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Harry stood on shaking legs, fingers quivering at his sides. His hands were empty. The stone had been dropped in the woods, lost to grass and sticks and dirt. His wand was resting in his pocket, but it may as well have been on the other side of the world.

'Hold him… Hold him… Hold him…'

His skin, though… His skin, Harry noticed with a wave of nausea, was—it was being burnt, he could feel it, it was horrible—but they were not actually harming him at all. Everywhere the snakes touched him with their fiery scales was scalding pain—but just for a moment. His blisters would heal over almost at once, leaving trails of pristine, baby-soft skin in their place. Harry's whole body was crisscrossed in tender, pink lines.

'Hold him… Hold him… Hold him…'

He felt sick at the message that Voldemort was conveying through this monstrous act of torture:

I can burn you alive, Harry Potter… without burning you at all.

Harry shuddered.

It only made the pain worse.

When Voldemort did finally return, it was unnervingly silent.

Harry had been keeping his eyes closed the majority of the time he lay there, simply trying not to move, despite the fact that he was stuck in the middle of what was now a cold puddle of blood. Though the snakes did burn much less fiercely when he was still, they never stopped hurting him entirely. Harry had therefore begun the exercise of closing his eyes, focusing on his breathing, and…

Empty your mind.

He had never been very good at Occlumency, that was true enough, but Harry had come to the harsh conclusion in the past twenty-four hours that shielding his thoughts was a skill he simply must learn.

And if focusing on this, if practicing could help distract him from the pain, from the parseltongue mantra in his ears…

'Hold him… Hold him… Hold—'

Empty your mind.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

Think of nothing… Think of no one…

Harry's eyes fluttered open, and it was easy, for a moment, to imagine that he was not in a cell bathed in cursed, crimson light, but back in his dorm room, in Gryffindor tower, and the red was just the curtains pulled round his four-post bed…

He closed his eyes again…

Empty your mind.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

He slowly opened his eyes again, and—

Voldemort.

There, just there—no angry winds, no sound of the gate opening, not even footsteps—but there he was, standing ominously still in the corner where, just two minutes ago, when Harry had last looked, there had been nothing at all.

Harry jerked violently on the ground, startled out of his self-induced meditation. The snakes around him hissed their disapproval at his action and flashed, chanting more quickly.

'Hold him, hold him, hold him—'

Voldemort's lips twitched. He advanced, moving towards his human horcrux with a fluidity that was reminiscent of a basilisk. For a long moment, the Dark Lord did nothing but stand there, towering over his prisoner and watching him as he gasped in pain with every tremble and twitch.

His scarlet eyes trailed over Harry's body now that it was exposed, covered in nothing but soot. It was a controlled action, methodical. First his face, then his neck, then his torso, then…

Harry was burning in more ways than one.

But the Dark Lord's expression remained resolutely blank, and when his eyes flickered back to Harry's, it was without any hint of emotion whatsoever. He lifted a single finger, much in the same way he had earlier, and beckoned for him to rise.

"Come."

The second Voldemort spoke, the snakes slithered across Harry's body in different directions. One around his neck, two on each of his wrists, two on his ankles, and one around his waist.

Six. There were six of them.

They gathered at these places and then pulled him up, magically forcing him to stand and face the Dark Lord. His lips twitched again when Harry failed to suppress a yelp of shock at being wrenched to his feet.

Voldemort's fingers curled around his wrist, and it was so strange, that moment in which they touched, because the burning pain seemed to fade, and instead—

Harry's astonished thoughts were quickly derailed. Voldemort gave no warning before somehow, impossibly, within the manor walls… they disapparated.

The second they reappeared elsewhere, Harry was thrown to the floor.

To his great surprise, however, the landing was not horrific. His head did not collide with hard brick or concrete, but he instead fell against what was an exuberantly thick carpet.

"Stay. Be silent."

Harry wasn't sure if those parseltongue commands were meant for him or the serpents which ensnared him—probably both. The snakes ceased in their repetitious mantra, though they continued to coil around him. Harry rolled as slowly as he could to his side, taking in his surroundings which, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, were not stone walls and iron gates.

He was laying on the floor of what looked like a dining hall. It was a large and garish space, in the center of which was a long table with over a dozen chairs around it. A giant fireplace on one side illuminated the hall in a soft, golden hue. It was empty. Save for he and Lord Voldemort, there was no one else present. Harry wondered if they were still in Malfoy Manor, or if they had gone somewhere else entirely.

The Dark Lord turned away from his fallen charge and sat in the chair at the center of the table with his back to him. Harry could just barely make out the side of his snake-like face from where he lay.

He couldn't help it. He couldn't not speak.

"Wh-what are you—"

"Silence."

Voldemort spat the command without turning to look down at him. The snake which had been circling Harry's neck tightened, constricting and burning into the delicate skin there in an unfathomable way. The rest of his question died in Harry's throat, replaced by a sharp breath that he was hardly able to let out through the pressure against his airway.

It only lasted a moment, but it was enough. Harry didn't speak again.

It was quiet for a long time. Voldemort merely sat at the table with his eyes closed, his hands folded in front of him as though in silent prayer.

Then the fireplace flickered green.

Harry's heart fluttered at the sudden shift in the atmosphere, at the way in which the room had gone from scarlet to emerald. Someone had entered the space via the Floo network, but who, Harry couldn't see from the floor…

Footsteps, murmuring, more flashes of green, more muttering… People were arriving, speaking to each other in hushed voices before sitting down in what must have been a pre-arranged seating arrangement based on the way they moved. Voldemort remained motionless with his eyes shut the entire time, like some kind of unnerving, marble statue.

Slowly, they filtered in. The Death Eaters. Harry recognized a few, as they appeared here maskless and unafraid. Dolohov. Yaxley. Bellatrix Lestrange.

And they most certainly recognized him, too. Every one of them gaped in shock when they first noticed the charcoal-stained boy in the corner, the supposed Chosen One, trembling and covered in cursed serpents, stained with blood, and smelling of burnt skin.

There were two exceptions to this. The first, of course, was Bellatrix, who had just recently seen Harry Potter and was hardly surprised that her Lord had decided to humiliate him further. In fact, she looked gleeful when her eyes landed on his, and she grinned maliciously. Harry glared back at her, but it only served to make her smile widen.

The second person to react more than momentarily shocked was Draco Malfoy.

Surely the Malfoy heir had known that he was being held in the dungeon beneath his own home, of that Harry was certain. But nothing could have prepared Draco for this, the sight of his teenage nemesis reduced to a shuddering pile on the floor at Lord Voldemort's feet, covered in blood and ashes and wrapped in slithering, red serpents. He paused when they made eye contact from across the room, and even from so far away, even as the room flickered green again when more people arrived, Harry could see the color drain from Draco's face.

For Harry had just saved his life. Only days ago, Harry had decided to fly headfirst into the Fiendfyre after all, to go back for him, despite the fact that he, Crabbe and Goyle had been the cause of it all…

Draco froze, petrified. It wasn't until his father prodded him impatiently from behind that he moved, snapping out of his stupor and ripping his eyes away from Harry. Lucius didn't look at him.

A few moments later, and the fireplace ceased in its green flickering. The room was bathed singularly in a dull gold, all of the chairs now occupied.

The Death Eaters waited quietly for their master to speak. For a time, there was no sound other than the crackling of the flames. Harry attempted to catch Draco's eye again, to try and convey what message he wasn't even sure, but it didn't work. Though he could just make out the Malfoy heir's profile in the firelight, Draco, along with everyone else, was not looking at him. Their silent attention was fixed solely on the Dark Lord.

Finally, Voldemort opened his eyes. He lowered his hands down towards the table, his arms stretched out wide on either side of him as though in greeting.

"My most faithful followers…"

He said the words in a low and silky voice, like he was paying them all a great compliment. Bellatrix, who sat at his right-hand side, looked upon him with eyes shimmering with adoration.

"We have much to discuss tonight," Voldemort continued. He did not so much as look in Harry's direction, nor did he acknowledge him. "First and foremost, I would like to hear from you, Yaxley. I anticipate that you have made…progress?"

Yaxley, who was a few seats further away and on the opposite side of the table, stood, and even Harry could see that he was very nervous. His eyes barely met the Dark Lord's before he looked to the ground, his head already bowed in submission.

"Most unfortunately, m-my Lord, we have not yet made any discernible progress towards locating the second and third Undesirables…"

His voice trailed off feebly. Voldemort's head tilted to one side as he seemingly contemplated the cowering man before him.

"No progress," he reiterated, his tone dangerously soft. "You have made… no progress."

"Well, no, technically, we have, as we now know that—we know that they are n-not anywhere within Diagon Alley, nor are they in Godric's Hollow—"

"Did I ask where they are not?"

Voldemort's interruption was hardly above a whisper, but it rendered Yaxley silent at once. His face flushed with color.

"I… No, my Lord."

A short but very pertinent pause in which no one dared to breathe. Harry's mind was reeling in the silence—Ron and Hermione were still on the run, they were still okay…

"You have the Minister under your control, and therefore all of the power which the Ministry of Magic has to offer. You have access to all of the Snatchers and have even been granted permission to hire as many more as you like. You have free reign to do anything you deem necessary in order to accomplish this task… and yet you are unable to locate two delinquent teenagers."

Yaxley's blush deepened. He said nothing, only remained standing with his head lowered in shame.

"…I want them found. I want them brought to me alive. And I want them soon." The Dark Lord leaned forward, red eyes flashing. "Is this understood, Yaxley?"

"Y-yes, my Lord."

Quivering, he sat.

"Dolohov," Voldemort said,  much more conversationally, as he turned his attention to the man on his left. "Your report?"

"Of course, my Lord." The portly man cleared his throat and stood. "While nearly all magical people have pledged fealty to the Ministry of Magic's new regime, we were correct in assuming that the rebellious radio show would continue. Yesterday, they aired a short broadcast in which they told listeners they did not believe Undesirable Number One to be on the run, but with Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, wherever they may be, continuing to work on the secret orders of Albus Dumbledore… They said they did not flee out of fear, but were forced to retreat from battle in order to complete these tasks. They spoke of hope. They told their viewers that Harry Potter is still active, still a threat, and is working against you, my Lord, even now… and that this war is by no means over."

His eyes flickered to Harry, who felt his stomach drop. Lee, Fred, and George were continuing to run Potterwatch, then… And they were telling everyone that he, Harry, was still out there, fighting the good fight with his friends…

"Indeed…"

The Dark Lord sounded unsurprised; in fact, he seemed amused.

It was then that he finally shifted his focus to Harry.

"Rise," he hissed. The snakes slid across Harry's body to gather around his wrists, ankles, waist and neck as they had before, pulling him upright. The Death Eaters jeered when he stood, completely exposed and vulnerable before them.

Voldemort smirked, motioning him closer with a lazy gesture. "Come."

The bindings forced Harry forward until he was at the Dark Lord's side. Voldemort rose to his feet as well, his demented smile broadening at Harry's utter humiliation. "Tell me, my loyal followers… Does Harry Potter look very threatening to you?" 

They all laughed. "What say you, Bellatrix?" Voldemort asked, looking at his deadliest lieutenant. "Has his ferocity waned since your last encounter?"

Bellatrix turned in her seat to face him fully, and Harry met her gaze with the most murderous glower he could muster. Looking completely unfazed by him, she let her eyes trailed down his naked body, painfully slow, spending an unnecessarily long time lingering on… certain areas.

Whatever rage Harry had bolstered within him quickly died, replaced with sheer embarrassment. Bellatrix grinned. "Yes, my Lord, I would agree with you… Dear Harry's fierceness has most certainly diminished… But other aspects are significantly improved." She paused, her gaze flickering down his torso again and making Harry's face burn hotter. "I must admit, Harry-kins, I prefer this attire much more than your old school robes."

Everyone laughed again, and a few even whistled jeeringly. Voldemort let it go on for a while, grinning crookedly as he did, but eventually he rose a hand and effectively ended their hollering.

"No," he said, "Harry Potter is no longer a threat to us or our cause… But that is not to say that he is not without his uses." Voldemort brandished his wand, and before him appeared a tightly furled scroll. He uncurled the long stretch of paper to reveal an official-looking document, and set it on the table in front of him.

"This here is the legal paperwork detailing the ownership of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," he said, pointing towards it with his wand. "It was left to Harry Potter upon the death of its last familial owner, his Godfather, Sirius Black. Therefore, when the property was passed on to him, Harry also inherited the servitude of the manor's house-elf… Kreacher, was what it went by. He summoned the elf to him in his imprisonment earlier today in an ill-suited attempt to escape."

The Dark Lord paused, crimson eyes gleaming when they met Harry's. "Was that a wise decision, Harry?" he asked, to which the Death Eaters all chuckled. Harry looked down, unwilling to meet any of their gazes.

"Answer me."

Voldemort’s tenor went from lightly amused to ice-cold in an instant. Though the snakes were still uncomfortably hot, Harry’s skin broke out into goosebumps at the sound.

"…No," he finally muttered under his breath, still staring at the ground.

Voldemort's fingers clamped around his jaw, nails digging into his skin and forcing Harry to look at him. "No, what?"

And even though he was beyond terrified, even though he was surrounded by Death Eaters, his face in the Dark Lord's hands… Harry wouldn't do it.

He knew what the demented wizard expected him to say, and he refused. He outright refused to call him that.

"No, Voldemort, it wasn't wise."

Everyone gasped when he said his name, and Harry thought he even heard Draco yelp from the other end of the table. Voldemort's expression contorted as, for the briefest moment, he looked like he was going to do something truly horrible, and Harry braced himself for the pain that he'd expected in his scar the moment the Dark Lord had touched him—

But then he smiled… and laughed.

The Death Eaters surrounding him looked baffled at this most unexpected of reactions, glancing at each other nervously. "Isn't he a fascinating creature?" Voldemort jeered, his voice condescending in every sense of the word. His followers laughed then as well, though it was a bit hesitant. "Such a bold thing. I will take great pleasure in breaking you to pieces, Harry Potter… but not right now. I require your body to be functioning for at least a little while longer."

He flourished the Elder Wand again and a long quill materialized in his hand. It was extraordinarily sharp, and Harry recognized it as the same kind that Umbridge had forced him to write lines with years ago.

"This document states that Harry Potter has most graciously decided to gift his inheritance of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, to Bellatrix Lestrange, the witch who should have come into ownership of the home in the first place… as Harry hardly has any use for such things anymore."

Harry gaped, so outraged that he was at a loss for words. "Harry, darling! How very thoughtful of you, dear!" Bellatrix exclaimed, holding a hand to her chest and acting as though she was deeply flattered.

"Such a generous child," Voldemort agreed. He held the quill out towards him. "Sign here, Harry."

"No," he gasped, refusing the quill. "No, I won't, I—"

"Sign."

The snakes flashed, burning and tightening around him. Harry's scar throbbed in pain, and before he knew what was happening, the binding around his right wrist had forced his arm into movement, and the quill was in his hand. A second later and he was flung across the table, bent over the parchment with his fingers hovering over the line with an 'X' before it.

"Now."

The snake around his wrist jerked his unwilling hand into action, and then, quite against his will, Harry found himself signing his name in a very inelegant, messy scrawl. The words 'Harry James Potter' were being carved into the skin on the back of his hand at the same time they were being written on the parchment, making him hiss in pain. The moment he finished, he felt a kind of cool, tingling sensation sweep up his spine, and he knew it was magically binding.

"Very good," Voldemort drawled. He tapped his wand against the document, and it instantly curled back into a scroll. The signature remained imprinted on Harry's skin, weeping with blood—probably because he had been forced into applying far more pressure than was necessary when he'd signed. He stared at the back of his hand, furious.

Harry James Potter.

I must not tell lies.

He was riddled in scars.

"Thank you so much for your…generosity," Bellatrix purred, causing his eyes to snap up to hers. She winked, and everybody chuckled in amusement.

Except Draco. Harry just managed to glimpse his ill-concealed horror before Voldemort was speaking again.

"Now that we have that out of the way…"

With a mere flick of his wrist, Harry went flying, landing harshly back in the corner from whence he had come. There was another round of boisterous laughter, and soon the snakes had begun writhing around him again, keeping him down.

