning in confusion. ‘We are underground?’
Lining the cavernous hall were arches of stone, moistened and gaping threateningly, grates of iron
bars carved into the rock— ‘A dungeon,’ an unhelpful thought that elicited another spasm of
muscles, this time not entirely from the crisp breeze. It caused a lump to form in her throat, mind
flashing with possibilities as to why Voldemort felt the need to bring her here, to drag her down
into the earth. What ‘surprise’ could possibly be awaiting her in this underground prison? ‘It can’t
be good,’ a thought decided firmly.

Having noticed her tremors, the Dark Lord spared a glance down at the girl in his arms, grip
flexing ever so slightly around her. Sometimes, he forgot that the cold bothered others— he was so
used to it at this point that the swirls of the arctic wind from the cells often went unheeded. But
then again, his horcrux was rather small and possessed a lack of muscle that would normally
regulate her body’s temperature. A mental note was made to perhaps order a diagnostic spell or
have a healer come in for a visit— just in case. With a casual wave of his wand, heat settled over
the prickled skin-- he smirked at the wary dip of her head in gratitude. A guarded searching gaze
was running across his features, an amused chuckle as he relinquished the hold.

“This way,” he murmured, taking off down the stretch of a corridor, anticipation fuelling his steps.

Harri rushed after him, confused and anxious over what could have possibly put the Dark Lord in
this good of a mood. One of the metal gates swung open as he approached it, a quick glance of
crimson eyes over his shoulder to ensure she was still keeping up, before the man slipped inside.
Frowning, the redhead followed after him on hesitant legs, a thin hand reaching up to push the
frigid bars aside.

Peering into the darkness, she flinched when the sconces lit up with brilliant green flames, eyes
stinging at the sudden change in lighting. However, the witch found herself almost wishing it had
remained dark, had continued to conceal the horror that was waiting in the shadows. There, on the
opposite wall and huddled against the stone, were the battered bodies of two people she had hoped
to never see again. They looked terrible, as though they had undergone severe torture, caked
thoroughly with grime and flakes of dried scarlet— ‘Because they have been,’ an appalled thought,
stomach lurching at the stench in the cell. It smelt of an unholy mix of bile, of urine, and of spilled
blood, a putrid and acrid scent that made her want to retch.

The heavy iron door closed behind her with a grating screech, causing her to jump at the sudden
sound. Her relatives had turned their heads when the prison was illuminated, wide-eyed fear upon
seeing the Dark Lord had returned with their niece in tow. Yet, even in spite of their wounds, their
pain, Harri still could so clearly see the shimmers of hatred in the depths of their gazes. It was a
sight that left her speechless, mind turning as she tried to comprehend seeing them again, a shocked
numbness in her limbs at the gore.

“What did you do?” she questioned, voice lowered to a horrified whisper as green eyes scanned
critically over their broken bodies, desperately trying to keep the bile down from rising in the back
of her throat.

“All the pain you have suffered, I returned back to them tenfold,” he surmised, attention fixated on
her expression as she drank in the sight.

And it was true. Petunia’s skin was blistered, reminiscent of all the times Harri had burnt herself
on the stove in a bid to get food on the table. There were large chunks of flesh seared away,
bubbled and weeping, infection setting in. The woman was sporting a ghastly split lip, just like the
one she had after her aunt had caught her across the face with a ringed hand. Vernon was far worse
off— an entire arm shattered, laying at a gruesome angle in an echo of a broken wrist when she had
refused to get back into the cupboard. Welts and gashes were covering the expanse of his body—
flashes of the bite of leather against her skin. His nose had been fractured, bruising an alarming
amount of his face, the front teeth jagged and chipped. It was a mesmerisingly revolting sight— a
trainwreck she couldn’t quite look away from, torn between wanting to see more and erasing it
from memory altogether.

“Why?” her question was detached, unable to look away from the muggles, trying to ignore their
pained moans and cutting stares.

“Because, Harri,” he sneered over at their cowering forms, stepping over a pile of vomit, “They
dared to touch you.”

She whirled around in panic, eyes wide at the confession— once again, he was acting of his own
accord, was sowing pain and destruction all in her name. Though some vile part of her, deep down,
was somewhat glad that they were finally suffering, her moral compass was thoroughly repulsed.
And how it frightened her to know that there was such a twistedness in her psyche that found
satisfaction in their agony. Was she secretly that messed up to revel in another’s pain? And yes,
truthfully, she often thought of the Dursleys being on the receiving end of karmic justice. A fantasy
of their reckoning — but these daydreams often involved her telling them off, a stinging hex or
two, and never punishment to this extent. Her aunt and uncle were still humans, after all, capable
of feeling something, of remorse and regret. And if they just apologised for their wrongdoings,
Harri considered she would probably forgive them— or, at least, that’s what her conscience liked
to imagine.

“You can’t just torture people whenever you feel like it,” she protested meekly, glancing over her
shoulder at the groans, the wet sound of coughing, her attention being drawn against her will.

The Dark Lord watched her apprehensively, eyes glinting in calculation. The witch was objecting
to it outwardly but he could feel it— there was a strand in her, a thread, that was warped enough to
take contentment in seeing her abusers brought to justice. He just needed to expose it, to help that
darkness break through the barriers of her misplaced morality. To make her understand this was a
gift, a liberation, a freedom in finally getting reparations after years of not having the ability to do
so. To help shatter the mold, the constraints Dumbledore had placed around her, hindering her
growth— that she didn’t have to sit back and forgive every wrongdoing.

“Harri,” he grappled for reason, a calmness in his tone that worked in catching her off-guard, “I
saw the memories— the cupboard, your room. They tormented you, maimed you, purposefully
maltreated you time and time again, all because they hated your gift.”

She floundered for an excuse, trying to understand how he could possibly not see the wrongness of
his actions. Yes, even if that were all true, he shouldn’t be allowed to play a god so easily, to
determine another’s fate. No man, Dark Lord or not, should ever be granted that power. Teeth sank
into her lower lip as she anxiously gnawed it, mind a dizzying blur trying to find a case for them, to
buy them their lives, his forgiveness. However, her thoughts were sluggish, slowed, a traitorous
voice whispering in her, ‘You know he’s right. Why are you trying to justify them, save them, when
they would never do the same for you?’ Her hands clenched into fists at her side, fingers curling
and uncurling. ‘Shut up,’ a venomous thought in her own voice, a less than eloquent retort as she
focussed back on their haggard forms. ‘They don’t deserve this,’ she argued but unable to really
find a reason as to why they didn’t.

“Do you want to know what I think, Harri,” he crossed over from the wall he was leaning against,
brow arched in cynicism, “I think you are blinded to the point that you do not want to admit the
truth even when it is laid so bare before you. So allow me to enlighten you.”

The girl watched in bewilderment as long strides crossed over the expanse of the cell, a wrist
suddenly snapping forwards, a flash of a knobbed wand. And then Vernon was on the ground,
clutching desperately at the thick column of his neck. Bloodied fingers scrabbled for purchase, to
find reprieve from the crushing weight on his windpipe, Petunia shrieking at the sight of her
husband suffocating. Wells of scarlet, bright lines of gore, appeared as nails clawed the skin raw in
desperation. Harri gaped at the Dark Lord, eyes wide at the fact that he was magically choking her
uncle, so freely inflicting life-ending violence, and with no intention of easing up.

“Stop it, you’ll kill him!” she reached for the wand in his grasp, ready to pry it from elegant fingers
only to be unceremoniously pushed back with one hand.

“You think they are capable of remorse? Take a guess as to what he is still thinking, Harri,” he
seethed, crimson eyes flashing at her attempts to save the man, “That he should have killed you
when you were a baby. Should have left you in the woods for the dogs, drowned you in a tub,
should have ended your existence all to avoid his current fate.”

Harri shut her mouth with an audible click, stomach lurching as a green gaze slid over to her
wheezing uncle. Somehow, she believed in his words. And not just because he was a legilimens,
capable of slipping into another’s mind with ease, but because she had witnessed it. There were too
many times the girl could recall Vernon explicitly threatening her life, to leave her in the middle of
a forest, that he regretted ever allowing Petunia to bring her inside. But she always just assumed
they were words said out of uncontrollable anger— not things he had actually meant. After all,
how could family even consider such a possibility? ‘That’s a lie. You knew he meant it all this
time. Don’t try to convince yourself otherwise— they were never your family.’

“And her,” Voldemort’s glowing gaze snapped to Petunia, lips curling into a distasteful sneer, “She
isn’t any different. In fact, when I threatened their son, do you know what their response was? That
they would readily 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, nausea overwhelming, a heaviness in her chest.

She looked helplessly to her aunt for denial, for any sign it wasn’t true— but there was none as
the woman spared a hateful glance towards them, shaking hands hovering over her husband’s
panting form. In fact, the venom in those hazel eyes confirmed it all, a nonverbal admittance to the
damning truth. Some desperate part of the girl had hoped her aunt, out of the two, would be the one
to deny it, to admit to a secret love always held for her niece— instead, all that was found was spite
and resentment. The world seemed a bit too unsteady, swaying under her feet, a headache an
unrelenting throb.

They were going to so readily give you up, despite knowing the danger, all to save ‘Duddikins’,’
the cruel whisper taunted, shadows encroaching on the edges of her mind and swirling about her
thoughts. ‘They didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend to care.’ It was as though her mind was
acting of its own volition, images flashing in rapid succession of every bruise and welt, every
broken bone and unkind hand, every single cruel word that befell her at their expense. There was a
stinging behind her eyes, throat parched, tongue heavy. She wanted to argue against that logic, to
tell that rich voice to stop talking, and poisoning her mind. But, in all honesty, Harri was unable.
Because the depressing, unsettling, and morbid truth was that they never did care for her. There
was nothing in her past, not a single memory she could find that would point to them ever holding
tender affections— not one birthday or Christmas present, not a hug or a kiss, not even a good-bye
when it was time for her to leave for Hogwarts. It appeared, once again, that she was trying to find
the good in people when all that existed was rot. Corrupting and toxic decay.

Voldemort watched with an eager hunger as those brows drew together, conflict warring on her
face—but the winner was already evident. He was so close to making her give in, to making her see
reason. To irreversibly taint her, force her to lean into the darkness that she was so content on
suppressing— only a little extra push was needed. Suddenly, the Dark Lord was looming behind
her, a constraining embrace that locked the witch in. An arm looped about her waist, slotting the
petite frame against his, the other snaking over her chest to grab a fragile hand. The elder wand had
been swapped out for his original, summoned to heed the call. Placing the yew into a trembling
palm, he eyed the redhead in his periphery, lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he leaned
down.

“There is no shame, Harri, in wanting to seek out justice,” he murmured softly, encouragingly, tone
cajoling as his hand flexed about her own, “Remember that there is no good or evil— there is only
power and those too weak to seek it.”

Green eyes drifted down to the surprising sensation of a wand placed into her palm, eyes widening
fractionally at the sight. It was bone-white, a pleasant thrum of an echo of the one she had lost—
the brother to her holly. And how good did it feel to have something so close to her faithful
companion back in her grasp, the weight comforting, the warmth a reprieve. Long fingers cradled
her own, gently constricting and curling about the wood, a burst of pleasure at the feeling of being
whole. The surroundings of the cell seemed too distant as all attention latched onto the wand, the
power he was giving her. ‘Use it, take what he is offering.’

“You know the spell to make them hurt, to make them feel your pain,” he pulled her closer
instinctively, crimson eyes ravenous as they trained themselves on the shuddering muggles,
sensing the conflict in her slowly crumbling.

It suddenly was too hard to swallow, throat far too dry, too constricting. And despite the warming
charm shimmering across her skin, Harri found herself with goosebumps prickling and hair raising
all the same. Only distantly did she register as her body was tugged closer, the broad expanse of his
back, the towering frame, doing little to distract her from the moral dilemma. ‘You know what he
is asking you to do— don’t,’ reason cautioned, pleading with her to see sense, to not even entertain
the idea. But that black mist was stronger, swirling aggressively and undulating in a way a serpent
does about its prey. It was suffocating that light, stifling the logic, offering a sweet surrender in its
stead. ‘They’ve hurt you time and time again, Harri. How much longer will you let them get away
with it? Be their doormat for them to tread all over?’

More memories flashed in her mind’s eye— the snake she had befriended in the garden with its
head smashed in once Vernon had caught her speaking to it, the threats to shoot Hedwig for
chirping too loudly, the hunger pains of being denied dinner for three days after she had broken a
plate by accident. Vernon with his too-loud voice, and heavy hands that always left the worst
bruises, with his cold eyes and endless cruelty, ‘He doesn’t deserve your kindness. He’s vile, and
you know it.’
A curse green gaze lifted up to her uncle’s bleeding form, heart constricting painfully in her chest.
How many times had he made her hurt? Had made her bleed as well? Had caused her to suffer, to
cry through the night? Those shadows only grew at the barest flicker of a sign that she was
considering the idea, suddenly overwhelming and all-consuming. An ache in her gums, acidity
bright bursts on her tongue, shoulders trembling. ‘Isn’t it easiest to just give in to the anger? Don’t
fight it— seek it out. Make him finally understand. Show him your might, that you aren’t the scared
little girl under the stairs any longer.’ It was a tempting idea, a beautiful one, the blackened vapors
clouding over her mind and filling every possible crevice, notch, recess. When she breathed in, it
replaced the oxygen in her lungs, a pollution that stifled all life, all light. Her hand raised of its own
accord, wand pointed resolutely towards Vernon, the man crawling away from his niece in panic.