"I shall deal with you and your insubordinate nature soon, Harry, I promise you… But we have much work to do here, so I am afraid you must have patience. Do you think you can manage to remain silent and obedient for all of an hour?"

Harry glared up at him, hating him and everything about him—his smug expression, the glint in his eyes, the curl of his lips—he hated him. Bellatrix's high laughter sounded louder than everyone else's, and Harry thought of what she had done to Neville, of how the Dark Lord had orchestrated it, and before he knew it, the words were flying out of his mouth—

"You're a fucking monster… Tom."

Silence.

It fell in such a heavy wave that even the fire flickered at the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Voldemort's amused grin vanished, replaced by a cold, emotionless mask.

"…Leave us."

Everyone ran. The fireplace, giant as it was, did not seem capable of getting them out of there quickly enough. The fastest disappeared in a flash of green, but others simply opted to bolt for the door at the end of the hall. It couldn't have been more than five seconds before they had all vanished, every last one of them. The door slammed shut of its own accord after they had gone.

Voldemort stood. The fear that had been eclipsed by Harry's sheer bull-headedness came rushing forward as the Dark Lord advanced on him, his movements slow and purposeful. He motioned for Harry to rise again, and the snakes answered his call. Voldemort didn't hesitate before grabbing his wrist and disapparating with him.

Harry couldn't help but wonder where the hell they had just been, for it to be some place where only Lord Voldemort could apparate in and out of, apparently—but it was a thought that was cut very short indeed as he was flung back onto the familiar stone floor of his cell. Kreacher's body and head, as well as the giant puddles of blood, were still there.

Then, surprisingly, Voldemort vanished the snakes. Their glowing bodies disappeared, enveloping them both in darkness. All Harry could see was piercing eyes and pale skin.

"Do you know what I could do to you, Harry?"

Voldemort knelt at his side, his voice deceptively… kind. Harry didn't say anything in response, nor did he move, despite the fact that he was no longer covered in animate, scorching bindings.

He reached down and, after a split second in which he hesitated, Voldemort began running his long, spidery fingers through his hair. Harry stiffened at the action, was about to pull away—

That inexplicable sensation of light and warmth swept across his skin, radiating from where Voldemort touched his scalp. He closed his eyes, nearly sighing, because it felt so comforting, so pleasant…

"I could pick apart your limbs so running would never be an option for you again," Voldemort whispered, almost lovingly. "I could rip out your tongue so speaking such disrespectful words against your master would be impossible…"

He said it all in such a tender tone that it was deeply disquieting, and Harry was sure that, were it not for the strange ripples of warmth permeating his very being at that moment, he would be horrified. And part of him was, but another part of him… most of him, was just… was just so…

"I could castrate you and leave you as less of a man than your dead house-elf," he murmured, his fingers leaving Harry's hair so that they could cup his face. He held his chin lightly, propping his face up so that when his eyes opened, he was looking directly into Voldemort's.

The warmth vanished.

The Dark Lord's blank expression became twisted when he grinned, a spark of sadistic glee glinting in his eyes that made Harry nauseous.

"I could force amortentia down your wretched throat, and you could see what it is like, to love a fucking monster."

Harry made a choked noise that could only be interpreted as a laugh, he was so far beyond fear. Voldemort's eyes narrowed at the sound, and for some reason, that just made him laugh more.

"Like mother like son, I guess," Harry spat, feeling delirious.

Voldemort looked uncharacteristically stunned. Harry's lips curled into a smirk at his expression.

The satisfied feeling didn't last long.

"How did you know that?" Voldemort seethed, fury cutting across his features. The Elder wand was pressed against Harry's throat so quickly that he hadn't even sensed the movement.

“Oh, I know all about you, Tom," Harry drawled, grinning more widely. "I know all about your sorry life… About your mum, about how you were born... You said your muggle father had his use in the graveyard that day you took his bone and my blood and got yourself a sorry excuse for a new body, but the best thing your dad ever gave you was his face. You probably would have had a much harder time wrapping the students and staff of Hogwarts around your finger if you had inherited Merope Gaunt's looks."

Harry laughed, and Voldemort looked so atypically horrified that Harry couldn't help but go on. "But I guess it doesn't matter, anymore. The outside matches the inside perfectly now. You look exactly like what you really are." Harry paused, relishing the moment.

"A monster."

Voldemort’s thunderstruck expression slid into one of cool indifference. There was a heartbeat of silence, then Harry was hurled across the room.

His back hit the stone wall, held against it by an invisible force which pinned him there. Voldemort rose to his feet as well, as inhumanly graceful in his movements as ever.

Harry struggled but couldn't move. The fear, all of the tumultuous anxiety which had been somehow muted before in recklessness, came crashing down.

"Is that what you see when you look at me, Harry?" Voldemort asked as he took a step towards him. His eyes flashed dangerously in the dark, vibrant and scarlet.

"And now what do you see?"

Harry's glasses shattered.

He hardly closed his eyes in time; slivers of glass went flying against his face—tiny, sharp fragments that he shook away at once. The empty frames fell to the floor, and when Harry blinked his eyelids open again, it was to find that his world, which had already been obscured by the bleakness of the cell, was infinitely hazier. The Dark Lord appeared before him as a blurry, white entity with unfocused blots of red for eyes.

He came closer still. Harry's breath caught in his throat when Voldemort came closer, and closer, too close—

"Do you remember the day you fell to me, Harry? Did you do as I asked? …Do you remember the sky?"

Harry swallowed thickly, his heart racing—there was something profoundly alarming about the way he was speaking, so gently, that made his skin crawl with foreboding—

Voldemort's unclear form was so near to him now that when he inhaled, he was once more hit with the familiar scent of blood on his breath. So cold. So unnatural.

And then, even stranger still, his already distorted outline was marred even further… Tendrils of what looked like smoke, maybe…

"Do you remember the stars, how they shone in my name? Do you recall how the heavens bore my mark, how that great constellation rested above the castle like a crown?"

Only it wasn't smoke, it was shimmery, and glowing faintly… It began swirling around his pale face like an ephemeral halo of silver…

It was… it was a memory.

"A gift," Voldemort said, and then he closed the small gap between their faces, touching their foreheads together. The moment he did, Harry's mind was drenched in a powerful wave of that weightlessness, and he felt himself falling, falling…

The world became bright and clear.

Before him materialized an impossible scene. Harry saw… He saw the sky, only it was the memory through the eyes of Lord Voldemort…

And it was glorious.

Harry couldn't help but think, then, that his own vision really was dreadful. Either that, or the Dark Lord merely saw things exceptionally well—possibly both. For the sky from Voldemort's point of view was nothing short of magnificent.

The stars shone with a pristine clarity, those celestial beings that formed the constellation of a snake within a skull. The colors in the sky were a cascade of indigo and violet and the barest hint of ruby towards the east, and they were so intense, so impossibly, passionately bright through his eyes, that Harry could have sworn there were delicate hues there that he had never even seen before, colors for which there were no names…

He was stunned by the all-encompassing beauty of it. Harry was left breathless, both by the vision and by that radiating lightness that pulsed deep in his soul, and it was his, and it was Voldemort's, and it was endless and they were inseparable—

The memory faded. The warmth faded. Everything turned black.

Harry blinked, momentarily overcome after such exhilarating sensations—but the cold of the cell brought him swiftly back to the horror of his reality.

Whatever magical force that had been holding him to the wall dissipated, and Harry collapsed to the ground. He narrowed his eyes, looking on the floor for his shattered glasses, reaching his arms out, but he couldn't see them, he couldn't see anything…

He heard the gate creak open. Harry's head snapped up, peering through the darkness for Voldemort's pale skin and red eyes—

But he couldn't see them. He closed his eyes, and… no difference. None at all. There was only blackness; the same, unwavering, endless sea of darkness… whether his eyes were open or not.

Horror like Harry had never known gripped his heart. "I-I can't see," he gasped, his voice small and fearful. There was no response.

"You've… you've b-blinded me."

A long pause. Harry knew he was there, he could feel him, near him, could tell he was listening…

But when he spoke again, it was not from where Harry expected it to be. The Dark Lord was further away than he'd anticipated, he had crossed the cell and must have been on the other side of the gate, preparing to leave him.

"Another gift," Voldemort said softly.

The gate swung shut, and Harry learned what true darkness really was.

For a long time after the Dark Lord left, Harry tried to deny it. He closed his unseeing eyes and covered his hands with his face, like maybe he could convince himself that everything that had happened in the past several days, weeks, years… That all of it was just one long, horrid nightmare, and that when he eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion he would wake up in his dorm in Gryffindor tower to a world that had not yet seen the resurrection of a Dark Lord. Unfortunately, sleep would not come to him. Harry was too unsettled to stifle his racing thoughts, or even entertain the idea of clearing his mind.

But he kept his eyes closed.

Harry had already thought that the cell was dark, but now he knew what darkness really was. Before, at least, he had been able to see his own hand when he held it in front of his face. Now there was nothing, and he knew there would be nothing if he checked again… and so he didn't.

Harry trembled in the cold, for he was naked, now, his robes having been reduced to nothing but ashes. He crawled forward, the hard floor biting painfully into his knees as he did. He realized then just how helpless he was. What would he do when he had to use the bathroom? How would he get to it? He couldn't even locate the enchanted blanket and pillow Narcissa had given him without feeling waves of despair. After just a few seconds of trying to find them, Harry recoiled back to his seated position against the two walls of the corner, leaning against the stones like they were an anchor. The walls gave him some sense of direction, knowing he was on the opposite side of the gate; an irrational sensation of security. Being out in the middle of the cell felt like being lost in the ocean.

It was illogical to think that way. Harry knew that, but it didn't stop it from being true. He pressed his body harder against the wall behind him, keeping his eyes closed as he attempted to breathe properly. He was sure that the blanket and the warmth it provided were less than a few feet away… yet he found that he couldn't remove himself from the false refuge of the corner he had backed himself into.

Harry remained there, quivering, cold, and afraid.

Indigo.

Harry was still sitting in the same spot, torrid thoughts whirling, when he… he thought he… well, not saw, exactly, but… felt…indigo.

It was a subtle shift, a gentle one. Apprehensive, and… concerned. The darkness of his world seemed thinly tinted by this deep, blue hue, and Harry lifted his head, though he kept his eyes shut.

Light footsteps… and then the gate creaked open. Harry held his breath.

"I-I've brought you more clothes, child, I was told you would need them…"

Narcissa.

Harry felt a rush of relief, but it was a feeling that lasted only a moment. She came closer to him, he could hear her movements, but  despair crashed over him again when she did. Because he knew with certainty, now…

"Why are your eyes closed?"

Narcissa's presence was always proceeded by the glow of her wand, and Harry couldn't see it. Even through his eyelids, he should have been able to process the light. But there was only darkness.

There was nothing he could do to prevent the horrible sob that came out of his throat. When she placed her fingers under his chin, Harry quickly turned away, stifling his cries as best he could.

"Let me see," she demanded, gentle but resolute. "I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm only here to help. Let me see."

For a moment, Harry considered shoving her back, batting out and pushing her soft hands from his face, but he knew that was both pointless and unfair. It was not Narcissa Malfoy who had done this to him, and it wasn't as though pretending was going to make his reality any less horrifying. Slowly, begrudgingly, Harry opened his eyes.

Nothing changed, and yet everything did.

The subtle indigo brightened, flashing a strange, abysmal tint of muddy yellow. And it was the strangest thing, because Harry could have sworn there was a taste in his mouth to accompany it. Something sharp and bitter.

The outlandish sensations were gone before he could fully process them. "My God…" Narcissa murmured, horror evident in her voice. "What… what has he done to you…?"

Harry didn't want to say it, couldn't admit it out. He shook his head dismally, another pained sob issuing from his throat.

"Are you… Are you blind, child…?"

She asked it in tones of deepest dismay. Harry found that it was, at least, easier to nod than speak.

A few seconds passed in which Narcissa was silent, having dropped her hand from his face, obviously distraight. Harry could contain the devastation of this tragedy no longer, and he began to openly weep.

Something broke in Narcissa. For all of her previous efforts in keeping her distance from him, in which she would simply bring him food and water and leave as quickly as possible in order to avoid the Dark Lord… Now she seemed to throw all caution to the wind, and pulled the poor, broken form of Harry Potter towards her, cradling his shaking body like only a mother could.

Narcissa wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and Harry felt the overwhelmingly welcome sensation of the enchanted blanket being draped over him. His head fell against her chest, and she started rubbing his back through the cloth.

Harry didn't stop her, nor did he want to. He had never been held like this before, in such a tender, parental way. He cried into the fabric of her robes, arms around her waist and holding onto her like her embrace alone might hold him together. She rested her chin on the top of his head, murmuring words that were indiscernible but nonetheless comforting while he cried.

It went on for quite some time. By the time Harry's sobbing finally quieted, he was sure that at least an hour must have passed. He could not possibly find the words to express his gratitude to her for staying with him, for not immediately leaving him alone in his new world of darkness.

They fell into silence. Narcissa held him, this boy who was no longer crying but so devastated. She continued to rub Harry's back, occasionally running her fingers up through his hair in an absent-minded attempt to disentangle it.

"…It will be temporary," she eventually murmured, her voice soft. "It… This is a punishment, child, and… and it w-won't be permanent…"

Harry nodded, but he could tell by the tone of her voice that she was not entirely sure that it would be temporary. For how could anyone predict the actions of a psychotic Dark Lord?

"I heard that you were very… bold, at the meeting." She paused, swallowing thickly. When Harry said nothing, she went on. "You cannot do that, child. Y-you must do as he says. You must act obediently, you must be submissive. You must… endear yourself to him."

Harry snorted, an involuntary reaction that surprised even him. Be submissive? Endear himself? To Lord Voldemort?

Harry didn't voice his apprehension, but he didn't have to. "I know that goes against everything you stand for," Narcissa said. "I know that it sounds, perhaps… unlikely, to win his favor, but… but nothing good can come from angering him. Do you understand me? Nothing at all."

Narcissa ceased running her fingers through his hair. "Do you understand me?" she asked again, her tone suddenly much firmer—a very motherly tone, indeed. Harry nodded, still unwilling to speak.

She resumed her pleasant but ultimately pointless attempt at fixing his hair. For another long stretch of time, they were quiet, and Harry was content to bask in the warmth of the blanket which radiated heat and her calming embrace. His mind felt oddly numb. He was mentally exhausted, and under the gentle ministrations of her fingers against his scalp, Harry thought he might actually drift off to sleep…

"…I… was thinking of something, earlier today," she said, instantly making Harry alert. "Of that time when we met in Madam Malkin's, when I was with my son."

Harry racked his brains, wondering what on earth she was talking about—and then it came to him. Over a year ago, when he, Ron and Hermione had needed new robes, before their sixth year… They had run into Draco Malfoy and his mother…

It felt like someone else's life, that memory. Narcissa cleared her throat before speaking again. "I apologize for what I said. About your Godfather. About Sirius. That was cruel."

Harry's mind buzzed, wondering why she was bringing this up at all. He finally forced himself to respond when he recalled what it was that he had spat at Narcissa to make her say that in the first place. "You don't need to apologize to me," Harry said hoarsely. "I had j-just insulted your husband…"

"That's no excuse," she said. "My husband was in prison, true, but he was alive… is still alive. Your Godfather is not. I should not have said that. The dead deserve our respect, especially those whose lives ended so tragically."

Harry was stunned at all she was saying. To hear Narcissa Malfoy speaking about Sirius Black in a way that was not entirely spiteful… Then, as if in response to this very thought, she said:

"He was my cousin, after all."

Harry had forgotten that. For some reason, his troubled mind had placed Bellatrix and Narcissa in completely different categories, and he remembered only now that they were, in fact, sisters. The two witches could not have been more different, both in looks and in dispositions. Narcissa was light and fair, while Bellatrix…

The sound of Narcissa's laughter derailed Harry's thoughts, it was so unexpected. Harry lifted his head from her moving chest, confused. "I remember when we were younger, when we were all students," she explained, and though he could not see her, Harry knew there was a smile on her lips. "Sirius. I was a few years above him, a fifth-year. I had just been made prefect for Slytherin… He was one of the first to be sorted. And then he had the audacity to go against Black family tradition, to be put in Gryffindor."

She laughed again. Harry couldn't help but crack a smile as well. "He was proud of that," he murmured.

"Oh, I know he was," Narcissa agreed, sounding both annoyed and amused. "It felt like my dear cousin existed solely to make my life more difficult, even when he was just a first-year. I gave him more detentions than anyone else. Him and… and your father, both."

Harry's breath hitched in his throat. This was definitely a thought that had never occurred to him before. Draco's parents having gone to Hogwarts at the same time as his own…

"First-year students, and by far the most obnoxious," she continued in that same tone of irately bemused. "Sirius and James. And while most Gryffindors and Slytherins had it out for each other, those two took it to new extremes. Sirius was the epitome of familial backlash, and his new friend was more than supportive. They pulled their little pranks every chance they got. Once, they even managed to enchant these dung bombs so that they wouldn't go off right away. They must have snuck them into Severus's bag right before he came into the common room… Oh, it was awful." She sounded annoyed, but when she laughed, it was a genuine sound. "The Slytherin dorms smelled horrid all day."

Harry couldn't believe that he was smiling. The foreign expression felt painful on his face.

But it was an odd, hollow happiness; an amusement that was laced with a deep sadness. Sirius, his father… Even Snape, now…

All dead…

"And they only got worse with age," Narcissa continued. "By the time I was a seventh-year, they had multiplied. Remus Lupin had joined their little group, and while he wasn't as loud or outwardly annoying, he was a dangerous addition. He had a sort of intellect about him that made their pranks less frequent, but much more… efficient. And Pettigrew… Well, I honestly have no idea why they let him hang around."

Harry bristled at the name. Pettigrew… But he, too, was dead… As was Remus…

All dead…

"I'm sure you hear it all the time, but you really do look just like your father. The resemblance in uncanny."

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice still rather gravelly. "I've been told once or twice."

She laughed. Harry waited, sure that the next part of the observation concerning his resemblance to his parents was coming. "Except, of course, your eyes." Narcissa paused, swallowing audibly and carding her fingers through his hair again. "Your eyes… They were just like your mother's."

The pause that followed this statement was heavy and dark. Harry's blood ran cold. 

Were?

…His mouth seemed unwilling to move, his lips unable to ask.

"I remember her, too," Narcissa eventually said, her tone much lighter. "Your mother. Nothing at all like your father or Sirius. At least, not while I was still at school. She was quieter when she was younger, very studious… And oh, Slughorn just loved her."

Narcissa was clearly bitter about this fact, even all these years later. Harry listened with rapt attention. "Lily Evans, only in her second year, and already being invited to Slughorn's little get-togethers, right alongside students like Lucius and me. He usually only brought in older students, mind you, and generally he favored those in his own house… It wasn't very often that he was interested in someone so young. And then to find out that she was in Gryffindor, and a muggle-born, and so pretty and charming, well…"

She laughed again. "Naturally, we all hated her."

Harry, amazingly, found that he was laughing as well. It made his chest ache.

"Cheeky little thing, your mother. She made all sorts of bold, witty remarks that most of us never would have dared… and Slughorn just loved her all the more for it. He doted on her, it was infuriating." Narcissa sighed, shaking her head. "I apologize. I'm rambling…"

"No," Harry said quickly. "I… I don't mind." He paused, then, as the depressing realization washed over him. He did not want Narcissa to leave him, not at all. "But… H-he could show up any moment, and if he knows, if he sees—"

Harry's concerns died in his throat. Suddenly, like a cold breeze sweeping across his mind, Harry could have sworn he felt something—his presence, blacker even than this new world of darkness, and with it a sensation of unnatural iciness that rolled over his skin—

But the frigid feeling lasted only a moment. Harry shivered, and Narcissa wrapped the blanket more tightly around him in response. He must have… he must have imagined it, that sinister energy of Lord Voldemort, by thinking of him just now… For surely, if the Dark Lord were actually there, Narcissa would see him, and he would make his presence known, would do something horrible upon arriving…

Harry shuddered again. He did not want to imagine what Voldemort might do to Narcissa and him if they were discovered like this, with her cradling Harry in her arms and reminiscing about his parents, of all things…

Narcissa's muscles tensed, clearly thinking along the same lines. "Yes, I should leave soon. But first… Here, I brought you clothes…"

Nodding and feeling deeply embarrassed, Harry allowed her help him up. Narcissa was slow and sympathetic, taking her time with helping him into the new robes she had brought him, which were surprisingly soft (he wondered if they, too, were bewitched to look tattered yet feel new, but he did not ask). She then beseeched him to drink some water and eat as much bread as he could, which was very little. Afterwards, she showed him how to feel his way towards the bathroom along the stone walls so that he could find it on his own.

Harry had never felt more powerless.

Narcissa's hand found its way under his chin, cupping his face. Harry was sure that she was examining him, though he refused to open his eyes again. What had meant, when she'd said his eyes were just like his mother's…?

Again, he could not bring himself to ask.

"You do not look well, child…" Narcissa murmured. And then, "Wait. I will be back in just a moment."

She stood, and Harry heard her echoing footsteps and the sound of the gate closing when she went. After she was gone, he noticed that the odd tint of blue, which he had grown accustomed to in her presence, had vanished.

Odd.

He pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Harry took a deep breath in, and decided, in her absence, to attempt Occlumency again.

Empty your mind.

Think of nothing, think of no one…

Empty your mind.

Empty your—

Indigo, again.

Odd. Very odd. He perceived the minor shift in the atmosphere. Small, yes, but definitely there.

The gate opened. "Here," Narcissa said, and then there was something being pressed to his lips. "This is a nutrition elixir. It doesn't taste very good, I'll be honest, but there's not very much, and it's full of vitamins and minerals. Things your body needs to recover…"

Harry nodded and dutifully accepted the vial. She was right. The elixir tasted awful, quite reminiscent of the Polyjuice Potion he'd taken in his second year. Harry grimaced when she took the empty vial back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"One more thing," she said. Harry waited, and was surprised to feel another goblet being pressed to his lips. He inhaled the aroma of something familiar, a bit like lavender.

"It's a Dreamless Draught," Narcissa explained. Harry's brows raised in surprise, though he continued to keep his eyes closed. Such a thing seemed like a luxury that Voldemort would not be pleased about.

"Won't you be punished, if he finds out?" Harry whispered, gently pushing the goblet away.

Narcissa grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers reassuringly. "One cannot be well if they are not properly resting, child," she said, almost chidingly. He cracked a small smile at her tone. Probably, he mused, he should find it a bit condescending, the way that she called him 'child' and spoke to him as such—but he didn't. He found it comforting, and really didn't mind it at all, coming from her.

So Harry nodded, allowing her to place the rim of the cup to his lips, and drank deeply. It tasted like chamomile, a much more pleasant taste than the previous concoction.

It was a good Dreamless Draught, too. Harry instantly felt drowsy. Narcissa pulled the goblet away and placed her hands on his shoulders, guiding his body back so that he was laying down with his head on the enchanted pillow. She even tucked him in, making sure the blanket was snug around him on all sides.

"Th…thank…" Harry tried to express his gratefulness, but the potion was too powerful. Already he was drifting off. He heard laughter, quiet and feminine, and thought he felt the soft sensation of lips being pressed chastely to his forehead…

And the next thing he knew, Harry was lost to slumber, deep and blissfully dreamless.

When he opened his eyes, it was to pure darkness.

When he closed his eyes again, it was exactly the same.

Harry cringed. There was no momentary reprieve of confusion when he awoke this time. He was perfectly aware of where he was and what had happened to him.

He was blind.

Harry was blind, and Voldemort had done it to him… All because of his damn mouth.

Why had he said those stupid, stupid things? Why had he, Harry, felt the need to call him a monster, call him Tom? To comment on his mother's looks, of all things? And then, perhaps even more interestingly… Why had that last part bothered Voldemort as much as it did?

Was it simply because he was enraged that Harry knew of his secretive past in the first place? Or was Voldemort actually offended that Harry had essentially called him… ugly?

Harry assumed that it must be the former of the two. Surely the Dark Lord was unconcerned with such trivial things as appearances…

But he hadn't sounded unconcerned.

Harry sighed, realizing that it didn't really matter one way or another, now. Voldemort had blinded him out of spite, and if he ever hoped to get his sight back…

What did the Dark Lord even want from him?

That was a far more pertinent question. What in the world did Voldemort want from the fallen Chosen One? Who the entire wizarding world now thought missing, save for his Death Eaters… The thorn in his side whom he could not kill, because Harry had a fragment of the Dark Lord's soul within him…

Harry had no idea.

The one thing he could be sure of, though, was that Voldemort was probably searching for a way to get that very soul fragment out of the body of Harry James Potter. Then he could place it in something else, and finally do what he's always wanted to do—kill his prophesized enemy once and for all.

But Harry had a horrible, sinking feeling that Voldemort wouldn't be able to.

Remorse…

'You've got to really feel what you've done… Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, can you?'

Hermione's words echoed in his head. Unfortunately, he was inclined to agree.

So if Voldemort couldn't get it out, and he couldn't kill him… What did he plan on doing with his human horcrux? If he was Lord Voldemort's last tie to immortality—and he was—then… Well, what about him?

He, Harry, wasn't immortal. What about when he died? He would age, he would grow old… Someday, somehow, Harry Potter would inevitably die. And then what? Lord Voldemort would be mortal once more…

Harry was just mulling these thoughts over when he felt it.

That same, frigid feeling that made his hairs stand on end. Deeply disquieting and radiating a blackness so dark that Harry shuddered. There were no footsteps to accompany it, no screeching of the gate swinging open, but Harry sensed it. He kept completely still, his posture rigid. Was he really there, or was Harry imagining it again?

Harry waited.

The seconds stretched on, turning into long, painful minutes. The cold atmosphere never shifted, stagnant and suffocating. Voldemort did not announce his presence, and Harry did not acknowledge that he felt him. And Harry refused, outright refused to beg… even if it was for something as invaluable as his sight.

The silence continued, strained.

…Was he there?

Just as Harry was beginning to think that maybe it really was all in his head, there was a spark of something else. Something new…something light, and it was getting closer…

Long, spidery fingers grazed Harry's cheek. Warmth, blissful and weightless, danced across his skin and swept away all of the previous feelings of iciness. Harry resisted the urge to lean into him, towards that magnetic buoyancy—but then Voldemort placed his other hand on Harry's face, and there was no stopping it. Harry gasped, his head falling forward at the sudden increase of it, that beautiful sensation that was so strong, so irresistible, wanting more, more… But was that feverish desire his, or the Dark Lord's…?

"A gift…"

Voldemort's voice was a sigh on his lips. Harry felt the cool breath of his words against his skin, tantalizingly soft… and then their foreheads touched, and the sea of darkness fell away.

Harry saw…

It was… it was a forest. Harry was in the woods, standing firmly on his feet in some part of the country he did not recognize.

It was beautiful.

Trees in various hues of gold and red were all around him, the telltale signs of early autumn. But it was the sheer clarity of the vision that was most astounding. Harry had never personally experienced the world like this. His sight, even with glasses, had never been so crystal-clear, so vivid.

Harry gazed in amazement at the radiant varieties of colored leaves, the bright and cheery yellows and oranges. They were still mostly on the branches, but occasionally a gust of wind would pass through, causing a few to flutter off towards the ground.

Harry was smiling, totally lost in the blissful sensations of light and color and sight… until the sound of people shouting caused him to turn.

Children. He could see them through the trees, a group of children playing on the grass in the distance. Harry was just about to walk over to them when something—someone—else caught his eye.

One lone child was headed towards him. A boy. He was smirking as he walked, unnaturally quiet in his movements. Harry stared at him in shock.

It was Tom Riddle.

Harry knew it; he would recognize that pale skin and those dark eyes anywhere. But he was young, much younger than when Harry had seen him as a child in Dumbledore's memory. This Tom Riddle couldn't have been more than four or five years old. He walked with a surprising grace, considering his age and size. He looked smug. Harry got the feeling that this, sneaking off into the woods by himself, was something that the young Tom Riddle knew that he was not supposed to be doing.

Harry gaped, perplexed. Why was Voldemort showing him a memory from when he was a child…?

But Harry followed along anyway, realizing that he wouldn't have much say in the matter even if he hadn't wanted to watch. Which of course he did, because it was glorious, being able to see again, with such immaculate, perfect vision…

Tom Riddle sauntered through the woods, the unseen ghost of Harry Potter at his side.

For a few minutes, this was all they did—walked through the warm-colored trees underneath a bright, blue sky. And really, that would have been enough for Harry. It was a stunning forest, and he found himself quite content just walking and looking around, appreciating nature in a way that he never had before.

Then they came to a small clearing. Tom smiled when he happened upon it and the bubbling creek which cut through the middle. He knelt down, reaching his tiny hands into the water and cupping them, only to let the liquid sift through his fingers right back into the brook. He laughed, doing this no less than five more times, like he found the simple fluidity of water fascinating.

He paused when a leaf fell from a tree, fluttering towards him. Tom looked up, eyes wide and hands currently full of water—

The leaf froze.

Harry watched in amazement as the crimson leaf remained there, hovering right in front of his face, remaining in place. Tom looked even more shocked than Harry did—he dropped his hands, splashing water down his front when he did, but he hardly seemed to notice. His attention was fixed on the leaf, his gaze filled with wonder.

Tom reached out, slowly. Harry thought for sure that he was going to grab it, but then, to his surprise, he stopped short. Tom held his hand in front of the floating leaf, and instead of wrapping his fingers around it, he moved his arm to the side… and the leaf followed.

He was moving it. Tom beamed as he wandlessly, wordlessly, purposefully guided the single leaf in a circle around him, twisting and twirling in midair as he slowly spun. Harry could tell by his radiant smile that this was the first time Voldemort, as a child, had performed magic. And it wasn't some kind of life-saving accident, either… It was intentional.

Another puff of wind blew through the air, and more leaves fell. Tom reached his other hand out, his smile faltering for a second as his brows furrowed in concentration… and, to Harry's amazement, he managed to make those leaves float too, just like the first one.

His grin was back in full force. Tom began to spin, then, both arms extended. As he did, the leaves moved with him, circling around him, orbiting him like he was the sun and they were his fluttering planets. Tom started spinning faster, laughing. The leaves matched his pace, and when the next gust of wind freed dozens more from their branches, he collected more bits of gold, red, and orange.

Tom Riddle was a miniature, human tornado, surrounded by colors and the dancing wind. He turned faster and faster, laughing the entire time, dark eyes shining with joy. It was an infectious feeling, and Harry found himself smiling just as broadly.

The memory started to blur.

Harry exhaled sharply, his bleak reality rising up to greet him. He desperately tried to cling to some scrap of light, not wanting to lose that precious vision, but it was fading, as was the sound of Tom Riddle's childish laughter. The warmth, the weightless sensation, the Dark Lord's hands on his face… They all began to fade.

By the time Harry had fully returned to his horrific present, Voldemort was gone. The darkness of his cell was no longer charged with his sinister energy, but was the empty, hollow sea of shadows that held no one and nothing.

Harry pulled his knees to his chest, feeling dazed and strangely abandoned… unable to do anything other than wonder why Lord Voldemort had shared that with him.

What on earth had the Dark Lord meant to accomplish by showing Harry that vision of the forest and the stag? And then, just before he'd left, when Harry had told him the opposite of what he'd wanted to hear...

I'll never beg you for anything.

Fondness.

…Why?

Harry threaded his fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to rip it from his scalp. He was baffled by all of it. He didn't understand what the Dark Lord wanted from him!

He took a deep breath and dropped his hands into his lap. At least I still have the enchanted blanket, he thought morbidly.

…But he would be receiving no Dreamless Draught, tonight.

Well, he certainly wasn't feeling relaxed enough to sleep without it. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to, even if he tried. Dependency and all that. Harry wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and decided to dedicate the evening to practicing Occlumency.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

Think of no one, think of nothing…

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

The night passed slowly.