‘Don’t do it,’ a faint voice trying to vainly part through the clouds.

‘Give in, say the words, Harri,’ a stronger, louder, more insistent call, green eyes darkening,
glazing over.

The spell left her mouth of its own free will, a rising crescendo, a gale of tempestuous wind, and
blazing heat, “Crucio.”

Harri only vaguely heard the raw screams, the sound too distant, too murky, too muddled.
Everything just felt magnificent. A crashing wave of a high, electrifying sparks in her veins, a
thrill, a buzz that made her feel more than alive— she felt transcendent, a god surpassing the
mortal plane. Everything felt weightless, airy, like she had sprouted wings and was soaring in the
heavens, tasting the clouds on her tongue, on her cheeks. There was a drowned-out inner voice
begging for her to stop, to realise what she was doing. But it went unheeded in the face of
something so much greater, so much more overwhelming. The girl knew the effects dark magic
had on the caster, that it induced pleasure, was far too easy to lose yourself in once you started—
after all, Barty had assigned them quite an essay to write about it.

But even with that knowledge, it was difficult to prepare herself for the actuality. It surpassed the
joys of flying on her broom, the elation of her Hogwarts letter, of getting drunk on firewhiskey—
every powerful memory she had of ecstasy was overshadowed, diminished, dull in comparison to
the feelings overriding her system. And though she saw Vernon twisting on the ground, wailing,
howling, back arching— it was all a disconnect, far too removed from her to care about it. Harri
never wanted this to end, never wanted to come crashing back down—

“That’s enough,” Voldemort whispered in her ear, abruptly removing the wand from her grip and
cutting the connection.

Quite honestly, he hadn’t expected her to successfully cast it, to go through with the offer— yet, as
usual, Harri Potter had thrown him for a surprise and taken him off-guard. Very few were actually
able to cast an Unforgivable on their first attempt, nevermind produce such promising results. The
muggle man was cracking and Voldemort had no doubt that if another minute had passed, he
would have been as good as dead. Truly though, how glorious was his horcrux in this moment,
panting in his grasp, eyes blown wide and dazed as she attempted to regain her wits, her
composure. Of course, he could relate to her plight. Casting such dark magic was overwhelming,
staggering, especially so the first time it was done— but oh, how beautifully did the girl wear it.
Part of him hated having to end the spell, to break her reverie. To stop the intoxicating taste of her
magic on his tongue, feeling it wrap around himself possessively, sweeping him in ecstasy along
with her. If he hadn’t been ascertained before this moment of the darkness in her core, there was no
denying it now. It suited her, was a second nature, a call that was begging to be answered.

The erratic tempo of the witch’s heart against his chest brought him out of his musings, concern
colouring the edges of his consciousness at the punishing beat. As regrettable as it was, it was for
the best that he had ended it— it wouldn’t do, after all, to push her to the brinks of exhaustion, to
burn through her core after being denied a wand for so long.

Crimson eyes trained themselves on the witch in his hold, flitting across the glazed over dilation—
an expanse of void outlined by a ring of emerald. He considered if the colour had always been this
bright, somehow seeming more vivid than normal in the aftermath of the cruciatus. The parted lips,
the flush giving life to cream-coloured skin, the way her own attention was entirely fixated on him.
She was completely and utterly radiant, captivating, his fingers twitching to cage her, to hold her, to
forever immortalised this moment and never let go. An angel with its wings clipped, tumbling out
of the heavens and plummeting down to earth— tainted with no return. But how beguiling she was
in her fall, his very own Lilith. Everything about her in this moment was doing terrible things to his
self-control, chipping just a touch more away at it, begging him to cross a line that should remain
firmly drawn between them.

Harri had decided, as she twisted in his arms to glance upwards, that he had never looked more
beautiful, more perfect, than he did in this very moment. That adrenaline was still in her system, a
lingering syrup that made the dungeon around them less clear, a touch too fuzzy— except for him.
No, the Dark Lord possessed a startling clarity in the face of the thrumming. In fact, she considered
that she could count every single lash framing those almond-shaped eyes, their depths swirling
with shades of red she had never even known to be possible. It was a heart-wrenching kind of
artistry that went into his creation, a seraphic being painstakingly hand-formed into existence.
Every detail, every inch of him was unfairly arresting— the finely shaped brows, the high
cheekbones, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the defined jawline. And his mouth. She honed in on
it, unable to tear her eyes away from tracing over the cupid’s bow, the shape. Everything in her felt
too muddled, too murky except for one thing. A single persisting desire, inhibitions loosened in the
face of the darkness pumping through her veins, a devastating pleasure in tune with an unstable
heartbeat.

Her body acted of its own accord. One minute, she had been content to just watch him, to find
some reprieve from her high, to listen to the muted wheezing in the background. And then the next,
she was suddenly jolting forwards, pressing her mouth insistently, demandingly, against his own.
 A Starless Sky and An Imploding Sun
Chapter 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!

Thank you for everyone who left me a comment asking if I was okay-- you guys are
truly amazing and such kind readers, I feel unbelievably lucky to have you as my
audience

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 praying 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.

As always, thank you for all of the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and love you've
shown this fic! Every time I log in, it's always to see such wonderful messages from
you guys and it truly does make my day!

Enjoy

One of the greatest fundamental truths of Lord Voldemort was that he was a man of the world,
created and formed by his experiences. He had seen things that would render those lesser mute, had
accomplished feats that vaulted him past the limitations of the glass ceiling on innumerable
occasions. In fact, it might even be more accurate to say that he had shattered it— obliterated the
errant shards until all that remained was a cloud of fine dust. And even those who would consider
him their sworn enemy could not deny that the deeds he had done were godlike, extraordinary,
constantly pushing the boundaries of man’s inherent constraints. As such, there were very few
things remaining in the mortal plane, he had figured, that could render him surprised or truly
shocked. But a velvet mouth suddenly pressed against his own without warning? Well, that
certainly made the list.

The day was quickly becoming marked by unpredictable events— ones that left him astounded,
mystified, bewildered. A storm brewing on the horizon, rolling clouds holding the promise of
unbridled chaos. A beautiful yet tumultuous vision not entirely unwelcomed. There was a
recognisable pattern, after all, underlying their past interactions, one in which the initial point of
contact always befell him to encourage— his hands on her skin, his action prompting her response.
And even in those traitorous dreams, in those ponderings that stretched late into the night when
sleep refused to come, Voldemort had always envisioned himself as the one to take the first step.
The one to cross the line, to pull them past the point of no return, to incite the final damnation of
Harri Potter. As such, it had never been entertained that she would take control— a blasphemous
hope and an unrealistic wish. So it was understandable that when his horcrux had suddenly acted
of her own volition, had disrupted the established hierarchy that dictated their relationship, the man
was shocked. That all he could do was stare, crimson eyes blown wide in a stunned stupor, the
whimpering cries of the muggles entirely forgotten.

A beat of silence as a rosebud mouth withdrew, uncertainty bright in glassy eyes, brows knitting
together in confusion at the lack of a reaction. Voldemort briefly considered the witch, a
calculating hunger in a slitted crimson gaze when the kiss had been rescinded. How long had he
dreamt of this moment? To finally have her in his grasp and to hold her this way? How often had
his imagination plagued him with images, with phantom lips and sensations? Logically, he was
aware that this was, by all accounts, a terrible idea— she was far from ready, was still too young
and naive, had only been carried away by the beguiling allure of dark magic. And he was supposed
to be the adult, the one with the iron will that could safeguard their boundaries until the time was
right. But seeing the dazed expression, that emerald stare begging for something that she couldn’t
quite place— suddenly, abstinence seemed like a ridiculous concept. The control that was already
precariously thinned, ever so waning, splintered, fissured, crumbled.

Initial surprise ebbed, submitting to something ungodly, sinful, impious in nature. He wanted her.
An undeniable truth, a damning one that had been obsessively nurtured since that fateful night in
the graveyard. That immoral yearning festering when the truth of the girl was revealed, held fast on
the tomb of his father’s bones, smears of gore and blooming bruises her warpaint. And if this was
to be his reckoning, if this was to be the infraction that would permanently cast him out of the
Garden of Eden, if she was the forbidden fruit offered up by the serpent, then fine. He had no
qualms or reservations about readily accepting it. The arm hooked about her waist flexed, drawing
the petite frame back to him with an unrelenting strength. Every fiber, every nerve, every molecule
and cell that made up his being was screaming to let go of any objections. To quash and quell the
voice of the conscience battling the cacophonous roar of the sea. And so he did.

Her mouth had parted, an apology on the tip of a hesitant tongue, unformed words that he eagerly
swallowed down. A desperation to stifle their misplaced guilt, to act before her rationality could
dissuade or discourage. Buoyancy immediately erupted, a floating warmth, an urgent need to chase
after that glow. A sweetness, completely unhindered euphoric vibrancy that made the underground
prison seem so distant. But hovering in the background of it all was a blight, an uncaged beast.
Pacing, gnawing, teeth bared— insatiable and unwilling to compromise. Its depraved manifesto
was one that spurred over-consumption, to extend its jaws, and to assimilate until not a single trace
of her remained untouched by its influence. His lips moved demandingly against hers, an
unyielding pressure that refused to grant the opportunity to flee, body relishing in the warmth
seeping from cream-coloured skin— a single thought, ‘More.’ The overwhelming desire to devour,
greed his incriminating vice. And he figured that the girl had brought this upon herself, had
knowingly fanned the embers, had willed that once-dormant creature to rise from the cooling ash—
so, at the very least, she could burn alongside him in atonement.

There had been a tug at their navels, a pull in the pits of their stomachs as the dungeons abruptly
bled away. A faint awareness registered that the pair had been summoned back to the bedroom, a
sanctuary of monochromatic tones and black silk. It was fitting, Voldemort contemplated in a
fleeting thought, that the girl wrapped in his arms was the sole pinpoint of colour amongst the
dullness— fair where he was not, a light to his darkness, the balance that he never knew he had
needed. And how perfectly was she at home here, a startling contrast to the muted hues that made
up his world. In a place far from the acrid smells, the palpable tangs of fear, and the dampened
earth— their own temple hidden from the judgment of an unknown god, a portion of the universe
carved out just for themselves. A safe haven for sinners, a paradise for this moment, a gilded
display to showcase his most beloved masterpiece.

The Dark Lord hadn’t pulled away when they landed, lips possessively guiding her along to set the
pace. She was clumsy, more inexperienced than he had initially thought— all too easily
acquiescing and giving in to his directions. Yet, it was oddly endearing the way she was rising to
meet his hunger, molding herself against him just as enthusiastically, an unspoken refusal to be
intimidated. And how in character was it that his horcrux was still this stubborn even when
plunged so clearly out of her depths. Wandering hands slid down to the backs of bare thighs— only
now discerning that she was still dressed in the slip of a nightgown. Deft fingers curled into the
softness, lifting them up insistently with a steadfast strength, a silent bid for her to follow suit. She
hadn’t hesitated. Long legs wrapped about his hips, delicate hands clutching at broad shoulders for
support as she granted him the power to arrange their positions to his desire. Bodies suddenly spun
in a blur and the girl found herself pinned against the wall, held in suspension off the ground by his
frame. A soft moan at the ache in her spine that had accompanied the rough handling— the protest,
however, entirely lost between their shared breaths.

Slotted lips finally broke apart, chests heaving for a respite, greedy gulps of air where none was to
be found. Emerald eyes locked with crimson ones, an awestruck wonder glinting in their vivid
depths as feelings began to process. Harri understood that this was all tremendously reckless, even
by her own standards — but the meek voice of logic was drowned out in the face of the demanding
pulls of pleasure. If she had thought that the light summoned before was overwhelming, then it was
truly devastating in this very moment. Everything felt far too alive, humming with newly-found
energy, shots of electricity poured directly into her veins with no intention of ever easing up. Each
cell was vibrating, heart fluttering erratically between the confines of its cage, knees strangely
weak, and limbs alarmingly numb. A distant note that her hands, as they found purchase in the firm
muscles of his back, were trembling. They curled experimentally to chase off the tremors—
minorly relieved that they could still move . And yet, despite the unusual sensations that, by all
rights, should have terrified her, the girl found herself craving more. To feel those sparks to her
system, to keep that high going, to supplement the rolling waves of rapture leftover from the
Unforgivable.

A startling, damning revelation — she wanted to fall. If slipping into the void felt this spectacular,
this gloriously breathtaking, then she never wanted to surface or to know a life without it. Why had
she even denied herself this long anyways? And not for the first time in her life, Harri wished to
forget everything— Dumbledore’s betrayal, the crime she had just committed in the dungeons, the
crushing expectations of the world. To just let it all fade in the encompassing tide surging through
her core, to sink under the water and have the harsh realities wash away. To escape for just a few
moments, to lean into the indulgent liberation he was offering her.

And those eyes. Those scarlet eyes drinking her in, the darkness, the intensity, the ravenous
yearning. They caused her stomach to clench, for her blood to turn molten, to inspire a flush of
scorching heat across exposed skin. Everything was off-balanced, off-kilter— this was nothing like
when she had drunkenly kissed Draco in the Hufflepuff common room. In fact, it was almost
laughable to compare the two, the differences far too great, too immense, to even be in the same
sentence. That gaze was smoldering, swirling with indescribable shades of red that she was certain
were brought into existence solely for him. A passing thought, an unbidden assessment that served
as the perfect summary of the man caging her in. He truly was a supernova, a sun, a gaping black
hole dominating their solar system, his pull forcing her into orbit whether she wanted it or not.
Seconds away from imploding, from plunging the universe into true darkness, from creating new
worlds in the wake of such chaotic destruction— and how she craved to experience it alongside
him when the time finally came. ‘I need more. It’s not enough,’ a siren’s call, a flood through the
bond, its origins unclear— the plea could have come from either of them at this point, everything
far too entangled to fully separate out. Yet, he had heeded it all the same. A bruising force, keen
and ungovernable, descended back on a waiting mouth.

There was a demanding swipe of a tongue against her lower lip, a silent command, a quiet gasp that
was taken advantage of. He tasted of honey and the sweetest of lies, of shadows and the greatest
sin— a sacrilegious combination that robbed the very breath from her lungs and the coherency
from her mind. ‘This isn’t right and you know it,’ a whisper, its severity diminished by the bursts
of light behind closed lids. The air about them was charged, static, an oppressive magic that, for
once, she had welcomed as an old friend. Shaking fingers curled deeper into the planes of his
shoulders, a splayed hand smoothing over the dip of her waist while the other snaked its way up
past the knobs of her spine. And then unexpectedly there was a fist in an auburn crown, the
pressure of a harsh downwards tug that exposed the pale column of her throat. Green eyes fluttered
open when he had pulled away, a smirk on a plush mouth and hellfire ignited in an unholy gaze.

Quickly following was a gentle nudge against the hollow, an expel of air that danced cooly across
blushing skin, a tender press of lips on her pulse point. It was perplexingly sweet, out of character,
attention forced to the ceiling above and frowning in confusion at such a docile display of
behaviour. However, it didn’t last long. Teeth, sharp, dangerous, wicked, buried into the delicate
skin, a looming threat to draw blood— only to be released a few seconds later, the heated pull of a
tongue laving against the sting.

A hitch of a breath, a solemnity, a vow, a sacred melodic hymn made just for him, and oh— how
beautifully did his horcrux sing it. He watched her reaction from his periphery, the way the wet
sheen of her mouth had parted, the mild sting of fingernails impressing half-moons through the
fabric of his shirt. How her legs had flexed imperceptibly around him, how she had jolted when he
bit down to reveal that pleasure and pain were two sides of the same coin. She was perfect, so
readily adhering to his desires, a blank canvas to dye, to form, to shape— yet, it wasn’t still
enough.

Despite the glow, the floating, the searing syrup flooding through them, he could still feel it. The
rising swell, the pollution, the voice whispering that he couldn’t be satisfied with just this. But
wasn’t that the truth of his entire existence? When had he ever been fully content? Appeased?
Fulfilled? A lingering product of a youth, of a childhood, passed by in continuous squallor. Of
never having enough— of going to bed at night with an empty stomach, of only having threadbare
clothing to his name, of being continuously denied the praise others were so freely given— a
gaping maw never quite satiated. That persistent itch never quelled or tamed, the source of such
rooted too deeply to ever reach. And yet, no matter how much he had gained, had won, had
acquired, it truly never mattered— famine was to always be his most faithful and truest companion.

There was a growl from his chest, a heaviness between his ribs, an ache in his gums. The hand
interlaced through fiery strands constricted, a keening cry when teeth sank in cruelly— a visceral
reaction to seeking out appeasement, and relief from such damning thoughts. To come back to the
moment, to focus on the girl under him. Solace was found in the fitful and flighty cadence of her
pulse, in the beauty of holding her life in his grasp. And he wasn’t quite sure which was more
thrilling— the knowledge that he was the one in control or the fact that she seemed to be reveling
in it as well. The hand about her waist roamed further down, brushing across the petal-soft skin of
a bare leg and, unthinkingly, slipping past the lace hem of the nightgown. Faint warning bells were
being raised, muffled cries that this was going too far, that he needed to stop before anything
irreversible between them could occur. Voldemort ignored it in favour of pressing an open-
mouthed kiss to the divot of a collarbone, a sense of triumph surging through him at the way her
back had arched away from the wall. With a soft moan to serve as encouragement, bolden fingers
skirted under the band of her underwear, a thumb digging pressured circles into the starting notch
above a prominent hip-bone.

And suddenly, Harri was no longer in her mind but his own, a disorientating experience that made
the world spin. ‘More, more, more.’ An endless sibilant mantra, overpowering as it played on an
obsessive loop. It rang in her eardrums and pulsated in time with her skittish heartbeat, her head
beginning to throb from the intensity. It was dark within his mindscape, unnaturally so, swirls of
shadows obscuring any traces of light, and corrupting vapors that clung like a second skin. The
Dark Lord hadn’t even seemed to notice that she was in there alongside him, having been
summoned forth by their connection— an orbiting planet unable to resist the gravitational pull of
its sun, an ultimatum she was forced to comply with.

There was no buoyancy, no warmth, no pleasantness here— just an endless void, unwelcoming and
hostile to the stranger encroaching upon its privacy. A shock to her system, an abrupt crash to the
once intoxicating high, body now shivering for entirely different reasons. The black mist curling
about her feet had begun to eagerly devour her limbs, refusing to relent its hold, to leave her in
peace as she stumbled about blindly. ‘How do I get out?’ In here, the atmosphere was frigid,
glacial, a coldness so unlike one that she had ever experienced before— trudging back from
Hogsmeade through an unexpected winter’s storm, the stinging draft at Grimmauld Place that
always seeped through chunky sweaters, the explosions of snowballs against frost-bitten skin. Her
memories of ‘cold’ couldn’t even begin to compare. ‘More, more, more.’ Fouling pollution and
pestilential desire filled the expanse of her lungs, choking, suffocating, stealing away all traces of
oxygen for its own. A hand rose to desperately claw at her throat, vision blurring as she sought out
air that wasn’t so contaminated. ‘Stop it,’ begging voice lost amidst the churning chaos and endless
night. It was a film coating her insides, circulating in her arteries, claiming every inch of her as its
own— an unknown entity that had to be integrated into the whole. The earlier thought of wanting
to be at his side when he plunged their existences into the abyss, created new worlds from his
pandemonium seemed far less appealing now. A delusional impulse made by a clouded over mind
— and the girl found herself wishing to rescind such a notion, the reality petrifying when
juxtaposed with the fantasy.

Harri could almost feel it twisting and writhing in the empty spaces of her ribs, a parasitic
sensation that encouraged the idea of retching. ‘Please, let me out!’ However, there was no exit in
sight, no reprieve from the undulating void, no light at the end of the tunnel that would cease this
nightmare. Wisps of fog curled higher about her frame, assimilating her body into the endless
backdrop of muted shadow. Toxicity originating from a devil intent on consuming, the depraved
desire inspiring fear, terror, an urge to flee from his hold. ‘More, more, more, ’ an unholy sermon
from a bodiless specter. She whirled around frantically, a singular luminous spot in a sky without
stars— they had all been swallowed by him, imploded and rendered into oblivion. Panicked hands
tried to wipe away the creeping tendrils, smoke slipping between the crevices of thin fingers. ‘Why
is it so cold in his mind, why is it so dark, so smothering-.’

An abrupt gasp as though her head had been held under arctic water, tremors tearing through a
slight frame as the remaining threads of desire slipped away. Vaguely, she registered a tear rolling
down her cheek, an unbidden response to witnessing such an infernal purgatory. Harri felt sick,
nauseous, nerve-endings hyperaware, vision distorting and swimming. The hand resting at her hip,
the bruising pressure of it burrowing into her flesh became the only thing she could focus on, an
overriding panic that Voldemort seemed entirely unaware of. ‘Make him stop,’ logic pleaded, that
destructively noxious desire bleeding over into their waking connection. And despite the warmth,
the fireplace roaring with comforting cracks, a ghost of a chill passed through her all the same. The
bedroom was beginning to dim, bile rising in the back of her throat when an eager open-mouthed
kiss was placed upon her skin.

Yet, he seemed ignorant of the change in her demeanor, at the loss of her pleasure when so
preoccupied with his own. Fingers drifted lower and the position she once thought exhilarating was
now anything but— the wall at her back too rigid, the hips holding her up threatening, the body
looming over her presenting a new danger. ‘Why does he feel like that?’ a horrifying question,
unable to forget the terror of being forcibly drawn into his mindscape. In the past, whenever she
was in there with him, it had been agreeable enough— not at all like that oppressive chasm she had
just endured. ‘Because it was all a mask,’ a traitorous murmur, a disconcerting reminder that he
was still a Dark Lord, a fact that she so conveniently kept forgetting at the worst of times. He had
purposefully concealed that darkness, the prodigious and devastating wretchedness of his soul, of
his psyche— a shard of which was rooted deep within her as well. It felt as though ice had been
injected into her veins, her heart, her blood, everything freezing over and refusing to thaw.

“Stop,” she whispered, voice hindered by a soreness as though she had been screaming— had she
been? Truthfully, it was hard to remember, the memories blurred, fuzzy, far too muddled.

He seemed to not hear the protest, lips pressing demandingly against the curve of her jaw on the
tender spot just below the ear. Harri gritted her teeth, chest heaving with panic as the harsh reality
had begun to set in— their position, what they had been doing, the atrocity she had just committed
in the cells. Escape was all she could think of, the need to flee, to run from the red-eyed man
holding her up, and caging her in. From that sinful mouth, those searching fingers leaving behind
their impressions on her skin, the scorching heat and captivating smell of sweet smoke. Shaking
hands relaxed their vice-like grip on the pressed fabric to slide down to his chest, flexing under the
broadness of it in a pathetic attempt at a shove. The energy was lacking, drained from her limbs, a
frightening awareness that she felt beyond exhausted.

“Stop it,” Harri hissed out vehemently, hating how her tone had quivered, how off-balanced and
unnerved she felt.

Voldemort stilled at the command and weak push, confusion unfurling in the wake of the girl’s
surprising refusal. Slowly, he pulled away from her neck, bewildered crimson eyes flitting across a
heart-shaped face for any indication of what was possibly wrong— what could have caused her to
go from reveling under his touch to demanding that he leave her alone? Fingers reluctantly
withdrew from the silky skin of the hip and auburn hair, having already hazard a guess as to what
her next demand might entail. Instead, they cautiously splayed themselves on the wall by her sides,
hovering close but not quite making contact. A perplexed frown upon seeing her expression, an idle
tongue running over his canines in puzzled appraisal. The unfiltered horror had turned those curse
green eyes a shade brighter, her breathing a panicked and uneven tempo. It would appear that his
horcrux was finally coming to her senses, that the delirious ecstasy induced by her casting was
wearing off. And how sobering was that dismay of hers, his own enjoyment dissipating at the
girl’s unexpected reaction of fear.

“Harri,” he began slowly, imploringly, trying to comprehend why she was looking far too waned
and anxious.

By all accounts, their kiss had been tame in comparison to his usual habits, a small part of him
withholding and wanting to avoid pushing her too far— at least, not yet. But the redhead was
acting as though it had been the greatest sin, that he had stolen her virtue, had forced her into ruin.
And, for the life of him, he couldn’t quite figure out why she was having such a baffling reaction or
why she was looking at him with such blatant distress. Attention fixated on the glint of a tear, the
corners of his mouth twitching at the sight. A hand raised of its own admission, a thumb brushing
gently over a high cheekbone, and smearing the droplet across paling skin.

“Harri, what’s wrong-,” his tone cautious, even more perplexed that she was crying of all things.

“Put me down,” she cut him off, wanting to escape the too-warm hands, the searching scarlet eyes,
the breath fanning across her skin that relayed how close he was.

Unsteady feet hit the ground a second later and Harri stumbled on weakened legs, a looming threat
that they were about to buckle. Outstretched hands immediately reached for her but Harri fixed
him with a sharp warning glare— a look that cautioned him not to touch her under any
circumstance. They froze in mid-air, frown deepening as though, for the first time in his life, the
Dark Lord was unsure as to what his next course of action should be. ‘I kissed him,’ she was
appalled, repulsed, scandalised with herself for, somehow, even making such a grave oversight.
And the girl couldn’t help but wonder if her mind was irrevocably damaged or, perhaps, already
suffering from the infamous ‘Black Madness’— after all, she had to be to consider this was even
remotely okay. Silence fell between them, a tensed weighty thing as one studied the other with
morbid interest, the upheaval and disorder after a passing storm.

‘He looks—,’ her thoughts trailed off, taking in Voldemort’s appearance. The usually perfectly
kempt hair was disheveled, a stray curl finding purchase above a brow— the crisp collared shirt
wrinkled from where she had clutched at it, the sultry mouth swollen, and those eyes. They looked
positively starved, glowing with, undoubtedly, immodest thoughts, a desire left unsated— and one
that she had no intention of helping to fulfill. The witch took an uneasy step back at the sight, heart
skipping over a beat as green eyes flickered over his towering form. In every sense of the word, the
man looked completely and utterly depraved, the human embodiment of temptation, of seduction,
of sin. Crimson eyes raked across her skin, a slow purposeful drag, fingers flexing at his sides.
Judging from that particular reaction, coupled with how intently his gaze was fixated on her, Harri
imagined she must have looked pretty similar. ‘Merlin, I need a drink.’