By the time he assumed it was morning, Harry hadn't slept a wink.

Had it really been that long? Maybe not, maybe only a few hours had passed. In the end, Harry wasn't entirely surprised when, though he heard footsteps, the aura which accompanied them was black and cold.

Harry turned at the sound of the gate swinging open; had just opened his mouth to demand that Voldemort tell him what he had done to Narcissa, when—

"Hello, child."

…What?

The words died in Harry's throat at the sound of not Voldemort's, but… Narcissa's voice.

Harry said nothing. He did nothing. He held his breath as he sat there, feeling with certainty that familiar, icy magic. Black and ruthless. Voldemort.

"How are you feeling?"

Narcissa's voice.

Narcissa's footsteps, walking towards him. Narcissa's hands, smoothing the skin on his forehead.

Voldemort's magic.

"…Child?"

The ridiculous conclusion he came to almost caused Harry to gasp.

Voldemort was here—under the influence of Polyjuice Potion—pretending to be Narcissa Malfoy.

…Why?

But Voldemort had absolutely no idea that Harry knew it was him. Harry gripped the blanket wrapped around his shoulders tighter. "F-fine," he stuttered, trying desperately to act as he normally would around Narcissa. "I'm f-fine."

His mind raced. Narcissa—Voldemort—handed him a goblet. "Drink."

Harry could feel his hands quivering. He took the goblet and drank as slowly as he could, stalling for time so that he could gather himself. Why on earth would the Dark Lord be here, pretending to be her? What the hell was Voldemort up to with this?

One part of Harry—the reckless, Gryffindor part—was tempted to call him out on it right then and there. To casually hand the goblet back to him and say:

'Thank you for the water… my Lord.'

And while that would certainly grant him one moment of extreme satisfaction, not even he, Harry James Potter, was that tactless.

Whatever the Dark Lord was planning on doing, he was confident that Harry thought this to be Narcissa Malfoy in his cell with him. Harry decided to let him believe that.

Once the goblet was empty, Harry handed it back to him. "Did he hurt you?" he asked, because that undoubtedly would have been his first question were this really Narcissa. "Did he do anything to you, or to—"

"No." Voldemort must have vanished the goblet. He began to run one hand through Harry's hair while the other cupped his face in a motherly fashion. But that blackness. Harry noticed the way that it almost twitched and swirled when he sounded so concerned, and—

Envy?

Lord Voldemort was envious?

"He did not harm me, child. He was… merciful."

Harry had no idea if this was the truth or not. "G-good," he said, trying to sound relieved. "I thought that he would—"

"Shhh…" Voldemort placed a finger to his lips, and God was it strange, to feel Narcissa's warm hands on his face while at the same time experience the frigidity of the Dark Lord's magic. "Do not panic. I am fine."

And his acting was superb! He spoke with the same inflection, the exact same tone—and Voldemort was pulling him into an embrace, just like Narcissa would have—

Hug him back, Harry had to remind himself. If this were really Narcissa Malfoy, you would hug her back.

Hoping that the action didn't seem forced, Harry did. The second he wrapped his arms around Narcissa's waist, Voldemort pulled him even closer, even tighter, holding him in a way that the Dark Lord would surely never do in his own body. And before Harry could even begin to comprehend this bizarre occurrence, he was shocked even further.

Voldemort was smelling him.

Harry hoped that maybe he had imagined it, but he knew he hadn't. Voldemort had definitely pressed his face up against his neck and inhaled deeply through Narcissa's nose. Harry's arms went limp, but he otherwise did not react. Almost reluctantly, Voldemort pulled away as well. His magic began whirling about animatedly. There was something a bit antsy about it. Nervousness, maybe? Excitement?

"…I need something from you, Harry."

Harry's breath hitched.

Well, the Dark Lord had screwed up in his impersonation at least once, then. Narcissa never called him Harry, for whatever reason.

"You n-need something from me?"

Voldemort's magic stirred in response. Harry had a very, very bad feeling.

"Yes," the Dark Lord answered. His magic may have been anticipatory, but Narcissa's voice was convincingly dreadful and pitying. "He… has asked me to take something from you. I have to do it, I have to. It will be… very unpleasant. But it won't really harm you, and I will do it as painlessly as possible, I promise." He paused, running the fingers of a caring woman through his hair again. "You do trust me, don't you, Harry?"

Harry hesitated, thinking before answering. Whatever it was that Voldemort wanted from him—whatever he could possibly desire that he had not already taken—he was going to get it, no matter what. What could possibly be gained from fighting him?

Harry grabbed his hand. It felt incredibly surreal, to hold a hand which was pleasant and warm and know that he was touching the Dark Lord. Harry opened his eyes, knowing without question that his gaze was directed towards irises of silver that concealed the monster within.

"Do what you have to do. Take whatever you have to from me, so long as it means that no one else will get hurt…" Harry paused, his voice full of real, raw emotion.

"My life is worthless down here anyway."

The black aura shifted at once. It became brighter than it ever had been, tinted with a scarlet hue that was disarmingly fierce. Harry almost winced at the intensity of it.

"Your life," came the stern but feminine voice of Narcissa, "is anything but worthless."

Harry held Voldemort's false hands more tightly, continuing to make sure that the Dark Lord was staring right into the eyes he had stolen the sight from. "Do what you have to do," he repeated in a whisper.

Voldemort stepped away. Harry heard the sounds of shifting robes when he stood, and he wondered wildly for a moment just what lengths Voldemort had to go to in order to accurately impersonate Narcissa.

"Don't move," the Dark Lord said. "And know that it will be over soon."

There was a pause in which Voldemort's magic seemed to freeze. Like maybe, for just a moment, he was reconsidering doing whatever it was he was planning. Like he might change his mind.

He didn't.

"Expecto magicae."

At first, Harry wasn't sure if anything was happening. He was certain that a spell had just been aimed at him, as he felt a sort of tingly sensation in his chest when Voldemort uttered the words... but then nothing.

"What… What are you—"

Excruciating pain.

It exploded in Harry's very core, a manic energy tearing at his ribcage. It felt like Voldemort had just reached into his chest with razorblades and was hollowing him out. Harry screamed, a bloodcurdling and chilling sound. It ricocheted off the walls and assaulted his own ears.

Harry would have begged then—he would have begged the Dark Lord to stop, only he couldn't form words. It was worse, somehow, than the Cruciatus Curse. This was a pain that went beyond his body, deeper than his skin and bones. It was as if his very essence was being ripped in half, a part of him that was never meant to be touched forced to endure the darkness and pain of his reality.

Just as he was certain that the pain couldn't get any worse, it did. Bone-shattering agony tore across his mind, stealing his breath away and ending his screams. The turbulent force inside of his chest finally broke free in one violent tear of anguish.

And then, light and… emptiness.

The pain became dulled after that climactic moment, but it was replaced by a coldness that was entirely different than Voldemort's magic. It wasn't icy or frigid, no, just… absence. Harry's body felt hollow.

But outside of his body…

There was a light like nothing he had ever experienced before. Brilliant and warm. It shone like a sun, bathing the dark space with an glow that could only be described as golden. It hovered over him, saturating the air and making the Dark Lord's blackness seemingly recede into the corners of the cell like unwanted shadows.

The sharp sound of Narcissa Malfoy gasp told Harry he wasn't alone in being fascinated.

Harry was so mesmerized by this light that it took him some time to realize what it was. This warm hue, this golden entity that was so vibrant and pure, was… It was attached to him. It was clinging to his skin, thrumming in tandem with his racing pulse…

This was his magic…

This, here, was Harry's own magical energy, only Voldemort had somehow pulled it from his body... but not entirely. It was still linked to him with filaments like liquid light. Harry felt like his heart had been torn from his chest, still beating, continuing to pump blood through veins which remained connected, even when exposed to cold, empty air.

"You truly are everything that… he is not," whispered the voice of Narcissa reverently. The blackness twitched in excitement.

Harry's own astonishment died at once. Fear, more crushing than Harry had ever experienced, consumed him. "Don't take it," he begged, not caring even slightly that he had sworn to never do such a thing. Because he knew, without a doubt, that if Voldemort somehow severed the filaments which connected this light to him, he would be worse than dead. If this absence in his chest became permanent, he would not be able to stand it, he would—

"No," Voldemort responded. Harry heard him take a step, and imagined that he was getting closer to that brilliant light. The Dark Lord's magic was becoming livelier, eager. "I could not take it from you. Not completely. No one could… It is yours."

Then Harry felt the strangest sensation of all. Not very painful, but… uncomfortable. It felt like a dulled version of the sensation he had just experienced within his chest before, like nails being dragged along the outside of that light and scraping away some of its radiant surface. Harry had a horrible feeling that the only reason it was not as agonizing as before was because it was currently not inside of him.

But that slight pain was nothing compared to the emptiness he felt in his chest. Harry would absolutely choose pain over this hollowness. Any pain, the worst pain, the entire world's pain would be preferable. Harry curled into himself, pulling his knees to his chest and shaking violently. "H-hurry," he whispered, hardly able to get the word out.

The dulled, scraping sensation stopped. "Prepare yourself," Voldemort said. The tone was a bit too emotionless to convincingly belong to Narcissa.

Harry got his wish.

The emptiness within him vanished, and Harry's entire being was filled with agony. His soul was on fire with it. He howled at the onslaught, an emotional wail that instantly made his throat sore and his eyes water. There was no help for it. It was too intense. Tears fell from Harry's eyes the second the pain hit him, and once they started, they would not stop.

Harry cried.

The gorgeous light from the cell was gone, having been placed back where it belonged. But it wasn't the same. Harry felt like some vital part of him had been ravaged, stripped bare so that the nerve endings were exposed. Only it was inside of him once more, and so it radiated in every bone and muscle. With every labored breath he felt it—burning, torrid pain.

"You will heal," Voldemort said, and again, the tone sounded wrong coming from Narcissa. It seemed that the Dark Lord, who had been perfect at pretending to be something he was not for much of his life, could not keep up the façade now. For if the real Narcissa Malfoy had been forced to do this to him, she would have rushed to his side the moment she finished. She would have held him and whispered apologies into his ear. She may have even cried with him.

Voldemort did none of these things.

The Dark Lord left, and Harry was too consumed by suffering to tell what he may have been feeling as he went.

Eventually, the pain lessened.

Not entirely, but it diminished to something more bearable. After hours of endless, pathetic sobbing, the fire in Harry's core had dulled so that it was no longer burning, but… smoldering. It still hurt, especially when he moved too suddenly. Harry hissed in pain when he sat up. He imagined this might be how it would feel to recover from surgery, only without any pain medication.

Harry thought he would give just about anything to see the real Narcissa again, with her sweetness, lullabies, and the promise of a dreamless night's sleep. But he knew he never would.

Harry stifled another sob, wiping away the residual tears on his face. If Narcissa was not going to be the one to take care of him any longer, then who would? Harry had a feeling that Voldemort wouldn't be able to do it. The Dark Lord hadn't even been able to stay in a cell with him for five seconds when he'd started crying, and that was when he was supposed to be pretending to care. So who would it be?

Not much time passed before Harry could tell that he was going to get his answer.

Timid footsteps announced the presence of someone new. Harry could hear whoever it was hovering outside of the gates, wary and extremely nervous. The aura was fascinating: Harry could appreciate it even through his pain. It was bright, silver with just the slightest hint of blue. Somewhat reminiscent of Narcissa's, but not overly so. It was far too light. It made Harry think of healing and restoration; of a patronus.

Perhaps this was Madam Pomfrey, he mused. The second he thought it he realized he was probably right. It was entirely possible that the Dark Lord had acquired either her or some other Healer to tend to him now. Harry waited patiently, not saying anything. The gate creaked open slowly when they finally mustered up the courage to enter.

"Fucking hell."

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes instinctively flying open. The voice did not match the aura. "Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy verbally winced, and his light and luminescent magic became frazzled. Stunned at the sight of Harry's eyes, probably. And the rest of him. "What… what the hell has he done to you?" he gasped.

Harry didn't deign that question with a response. He was sure that Draco knew he had been blinded. "He sent you down here? …Why?"

"I… am equally unhappy about the arrangement." Draco swallowed audibly. "Potter," he added.

There was a pause in which Harry thought he might laugh. But the amusement was fleeting, and the pain in his chest too strong.

"H-here," Draco said, clearly fumbling. "I'm supposed to… I don't know, give you—"

"I don't need anything," Harry interrupted. He was suddenly furious. Voldemort had put him through hell, gifting him excruciating, lingering pain so that he could—what? Use whatever residual magic he had stolen from him for something? Harry was suffering too much to think of what that could possibly be—and now, now he had taken away the beauty of Narcissa Malfoy... and given him her son instead.

"Just leave, Malfoy."

"I…I can't—"

"Yes, you can," Harry snapped. "Just turn around and walk away. You're good at that."

"Don't." Surprisingly, Draco didn't rise to the bait. He knelt at Harry's side and forced a cup into his hands. "You have to drink water, at least. I'm… I'm not leaving until you do."

Harry hated that this was a real incentive to cooperate. Grudgingly, he took the cup and drank. "There," he said when he was done. Rather than hand the cup back to him, Harry tossed it across the cell where it hit the wall with sharp bang.

"Cute," Malfoy muttered.

Harry was about to tell him to piss off when his thoughts took an abrupt turn. He reached out and grabbed the front of Draco's robes.

"You owe me, Malfoy" he said. Draco's magic shook in anxiety. "I didn't need to go back into that Fiendfyre and save your arse, but I did. You owe me." Harry pulled him closer, pleading now. "Help me get out of here. Help me escape. Please."

Draco tried to pry his fingers off of his clothes, but Harry's grip, despite how weak he felt, was ironclad. "D-don't ask me to do that," he said. "Don't, you know I can't, you know that's impossible—you're blind, and—and even if I could somehow get you out—which I can't—he'd k-kill me—"

"Then come with me," Harry said. "We can both go, the Order will protect you—"

"Then he'd kill my parents!" Draco shouted, unmoved by Harry's pleas. "Or my friends, or—"

"And what about my friends? What about Ron and Hermione? They're still out there, and if he finds them while I'm in here, he'll—he'll—"

"I know!" Draco finally succeeded in shoving Harry off of him. He must have fled to the far side of the cell, for when Harry reached out again, his hands met nothing but empty air. "You think I don't know what will happen? You think that they're the only ones out there who are freaking the fuck out, trying to survive?"

Harry gaped, trying to think of a response to that. Draco's aura turned a slightly deeper hue, weighed down by misery and guilt. "It's a fucked up world out there, Potter. His world. We're all just trying to figure out how to live in it."

Draco shuffled away, opening the gate so that he could escape.

"Wait," Harry called. "Wait, I… I have a question."

Draco paused. Harry could feel his magic shaking on the outside of the iron bars, nervous again. "…What is it?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "What… What reason has he given you for keeping me here?"

It was something that Harry had been curious about for a while. He knew exactly why he was being held here, of course, but Harry wondered what reason Voldemort could possibly have given to his Death Eaters. What explanation had he told his closest followers for keeping alive the very person he had wanted desperately for years to kill?

Draco fell silent. Harry feared he was going to ignore his question and leave.

"He said… He said he likes trophies," Draco finally answered, his voice hollow.

Harry laughed. The action hurt almost more than he could stand, but he couldn't help it. He laughed harder and longer than he had in a long time.

He didn't notice when Draco left.

The next time Harry was forced to endure his schoolboy nemesis's presence, he was determined not to be hostile.

Harry had hours to plot, alone in the darkness of his cell. Hours in which Voldemort did not visit him again, hours where he thought up ways that he could appeal to Draco's guilt and possibly convince him to help him escape. Harry knew, deep down, that it would never happen, but what else could he do? He felt it was a better use of his time than to try and practice Occlumency, and it did manage to somewhat distract him from his pain.

Yet the moment Draco reappeared, with his bizarrely light, magical energy, Harry's plans became derailed. There was a powerful wave of anguish which filled the air the moment Draco came close. His emotions were distraught. Suffocatingly so.