Harri could feel the weight of his attention settling over her shoulders as quickened feet carried her
to the crystalline bar, refusing to speak as a quivering hand poured a healthy dose of brandy into a
glass. It splashed noisily in the quiet, threatening to overspill. Lingering in the background,
Voldemort seemed as though he wanted to say something, to protest, to argue that she shouldn’t be
forming such a nasty habit as drinking— but the admonishment never came. The girl knocked it
back without any hesitation. After an unbidden wince following the immediate burn, she set the
tumbler down forcefully and trained her own stare on the dancing flames. It was easier to look at
the mantle than at him— with his debauched appearance that spoke of what they had just done,
with the blatant calculation in hellfire eyes, with the way she could feel he was craving more. ‘But
that’s what it always boils down to though, doesn’t it? Him taking and wanting,’ a grim
assessment, nerves strung far too tightly and threatening to snap. The sudden intake of alcohol did
little to pacify the churning in her stomach, too many emotions finally filtering through the queue
and demanding her deliberation.

“I kissed you,” she muttered, speaking more to herself than to him, “Sweet Merlin, why did I kiss
you?”

“Harri,” Voldemort tried again, jaw clenching at the amount of conflicted devastation flowing
freely in their bond— it would appear that the floodgates between them were opened, more so than
usual, and how he despised it.

"I kissed you,” she repeated scathingly, letting the truth sink in, acidity bursting brightly on her
tongue at the prospect.

The witch tried to stamp down the urge to throw the glass at the wall, to hear it shatter, to find a
physical outlet for her self-loathing, “What the hell is wrong with me?!”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction at her confession, at her need to chalk their moment up
to a mistake, to something faulty in nature— a regret. And it left him bitter, vexed, the desire to
stifle such beliefs pressing. Elegant fingers contracted into a tight fist at the mental image of them
wrapping about that pretty little neck— and just squeezing. To ensure that there would be no breath
left in her to continue such profanity, such debasing convictions. To make her stop undermining
what they had, and from belittling the entire experience. ‘It would seem that we are back to denial.’
Long strides brought him closer, pleased enough when she hadn’t reared back from the proximity.
But then again, his horcrux was also refusing to meet his eye, to fully acknowledge him. There
was a swelling impulse to sneer, to demand she look at him, to stop treating him as though he were
a mere ghost— a difficult thing to suppress that took more control than he should admit to.

Why was she acting like it had been the worst thing in the world to have kissed him anyhow? After
all, he knew from previous experience that plenty of women had found him not lacking in
expertise. That they, by a large consensus, worshipped at his feet, were eager to have such
attention bestowed onto them. And yet, here was this slip of a girl, with hair made of fire and eyes
an echo of a curse, acting as though it had been vile. Revolting, abhorrent, defiling. A nightmare,
and an ordeal rather than a pleasure. But even she couldn’t quite deny the sparks, the electricity,
the pull of their connection— and he would be damned to let her try.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he grappled for reason, trying to ignore the rising temper, the
flares of his ire at her deprecating resistance.

“Oh, but there is,” Harri reached for the decanter and poured herself another brimming glass, “I
just tortured my bloody muggle relatives and then felt it was wise to make out with you , of all
people. Doesn’t really spell out ‘sanity’, now does it?”

A hand shot out to wrestle away the bottle of amber liquid from her grasp, firmly placing it away
from reaching fingers and sending her a sharp warning not to push her luck. Harri tossed a resentful
glare his way, purposefully knocking back the full glass with an arched brow— a silent challenge.
The muscle in his jaw ticked, a shaky inhale as he struggled to understand her point of view, to
exercise some direly needed patience. After all, he was supposed to be the adult, the older of the
two, the one with more maturity and composure. And he supposed that it was understandable she
was alarmed by such an overwhelming reaction, especially so if she lacked any substantial prior
experience— the way she had moved against him had been telling enough in that regard. Plus, if he
were to be honest, the intensity of the bond had even taken him by surprise with its profound ardor,
a slip up that had escaped his ability to ever predict. ‘She’s deflecting, don’t rise to the bait,’ logic
cautioned, advice so difficult to heed whenever faced with his horcrux’s daring and rapidly souring
disposition. Just when some genuine progress was thought to be occurring between them, that they
had finally taken a step forward, they were abruptly yanked back by the chains of continuous
rejection and dismissal. Merlin only knew how wearing it was on him, a constant grating on the
cogs of his self-restraint, a drain on his leniency.

“If you opened your eyes and abandoned your misplaced sympathies, you might understand that
they deserved it,” he retorted, eyes flashing as a hand reached for hers, the redhead shrinking back
from the contact, “And what exactly is wrong with choosing me? I wouldn’t say that I’m exactly
the most undesirable option. There is nothing to be scared of, Harri.”

Glittering green eyes regarded him, brows knitting together in contemplation as she mulled over his
analysis. He was completely right— she was, indeed, scared. A feeling that she hadn’t really even
entertained before he pointed it out, a lump in a parched throat at the thought of him, somehow,
knowing her own emotions better than she did. Because, quite truthfully, she was more than scared,
she was terrified . Of him, of that cutting darkness hidden under a pretty face, of how easily she
had slipped, had been lured in by a fantasy of a boy from a diary that she had been harbouring since
her 2nd year. And though she couldn’t claim to be an expert on the dark arts, Harri figured that it
shouldn’t be possible for someone to cast an Unforgivable that easily— nevermind on their first
attempt. That one would have to be truly demented, warped, impure to be able to achieve such a
thing. It was an instinctual reaction to shy away from that outstretched hand, too wary and
apprehensive of how easy it could be to lose control.

“You truly don’t see anything wrong with this? With what we just did?” Harri questioned in
disbelief, gaze lifting from the empty glass to flit across a tensed expression, his growing
impatience the barest flickers in the back of her mind.

“No, I do not. So, enlighten me. What is so immoral about giving in to something that’s only
natural?” he pressed, allowing the girl to take a step back, mind turning over with how he could
make her see reason.

“Because— You’re Lord Voldemort! You kill and murder and maim. You represent the evil in this
world— and I’m supposed to be good damn it. I’m supposed to be light , to fight you, to rise up
against you! There isn’t a single natural bloody thing about this,” she couldn’t quite help her voice
from jumping an octave, gesturing wildly with the crystal glass as the words came tumbling forth.

And perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest idea to chug brandy like water— but she figured that she had
needed the liquid courage now more than ever. It was as though a faucet had been turned, the
handle rusted and corroded with no way of stopping the steady stream. Hysteria was rising. Harri
could feel it almost as viscerally as she felt the rifts in her ideology, the piercing blades that
shredded the fabric of her morality. A boat with its sails tattered, stuck in a doldrum without the
means to move on. Flashes of Dumbledore, pale eyes holding nothing but disappointment,
appeared in the forefront of her mind, salt poured mercilessly on an open wound. She had just done
the one thing he always preached against, had given into the darkness existing within herself that
the man cautioned she must never heed— and had done so under the coaxing of his murderer. It
made her want to retch.

“I’m supposed to be the one everyone is banking on to right the mess you’ve created. Not making
out with my enemy, not being persuaded to cast Unforgivables on muggles. You’re a-,” she
abruptly cut herself off, jaw closing with an audible click, the word dying on a loosened tongue—
monster.

A brow rose in mild surprise at her voice’s rising volume, the desperation colouring its edges, at
how lost she seemed while fumbling to make sense of her own convoluted justification. And not
for the first time did he consider what a number Dumbledore had actually done on her. How badly
he had hindered her personal development, had forced her to grow into a mold to suit his own
agenda— and that she was still trying to do his bidding even while the man was rotting in an
unmarked grave. Voldemort slipped into the girl’s thoughts, bewildered that she was picturing the
headmaster’s expression of disappointment. That damnable twinkle, the frown and the clicking of a
tongue. A sight he was all too familiar with, one that marked his own youth, and had been
personally spurned by countless times. And, ah—there it was again.

The word so clearly formed that it made his stomach churn, the after images of their encounter in
the graveyard. Skeletal, bestial, disgraceful. Bordering more on a creature than a human, a product
of a ritual gone astray, a consequence of unrestrained greed to regain a physical body. And yet,
despite the attempts to correct it, to erase it through the face he currently wore, that portrayal of
him lingered— still festered in the depths of her memories. A nightmare always hovering on the
periphery, awaiting its summons to ruin the facade he was so desperately trying to maintain. But
what more could he possibly do? What else did she need from him to finally forget that wraith?

There was a growl of frustration, teeth nearly cracking, and knuckles bleeding white as fingers
curled into the edges of the bar cart for stability. He needed something to physically ground
himself, to ignore the redhead warily hovering on the edges of his vision. To forget his own
failures and shortcomings— a bitter truth hard to swallow that he was equally to blame for
instilling such a black and white view. Dumbledore certainly held culpability for influencing the
girl, for manipulating and shaping her into something so rigid. But, then again, so did he. After all,
years were spent on a misguided mission to hunt her down— how many times had he been a star
player in her nightmares after appearing to her as evil’s incarnate? Of course, that was all done
before he knew what she meant to him. How precious, irreplaceable, and unequaled Harri Potter
truly was. Yet, the damage was done all the same. An incriminating and condemning aspect of
their past that served to poison the future, the antidote still out of reach. A sudden shattering sound,
spiderweb filaments stemming from under his fingers, the glass giving way to an acrimonious
might.

“Say it, Harri, I know you want to,” he ground out, patience slipping like sand between the gaps of
spread fingers, crimson eyes tracing over the splintered fractures, “‘Monster’, that is what you were
intending, was it not?”

Yet, despite the assessment, the correctness of it and the validity of her feelings, he refused to deny
the reality of his existence, to apologise for his inherent nature— he couldn’t, “View me as one if
you so wish, but know this truth— at least I am comfortable with it. I do not hide behind moral
platitudes or false piety. I know who I am, what I am capable of, and that, pet, is my greatest
strength and your most fatal flaw.”

A cold glint when his gaze rose to meet her own, unable to hold the silver tongue when faced with
the sour reality of his past oversights, “You could be so great, a true prodigy. But instead, you hide
yourself, your talents, your true disposition. And for what, exactly? To uphold the hopes, the
wishes, the expectations of strangers you have never even met before? A foolish notion that you so
insistently cling to, despite having been proven time and time again that I was never your only
enemy.”

Unsummoned, the sorting hat’s evaluation came back to her— ‘You could be great, you know. It's
all here in your head’. A stone in her stomach, the words twisting like a knife in an already
infected wound, burrowing and refusing to leave her in peace. ‘He’s right,’ a disloyal whisper that
she wished could be ignored. After all, how often had she lied awake at night, torturing herself
with the concept of ‘what-could-have-been’? What would have happened if she had listened to the
hat and let herself be sorted into Slytherin? Had never bought into the whole ‘Chosen One’
doctrine? How differently would things have turned out if she had just given in to her desires? It
was her biggest flaw. She knew it, her friends knew it, hell even Dumbledore knew it— there was
this ingrained desperation to be needed, to be liked by everyone. To secure their adoration, their
affection, their love. So when it was revealed that she had a purpose, had a chance to actually mean
something, she clung to it as a lifeline. It had become her only form of identity— ‘Harri Potter’ and
‘The Girl Who Lived’ synonymous, one unable to exist without the other. And, with that, a
multitude of unintended consequences— hiding her core, one that she knew was undeniably dark,
concealing her fears and weaknesses, refusing to allow herself the experiences that other teenagers
were afforded. It all seemed stupid now, pointless, considering where she had ended up. ‘So why
am I still holding onto it?’

Shaking hands raised the tumbler’s rim to a grim mouth, tilting it back to get the final dregs and
trying to let the burn carry it all away. To drown out that stinging honesty of his assessment, the
brutal analysis of her existence— because, at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. Harri knew she
would continue to hold onto it for as long as she could, to try to keep the tattered remnants together.
It was the only life she had ever known, and it was how those she loved saw her— what would
happen if she had suddenly changed? If she gave up that mask, that pretense? ‘They’ll leave you,’ a
nagging thought cautioned, heart stuttering to a stop and eyes squeezing shut to banish it.

“Though you may not want to acknowledge it right now, I know you enjoyed it. You enjoyed
having my lips on yours, feeling my hands on your skin— you felt the bond, our connection, just as
much as I did. And you took pleasure in casting that Unforgivable, in feeling the dark arts, in
getting your revenge. There is no point in convincing yourself otherwise,” he pressed in a
deceivingly gentle tone, sensing the arising conflict in her and deciding to act upon the
opportunity.

“Do not deny it. Do not refuse us, Harri. We could be spectacular together. Shape the world to our
liking, create new ones if we so wish. We could make those who have wronged us tremble at our
feet, can rule together for eternity— just you and I. Let me teach you how to control that darkness,
to help you find that balance you are so lacking, and grant you liberation. All you have to do is say
yes,” there was almost a begging undercurrent to his voice, a hand lightly gripping a delicate chin
and redirecting a wandering focus back onto him.

Voldemort’s thumb ran along the full bottom lip, tracing its shape, and feeling the softness of the
velvet mouth under the pad. Crimson eyes searched emerald ones, a burst of hope in seeing the
warring desire so clearly in them. He was willing the universe to make her say yes, to give in, to
just accept it all for once without resistance. She had seen what they could be, what they could
have— it was glorious and was being offered up on a silver platter without any trickery or deceit.
And though he knew she wasn’t ready, that she was still holding on to things that should be left in
the past, he still dared to foolishly hope for her consent anyways.

She watched him through hooded eyes, allowing the touch, the featherlight pressure on her mouth.
He was looking at her with such longing, with such ambition and desire— it tore her in two. The
life he was presenting was so different from the one she had always known, from the one that
involved those closest to her heart. The one that her friends and family were fighting so vainly for
her to return to. A harsh medicine to swallow— no matter the choice, in the end, someone would
get hurt by it. And, logically, she was all too aware of what the correct one would be, what the
most moral decision was. After all, he was on the side of corruption, embodied wicked ideals, and
was drenched in the blackest of magic. She had seen his mindscape, had felt the extent of his
defiled soul, had witnessed firsthand what the path he wanted to take her down would lead to. That
glacial darkness was her destiny if she accepted him, and purposefully ignored Dumbledore’s
adamant warnings.

But it was so hard to say no to him. Especially when he was looking less and less like a Dark Lord,
like the boogeyman of her dreams. Standing before her was a boy with a clear longing in his scarlet
eyes— one that she was painfully familiar with, could feel almost viscerally. A boy who was
seeking out acceptance, belonging, the one that she had developed a kinship with all those years
ago when her very heart was poured into a cursed diary. And how she loathed Voldemort for ever
regaining that angelic face— after all, it would have been far easier to deny a serpentine monster.
‘Lucifer was beautiful once too,’ a thought that, for some reason, made her heart ache with a sharp
pang.

Harri abruptly stepped back, shaking off the hand, the twinge in her chest only growing at the
barest flicker of hurt in his gaze’s vivid depths. While it was quickly concealed by an indifferent
mask, she had seen it all the same— and it did terrible things to her conscience.

“Tom,” it came spilling out unprompted before she could stop herself, mouth snapping closed at
the shocked silence that followed.

This was the first time she had ever used his name, he realised, unable to fully prevent the surprise
from reducing him to a stunned stupor. In the time they had been together, in all of the months and
weeks and days, his horcrux had carefully avoided using any title to ever address him— not
‘Voldemort’, not ‘Dark Lord’, not ‘Your Majesty’, and most certainly never ‘Tom’. And he
considered that he should be furious, should demand that she never use it again, or to utter that
filthy word in his presence. After all, that was his vendetta wasn’t it? The entire reason for the
anagram, for the moniker, for his ‘flight of death’? For the creation of ‘Marvolo Gaunt’? Yet, for
the strangest of reasons, the way she had said it made it sound almost special— as though no other
‘Tom’ existed in the world. Hallowed, blessed, a sacred one-worded prayer, a mounting desire to
make her say it again. He studied the slip of a girl, the pained expression, the furrowed brows, the
determined light in a deathly green gaze. ‘She truly is something else.’

“We crossed a line,” when he hadn’t reacted, she pleaded for him to see reason, a struggling
attempt to stay her ground, “A line that shouldn’t have even existed in the first place. This,
whatever this is, can’t happen again.”

Harri took another step back, turning on her heels, suddenly unable to stand looking at the intensity
in those burning crimson eyes any longer. She contemplated that this was his game— manipulating
her, trying to make her give in through a pretty face and a facade of hurt. Or, at least, she hoped it
was. The idea he was faking it was somehow preferable over this being real, over the notion that he
truly wanted her at his side. That he was secretly stung by a rejection that he should have seen
coming. ‘Remember who he is, what he has done. He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,’ logic
reasoned, summoning up the images of the frigid blackness against her will. A shudder coursed
through the thin frame, feet quickening in their retreat. Merlin only knew how much she craved
space at the moment, to breathe in air that wasn’t tainted by him, to try to get some feeling back in
the numbed limbs. To think, process, weigh her options without feeling his breath on the back of
her neck. And she just needed to talk to someone, anyone, that wasn’t her guard, Narcissa, or the
Dark Lord for once— images of a potion master came to mind, with coal eyes and lips pulled back
into a sneer while giving the best of advice. Comfortable and familiar in his abruptness, in his
harsh honesty. A mantra, an insistent line of thinking, ‘Go find Snape.’

“Alright, Harri, have it your way for now. It won’t happen again until you want it to,” he called
after her, fingers twitching with a need to rush after those hurried steps, to make her stay just a
moment longer— a last bid attempt to crumble that wall of resistance, to unrelentingly target its
weak spots until it collapsed.

“But before you go, however, what should be done about the muggles? They are, after all, your
relatives. It only seems fair that you get to decide their fate,” attention fixated on the spot between
her delicate shoulders, pleased enough when the girl had halted in her retreat, that he managed to
stall her for a second.

“Do whatever you want with them, I don’t care. Just don’t drag me into it again,” she finally
muttered after a pause, cursing that she had entirely forgotten about Petunia and Vernon—
memories of the atrocity that the stone walls had witnessed, a bone-white wand cradled in her
grasp, a flash of red light. She wanted the evidence gone.

Trembling fingers hovered above the door handle, thoughts abruptly turning to her cousin. What
was going to happen to him? The teenager hadn’t been in the cell with his parents, an unsettling
idea that it was only due to him being at Smeltings when Voldemort had arrived. And true, he had
been a terror— had tormented, taunted and mocked her throughout their childhoods. But did he
deserve to die for such a thing? ‘No, he doesn’t,’ a resolute thought, a heaviness writhing around
her heart at the concept of ending such a young life— 16 years old was too soon to die. She, of all
people, knew that. Plus, truth be told, he was probably only going along with his parents’ actions,
acting on example rather than out of inherent spite. Children were known to do drastic things in an
attempt to earn approval, usually enacting out the extremes of learned behaviour.

It was highly probable that 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 would be, Harri figured, that her cousin would probably end up in the loving
home of Marge. Would never be without familial affection, welcomed with open arms, and
kindness. A bittersweet scoff at the thought that he, at least, might have a chance for some
normalcy later on in life. At least one of them should.

“And keep Dudley out of it,” she ground out, tone firm as she wrenched the door open, “He’s just a
kid, after all.”
 Lily Potter
Chapter 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 formatting a syllabus for the class I'm TAing +
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 and 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 made throughout this chapter, I will love you forever! )

As always, you guys are so wonderful and I can't thank you enough for reading long,
bookmarking, commenting, subscribing, etc-- any you do to show this fic love!
Honestly, you all make my day and I can't thank you enough for it

Enjoy!

“Tell me, Severus, how is my son doing? I imagine he must be quite busy, considering that the
time to write to his own mother has seemingly escaped him,” the blonde witch questioned, an
attempt to appear casual but a betraying keenness to the tone that made it sound quite the opposite.

In all of the years spent in dedicated service to his Lord, Severus had made it a point to avoid
interacting in an even remotely congenial manner with the other Death Eaters. In his opinion, they
were mostly an unsavoury kind of lot— ones that reveled in heated discussions of torture and
upheld radical views that endorsed supremacy based on lineage. And as such, being marked by a
half-blood pedigree, one that most of the aristocrats viewed as barely passable, he was often pushed
down to the lower tiers of their established hierarchies. A scourge, a stain, a blight that was sneered
upon whenever his back was turned. Neverminding how accomplished he was, or how highly the
Dark Lord personally regarded him, Severus Snape was the constant outlier. An anomaly, someone
to avoid as actively as though one might with a leper. The whispers, of course, didn’t help his case
either— the accusations of being a traitor, of being Dumbledore’s personal lapdog, ready to be
brought to heel by another master.

Though, in all honesty, it suited him fine enough. Being casted in the role of the reject and lacking
a sizable repertoire of acquaintances was not so strange to him— and it was how he had been able
to achieve so much in so little of time. While his comrades, a term used in the lightest of sense,
were parading about, tittering over gossip, and flaunting their wealth during their weekly soirees,
he was working. Brewing, casting, planning from the safety of the dungeons, only ever making an
appearance in Voldemort’s court when it was deemed absolutely necessary. The solitary aspect of
his life was how he had managed to stay afloat, had survived amongst the rabid dogs for this long,
had become the youngest potions professor, and now headmaster, Hogwarts had ever seen. So, he
figured, they could ridicule him all they wanted— because, in the end, it was he who had actually
attained something of importance with his life.
Yet, despite the overall disdain and contempt that he held for the zealous members of the inner
circle, there was one exception— Narcissa Malfoy. Though they had been amicable enough
towards one another at school, the friendship had flourished in the decades following their
graduation. The woman, he had found, was rather unlike the other followers of their Lord.
Composed and alarmingly insightful, unwilling as much as he to engage in gruesome bouts of
violence. She seemed to actually have a head on her shoulders, one that wasn’t completely empty,
and with a mind of her own that readily formed secular opinions. So, all in all, her company was
more than tolerable— and, though he would be loathed to admit it aloud, the closest thing to a
friend that he could lay claim to. Plus, being around the witch was a refreshing change of pace
from his hectic life, her refined manners, and dulcet voice a soothing balm that was sorely needed.
So when an owl had arrived earlier that morning with an invitation for tea, a proffered intermission
to the endless paperwork, Severus couldn’t quite find it in himself to refuse.

“He is doing well enough, I suppose,” was his casual remark, lifting the fine china to his lips and
taking a contemplative sip, “There seems to be a falling out between him and Zabini, however, and
he has given up on quidditch for the remainder of the year. According to him, there is no point in
playing against anyone other than Potter.”

Narcissa lowered her own ivory cup down to its saucer, brilliantly painted lips thinning into a stern
line, “Well, perhaps that is for the best. I, for one, never cared too much for that boy nor his
mother— both were, truthfully, rather distasteful company. As for quidditch, I suppose it is
understandable enough, and I can’t say that it’s surprising to hear. Did you know he only tried out
because of her? Something about not wanting to be bested again by the girl, of all things.”

“The poor child. It’s difficult to even imagine how she must be feeling. What with her friends being
back at school and all,” the words were accompanied by a sympathetic click of her tongue, a hand
waving away the house-elf that had appeared to stoke the fire.

A noncommittal hum as a response, apprehensive coal eyes fixating on the oolong tea— the
fragrant curls of steam rolling off the golden surface doing very little to inspire comfort. Several
months had already passed since the raid, and the girl’s position within their ranks was one that
still left him perplexed. Of course, he understood that she was their Lord’s ward— it was the why,
however, that escaped his comprehension. After all, the prophecy still existed unfulfilled. Yet their
new sovereign seemed far less focused on it now than he had in the past, brushing it aside as
though it hadn’t been the driving force behind his tactics for years. It was entirely bewildering,
perturbing, unnerving to see how quickly he had changed. Almost as much as seeing Harri Potter
seated amidst the Death Eaters, dressed in finery suitable for nobility, and with the Dark Lord’s
familiar, of all things, curled possessively about her shoulders. There were no words that could
suffice in describing how tensed he was during the meetings, some irrational part of him just
waiting for the serpent to extend its jaws to swallow her whole.

As of late, stress had become his constant companion, sleep evading him nightly in favour of
mulling over the exact same question— what was going to happen when she became of age and
the legal guardianship was annulled? After all, it was common knowledge that their Lord had been
using her name, her fame, to publicly support his mandates. That he had been using the obscene
wealth in her vaults to bolster his campaigns and fund the costly reformations of his citadel. But
those resources were bound to be cut off eventually. And it left the girl’s future murky, uncertain—
and the only thing that he took solace in was the explicit instructions to teach her occlumency. How
would it make any sense to go through the effort of training her if she was only destined to be a
lamb for the slaughter? ‘But that’s exactly what Dumbledore had done, wasn’t it?’ He uneasily
swirled the cup in his hands.

And though he was still seeing her on a weekly basis, it caused a sense of disquiet in him, all the
same, to not see the girl romping about the stone halls or chasing after her friends with peels of
laughter. In fact, he might even be inclined to agree with Draco’s sullen attitude— it was painfully
tranquil without Potter around, almost to the point that it felt as though the castle was suspended in
a stagnant state. A stasis, a doldrum, its spirit broken and eagerly awaiting her return. He might
even go as far as to say that he missed her rebellious antics, her complete disregard for authourity,
and her uncanny ability to seek out trouble. Of course, he would never admit to it— swallowing his
own tongue seemed far more preferable in comparison.

“The girl. Is she coping?” he tracked a concentric ripple in his cup, attempting to exude an air of
blasé disinterest.

“Within her means, I would like to think. The Dark Lord has charged me with teaching her
etiquette, a task which, need I remind you, I take rather seriously. Though it has not been an easy
endeavor by any means, she is a quick learner and possesses an inherent grace,” Narcissa eyed the
potions master as she returned the saucer to the side table, elegant hands folding in her lap, “He has
scheduled an appointment with a healer for her this Wednesday.”

“For a routine check-up, I was assured, and nothing more,” she added hastily, noticing the rigid
lines of his shoulders, and the way those thin fingers had twitched ever so slightly.

Though his expression was still carefully smoothed over, the physical reaction had been telling
enough. It was the sign that she had been searching for— and how it emboldened her, caused her
generally held tongue to loosen. Severus, as prickly and hostile as he may appear on the outside,
bore a sort of tender affection towards the girl, one that, with any luck, she could exploit. After all,
she couldn’t be the only one to see what madness it was in keeping a teenager locked away from
the world, to leave her at the continued mercies of a man that was commonly understood to be
volatile. And this was her chance to pick the austere man’s brains— to see where he stood
regarding any loyalties to Harri, and to, perhaps, enlist his help in making a case for the young
witch.

“But Severus, I must confess myself rather troubled with our Lord’s attitude regarding her,” the
blonde woman ventured cautiously, pale gaze drifting to flit cooly over the assortment of petit
fours arranged on a silver platter.