"What is it?" Harry asked, not caring if it would come across as weird that he could tell something was amiss before Draco had spoken. "What's happened?"

Draco's magic became an even more powerful cloud of strain and indecision. Harry could sense how torn he was, how deeply he did not want to answer that question. Harry's heart thundered in his chest.

"Malfoy," Harry said, his panic mounting, "Malfoy, tell me what—"

"It's Weasley."

Draco's voice was a whisper, but Harry heard it loud and clear. His sporadic heartbeat froze.

"They… found Ron Weasley."

Harry's initial reaction to Draco's words was complete and total denial. They had not, could not have caught Ron. It was not possible.

No.

"Yes."

Draco’s voice was hoarse, and his magic was stringent with a tension that screamed of honesty. Harry hid his face in his hands, not wanting to believe it, but Draco went on. "They f-found him just a few hours ago. The Snatchers."

Harry looked up, eyes open but seeing nothing. "Hermione?" he gasped.

"No," Draco answered. "No, they… It was just Weasley they caught. Not Granger."

"What? How?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. How could they possibly catch one of them and not the other? Hermione wouldn’t abandon Ron for any reason.

"I dunno," Draco said. Harry could hear him begin to pace, and his magic, too, became more sporadic. "I dunno, it all happened really quickly, and I was just told that it was only Weasley they got, but now my parents are both at the Ministry, helping to deal with all of the madness—"

"What's going to happen to him?" Harry interrupted. "Malfoy, what are they going to do with Ron? Where is he now? What's…"

His voice trailed off, unable to finish, but Draco must have understood. His aura calmed into a melancholy state, less frazzled and infinitely more pitying. "My parents didn't get a chance to tell me all of the details," he admitted. "And I probably shouldn't even be telling you—"

"I swear to God, Malfoy," Harry seethed, and he even began to push himself to his feet. "If you don't—"

"I'm going to!" Draco put his hands on Harry's shoulders, easily pushing his emaciated form back into a seated position on the ground. "Merlin, don't threaten me, Potter, you're not in any state—and yes, I owe you, so yes, I'm going to tell you—so just calm down."

The very last thing Harry could do was calm down, but he stayed still and listened all the same. "As I was saying," Draco continued, stepping away once he was certain that Harry wasn't going to try blindly charging at him, "they found Weasley a few hours ago, and I guess Granger was with him, but she got away somehow. I don't know exactly how it all happened, so don't ask. But Weasley is in Azkaban now, and he's going to have a trial on Monday."

Harry felt numb. "What day is it?" he asked in a bizarrely calm voice.

"It's… It's Sunday."

Harry took a deep breath, holding onto his odd state of detachment and wishing that it would last forever. "What is he being tried for, exactly?"

"Treason, mostly. For conspiring against the Ministry and for consorting with a wanted, unregistered muggle-born."

Hermione Granger, of course. Harry's hands curled into fists at his sides, his fingernails biting into his skin. "And what's going to happen when they inevitably find him guilty?"

Draco was silent for a long time, but his magic whirled in a cloud of indecisiveness. Harry could sense that he knew the answer, but was unwilling to say it. "Malfoy, you have to tell me. I'm going to find out inevitably."

"They're going to offer him a deal," Draco said. "You don't… You don't know what things have been like, just in the past few hours, Potter. Everything is insane at the Ministry, what with Ron Weasley being captured, and with the Dark Lord…"

His magic shuddered. It seemed that, whatever train of thought Draco was having concerning his master, he was unable to articulate it.

"What?" Harry prompted, panicked. "What about him, what's happened with Vol—"

"Don't say his name!" Draco hissed at once. Whether it was because of the Taboo or for other reasons, Harry wasn't sure. "Just—let's just say that the Dark Lord has become very, very public as of this morning, and it just so happened that Weasley was kidnapped at right around the same time, and it's all just total fucking mayhem right now."

He paused, his aura vibrating with stress. "They're going to tell Weasley that if he says it was all Granger who talked him into turning against the Dark Lord and the wizarding community of Britain—that it was she who persuaded him to turn against his own kind—then they'll give him a tolerable sentence. Ten years, maybe. Especially if he gives them information that leads to her capture."

"He will never do that," Harry said at once. "Even if they tried to Imperius him. He'd fight it. Ron would never, ever do that to her."

"I know," Draco whispered.

There was a heavy stretch of silence. Harry hated that he had to even ask the next question, because he knew that Draco could feel it coming. "…What will they do to Ron, then? When he fails to cooperate?"

Harry hated even more that he knew the answer before it was spoken.

"The… He'll be sentenced to the kiss."

"No."

Harry was on his feet before he realized he wanted to stand. The blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy, but he steadied himself against the wall. "No, no, no," he repeated. When Draco came to make sure he wouldn't fall, Harry clutched at his shoulders with all of the energy he had left.

"Ow—don't—"

"Get me out of here," Harry demanded. "Take me now, while there's no one else here and everyone is distracted—take me to—"

"To where?" Draco snarled, but his voice was too full of emotion to come off as sinister as he'd probably intended. "To the Ministry? To Azkaban? To the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, which could be anywhere now, if it even still exists—"

"I don't know!" Harry shouted, and his whole body ached with the horrible, lingering pain from whatever Voldemort had done to him. "I don't know, just—take me to him, take me to the Dark Lord so that I can talk to him, before—"

Draco's laugh was instant, cold, and mirthless. "Talk to him? You?" he balked. "Have you lost your mind completely, Potter?"

"I have to do something, Malfoy. I can't just sit down here in this cell while my friend becomes worse than dead. You have to take me to him, you have to let me try—"

"Absolutely not." Draco shoved him away, hard. Harry fell to the floor, hissing in pain when his elbow collided with the concrete. "I was told to keep you here and keep you alive, and—and that's what I'm going to do."

Harry scrambled to his feet again, but by the time he was standing, the gate had already opened and closed. Draco was leaving him.

"No—No! Malfoy!" Harry shouted, reaching blindly for the metal bars towards where he could feel his magic. "Malfoy, don't you fucking leave me here, don't you dare—"

"I'll be back once you've stopped screaming," he muttered. Draco's voice was empty, and his aura deepened into a hue of unfathomable, deep remorse.

But the proof of his guilt was meaningless to Harry. "Malfoy!" he screamed, beyond furious when he heard him walk away. Harry shook the gate violently. "Draco Malfoy! Don't leave me, don't do this—I didn't leave you! I saved your life, Malfoy! I saved you! Help me save him!"

No response. Draco's magic vanished.

Harry screamed and screamed, shouting pleas and demands, but Draco never once answered him. It wasn't long until Harry lost his voice. He rattled the bars of his cell until he grew too weak to do even that. His body failed him, and after only a few minutes he slumped to the floor, voiceless, blind, and entirely hopeless.

He had nothing left.

Harry never had the thought of not wanting to live anymore.

He did not lay there, curled on his side on the cold stones and think, 'I want to die.'

No. What he thought, with a mind that had fallen into a state of numbness, was:

So this is it.

This was the end of it all. Soon, Ron would be soulless, Hermione would surely be caught as well, and he, Harry Potter, would exist forever as a prisoner in a dark and frigid cell. Blind, weak. Constantly in pain.

And while he did not have the thought of wanting to die, Harry certainly had the notion that he would like the pain to stop.

I just want this suffering to end, though to whom he was making the request, he wasn't sure. God, maybe? Harry decided that was good enough. He pulled his knees to his chest and tangled his fingers together, wrapping them around his legs. For the first time since he'd gotten out of the cupboard, Harry James Potter said a silent prayer.

Just let the pain end. Just take it all away.

He received a response in the form of a cold, nearly intangible wind. A chilly breeze that swept across his skin like a phantom's caress. It didn't scare him. Cool as it may have been, it was not sinister or black like Voldemort's aura. This was a friendly energy.

This was his.

Harry had heard many stories of how accidental magic had saved people's lives, and had even experienced such miracles himself, but he had never heard of the opposite being true. Yet now, as the coolness wrapped around his limbs, he could sense that this was what was happening to him.

His magic was saving him from this suffering.

Harry sighed. The chill was like a balm, numbing the pain in his bones and lessening it. And though the cold was uncomfortable—highly so, at first—the discomfort was fleeting. Soon, he could hardly feel his body at all, and he knew that the descent into death would not be a long one.

Everything was cold, dark, and silent. Harry decided then that no, he was not afraid. His lips twitched into a smile. He thought of his parents, of Sirius and Remus. He was not scared at all.

He thought it was over when the light danced across his mind. It was bright, radiant, and welcoming.

Harry opened his eyes, but he did not see the familiar faces of lost loved ones. He didn't see anything, but that light…

It was overwhelming, so brilliant and alluring. He felt arms being wrapped around him, warm and soft, and with the physical contact, the light became exponentially stronger.

"Come back to me, come back to me, come back—"

There was a voice chorusing a panicked whisper, the sensation of lips like fire pleading against his temple and into his ear. Hands were rubbing his arms and face like they were trying to warm him; to force the life back into him and stave off the coldness.

It was working. Harry gasped when he realized exactly what was happening. This light was not the peace of death… but the horror of Lord Voldemort.

He tried to resist it. Harry grappled for the coolness of his magic to return, to reform and pull him back under its surface and end his miserable life. With limbs that were heavy and weak, he pushed against Voldemort's chest, trying to force him away.

It was useless. The second Harry tried to resist him, the beautiful light became so warm and inviting that it was like a siren's call. "No—come back to me, my soul, come back—"

The surrender was inevitable. Harry's muscles all relaxed at the same time, practically melting into the pleasant warmth of Voldemort's arms and sinking into the light. The Dark Lord let out an uncharacteristic, emotion-filled sound; something that was beyond relieved. He pulled Harry to his chest, gathering him into a tight embrace.

Harry sighed in bliss as the aching pain from before was completely, blessedly wiped away. He buried his head into the crook of the Dark Lord's neck, relishing the sensation of such warmth. Then, unthinking, he reached up to touch Voldemort's face.

Voldemort caught his hand before he could. And maybe he had just died after all, Harry thought, and this was some crazy vision his mind had conjured up, because… because the Dark Lord had grabbed his hand and started to kiss his fingers, trailing his lips across his knuckles in an fashion that was far too tender to ever be done by Lord Voldemort.

There was no coldness on his lips. Just light.

"Not you," he whispered into his palm. "Never you," a promise breathed into his wrist.

Voldemort wove his fingers between Harry's. His other arm curled around his waist.

"Rest," he murmured. The Dark Lord pressed his lips to Harry's forehead, soft and gentle.

Harry fell at once into a dreamless sleep.

"…A gift."

Harry awoke to the sound of the Dark Lord's voice.

He felt more than a bit disoriented as the memory formed itself around him. A world of snowy planes and thick forests materialized. Harry was sitting in a familiar scene. It was Finland again. Harry shook his head, trying to gather himself under a sky of magnificent, transient hues.

Had that all really happened? With Draco, Ron, and everything? Or had it all been a nightmare? Maybe… maybe he had just fallen asleep without the aid of a Dreamless Draught, and that horrifying experience had been the result. A nightmare.

Feeling unsure, Harry decided to hold onto this possibility for the moment. It wasn't like there was anything he could say or do while he was trapped in another of the Dark Lord's memories, anyway. Harry looked to his immediate left, where the Tom Riddle of the past rested, once more surrounded by a ring of bluebell flames.

He looked older than the last memory in which Harry had seen him. Older, and much more… regal. He was not in muggle clothes, this time, but long, sweeping robes of black. His face, while still youthful and handsome, was a bit gaunter than before, his skin paler. It was difficult to see his features clearly, however, as he had his eyes closed and his head bowed, like he was deep in thought. It was like the glorious sky held no significance to him any longer. This must have been sometime before Tom Riddle went to Hogwarts to apply for a teaching position, Harry concluded. His late twenties or early thirties.

But what was most astonishing by far about this memory was Riddle's magic.

Harry must have been getting better at his ability to sense auras every day, for he had never been able to feel anyone's magic in a memory before. He could certainly perceive it now. Harry could sense it both with his mind and, while in the memory, visibly.

Harry watched in awe at the way Riddle's magic flickered and whirled around him. It was a very different experience than solely being able to sense it; Harry could literally see the way the black cloud of darkness shifted about, as well as feel its temperament.

It was not nearly as black or cold as the Dark Lord of the present's magic was. This aura was dark, true, and ominous, but… But there was a bit of a glint to it, a hint of light. Harry could see it when it twitched and moved, the slightest sparkle of something glimmering, almost golden. It reminded him of an obsidian ore, shining when it caught the light just right.

It was both exquisite and frightening. Harry sat at Tom's side and observed it for a long time, much more mesmerized by its loveliness than the kaleidoscopic sky.

When Tom Riddle spoke, his eyes still closed and head still bowed, Harry physically jumped.

"Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?"

Harry turned, looking to see if this memory really did have someone else in it. He didn't see anyone. He didn't see a snake either. Harry scoffed, looking up the sky that Tom Riddle himself seemed so uninterested in.

It was beautiful, even more so than the last memory. The colors seemed brighter, the stars a bit more glittery. He watched with speculative interest, wondering if this was a place that Tom Riddle used to visit often, and that was why he had so many memories of it. Harry couldn't blame him. It was peaceful, here.

"…I asked you a question."

Harry's heart froze.

He looked back to Tom Riddle to find that Tom Riddle was looking back at him.

Riddle's face, illuminated by the cerulean light of the bluebell flames, was expressionless, but his gaze was undoubtedly focused on Harry. And his eyes… His eyes were not the dark, nearly black color of Tom Riddle's, but a vivid, far too familiar scarlet. His irises shone like garnets in the cool firelight, brightly crimson  around pupils that were not slit like a cat’s, but round, human-like.

Eyes that were infinitely closer… to Voldemort's eyes.

Harry gasped as it dawned on him.

Fingers quivering, he reached forward, half-expecting his hand to pass right through Riddle’s when he went to touch him. It didn't. Harry's fingers rested on a hand that corporal and solid… and warm, so warm, not unnaturally cold…

The glinting, black magic whirled energetically, the fragments of light glittering within the darkness like bits of gold.

This was not a memory.

This was real.

The Dark Lord lifted his hand, bringing Harry's up with it and intertwining their fingers together as he did. Warmth, pleasant and lovely, blossomed in Harry's soul at the action. He gaped, staring into those red, vibrant eyes.

He could see.

Voldemort smiled. His lips were not thin and withered but full, youthful. He took in Harry's expression and laughed softly. It wasn't the high-pitched, nightmarish tenor of a mass-murdering villain. It wasn't the expression of the most dangerous, ruthless man in wizarding history.

Lord Voldemort didn't look like a monster. Not anymore.

His smile widened. When he spoke, his voice was kind and gentle.

"Hello, Harry."

Despite the all-encompassing bleakness, it took only a moment for Harry's eyes to adjust. As they ascended a narrow staircase to the first of the cells, Harry couldn't help but appreciate just how… focused everything looked, so much clearer than anything had ever appeared to him prior to the loss of his vision. There was texture in the walls that he doubted he would ever have noticed before, and there were flecks of dust floating in the gray light from the windows that he was sure he'd never have been able to perceive.

He could see extraordinarily well… but Harry wasn't about to start feeling grateful. Excellent vision wasn't worth the loss of the only trait he had inherited from his mother.

Harry was struck with a sudden flood of sadness. A memory—a rather recent one, in which he had stood in the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by the apparitions of his mother, his father, Sirius, and Remus—appeared to him. They had stood at his side, acting like corporal patronuses to stave off the dementors which hovered between him and the Dark Lord…

You've been so brave.

We are… so proud of you.

Harry had gone to die, dropping the ring to the forest floor before facing Voldemort alone; their loving praise the only thing which had given him the courage to face what he must do…

Only he had failed. Harry had failed them, he had failed everyone… He was alive…

The sharp sound of a woman's sob made Harry jump. For a wild moment, he thought he might turn to see the ghost of his mother, crying for her son's tragic life…

Who he saw instead made his blood run cold.

Professor McGonagall.

Harry's former head of house was practically unrecognizable. She was huddled on the floor in the furthest corner of her cell, as far away from the gates as possible. Her knees were pulled to her chest, and her dark hair was disheveled and matted.

The sobbing sound which she had made must have been a result of peering up through the bleakness and seeing what looked like a young Tom Riddle walking past. Harry had just opened his mouth to call out to her when Voldemort's magic suddenly rose with a sharp and angry energy.

Harry stood there, flustered and overwhelmed. Voldemort stopped too, somehow knowing that Harry was no longer following him closely. He was waiting, and even without turning to face him Harry sensed his impatience so strongly that he could practically taste it. The gold flecks within his magic glinted like pointed shards of glass.

Voldemort's power was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

Harry took one last look at his former professor, wishing that he could will some courage into her, that she could feel his presence and hear his silent vow:

I will get you out of there.

Harry turned and resumed trailing after the Dark Lord.

Voldemort walked quicker after that, perhaps in an attempt to make sure Harry's eyes couldn't linger long enough on any of the other cells to notice who their occupants might be. It wasn't long before they made it to the far side of the second-floor corridor, at the end of which was another narrow staircase, though rather than going straight up, this one curved. It reminded Harry of the stairs which led to the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts.

Voldemort stopped. He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pulled him close enough that their chests were touching. Harry hardly had time to register that he'd been ensnared before the Dark Lord was speaking quietly in his ear through the silvery fabric of the cloak.

"There is only one cell at the top of this tower. You will find him there. You have ten minutes."

Voldemort released him. Harry's heart was thundering in his chest, but the Dark Lord merely took two steps back and stood against the wall, his wand in his hand. He closed his eyes and raised his hands in front of him, almost as if he had begun to pray.

Another memory struck Harry. Lord Voldemort, in this exact same position, on the other side of a fire…

How extremely different such a pose looked in the form of Tom Riddle.

Except this was Lord Voldemort, Harry screamed at himself, and he had just told Harry that he had ten minutes—ten minutes!—in which to talk to Ron, and he had probably already begun to count down the seconds he had left.

Despite how badly Harry wanted to argue for more time, he knew that would be both fruitless and stupid. If he so much as spoke loud enough that there was a possibility someone might hear his voice, he was certain that Voldemort would disapparate with him right then and there.

Harry grit his teeth and dashed up the stairs.

It wasn't his smartest decision, running. The tower was much taller than he had anticipated, and Harry hadn't actually moved much in the past several weeks. He only made it ten steps before he started to feel dizzy with overexertion. Scowling and hating how weak he'd become, Harry slowed his pace. He wondered vaguely what would happen if he passed out in the stairwell. Would Voldemort hold that against him, seeing as it was his fault he was so weak in the first place?

Probably.

Forcing that thought aside, Harry carried on. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was breathing heavily and feeling a bit woozy.

The sight of Ron sobered his mind in an instant.

There he was, directly in front of him, the iron bars of his cell just ten feet away. Horror and disbelief gripped at Harry's heart.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Ron wasn't sitting in a cell like McGonagall had been. He was on the ground with his back up against a wall, tethered to the stones. He was held there not in the way in which Harry had been when he'd initially arrived at Malfoy manor, but by in an even more disturbing way. Around Ron's neck was a thick, metal band which curved around his throat, coming out of the wall and pinning him to it—a silver collar so tight against his skin that Harry wondered if he could breathe properly. Currently, he was staring out of the one small, barred window which was high above him, giving him only the barest glimpse of the outside world. His gaze was vacant.

Harry swallowed thickly and approached the bars. Whether or not Ron heard him, Harry couldn't tell. His empty, blue eyes never left the window.

Harry took a deep breath before saying, in as calm a voice as he could manage, "Ron."

Ron's whole body twitched. The massive collar around his neck flashed a brilliant red, and Harry winced at the same time that Ron did. It obviously hurt him when he moved too suddenly.

Lord Voldemort certainly was not taking any chances when it came to the imprisonment of Harry Potter's best friend.

"Sorry!" Harry said, feeling confident that here, at least, he could speak without fearing that anyone could hear him. As that thought struck him, he wondered why that was the case. Why had Voldemort not ascended the staircase with him, so that he could hear what Harry and Ron said?

Harry forced the question away, unwilling to waste time lingering on why Lord Voldemort did any of the things that he did. One could spend a lifetime doing that, and at the moment, Harry had only ten minutes.

"Sorry, sorry!" Harry repeated. The metal collar returned to its previous silver. Ron was staring in Harry's general direction, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. "Ron, it's me—it's me, Harry!"

For a long moment, Ron did nothing but stare. Harry's heart dropped when he saw just how ashen and bruised his friend's face was, like he'd stepped out of a violent battle and had been tossed in Azkaban directly afterwards.

Then, much to Harry's surprise, Ron lifted one shaky hand to his forehead and started laughing.

"Holy shit," he murmured between breaths. "Oh, bloody hell. I've only been here for a few days, and I'm already mad."

"You're not mad!" Harry said, caught between being irritated and irrationally amused. Ron had said it in such a casual way, so jokingly. The tone of voice he might have used when they were talking in the common room about how horrible Potions class was, or how much they would rather be out playing Quidditch than writing essays.

"You're not mad, it's really me, Harry—I'm right here, under the cloak!"

"Sure you are," Ron said hoarsely, smiling. "And I'm Romilda Vane, I just took some Polyjuice Potion on accident. So I shouldn't even be here, really. You can go ahead and cancel the trial for Ronald Weasley if you'd like."

"Ron! I mean it! I'm here, and I don't have much time to talk to you, so quit wasting it by being in denial!"

The sloppy grin slid from Ron's face. "All right then," he said seriously, though Harry could tell he was still unbelieving. "Prove it. Tell me some things that only Harry would know, because I'm pretty sure that Harry is dead and I'm about to follow suit."

"Your patronus is a dog, I taught you how to cast one," Harry said.

Ron shrugged as well as he could with his constraints. "That's easy, lots of people probably know that. Go again."

"I was in the common room with you after you asked Fleur Delacour to the Yule Ball in our fourth year. We both failed abysmally at getting dates that day. We bonded over being mortified."

Ron snorted, but shook his head—again, an action which was pained and constricted. "Lots of people heard about that. The whole school, in fact. Something else."

Harry tugged at his hair, incensed. "I was there when you had a bunch of bloody basilisk fangs in your hands, having apparently opened the Chamber of Secrets by fumbling your way through parseltongue. You mentioned saving the house-elves. Hermione threw herself at you, and I witnessed my best friends snogging in the middle of a war."

Ron's expression became slack. "What did I say?" he murmured. "When you kindly reminded us that a war was going on, what was my response?"

Harry's lip twitched. "I know, mate," he said, feeling absurdly emotional as he repeated Ron's response word for word. "So it's now or never, isn't it?"

Ron looked away, back up towards the window, but Harry could see his eyes glistening. "Merlin," he muttered. "Are you… I don't… How are you here, if you really are here, Harry? I thought… We were so sure that you went off into the forest after all, because he… he told you to, to sacrifice yourself…"

"I didn't die. But… that is what I went to do, yes," Harry admitted. Ron closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath. Harry's mind raced, trying to figure out a way to make Ron believe him without damning him further. Surely, if he told Ron that he was a human horcrux, Voldemort would not hesitate to kill him after all. "I went to him so that he would stop the fighting. I thought he was going to kill me. He didn't. I've been in Malfoy Manor ever since, locked in one of those cells like we were before."

Ron looked dumbstruck. "But…why?"

"I guess he decided that I would be more useful to him alive than dead."

"Take the cloak off, so I can see you," Ron commanded, clearly still skeptical.

"I can't,” Harry responded. “He demanded that I don't. It was the only way he would let me talk to you at all."

"Why?"

"I don't know, I don't understand much at all about his choices! If I did, neither of us would be here! But right now, you-know-who is… He's waiting outside the prison, and he said I have ten minutes to talk to you. Less than that by now."

"So that's why the dementors were cleared out…" Ron glanced up at the window again. "Did—did you know dementors can talk, Harry?"

Harry was admittedly surprised by that. "Er… No, I didn't."

Ron laughed, and it was a disconcertingly high and giddy sound. "Oh, yeah. They sure can. They've been hovering around my window a lot. They know that I'm about to be offed, given to one of them, I'm sure. They've been whispering sweet nothings. I think they're fighting over me." He laughed again. "I've never been more popular!"

"Ron! Snap out of it, this is serious. You need to listen to me!"

"Right, sure. Sorry, it's just that their absence has me feeling a bit slap-happy. Obviously, seeing as I'm having a conversation with Harry Potter."

"You are having a conversation with Harry Potter!" Harry seethed. "And I'm here to tell you that if you want Hermione to have a chance at surviving at all, you need to surrender at the trial later today. You need to say that—that you were wrong, that everything we believed in before was wrong, and that you see the error of your ways or whatever. You need to side with him, Ron, or Hermione and you are both doomed."

"Ha! Now I know I'm fucking imagining this. Because Harry would never say to give up, and because Hermione, if she is ever caught, is absolutely doomed, no matter what I say or do."

"I would say to give in, and I am, considering the circumstances," Harry said, feeling heavy with guilt. "Ron, listen. I'm being held prisoner by the Dark Lord. He's won. I hate that, and I know you do too, but that doesn't mean we stop fighting completely. I just… I need you two to live. I need you."

Harry's voice trembled and broke. Ron's face became serious again, and Harry thought that maybe he was starting to believe that he was really there. "If you surrender and comply with whatever he wants, if you answer whatever questions he has, then he'll spare Hermione,” Harry went on. “I know I can convince him to, I just… I need you to do what he says, first."

"Why on earth would he listen to you?" Ron shifted so that he was facing the gates as much as he could. "Harry, why would he kidnap you when all he ever wanted to do was kill you?"

"I… Like I said, he plans on using me. To get the rest of those who fought on the Order’s side to turn, eventually. Like… like a weapon."

Harry could see the conversation they'd had from years ago storm Ron's memory. His face turned a delicate shade of green. "But why would he listen to you? Why do you think you could convince him of anything? Especially sparing Hermione… There's no way he'll do that. Not after what happened."

Harry's stomach dropped. He was afraid to ask, but knew he had to. "What happened?"

"Ah, Harry. It was a real mess," Ron answered, and smiled again. "We were in the Forbidden Forest when it all went down, just the other day… Was that two days ago? I don't even know anymore. The day that you-know-who publicly announced that he was the new Head of the Wizengamot on the WWN."

"What?"

"Oh? You haven't heard?" Ron asked lightly, as if this was a perfectly ordinary conversation. "He made himself the Chief Warlock just the other day. And Hermione and I, we were all over the place, looking for you for days on end, and that just really set her off. She'd already been such a wreck, worse even than I was… She never slept, just feverishly researched things, trying to think of places you may have gone… Both of us were refusing to believe that you had sacrificed yourself and were dead, even though we both knew it had to be true… Because you would never just run off like that without us, and…"

He paused, blinking away tears. "But I'm not dead," Harry intervened. "Ron, please. My time is running out. Tell me what happened."

"After we listened to that broadcast, Hermione kind of lost it. She said that we needed to do something more proactive. So we went to the Forbidden Forest."

Harry gaped. "Why on earth would you go anywhere near Hogwarts?"

"To interview the centaurs, of course!" Ron said in brightest tones of sarcasm. "Excellent idea, I know! But she was convinced that maybe one of them had seen something, that if you had gone into the woods, they probably would have noticed, and…"

He sighed. "So we went. It felt like we had nothing else to lose. We went to the forest and found the centaurs, and… and we thought for sure that they were on our side. Really."

"Weren't they?" Harry asked. He specifically recalled centaurs fighting Death Eaters at the battle…

"Not all of them, apparently," Ron muttered scathingly. "Maybe they all were at some point, and you-know-who just got to them before we did. Maybe he convinced a few to act as spies, in case we ever thought to reenter the castle grounds. We were talking to this one who seemed like he genuinely wanted to help us when another—this dark-haired asshole—completely stabbed us in the back."

"How?"

"By triggering the Taboo, of course," Ron said. "He just looked right at us, smiling all smugly, and said his name."

Harry's hand clenched into a fist at his side. He was certain that it was Bane. "That bastard," he hissed.

"But wait, there's more," Ron continued airily. "So that centaur says that, and there was this split second of just silence and horror—pure suspended disbelief, if you will—and then, just before the Snatchers appear, Hermione grabs my shoulder, looks me in the eyes, and says, 'I'm pregnant.'"

Harry was certain he'd misheard him. He waited for Ron to say something else to disprove what he'd just declared. When he didn't, Harry finally asked for confirmation himself.

"…Are you kidding me, Ron?"

Ron laughed weakly. "Nope! Hermione's pregnant. Unless she was lying, but I don't know why she would make something like that up and tell me right then if it wasn't true."

"Hermione is… pregnant," Harry repeated blankly. "And… and it's yours?"

"Well damn, Harry, I hope so. Otherwise that's just one more layer of misery and woe to add to the pile of shit that is my life."

Harry's mind raced, trying and failing to do simple math. "What—but how—when did you two…? God, were you two—were you shagging in the forest or something while I was asleep? Was I in the tent when it was happening!?"

"What? No, I—we—" Ron stuttered himself into silence, blushing but looking incredulous. He nearly made eye contact with Harry when he said, "Really, mate? That's what you want to focus on right now? Precisely when I lost my virginity?"

Harry took a deep breath. "No. I do not want to focus on that. You're right, it's just… God, couldn't you have used some kind of protection?"

"It was sort of a heat of the moment thing. What can I say? I'm a Weasley. We're a very potent bunch."

"For fuck's sake, Ron!"

Ron laughed again, clearly still giddy from the lack of dementors. "Ah, but I haven't told you the best part of the story. Because normally I'd think that Hermione being pregnant in today's day and age could only be a tragedy, really, but I'm actually glad. I don't think she would have left me, otherwise. I think she had to tell me then, because… because she just needed to explain herself, to justify running…"

Ron hurriedly wiped his eyes. "I'm so glad that she ran."

"Ron… What happened after the Snatchers appeared?"

"Mayhem, fire, and bloodshed," Ron said dramatically, though Harry could tell he really meant it. "And they appeared fast, too; you-know-who must have had portkeys prepared in case he ever got wind that we came onto Hogwarts grounds. So, Hermione told me that she was pregnant, and I didn't even have time to process it—she just grabbed my arm and we started running, trying to make it to the edge of where the anti-apparition ward was—and then, next thing you know, Yaxley is to our left and Bellatrix Lestrange is to our right, alongside a dozen Snatchers."

Harry cringed. Ron wasn't finished. "Of course we fought. But we were outnumbered right from the beginning, not to mention just who we were fighting against… Bellatrix went straight for Hermione, and I sort of threw myself in the way, firing off some crazy, spark-like spells that I didn't even know I knew, like I was trying to be a dazzling, human distraction—I think I even did some serious damage to a few Death Eaters too—and it worked, getting their focus off of Hermione for a minute. She was able to get further away, and Bellatrix had to put some crazy hex on me to get me to stop lighting trees on fire. I have no idea what it was, but it made my whole body freeze up, and she grabbed me with one hand around the neck, her wand up against my throat… Or her new wand, I suppose, seeing as Hermione has hers. Oh!" Ron snapped his fingers suddenly, his eyes widening. "That's probably why she went straight for Hermione like that. Because she pretended to be her, and has her wand, too… Just like I have Pettigrew's and you have Draco's, right Harry? Ha…"

"I don't have any wand anymore," Harry muttered.

"Well right, I wouldn't imagine that you do—I just meant that it's sort of funny, how we all were fighting Death Eaters with their own weapons… And the animosity towards Bellatrix is pretty mutual with Hermione. You know that scar on her arm? The one Bellatrix carved there with that cursed knife in Malfoy manor?"

Harry nodded—he recalled that day very well—until he remembered that Ron could not see him. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Of course I do."

"I would catch her up at night sometimes, in the days after you disappeared. Scratching at it, like she was trying to peel off her skin. She tried everything to get that damn thing off. She never could."