“Narcissa, be careful. You know it is not in our place to pass judgment onto him,” a sharp drawl,
coal eyes lifting in alarm before narrowing a fraction at her hidden meaning, “His temper and
affections are mercurial at the best of times. And we both know it is all too easy to fall out of
grace.”

“I am well aware of the dangers but I speak to you now as a friend, not as his follower,” her sharp
retort, voice lowering to a strained whisper, “You care for the child as well, I know you do.”

A hand was quickly raised to silence his impending protest, lips pursed in admonishment, “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 another’s behalf? And yet, when it concerns Harri, I know you do so almost readily.”

“The way he looks at her, Severus, it is unnatural. There is more to their relationship, something I
can not claim to understand but something that unnerves me all the same. I worry that this
obsession with her is only growing and that it is beginning to take its toll. She’s just a girl ,”
Narcissa muttered, ankles crossing and uncrossing, a testament of how ill at ease she was, “Perhaps
you could convince our Lord to see reason and let her return to school?”

Severus reclined in the stiff chair, fingers interlacing into a steeple as his attention strayed to the
arched windows. The powder blue drapes were drawn wide and the slitted rays of sunshine seeping
through the panes were mild— an affirmation to the cusp of the ending winter and the beginning
spring. A gloomy day that wholly suited the nature of their conversation, a sense of foreboding,
and despondency in their deliberations. Unable to deny it, Narcissa’s shrewd appraisal was one that
he found himself agreeing with— there was an aspect to their newly established connection that
was not quite kosher in nature. And it definitely did seem that their Lord was more aware of it than
the girl was, enthralled by her in a less than innocent manner. It was difficult to deny, especially
from the way fingers always lingered— brief touches as a wandering hand brushed against her
own, twisting in her hair, resting upon her shoulders. Inconspicuous little points of contact that,
once noticed, were hard to ignore. And no small part of him was horrified to even hazard a guess as
to what went on behind closed doors. A sudden memory of having been summoned to heal the
impression of fingers, a nearly damaged windpipe— the frown appeared instinctively. He had
witnessed the bruises painting her skin, her mind, the imbalance of her emotions. But surely their
Lord had to have some shred of morality to know not to force himself upon her? Or, at the very
least, some pride that helped curb such an appalling inclination? It was his hope, one that he
desperately clung to rather than considering the alternative.

“I advise him only when he asks. Attempting to do so without prompting is often disastrous, I have
found,” he finally responded, tone flat as a sparrow flitted past the window, “In any case, he would
be more disinclined than ever, I believe, to let her return to Hogwarts at the present. Not with the
Order being active once again.”

“But surely he could be persuaded? Especially now that you are headmaster?” Narcissa pressed,
leaning forward to place a featherlight touch on his knee, an imploring attempt to make him
understand.

“It is not healthy, Severus, for a teenage girl to be kept locked away. Though try as I may to visit
often, it’s a far cry from being enough,” the frown deepened at his lack of a response, exasperation
creeping into her voice, “She should be with her friends, with her peers, and receiving social
enrichment— not cooped up in a manor and isolated from the world. She needs structure to her life,
a routine, a sense of normalcy, and, most importantly, some distance from him.”

Severus opened his mouth to respond, to explain it was all out of his power, that there was nothing
he could do, when the parlour door swung open. The pair snapped their heads towards the sound,
blinking in mild surprise to see the subject of their conversation lingering in the frame. The redhead
was, for a lack of a better description, chaos personified. A human embodiment of disorder in
every sense of the word. The dress she was wearing had been one that spent the night on the floor,
wrinkled beyond saving, with its buttons done up in haste— each one was mismatched, paired to
the wrong slot. She wore no stockings, a leg precariously suspended in the air as she tried to
properly slip on the mary janes, cursing as she struggled with their buckles. Auburn hair was left
loose, frayed and unbrushed, as wild as the look in her glassy eyes. But what was most disturbing
about the girl, her chest rising raggedly as though she had sprinted across the manor in a bid to
outrun something, was her neck. Blooms of discolouration, the deep hue of wine, savage buds
twisting, unfurling against the pale canvas. They wound their way up from under the collar, the
visible few undoubtedly having more companions hidden away. And out of the corner of his eye,
he could discern the tight expression of revulsion crossing Narcissa’s prim features, the glance
directed his way speaking volumes of where her thoughts were heading.

“Professor— Mrs. Malfoy! I um, Barty said you would be here,” Harri fumbled for the right words,
gnawing on her bottom lip as she took notice of the tense atmosphere, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, dear child,” the blonde woman was the one to break the silence, a forced smile that bled over
into her voice, “Severus and I were just having a chat, that’s all. What do you need?”
The younger witch’s gaze bounced to the cold affront of the potions master, his coal eyes glinting
as they flickered across her appearance. She wasn’t entirely sure as to why she was even seeking
him out— their past relationship wasn’t exactly the most loving of sorts. In fact, it was one born
out of snarky retorts and cynical insults, of chiding exasperations and unfair punishments. Several
times had he made it apparent that she was a headache to deal with, that her supposed disregard for
authourity was the bane of his existence, that he loathed being her “babysitter”. Plus, he was the
Dark Lord’s acolyte. He could very well go behind her back and tell Voldemort all of her darkest
thoughts, her weaknesses, the soft spots in her armour for him to twist to his advantage. Yet,
despite all of that, some small voice was encouraging her to find comfort and answers in the man
she had known for years. To perhaps siphon off the sense of order, of calmness he exuded, and
gain it for her own— Merlin only knew how desperately she could use it.

“O-oh, I see. Then, could I perhaps borrow Snape? Just for a few moments?” she questioned
hesitantly, a thumb running over the opposite palm in an absentminded tic.

Blue eyes fixated on the action, the corners of the feigned smile slipping downwards at the sight.
The girl was distressed, that much was obvious— and an unknown thing felt off about her, an echo
of a sensation that Narcissa couldn’t quite place. The closest thing she could akin it to was a new
sharpness in the redhead’s aura, a surprising tartness. Yet even that description fell flat, mind
whirling as she tried to decipher what it could possibly be. But it didn’t quite matter, not in the
moment— there was such upset, such disharmony in the teenager, and she could easily guess who
was the cause of it all. After all, those marks etched onto the cream-coloured skin spoke loudly,
enough so to create a coherent story. Though she would be lying if she said it hadn’t stung that
Harri asked to speak to Severus, rather than her, the woman couldn’t find it in herself to deny the
request. Certainly not now, and, perhaps, not ever— it was impossible to. Especially when
considering everything the witch had been put through, what such a vibrant life had been reduced
to in the most recent months. Rising from the settee, she headed for the door, a gentle hand placed
upon a thin shoulder.

“Borrow him for as long as you would like, Harri,” the vaguest attempt at a reassuring squeeze, a
cutting look directed over her shoulder towards the dark-haired wizard, “We were just finishing up
anyways.”

Severus pensively studied his old student, fully aware of the look that the Malfoy woman had sent
his way. There was an off-balanced air about her, something not quite right, almost wrong— and
the inability to place its origin persisted like an insatiable itch, an unrelenting irritation. In the
background, Narcissa had slipped from the room, the soft click of the door mostly going unheeded.
And of its own accord, his attention drifted shrewdly over the darkening marks dotting her throat,
unwilling to spend too much time debating as to how she could have possibly gotten them. Instead,
he settled for observing the taut shoulders, the anxious disorientation swimming in her eyes, the
bottom lip bitten raw. ‘Not quite right, indeed,’ his thoughts echoed the initial assessment, index
finger rhythmically tapping against the scroll of the armrest.

“Potter, what can I do for you?” he spoke up first, brow arching at the indecisiveness, at the way
her mouth opened and closed as though she wasn’t quite sure of the answer either.

“I-,” she trailed off, uneasily shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

And then green eyes were inexplicably drawn to the open windows, an overwhelming sudden ache,
a pining, a yearning, “Can we go for a walk? Outside?”

His gaze followed hers to the pulled drapes, landing on the gardens in the distance before curiously
drifting back to her. The sudden longing, and desire sparked a brightness in those vivid eyes that
he, suddenly, realised that he had not seen in quite some time. A renewed sense of hope, a look that
he wasn’t even aware he had missed on her— it was startling to comprehend. Narcissa’s earlier
words echoed, her pleas to see that the Dark Lord’s overbearing influence was starting to take a
toll, stomach tightening at the thought. Severus rose slowly from his spot, a silent acquiescing nod
for an answer.

They were strolling side by side in the spiraled hedge garden— the one in which, Harri was quick
to recognise, her bathroom vanity faced. The snow was mostly melted by this point, sparse blades
of grass peeking through the few scattered pockets of white, the trills of birdsong overhead
promising warmer weather. It was all strangely idyllic, blissful, inspiring a boundless sort of joy.
How long had it been, after all, since she ventured outside? And not just on the veranda
overlooking the Manor’s impressive acreage but actually outside? Feeling the give of the thawing
ground underneath each step, being surrounded by the dulcet calls of nature, breathing in crisp air
that froze her lungs in the best of ways. Barty had attempted to trail after them but Severus sent
him off with a sharp glare and a clipped drawl, claiming that he could handle a wandless 16-year-
old— and how she could hug the dour man for it.

A weight had been lifted, Atlas relieved of carrying the celestial heavens, a moment of fleeting
respite without having someone watch her every move. And though it was, by no means, a
temperate summer breeze, arms were thrown wide in welcome of it all the same. Nature was
coaxing the sins out of her, stowing away the atrocities in the towering brambles of the hedges,
making her conscience just a touch lighter. Allowing momentary peace, the meek sunshine her
own version of Lethe warming her skin, robbing her of the ability to recall. Smoldering red eyes,
the lingering heat of searching fingers, and the fervent confessions— all of it seemed so distant,
left behind in the ostentatious walls of the mansion and fading with every step that carried them
further into the labyrinth.

Severus watched the redhead as she traipsed further on ahead, his pace slowing to grant a sense of
freedom. A beautiful illusion, a lovely pretense— but still one nonetheless. It was a bitter reality
that was becoming harder and harder to refute— Harri Potter was never going to be free again.
Long gone were her days of moving without a guard in her shadow, of being able to go to
Hogsmeade on the weekends, of roaming about Diagon Alley. A damning truth that made itself
known as the days bled into weeks, the weeks into months. However, had she ever been? He had
seen her memories, had witnessed the way her entire life had been spent, bound in servitude to one
person or another. First, it had been to the Dursleys, then to Dumbledore, and now? Now, he
considered, it was to the Dark Lord— though she bore no mark on her arm to outwardly indicate it.
A little dove with its wings clipped, shoved into a gilded cage, and taken out only when deemed
appropriate. And how it left him with a sour taste to know that he endorsed it through his plotting,
had been the one to put her in the hands of another master.

A chime of delighted laughter interrupted his musings, the corners of his mouth twitching with a
threat of a smile. The witch had crouched down to delicately cup the tender bud of a rose— the
lone survivor from the frost, intent on blooming before its time. An auburn head tilted towards him,
a bid to come closer that barely registered, his feet disinclined to budge. The way those green eyes
glittered in excitement, the beaming grin playing upon a shapely mouth, the gentleness in tapered
fingers— it was entirely uncanny. A graven image of a dead woman immortalised, a ghost
continuing to live on from beyond the veil. Completely debilitating, truly paralyzing. And, by all
accounts, it could be considered a form of madness in how willingly he involved himself with her
child— a girl that he truly had no claim towards, yet one he still felt all the same. Constant
torment, an ache in his chest whenever she seemed less like ‘Harri’ and more like ‘Lily’. Though,
he also knew he wouldn’t want it any other way, that he would never abandon her— regardless of
how many painful memories were conjured. Content to linger in the background, he basked in the
glow of her simple happiness, minorly relieved that her earlier stress seemed to be ebbing.

It was the first time she had seen a flower in months, a sight that, for the strangest of reasons,
elicited a wave of euphoric anticipation. And no matter how much she enjoyed the snow, the
coziness winter always brought, spring was, secretly, her favourite time of year. Spring brought
with it the resuming of quidditch, and longer days spent outside. Of scratchy sweaters being packed
away, and pleasantly mild showers. The kind that was almost warm in nature, that turned the air
sweet with gentle drops that tickled her skin. And the greenery. Nature finally waking up after the
long sleepy months, plants unfurling from under the sheets of white, new life abounding. Though
as sentimental as it may be, there was something awe-inspiring, she found, in the way the flowers
always managed to come back— no matter how deeply they were buried under the ice and cold.
The ultimate symbol of rebirth, of resilience. A comfort to know that such beautifully frail things
could survive, no matter the harsh circumstances. And though Petunia had viewed it as a
punishment, a chore, as busywork to saddle her niece with, Harri honestly loved tending the
gardens the most. It was the one thing she never fully minded, always saving the task for last, the
damp dirt under her nails a welcomed distraction. And how did her aunt love her namesake—.

‘Petunia,’ a sudden flash of the gaunt woman, throat constricting at the unwanted memories from
the dungeons. Beady eyes watching her in hatred, in distrust, the grating screams, the smell of
burnt flesh and bile. The endless crashing tides of pleasure, choking on the deluge of rapture, her
lungs filled with the scent of sweetened smoke. The way Vernon’s cries for mercy sounded almost
mellifluous in her ringing ears. Hands abruptly dropped from cradling the rose, an irrational fear
crossing her mind that she was corrupting something so pure, so innocent. It was all coming back
— why she had sought out Snape in the first place, why they were in the gardens, why she had fled
from the study. A nightmare that her feet couldn’t carry her far enough from, always catching up in
the end, the naivety in thinking that taking a walk outside would be enough to forget.