Ron fell silent for a moment, his gaze drifting up towards the window again.

"…Ron, tell me the rest of what happened, please. I don't have much longer."

Ron blinked dazedly. "Ah, sure. Back to the riveting tale of the end of my life. So, Bellatrix Lestrange has me in a choke hold, and the other Snatchers are looking for Hermione, and… and then this insanely dark, powerful curse comes hurling towards us. At Bellatrix precisely. And when I say dark, I mean dark, Harry. It was like a wave of pure, female spite that came barreling towards us. It would have killed Bellatrix if it hit her, I'm sure of it. I think it may have been the same curse that Snape used on George, actually, when he lost his ear. Dark."

He laughed feebly. "I never really appreciated just how much Hermione studies everything before, you know? I think she's been looking into some very questionable stuff when we've had our backs turned, Harry. And that bag! I never asked what all she had in that enchanted bag of hers, but I should have."

"Ron," Harry hissed impatiently. "Time."

"Right, right. Sorry. So this curse would have killed Bellatrix I think, and she could have avoided it completely if she would have just released her hold on me—but she wouldn't. Instead she sort of stepped away, and—and the curse cut her arm clean off."

Harry's jaw dropped. Ron laughed in that delirious manner again. "And that bitch still wouldn't let me go! Her fucking decapitated arm didn't just stop working, like one might imagine; in fact, her grip actually got tighter—even though she, personally, was howling in pain. I guess that's how badly she wanted to follow her master's orders. We were supposed to be caught alive, otherwise she probably would have just used me as a human shield. But she'd rather lose a fucking limb than go against you-know-who's instructions. Anyway, Hermione didn't kill her or save me, but she did get her revenge in a way. Bellatrix scarred Hermione's arm. Hermione cut hers off."

Harry was gaping again, trying to imagine this scene: Ron being held in place by a decapitated arm while Bellatrix Lestrange screamed in agony, literally detached from it.

"That was when you-know-who showed up."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face, even though this was just a retelling of a story that had already happened. "And we could only tell it was him because there was a mention of his altered appearance on the broadcast that morning, and because he still has those crazy, red eyes. Hermione showed herself then, and it was obvious she had waited for him to arrive. She was looking right at him, and she had her wand in one hand, with this sparkling curse sort of hovering over the tip of it, and something else in her other hand that she was holding above her head. A phoenix feather."

"A phoenix feather? Where did she get a phoenix feather?"

"I don't know!" Ron shouted. "I don't have any idea how or when she got it, but thank Merlin that she did! And you have to imagine what it looked like, Harry. She was holding a phoenix feather up high, and you could just see it, clear as day, almost like she'd purposefully made it stand out—and maybe she had—the word 'Mudblood', right across her arm. Then she flicked her wand and the curse that had been waiting there floated towards us, and she disappeared in a big ball of phoenix flames. Which is, you know. Sort of Dumbledore's thing. She just dropped that bomb and left."

"I'll say," Harry muttered in awe as he tried to visualize it. Hermione, wearing her scar like a banner and disappearing in a fashion that would have made Albus Dumbledore proud… all while looking Lord Voldemort right in the face.

No wonder Voldemort wanted her dead so badly.

"No, I meant literally. That's what that sparkly curse was. A massive, delayed 'bombardo'. But you-know-who recognized it at once, because he threw up a shielding spell right away, protecting those who were closest to him, including me and the Death Eaters. But my God, Harry. She must have taken out a fourth of the forest. Obviously she was hoping it kill us all with that curse. And it would have worked, I bet, if she had used it the way that we intended it to be used, rather than delayed like that."

"What do you mean, the way that you intended for it to be used?"

"As a self-destruction technique, of course," Ron said casually. "We agreed days ago that if it looked like we were going to get captured again, we would sooner die and take them with us. Because death would be better than…"

He gestured dismally around at the cell. He didn't need to finish his statement. "But she ran, and I'm positive she wouldn't have done it like that if she wasn't pregnant. I'm… I'm actually happy. I'm happy to let a dementor suck out my soul if it means Hermione lives. Course, I suppose her chances of staying alive for much longer are pretty slim…"

Harry's heart ached at the emotion in Ron's voice. "You're not going to have your soul sucked out, Ron, and Hermione can live… You just have to tell the Dark Lord whatever he wants to know at your trial, and you have to surrender."

"Tell the Dark Lord whatever he wants to know? Like where Hermione went?" Ron scoffed. "Even if I did know—and I would never say anything if I did, I don't care if they force veritaserum down my throat—I can't. I have no idea where she is, Harry… thankfully."

"Well," Harry said hesitantly, preparing himself for the backlash. "He… They might expect you to sort of pin it all on her, Ron. To make it seem like Hermione was the one to make you choose the 'wrong side', or whatever."

Ron scoffed again. "Yeah, I was offered that lovely little option last night by the Minister. I won't do that, Harry. I won't make up some bullshit story about how Hermione is a devious muggle-born who manipulated me into falling in love with her and doing whatever she said,  or something. I won't."

Harry's heart sank, but at the same time, he could hardly argue. "I don't blame you," he admitted. "I would never do that to you or Hermione either."

"So that's it, then," Ron concluded, clapping his hands together. "I'm going to go to trial, be found guilty, and get the Dementor's Kiss."

"No," Harry said. "The very worst you'll be sentenced to is life in Azkaban, but—"

"Even better!"

"—Ron, please, I think it will be much, much less than that if you at least surrender. Don't go along with the whole 'It's all Hermione's fault' thing, but just—say that you were wrong, that you were both wrong, and that you swear fealty to the Ministry of Magic and whatever else. Please, Ron. You have to. Think about what will happen if you don't. You have your family to think about. You have Hermione to think about, and this is the only way to give her even a chance to live…" Harry paused for a moment, amazed that the words were leaving his mouth even as he said them. "…You have a future child to think about, now."

"Don't say that." Ron's bruised face paled significantly. "Don't—just don't."

"It's true, though. If you want even the slightest chance at anyone you care about having a life, then you have to surrender. Please, Ron. Do it for them. Do it for me."

Right at that moment, Harry's scar prickled. He knew at once that it was the sign for 'time's up'.

"Promise me, Ron," Harry said adamantly. "I have to go, but I won't leave until you give me your word that you'll surrender."

"You're really leaving?" Ron's eyes flickered directly over Harry's, wide and fearful. "D-don't leave me, Harry."

He looked so small and afraid. Harry was sure in that moment that Ron had never believed for a moment that Harry was really there, that he was sure he was talking to a ghost. "Yes, I'm leaving, I have to. It's… it's him, he… I just—just tell me, Ron. Tell me you'll surrender, promise—"

"Let me see you."

Harry stopped short. "Show yourself, show me something, Harry. Otherwise I really am just going to believe that I made this all up. Please."

The prickling in Harry's scar intensified, bordering on painful. He ignored it.

"Okay."

Harry knelt down. Very slowly, he revealed his arm, extending his hand through the iron bars. Ron stared with giant, watery eyes as he examined the words on the back of his hand, which Harry made sure were visible in the dim light of the cell.

Harry James Potter

I must not tell lies.

Ron didn't question the first scar, which Harry had only recently acquired. He just sobbed and reached for Harry's hand, leaning forward as much as he could against the metal collar which pinned him to the wall.

When Harry saw what he was doing, he too reached further. They were just barely able to cling their fingers together when they both tried, though the collar on Ron's neck began to glow faintly.

He didn't seem to notice. Ron clung to Harry's fingers and cried, squeezing his eyes shut as tears flooded down his face. "It really is you," he gasped. "Oh, God, it really is you."

"Y-yeah," Harry replied, trying hard not to cry himself. "It's me."

"Harry. I don't think I can do this. I don't think I—"

"Yes, you can," Harry interrupted. "You can. You have to. Going to trial? Please. It's easier than your first Quidditch match."

Ron ignored Harry's attempt at light-heartedness. Instead, in a heartbroken voice, he said, "I'm afraid."

"…Me too," Harry admitted. "But you can do this, Ron. Surrender. Promise me. And I'll do whatever I can to help Hermione, too. But this is what you can do for her, and for yourself. Surrender."

Ron finally nodded. "Okay. I-I'll do it, Harry."

Harry's scar began burning in earnest. "I have to go," he said, releasing his hold on Ron's fingers and becoming completely covered by the cloak once more. "You'll be fine, Ron. I believe in you. Goodbye."

Then, knowing that lingering or waiting for a response would only make leaving him more difficult, Harry turned and walked away. He fought back tears as he descended the spiraling staircase, mentally preparing himself to face the Dark Lord again.

When Harry made it to the bottom of the stairwell, Voldemort was in the exact same position as before. Hands folded, eyes closed. Harry was unsure if he should say something to announce his presence.

He didn't have to. A second later and the burning in his scar stopped. Voldemort opened his eyes and, without hesitating, grabbed Harry by the shoulders, and they disapparated.

They landed back in the bedroom.

Before Harry could adjust to the sudden brightness of the space, Voldemort slid the cloak from his shoulders and stowed it in his front pocket again. Harry opened his mouth in retaliation concerning a number of things—to fight for his cloak back, to bring up the fact that he wanted McGonagall freed, too, for Ron, for Hermione—but Voldemort put a single finger to his lips, effectively silencing him before he could speak.

Voldemort tilted his head to one side, examining Harry's face as his fingers moved from his lips to beneath his jaw. The buoyant light blossomed at his touch, catching Harry off guard.

"St-stop that," he said. Harry backed away, not realizing that the bed was directly behind him and stumbling. Rather than try and remain standing, he sat, acting like he'd meant to do that.

Unfortunately, Voldemort ignored his request and followed him, sitting next to him on the bed and trailing his fingers over Harry's forehead. The pleasant warmth returned, light and welcoming.

Harry felt far more flustered by these actions than he ever had before. It wasn't like this was anything new—Voldemort had been creepily touching him like this for a while now—but the interaction was different now. Being blinded had made everything disconnected. Harry had felt like he was in some conglomeration of a nightmare and a dream, being sightless in that prison cell. But now, with clear vision, eyes wide open, and with Voldemort looking like that…

"Did you succeed?"

The Dark Lord's question forced Harry to look up. He did his best to ignore the blissful sensation and the urge to lean into Voldemort's unnaturally alluring touch. "I think so," he said. "You… you weren't listening to every word we said?"

"No. If you knew I had been listening, would you have been able to say what you needed to say?"

Harry bit his lower lip and contemplated that. It wasn't an easy task, when all he wanted to do was sink into the warmth of that indescribable connection. "Probably not. You could have listened anyway, though."

"I could have,” Voldemort agreed. "But I did not. I shall be able to see the truth of it all soon enough, regardless."

Harry scowled, not knowing if that was a lie or not. He supposed it didn't really matter. "Right, because you're the Head of the Wizengamot, now. Congratulations."

Voldemort's magic twitched with something akin to amusement, but he chose not to respond to Harry's sarcasm. Instead, he carded his fingers through Harry's hair, continuing to stare at his face thoughtfully.

"You will remain here while we are at the trial," Voldemort said as he softly trailed his fingers along his scalp.

"We?"

"Yes… The Malfoys, including their son, will all be present. You, however, will be staying right here."

Harry couldn't help it—his eyes widened at the notion of being alone in the manor, and the opportunities which could possibly arise. Voldemort's magic whirled possessively, enveloping Harry in a cloud of glimmering darkness. "Escape from this room is impossible," he said, his tone much icier. "If you so much as touch the door handle, I will know. And I can promise you that it would not bode well for your friend if I was forced to leave in the middle of his trial to return here… In fact, I can guarantee that it would end very, very badly for him if that were the case."

Voldemort's eyes flashed perilously. Harry shivered, the weight of his aura was so strong. It was that strange, simultaneous sensation, feeling Voldemort's overbearing power alongside that beautiful light. Only… his aura was not as nauseating as before, not so sickening…

Just… frightening.

Harry nodded to show that he understood, but that wasn't good enough for Voldemort. He grabbed Harry's hand with the one which was not currently stroking his hair, running his thumb over the scars there.

Harry James Potter

I must not tell lies.

"Say it," he commanded.

Well, Harry thought, if he was about to see the Dark Lord off to go sentence his friend personally, he wanted to make sure he left in as good a mood as possible. "I won't," he promised. When Voldemort's face remained the same and his magic hardly moved, Harry took a deep breath and decided to do the thing properly—even if he did hate himself a bit for saying it.

"I'll never, ever try to escape from you and your overwhelming power again. Never. Everything I am belongs to you... I am yours to command."

Harry wondered for a moment if he'd gone too far, using the same words Voldemort had once said to Dumbledore, back when he'd applied for a teaching position at Hogwarts.

Which Voldemort hadn't really meant, of course. Harry could have smacked himself. How was it that he managed to be rebellious, even when he was honestly trying not to be?

Voldemort's brows raised slightly, but his face otherwise remained neutral. If he picked up on Harry's reference, he decided not to comment on it. His magic, though, lightened with that same hint of fondness that Harry had sensed before.

The Dark Lord pulled Harry's hand up so that his wrist was level with his face, his other arm leaving his hair to trail his long, pale fingers along Harry's forearm. Harry watched, confused, as Voldemort stared directly into his eyes while he brought his wrist to his lips, murmuring against his skin the words, "Good boy."

…And Harry wasn't sure what it was precisely about the Dark Lord semi-kissing him through words of condescending praise right at his pulse point, but it felt like the most intimate and taboo thing in the world. Harry's mind came to a complete standstill. He could do nothing but sit there while Voldemort kept his lips against his wrist, where he was sure his pulse was racing.

Then he was gone. In a nearly imperceptible flourish, Voldemort released his hold on Harry and stood, silently vanishing into thin air.

Harry stood. He looked around the room again, trying to find a clock somewhere, when he saw something that surprised him. Behind him, on the other side of the bed, was a small bedside table full of food. Not just a few things, either. It was  covered with a massive spread that would easily feed several people. Fruit, toast, eggs, a silver tray filled with various cheeses—and were those olives?

Harry gaped as he walked around the bed to examine it properly. There were beverages as well. Behind the silver tray were glasses of water, orange juice, milk, and even a cup of tea, which was steaming as though it had just been poured. Everything was served on the finest china that Harry had ever seen—white porcelain that was rimmed with what was probably real gold.

Harry was baffled. When had this magical breakfast spread appeared? Had it been here the whole time, or had Voldemort somehow made it show up after he'd disappeared?

Either way, the implication was clear.

Eat.

Harry walked away from the tray and started pacing. Though he hadn't eaten properly in a long time, there was no way that he would be able to now. The fact that Voldemort seemed to think this was even possible was ridiculous. How could he be expected to have an appetite when he had been left here, waiting to hear the verdict of his best friend's fate? He hadn't even been able to eat before his own trial, years ago… and then, the worst case scenario would have merely been his own expulsion.

Harry scanned the room erratically, eyes widening when he finally found what he was looking for. Behind the vanity and its massive mirror was a grandfather clock. Harry's stomach dropped when he saw the time.

It was only ten in the morning.

Ron's trial wouldn't even start until noon! He had hours in which he could do nothing but sit here in this room, waiting.

Well, he thought humorlessly, at least the Dark Lord has manners and left his hostage with plenty of food and drink.

Harry glowered. He eyed the tray from across the room, half-tempted to fling it all against the wall and smash the gold-rimmed china into a thousand pieces.

No, stop that, Harry berated himself. You are not fifteen anymore. You will not resort to breaking things in a fit of rage… Especially when your friend's life hangs in the balance.

After taking several steadying breaths, Harry looked back at the grandfather clock. He watched the second hand move for what felt like an eternity, though it had actually been less than one full minute.

This, Harry realized, was an altogether new kind of tortuous imprisonment. A gilded cage rather than a cold and dismal cell.

And that was something, wasn't it? Harry made his way back to the bed, perching himself on the edge of it so that he was facing away from the offensive plate of food. His whole transition from tormented hostage to pampered prisoner was quite astonishing.

A few weeks ago, Voldemort had been throwing him against walls in violent whirlwinds of fury. Harry could even understand why, horrible as it had been. The Dark Lord had just found out, in relatively quick succession, that Harry Potter was his own horcrux… only to then realize that Harry Potter was also responsible for the destruction of all the rest.