“I did something terrible, Professor,” her voice cracked, the vision of the tightly closed blossom
distorting.

Snape watched in alarm at the sudden change in demeanor, at the tears springing to emerald eyes
and clinging stubbornly to the corners of fanned lashes. He could only blink, a deer caught in
headlights when that misted gaze turned on him. There was raw desperation in their depths,
rendering him unable to think properly when faced with such a defeatist expression. It wasn’t like
her, none of this was— Harri Potter was supposed to be rash, foolishly undaunted, stronger than
anyone had the right to be. She never broke down, never accepted being crushed under Fate’s heel.
And in all of the years they had known one another, he could count on one hand, precisely, how
many times he had seen her cry. It was jarring to witness, an uncomfortable reminder of how
young she truly was— a fact so easily overlooked when faced with the deeds and epics surrounding
her existence.

“I tortured him. My uncle,” somehow, verbally admitting to it made it all the more real, the words
pouring forth, overflowing without a stopper in place, “I just felt all of this hate, this anger, and it
was so easy to just give in.

Dark eyes widened marginally, a cold wash of disbelief passing over his skin. He had wondered
what became of the Dursleys after that night, torn between a morbid curiosity and a nauseating
need not to know. And Severus hadn’t thought to ask his Lord, choosing to believe that whatever
happened to the couple was karmic justice at that point. To keep his involvement in their
kidnapping from bogging down his already impressive list of sins. But to hear she personally had a
hand in their punishment? It was strange, eerie, so deviant from her character.
She became obsessed with studying her splayed fingers, half-expecting them to be covered in
blood, in rot, in filth, her words coming out in a rush, “The crucio came to mind, and it was so easy
that I didn’t even think. I don’t feel regret for his suffering, for using it. Not for him but for me .
That’s the fucked up part. I regret slipping because I think it woke something up in me. Something
that I can’t get it to go away, no matter how hard I try. But it felt so good in the moment that I just
— with Voldemort of all people. And then I willingly gave them to him to handle because I
couldn’t, wouldn’t—.”

“There’s something wrong with me, Snape,” she strived to voice her jumbled thoughts, a lump
resting in the hollow of her throat, “I can feel it. There’s something in me that’s vile, and I’m
losing control of it.”

“What if-,” it felt as though she had swallowed sandpaper, a grating sensation that scraped her
insides raw, green eyes lifting from her hands to the heavens, “What if I’m becoming evil?”

There was a fundamental truth that could be universally acknowledged when it came to Severus
Snape’s character, his most fatal flaw— he didn’t process nor handle emotions well. Especially not
when they involved the tears of others. In the few times he had interacted with Draco as a child, it
had been his policy to flee in search of Narcissa at the first sign of an impending tantrum. And that
was with an infant, one unable to wipe the drool from his chin— the problems that spurred him to
tears wholly unsophisticated and usually remedied through a pacifier or a stuffed toy. So what was
he supposed to do when faced with a complex moral dilemma? One that was blatantly tearing the
girl apart? He, himself, barely held enough answers to solve his own issues, let alone even
attempting to sort hers out. And his coping methods couldn’t exactly be considered the healthiest—
suppressing it, and throwing himself into his work until he could forget. But what he usually
banked on wasn’t applicable to her situation, a far cry from being helpful. And, quite truthfully, the
confession was shocking. It was so far from her character, should have been impossible for
someone with a light core to cast an Unforgivable with the ease she admitted to. Unless—.

Surprise overtook his expression for a fraction of a second, the slightest parting of his mouth, the
lifting of arched brows. ‘She isn’t light in nature,’ a dumbfounding thought, one that left him
mystified. He had been so sure that the girl was, that she had taken after her father’s magic to fall in
line with Dumbledore’s ideology. Yet, the little things that never quite added up suddenly clicked
into place with startling clarity. Her struggles to perform in most light-oriented classes, despite
flourishing in Defence. The way dark creatures and cursed objects seemed to naturally flock to her.
Not to mention the ability to speak parseltongue, the phenomena as rare as it was dark. Harri
Potter, the champion for the light side was undeniably anything but. And perhaps it could explain
some part of his Lord’s fascination with the girl, why he was going to the extent of educating her.
An unexpected gem, a diamond in the rough that could be polished under his guidance, an
unexpected asset to his cause. The final blow, Snape figured, to Albus’s memory and influence—
the unthinkable affront of turning his Chosen One into an apostle suited for the dark.

‘So that change about her from earlier, it was her magic shifting,’ he mused, trying to process what
it all meant, how he possibly couldn’t have recognised it before this moment. True, he wasn’t the
most gifted, or sensitive, when it came to signatures, but even he should have been able to see the
signs— unless there was something in place to block its detection. And wasn’t it just a sickening
realisation to come to? One that urged him to be physically ill— she had been hiding her core this
entire time. How badly he wanted to demand answers, to curse aloud, and to pressure the girl into
explaining why she would do something so life-threatening, so idiotic, as purposefully suppressing
something she couldn’t control. ‘Best to calm her down first,’ logic advised, uneasily watching as
the first few tears slipped down waned cheeks. Every thought was a whirlwind, stumbling, and
churning as he tried to formulate a plan, to figure out what to possibly do. And no small part of him
desperately wished that he had stayed home, had ignored Narcissa’s invitation. Because, as it
currently stood, he was tossed into a riotous sea without a lifeline in sight, plunged out of his
depths and comfort. Abruptly materialising in the forefront of his mind was a flash of red hair—
the exact same question asked under the privacy of a willow tree, jade eyes shining with a similar
sort of lost tears. It was an undeniably miserable memory, one that wrenched and twisted his
insides— yet it was all he could think of.

“Your mother,” the words faltered, Snape having to clear his throat to find the strength to continue,
“Your mother had asked me the same thing when she discovered her own predisposition to the
dark arts.”

Warily taking a half-step closer, the girl’s expression one of bewilderment, he latched onto the
brief lapse in tears and continued, “What I am about to tell you now is precisely what I had said to
her years ago— your magic does not make you inherently good or evil. It is your actions, more
than anything else, that defines you as such.”

Harri could only stare owlishly as the revelation sank in, a sudden throbbing in her temples. Her
mother, the kind-hearted and gentle Lily Potter, had been a dark witch. And how strange of a
concept that was? Difficult to even entertain— in the few photos she possessed, or in the even
fewer stories she heard, Lily always seemed like the poster child for all things pure. Virtuous,
angelic, uncorrupted. But to know otherwise? It certainly threw her for a loop, made her mind reel.
Yet, perhaps, there was some hope to be found— the woman hadn’t become a psychopath or a
murderer, hadn’t turned evil or depraved. So maybe the same thing could happen to her as well?
‘Except, she probably never cursed her defenseless relatives,’ a bitter whisper, heart sinking in the
wake of the inner deprecation, pangs increasing. And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? The
daughter served to exist as a poor imitation of the long-dead mother— the woman had had both
self-control and discipline, was inherently good in every possible way despite her magic. She had
been whole, a singular soul that remained unadulterated, undefiled, just as nature always intended
— the exact opposite of her child.

A hand appeared in her line of sight, fingers extended in a silent invitation for her to take. Glancing
upwards, green eyes flitted across a tensed expression on a sallow face, thin lips set into a frown
with a tightness evident in the corners. A thin palm unthinkingly slipped into the proffered one,
allowing herself to be hoisted off the thawing damp ground.

“A dark core, Harri, should not be automatically equated to being ‘evil’,” he surmised, the words
from all those years ago coming back unbidden, his mouth seemingly moving from muscle
memory, “It simply means that you are ruled by your passion, and emotions, more so than
anything else. That is it. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“But you don’t understand,” she protested, dropping her hand from his, and trying to make him see
that this went beyond her magic’s inclination— that something was truly wrong with her, “I
tortured him, Snape. Without hesitation, I did it. And I enjoyed it.”

He regarded the girl, drinking in the dismay shining wetly in her eyes, how vehemently she was
refuting his attempts at comfort. ‘She doesn’t want to be consoled but condemned,’ a passing
assessment, one that he intimately understood, could commiserate with. And while it had originally
taken him by surprise that she used an Unforgivable, the more thought that was given to the idea,
the less surprising it was becoming. In her mindscape, there had been such hatred towards her
relatives, such vitriol, that not lashing out would have been more unbelievable. Plus, it wasn’t the
first case of someone suppressing their magic only to lose control when it was finally
acknowledged— it was how obscurials were created, after all. As for the regret she alluded to that
featured his Lord— well, he was familiar with the effects dark casting had on adults, nevermind
teenagers. And those marks adorning her neck, rubies embedded into pale skin, were rather telling.
‘One thing at a time,’ rationality advised, desperately wanting to avoid opening Pandora’s box and
delving into the precise details of what had occurred between them.

“I have spent years in service to the Dark Lord while also being at Dumbledore’s side. As such, I
have seen courses of action carried out by both that could be classified as ‘evil’,” a soft drawl,
memories resurfacing in a blur as his feet carried him further into the maze, “Whether you choose
to believe my words or not, they are the truth. You, Harri, are far from it. A single action borne out
of a lack of discipline and passionate anger is not enough to mark you as such.”

Harri gaped as he disappeared around a manicured hedge, a rising urge to argue that he was
completely wrong. Everyone was. To scream that he had no clue, that he was blissfully ignorant of
the truth of her existence— a bastardised stand-in that had taken the place of the real ‘Harri Potter’,
a lie in the making. Because the second air had filled her lungs after evading death, she had been
marked as an ‘evil’, one that infringed upon the universe’s sacred laws. And she just wanted to
have someone finally agree with her, to understand what unholy sort of creature she was. But yet,
for whatever reason, the girl couldn’t bring herself to say any of it. Instead, her mind refused to
move on past Lily, obsessively clinging to his earlier words. It was disconcerting to mull over, a
perturbing notion. Her mother, whom she had only heard snippets about, a witch once remarked on
as being ‘uncommonly kind’ by Remus, had been drawn to the dark arts. And how the desperation
to know more caught her off-guard— what did others think of her, how did she overcome it, did
she ever give in? Harri considered that this was Snape’s roundabout way of distraction, of curbing
her existential dread by dangling a carrot just out of reach—and if so, it was definitely working.
Stubbornly wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, the girl took a faltering step, and then
another, before breaking into a sprint.

“Wait— you said my mother had a dark core,” she breathlessly called after the headmaster, jogging
to catch up and just mildly surprised with how long his strides were.

“So I did,” his casual remark, firmly fixing his gaze on the path ahead and hurriedly rounding a
corner.

Harri frowned at the silence that followed suit, tongue running over her canines as chilled fingers
plucked the nonexistent lint from her dress. The topic of her parents had always been an odd one—
because, in truth, they were complete strangers. She only knew what they looked like from a
tattered few photographs, a dusty album she received at age 11, while their personalities were only
vaguely constructed from stories. And though she knew people expected her to miss them, to cry
over their deaths, she couldn’t always bring herself to. It was a well-hidden secret, unwilling to tell
even Hermione out of caution that she might be viewed as cold, distant, apathetic. Sure, she longed
and ached for the idea of parents but it was hard to mourn them as people specifically. Unlike those
who expressed their condolences, she hadn’t grown up around them, built lasting friendships or
memories. Hell, she didn’t even know their birthdays or their favourite foods. And how difficult it
was to play the filial daughter to unknown entities, a half-smile, and a sheepish nod the only things
she could manage. And while it had been the common consensus that her biggest vendetta against
Voldemort stemmed from their murders, that was a half-truth. After all, she had been a baby when
it happened— an infant without the functioning facilities to truly remember either of them. Yes,
she fostered a sense of resentment for being deprived of a life of ‘what-could-have-been’— but that
was mostly it. In fact, it would be more accurate to say her grievances with the Dark Lord rested in
his recent actions— in the deeds that directly affected her, and the ones she could actually
remember.

Green eyes traced over the headmaster’s stern profile, the somberness, the unsmiling mouth. Out of
the couple, James was the one, she supposed, that she knew the most about. And that was mainly
due to the recollections of Sirius and Remus, tales regaled to her of their time spent as the
‘Marauders’— stories that she mostly didn’t understand due to the copious amount of inside jokes.
Rarely did they ever mention Lily— and, when they did, it was usually about the woman
chastising them for their immaturity, or finding a loophole to get them out of their messes. Quite
frankly, it sounded as though her mother had been the buzzkill of the group. James was brash,
daring, a Gryffindor through and through. Reckless with wild black hair, proud attitude and an
excellent dueller, who played as a Chaser and took the form of a stag more often than not.
Compared to that, Lily was plain. Kind and graceful, yes, beautiful and gentle, but nothing
extraordinary. However, this was the chance to finally get something more than “you have your
mother’s looks''. To hear straight from the proverbial horse’s mouth what kind of person she had
truly been.

“My mother,” she mumbled in apprehension, not missing the way Snape had stiffened on her
periphery, “What was she like exactly?”

For a moment, Harri feared that he wouldn’t respond. That he might keep those pale lips
stubbornly pressed closed, apparate away to leave her stranded in the middle of the maze, or
perhaps demand that she never ask him about the witch ever again. After all, it was common
knowledge of his affair, his love, his infatuation with the woman— and it couldn’t have felt
amazing that, in the end, Lily had chosen James Potter over him. However, much to her mounting
surprise, the potions master had given a resigned sort of sigh, pausing mid-step as though trying to
find the right words.

“Your mother was an exceptional sort of witch,” Snape mused, coal eyes lifting to the bleak sky,
the clouds a never-ending sea of gray.

“She and I were always in a competition to come out on top during our studies, and she certainly
provided a challenge. An absolutely brilliant mind that thought of things I could never have. Yet,
even during the times I bested her, she always made it a point to congratulate me,” recollections of
a blinding smile, jade eyes crinkled in their corners, “And she had the 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. It was her biggest fault yet greatest virtue.”

He could sense an eager gaze fixated upon him, and Severus just knew that, if he looked over, it
would be to a ghost lingering at his side. And part of him wondered if Lily was truly there with
them amongst the towering brambles— if it was her phantom hands that he felt pressing down
about his shoulders, the whisper of her breath on the back of his neck. That, perhaps, he had
summoned her from beyond the grave in voicing aloud memories that ought to have remained
buried. Or maybe she was finally called forth by someone reminiscing about her, heeding his daily
prayers to come back to him. And there, a few feet ahead, was an unexpected handful of leaves.
Burnt orange, carried on by the wind, curling playfully and lifting towards the heavens by an
invisible draft— a sign, maybe, an answer to the silent question regarding her presence. A foolish
interpretation, a wishful notion. And yet, he clung to it all the same, choosing to believe. How long
had it been, after all, since he had talked about her? Actually talked and not just relived the past in
his head?

“You look so much like her, though you are probably tired of hearing it. There truly isn’t a lot of
your father in you,” an idle comment, a bittersweet sorrow that coiled about his dully beating heart.

And it was true— the girl resembled so little of James that he often wondered if she had been
formed solely from Lily. If she had been fashioned from clay and given life through her mother’s
rib, had been birthed through magic rather than natural conception. It was damning down to the
point that they could be considered sisters, twins. The same quirk of a mouth, the same brows, the
same beauty mark under their chin, the differences becoming harder and harder to spot with age. It
was just in their colourations that they were distinct enough— the daughter’s hair a touch more
muted, deeper, richer than the mother’s. Yet, it was made up tenfold in her eyes. Those eyes, curse
green, vivid to the point of being unnatural. Lily’s gaze was never that unnerving, that haunting to
hold. But still, it was easy enough to overlook the variance upon a first glance, undeniably
detrimental to anyone’s sanity. After all, how many times had he seen the teenager on his
periphery and had to do a double take? Almost nearly called out the wrong name? Had felt as
though he were a bystander left to rewatch the past all over again— her sorting into Gryffindor, her
lounging under the still-standing willow by the lake, her trudging to Hogsmeade through the
drifting snow. It was as though Fate felt it appropriate to taunt him, ridicule him, by parading her
about— only to snatch her away, yet again.

Harri blinked, soaking in his words with rapture. While it, normally, frustrated her to have her
entire existence defined by the wishful thinking of those who missed her parents, that they tended
to overlook she was her own person, hearing the appraisal from Snape was different— for some
reason, it didn’t quite bother her as much. She followed his somber gaze further down the
labyrinth, watching the dancing leaves in companion silence— remnants of the last autumn that, by
all accounts, should have long since decayed. It was mesmerising, captivating, the way they had
seemingly chased one another. Lifting higher, higher, higher, until— they vanished, swept away
over the tops of the hedges.

“Did you know her wand was a willow? She would have been an excellent healer, in spite of her
core,” his voice had become a soft whisper, watching the magical vision of autumn disappear, “It
was a dream of hers, in fact, to become a mediwitch. That, and to be a mother.”

‘Yet neither of those were ever fully realised,’ a surge of sorrow, long strides resuming. Twenty-
one years old, a life that should have been full of opportunity, extinguished before anything
substantial could come out of it. And hovering a few feet behind him, legs working furiously to
keep up, was one aspect to her lifelong mission— motherhood experienced for a transient burst of
time. A passing second. But even in those fleeting few months, she had proven to be stronger than
Leto herself, had readily made the ultimate sacrifice so her child could live on.

“The Dark Lord actually attempted to recruit her once, long before you were born. Alongside your
father. Both were quite powerful but she-,” he trailed off, interlacing his fingers behind his back in
an attempt to stave off their shaking, an uncomfortable weight settling between his ribs, “Lily was
something else entirely. She held such immense power yet she refused to truly use it, never in
anger or grief. She always stayed her wand no matter the circumstances, hindered by, I imagine,
the fear of her potential.”

Harri very nearly stumbled on her next step, green eyes widening a fraction in unfiltered surprise.
‘Voldemort tried to recruit them?’ It was a perplexing idea to even consider— her parents as
followers of the Dark Lord, bearing his mark and bending the knee in loyalty. Especially so since
her entire understanding of the couple was built around the Order, as freedom fighters in open
rebellion against him. And she wasn’t quite sure which was more bewildering— the Potters as
hypothetical Death Eaters or the fact that a certain red-eyed man had more ties to her than she had
guessed. That his life, his reign, his rise to power all went beyond the scope of her involvement,
stretched far past their prophecy, their relationship. A theoretical presence in her life before she
could even draw in her first greedy mouthful of air.

“Even though I had attempted to make her see reason, to accept her magic’s predisposition, I
believe she never truly did. There is a saying, after all, for those who hold willow wands— they
only belong to those with immense insecurities, no matter how well they attempt to hide them,”
Snape pointed out, turning a sharp left and ignoring the girl’s calls to slow down.
“It tore her apart when she discovered what her core meant, and, in the end, it crippled her,”
thinned lips twitched into a frown, fingers tightening behind his back, “She became so preoccupied
with what others would think that she never even let herself try to achieve her dream of becoming a
healer. Afraid of her own magic, the quality of her life was diminished by the inability to accept the
truth, while her potential wasted away. Her grades suffered, she became hesitant to use even
rudimentary spells, to let anyone see it. And, on that night, when the Dark Lord came to destroy
you, she hadn’t even lifted her wand to defend herself.”

“I mention this to you, Harri, as both a lesson and a warning,” his steps had finally halted, the
entrance to the maze reappearing in the foreground, pockets of golden light punctuating the clouds
overhead, “You can not hide from your true nature. Any attempt to do so will lead to an existence
of regret and ruin.”

The girl glanced uneasily towards the embellished iron gate that marked the beginning of the
spiraled garden, the Manor looming in the distance a silent threat. Arriving back at the entrance
brought forth the worries that she had forgotten amidst the professor’s brooding, stomach
clenching at the thought of what was awaiting her in the villa’s vaulted halls. The labyrinth was
completed, the time to wake up nearing. Swallowing thickly, her gaze drifted from the polished
white stone to the grim lines on the man’s face. He was supposed to be her distraction, the one who
was to give her an omen, a sign, of what to do next— the wise adult that held all of the correct
answers that still saw fit to evade her. And she wasn’t ready to give up his company just yet, to
return to the study, to the glowing eyes lying in wait among the shadows.

“Professor, please,” she begged, eyes desperately flickering over his smoothed expression, the
single raised brow, “Everything is coming apart at the seams and I don’t know how to stop it. I
need you— tell me what I have to do to fix it. To make it all go away.”

His attention drifted downwards to the pale hand latching onto his forearm, a desperate bid to not
let him leave. A scared child clinging to the nearest grown-up for security and safety.
Unsummoned, Narcissa’s earlier warnings had begun to loop, ominous words that spoke of the toll
that was being imparted onto the girl with each passing day. And Severus found himself inwardly
cursing the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, the whole lot of their world— each party sharing in the guilt
for placing such pressure onto a teenager in the first place. He had failed her. They all did with their
continuous worship, their never-ending expectations for her to save them, the mold that they were
trying to force her to grow into. A bitter bile crawled up his throat when those green eyes had
trained themselves on him, lost and searching for guidance where none was to be found. She was
so ill-prepared for everything, so restricted, so sheltered that he couldn’t help but wonder what
Albus’s true intentions even were. Had he always planned on killing her in the end— either by his
own hand or by letting her eventually succumb into an obscurus? After all, he had to have known
how damaged her mind was, how fractured her core was becoming as it tried to outgrow its
shackles, restless in never being fully embraced. And the man had been too smart, too great not to
see the ill-effects. But yet, the headmaster let it continue on without a care— and he, himself, had
remained ignorant, once again blindsided by a misplaced faith in the wizard.

“Then heed my advice. Lean into it, learn from your mother, and do not relive her mistakes,” he
removed the hand, a brief moment where thin fingers cradled hers, a fleeting squeeze, “Accept it,
and heal yourself before it’s too late.”

“Take what he is offering, and use it to your advantage. You are a smart girl, and I know you are
far more capable than you tend to let yourself believe. Forget whatever foolish ideas Dumbledore
has put into your head. Light, dark, none of it truly matters if you wind up dead—or worse. And
continuing to deny yourself will only lead to a path of destruction and agony,” he fought to keep his
tone level, nearly failing at the distress that crumpled her expression inwards.
“I implored you once to survive, and I do so yet again. Survive him, survive yourself, and continue
to endure,” he took a half-step back from her, no small part of him wishing he had something better
to offer than empty platitudes, “You are strong, Harri, stronger than any of us. So pull from that
strength, and fortify yourself. Accept your birthright, take ownership of it— do not continue to
fight something you can not change. Rise up from this, turn the tide, and show the world you will
not be beaten.”

There was a lapse, a hushed silence, and Severus feared the worse. She had quickly turned away
from him— but not before he witnessed the conflict pinching her expression. And there was a
newfound urgency in him, one that was suddenly spurring him onwards. A desperate need to make
her fully understand. To not let the girl fall to the same fate as his beloved Lily, to make her grasp
that a life disconnected from magic was one hardly worth it. To help clear away the misguided
poison that was rotting her mind, fogging over her judgment. She needed to see that this was
dangerous, that continuing to deny and to suppress was doing far more harm than good. That her
mind, her balance, was already alarmingly unhinged, that she was toeing a precariously thin line.
He opened his mouth to say something, mind whirling, gears turning, when she had interrupted
him.

“Alright,” a quiet mutter, Harri turning on her heel to face him, jaw clenched, “I’ll do it. Because I
respect you, I’ll listen to your advice and get his help.”

His attention shifted about her face and, not for the first time, did the girl render him speechless.
Where there had once been conflict, passivity, crippling dismay now held the opposite. Resolute,
determined, steadfast, a look the witch was famous for— an unexpected outcome, one that he
didn’t quite know how to respond to after not seeing it for so long. Flames flickering in her gaze,
chin lifted stubbornly high, slender shoulders squared— the afterimage of a proud phoenix
appeared in his mind, entirely unsummoned. The rays of the setting sun had broken up the earlier
oppression of grey, a radiant force that bathed them in a pleasant warmth. And how her eyes were
molten in its wake, less green and more resplendent— as though she had been crafted in a forge,
made anew in Helios’s own likeness. This was the Harri Potter he had always known.
 The Sword Of Damocles
Chapter Notes

Hello 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. I'm currently TAing a course as
well so it's been an adjustment (especially since I'm in a different country). 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!

This chapter is a bit longer than usual-- I was going to split it up but seeing how long
I've made you guys wait, I just decided to keep it whole I hope you guys enjoy it

And would it even be an update without me taking the chance to gush about you guys?
Seriously, thank you to everyone who is reading along and showing interest in this fic!
Seeing new comments, bookmarks, kudos, etc when I log in is the best present ever
You are all seriously amazing, and thank you for pushing me to write + continue this
story!

Enjoy!

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.
 One Gesture of Trust for Another
Chapter 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!**

"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.
 ‘Anna Karenina'
Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I am so so so sorry-- I did not intend to take this long in between
updates. Midterm week killed me and the last one was spent grading papers But
here it is! And at a reasonable-ish time during the day? Unheard of.

There are a few things I just want to address real quickly!

1. After getting some feedback that the centered alignment wasn't working, I switched
it to left-aligned. I was mainly writing in centered text to get myself into a more
creative mode but have no problems changing it for readability. If you prefer one over
the other, just let me know

2. 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 so so much you guys for continuing to read along and for
engaging with this fic even though it took me a while to get this update up! I really
do appreciate it and I love every single one of you!

Enjoy

“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
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 specialty— 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 ensuing. 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 tempermental.’ 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 acknowledgment 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.

 An Impending Denouement
Chapter 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 arcs. I hope you guys
enjoy it!

And as usual, thank you to everyone who has been leaving me such kind
comments/reviews/bookmarks/kudos! You are all seriously the best and honestly
make this whole process worth it-- thank you for being amazing readers

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.
 The Blood of a Thestral
Chapter 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 so appreciate it and I adore every single one of you guys as my readers. You make
me feel so blessed and massive shout out to those who hold conversations with me in
the comments-- they truly do make my day

I hope you guys enjoy!

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 particular,
love. 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.’

 In the Dark of the Night
Chapter 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 grading, working on my own term papers, and then
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! You are all just absolute angels that I look forward to writing for

Enjoy!!

‘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.”
 Refractions
Chapter 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 takes 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!

“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.’
 Vices
Chapter 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-- thank you for the comments, the
kudos, and the bookmarks! They mean so much to me and I'm always excited to see
engagement happening with this fic You all make the writing process so worth it

Enjoy!

**As a side note: I've linked my Pinterest and Tumblr profiles in my bio-- you can
always message me on either site if you're curious about the next update timeline! **

"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 return 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 me 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.

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