The Dark Lord had been incredibly hate-filled in those first days… but at some point, everything had changed.

It was after he blinded me, Harry concluded. That was when the Dark Lord stopped being cruel and began being eerily affectionate, instead.

And Harry thought he understood why.

Harry sighed again, falling onto his back on the luxurious, silk-covered bed. He was momentarily shocked when he was once more met with the sight of his crimson-eyed reflection. Already, he'd forgotten about the mirror on the inside of the canopy. He wondered if Voldemort had put it there on purpose, for no other reason than to scare him when he woke up to his own likeness—disheveled and covered in dried blood. To make certain that Harry had no doubts in his mind as to whether that violent kiss had been a dream or not.

Harry shuddered. That kiss…

His whole body felt uncomfortably warm again. He probably was getting sick, after all…

Harry's mind went sluggish, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He blinked up at himself, trying to remain focused. He couldn't just pass out, not while Ron was about to go to trial, he couldn't…

Harry awoke to the sensation of being held.

He might have thought it a part of some pleasant dream if he didn't know better. Warm arms encircled him from behind, gently pulling him out of his state of slumber… and it was a case for serious alarm.

Harry jumped, lunging forward to escape Voldemort's disquieting embrace. Surprisingly, Voldemort let him go when he stirred, and Harry almost fell over in his flight. He barely managed to stay on his feet as he turned and took several hasty steps backwards, retreating until he collided with the wall.

The Dark Lord watched him from across the room. He smiled. He was sitting on the corner of the bed, his magic rhythmically swishing back and forth behind him, glimmering softly and reminding Harry of some sort of magical, abstract cat's tail.

"What—how—"

Harry couldn't form a full sentence. His head snapped to one side, and his jaw dropped when he saw the time.

It was nearly one thirty! How had he slept so soundly and for so long? Harry looked back at Voldemort, horrified. "What happened, what—"

"Ronald Weasley performed admirably well," Voldemort explained in a low, soothing voice. He stood. "He will not be returning to Azkaban. In fact, he shall be here this evening."

Harry was rendered speechless. Voldemort laughed. "Yes. Ronald Weasley gave us enough pertinent information to allow for his… pardoning. He is on house arrest and he has been stripped of his wand privileges, though he has the possibility of regaining them, should he behave appropriately and prove himself over the course of the next six months…"

Voldemort's face was emotionless and serene as he spoke, but his magic was so energetic, merry. Like there was something which he found deeply amusing, an inside joke that Harry was not privy to.

"I… Really?" was all Harry could manage—partially because he was so shocked, and partially because Voldemort had begun to slowly walk towards him, making that mesmeric light build in the depths of his being again.

"Yes."

Voldemort's magic was fascinating when he moved, it was so spirited. Harry had a hard time not being caught up in the sparkling bits of gold. "He has surrendered and is cooperating with the Ministry, spared a life of imprisonment…"

Harry was frozen to the spot as Voldemort closed the space between them, cupping his face with one hand in an adoring manner. He was flooded with a tidal wave of warmth as Voldemort put his other hand on Harry's neck, leaning closer so that his lips were grazing his forehead, directly over his scar.

"Gorgeous…"

Voldemort whispered the one word so quietly that if Harry hadn't felt the movement of his lips against his skin, he may have thought he imagined it. The enthralling light was so vibrant…

"Stop," Harry gasped, putting his hands on Voldemort's chest. "Stop…"

For a second, Harry thought his feeble demands would have the opposite effect—Voldemort's magic spiked in a sudden, horrific desire—but then it waned, shifting to something far less overwhelming and more bearable. A soft, pulsating warmth that was only mildly distracting.

"You said… here?" Harry asked breathlessly, wishing that the Dark Lord would stop touching his face and neck in such an intimate way. "Ron is… coming here?"

"Yes…" The hand which Voldemort had placed on Harry's neck trailed up to his hair. "He shall be placed under house arrest, but he shall not be going home…"

"Why?"

"Because I require his presence here."

Harry stared at that, nervous at the way in which Voldemort's magic vibrated with a pure, undeniable excitement.

"Why?" he asked again, his voice sharper.

What was left of the gentle light vanished. Voldemort's eyes narrowed, both his expression and his aura displaying his irritation. "I have just informed you that your friend is not only being spared his soul and the rest of his life, but that you will be seeing him in a few hours' time. Rather than be grateful, you instead have the audacity to question me?"

The one hand which he had been carding through Harry's hair dropped to his side, while the other one tightly gripped his chin.

"I—uh—you're right," Harry said defensively, sure that upsetting Voldemort now would not do him any favors. "You're right, I—thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Voldemort's expression didn't change. Harry wasn't sure what he expected him to do—fall to his knees and worship him from the ground?

…Possibly.

Harry may have been trying to play the role of obedient captive, but he was not about to start bowing and prostrating himself before the Dark Lord like a slave. After a few more seconds of being scrutinized, Voldemort released him.

"What about Hermione?" Harry asked, the concern rushed out of his mouth the second Voldemort stepped away. "You promise you'll spare her, then? Since Ron—"

"The issue of Hermione Granger shall be solved soon enough. I have a plan," Voldemort responded, cutting Harry off and smiling in a way that was anything but reassuring. "Do not look so worried, Harry; you will be intimately involved, as will Ronald Weasley. I shall tell you about it in extreme detail when the time is right. It should be… fun."

By the way Voldemort's eyes gleamed and his magic twitched, Harry was sure that whatever plan he had in mind would be the exact opposite of fun. "No," he said adamantly. "No, I did what I said I would, I got Ron to surrender, and—and you have to promise me that—"

"I can assure you that the very best thing you can do to ensure the safety of Hermione Granger's life is to never tell me what I can or cannot do ever again," Voldemort said, his aura darkening. "If you want to see her live past this week, then you will hold your tongue on the matter and obey."

Harry would have backed away further, were he not already up against the wall. As it was, he simply nodded, saying nothing, his heart pounding in his chest.

Voldemort waited, watching him closely, until he was seemingly appeased. His aura became less hostile. "I must confess, Harry, that I have another mystery which has been plaguing me… One which only you can solve…"

Harry continued to hold his tongue. The Dark Lord reached into his pocket, and Harry felt a thrill of terror sweep up his spine as he expected to see him withdraw the Elder Wand. He gasped in shock at what Voldemort revealed instead.

It was his mokeskin bag!

Harry grinned, nearly as delighted to see it as he had been when Voldemort had shown him his Invisibility Cloak—

But then Harry's brain caught up with his heart. He knew what the Dark Lord was going to tell him to do, even before he spoke.

"Open it."

…Because only Harry could.

"No."

…Because Harry could never be anything other than difficult and idiotically defiant.

Voldemort's perfect mask of control cracked as his eye twitched. His magic whirled in irritation. "Open it, and take out everything which you have stored in it," he commanded in a much icier tone, nodding towards the vanity where he surely expected Harry to place every single item. Voldemort held the bag out to him expectantly. "Now."

Recognizing defeat, Harry begrudgingly took it. He knew there was no way to escape this, and that refusing to do as the Dark Lord demanded would only result in something horrible. As slowly as he dared, Harry opened the bag.

The first thing he pulled out was the Marauder's Map, which appeared as nothing more than a blank piece of parchment. Next was the letter his mother had written to his godfather, crinkled and torn at the edges, and then the accompanying portion of the photograph which had been ripped in half. After that was the sliver of glass which had once been a part of his godfather's mirror. Harry nearly cut himself as he pulled it out. Then the snitch, which was now cracked in half from when he had opened it, whispering the declaration of his own death…

Harry didn't even recall doing that, putting the broken snitch back in his bag. He had been in such a numb state…

But the ring… The ring he had dropped, he had left that in the forest…

The very last thing which Harry pulled out was his wand. Snapped in half, held together only by the strands of a brilliant phoenix feather.

Harry's heart felt hollow as he laid each one of these seemingly useless, damaged things out on the wooden surface of the vanity. Voldemort watched him with an unreadable expression, but his magic showed his true, albeit mild, feelings. With each item it whirled a bit, slightly curious or confused. It was not until Harry revealed his broken, holly wand that it reacted greatly, and Harry was surprised to sense that Voldemort felt…

Empathetic?

Harry said nothing as he stood there, staring down at what was left of his most prized possessions, other than his cloak. He set the mokeskin bag down next to them, open and empty.

Voldemort began to examine each one of the belongings more closely. Harry watched him, his heart thundering as the Dark Lord quickly read the letter his mother had written, looked at the photograph of himself as a baby riding on a toy broomstick with his father laughing in the background, glanced quickly at the broken mirror shard which had belonged to his godfather…

"Why did you feel the need to keep these?" Voldemort finally asked as he held the shattered snitch in one hand. "Such broken and damaged things?"

Harry fought back the urge to grab the snitch from his fingers, to put everything back in the bag protectively and hoard it away. "Maybe I have an affection for broken and damaged things," he muttered.

Voldemort's muscles visibly tensed. His magic froze too, and Harry wasn't sure what to make of that strange reaction, why—

Oh.

Harry's face burned. He really was good at saying poignant, idiotic things without meaning to, wasn't he?

"I didn't—I meant—they weren't always broken," Harry spluttered, trying to distract from his own, awkward statement. "They're just… broken now."

Voldemort stared. Harry went on, realizing that he might be making things worse. "I mean. The letter has another part somewhere, and the photo I found like that, because Snape—"

Voldemort's magic suddenly surged, black and venomous. Harry stopped talking at once.

Yet the Dark Lord's face remained immaculately composed. He raised one brow in surprise—confused, probably, as to why Harry had abruptly broken off like that.

Doing his best to ignore the cloud of hellacious black magic stirring the air, Harry continued. "He, ah. Ripped it, before I found it," he said. "And this shard used to be a part of a larger mirror…"

Harry's hesitated, unable to elaborate on any of these items much, least of all to Lord Voldemort. "And the snitch, I-I only broke recently, but it's nostalgic, I guess, it was the first one I caught… and well. My wand."

He didn't bother explaining that one. Voldemort set the snitch back on the vanity and nodded, his threatening magic diminishing to its usual haze of blackness and glinting specks of gold.

"…And this?" The Dark Lord held up the Marauder's Map, which was currently blank. Harry didn't look at him when he responded, just shrugged and kept his head down.

"One can always use space parchment," he mumbled.

Voldemort didn't buy that for a second—not that Harry expected him to. It was unnerving to sense the way in which his aura danced with curiosity, the see out of the corner of his eye the way in which Voldemort's long fingers grazed the surface of the parchment like he was searching for the secrets there.

"…I see."

Then Voldemort did something which stunned Harry so badly he was sure he was imagining it even as he watched it happen.

The Dark Lord took another long look at each of the remaining items on the vanity—the letter, the photo, the mirror fragment, the snitch, his broken wand—and then, in one fluid and seamless motion, retracted the Elder Wand from his inner pocket and with a single, wordless spell, vanished them all, even the empty mokeskin bag.

Harry stared at the now vacant space in a state of total shock. "…Did… Did you just vanish them…?" he gasped.

"Your observance is remarkable," Voldemort responded coolly.

Harry snapped. "Why would you do that?" he roared, rage exploding in his chest. Harry's hands clenched into fists, and he did, in fact, have a huge desire to punch Voldemort in the face. "Why would you do that, why would you—"

"Because it was trash," Voldemort seethed in disgust. Rather than be intimidated by Harry's anger even slightly, Voldemort drew himself to his full height, his dark magic rising behind him and making him seem impossibly tall and threatening. "Moments ago, you had not thought you would ever see your broken possessions again. Yet now that I have vanished the remains of your past life, you are upset? Are you angry, Harry, that I disposed of some objects that held great meaning to you?"

Harry's fury dwindled and died, replaced by a mounting fear as Voldemort's magic became deadlier by the second. Harry didn't respond, only held his breath to see what Voldemort would do.

After a tense moment, the Dark Lord's magic stopped swelling in spite and his face became blank once more. Harry could breathe again. "They were just things," he said, somewhat contemptuously.

Harry eyed the Marauder's Map, which the Dark Lord still held in one hand. "Why not that one?" he blurted out, pointing to it. "You vanished all the rest of my things. Why not that?"

"One can always use spare parchment," Voldemort said, smirking as he placed it in one of his pockets.

Harry's face burned and his jaw dropped, wanting to say so many things and being unable to voice a single one.

Voldemort's smirk widened before he turned and glanced over his shoulder. "You did not eat," he said. His expression, absurdly enough, bordered on disappointed.

Harry was beyond baffled by this change of demeanor and topic. "I don't have much of an appetite these days," he said.

Voldemort's magic shifted in way that was almost like he was feeling… Well, not guilty—far from it—but some sort of unpleasant recognition that he might have had something to do with Harry's abysmal physical state.

"You need to eat," Voldemort said emotionlessly. "You are extremely malnourished and thin."

"That's my general state," Harry responded, his tone equally detached.

"You realize that I can retract any and all of my previous, merciful actions at any point, don't you, Harry?"

Harry was still for a long moment. Voldemort's magic swelled in anticipation, like he was just waiting for Harry to defy him.

Moving slowly, Harry walked towards the tray of food. Everything that had been cooked was cold, now, and the tea was no longer steaming. He picked up an apple and, looking right at Voldemort, took one, single bite before setting it back down again.

"Wow," he said as soon as he'd swallowed. "Full already. Thank you, I am eternally grateful."

Voldemort smiled sweetly. It was an expression that was in great contrast to his magic, which had once more blackened significantly. "I am beginning to think that you lied to me, Harry," he said. "I am beginning to think that you do like pain."

Harry's scar exploded in white-hot agony. He howled, accidentally knocking over the table filled with food when he jerked. The fine china went crashing to the floor, a cacophony of breaking porcelain to accompany his screams.

It didn't last long. The pain stopped after only a few moments, though Harry's scar continued to throb afterwards. He leaned against the wall, panting.

"Is that why you continue to be so disrespectful, Harry? Do you enjoy the experience of my wrath?"

"Oh, yeah," Harry spat. "It's my favorite thing, that."

The same pain immediately struck him even harder than before. Harry bit his lip to stifle his outcry this time, determined to not scream again. He closed his eyes and tried with all of his might not to yell, not to—

Beg, was the unspoken message which Voldemort's magic commanded from across the room. The same exact message it had been saying for weeks when he'd had Harry locked in a cell, blind and alone.

Beg for the pain to stop.

Beg for mercy.

Beg. Beg. Beg.

Harry had refused then, and he refused now.

The horrific pain only got worse. Harry had to put both hands against the wall to remain standing under the onslaught of it, biting his lip so hard now to stop from shouting that he drew blood. He shook his head, trying desperately to fight it, to find some other way to stave off the pain.

There was none. Voldemort slowly approached, standing next to him and looking down at him with that same, twisted grin on his lips. His magic became far more eager, like he was so certain that Harry was about to finally break and plead with him to stop.

Beg. Beg. Beg.

Harry wouldn't.

"Beg," Voldemort finally said out loud.

The pain lessened, possibly so that Harry could speak. He looked at Voldemort with watery eyes, glaring. “Never,” he said. “You can't make me do that."

"Can't I…?" Voldemort tilted his head to one side, scarlet eyes accessing him thoughtfully. "Did you not say you were mine to command, Harry?"

"Not that. I'll never grovel at your feet and beg for anything. Nothing you can ever do will make me do that."

"I can make you do anything I want."

Before Harry could respond, the pain vanished. That pleasant warmth rushed through his veins, surging through him and making him lightheaded. It was so intense that Harry could feel it like an actual entity; a living, breathing thing like a serpent which was coiled around his very soul, moving, writhing, and Harry could not tell where he began and this twisting, coiling serpent ended…

It was all so familiar and yet… not. It was the same kind of serpentine entity that he recalled from the Ministry so long ago, only this was all blissful warmth, not burning misery…

Harry felt his knees buckling and his jaw moving of their own accord, yet it was not with an agonizing wrench, but a sweet, gentle persuasion with which his body moved… When his lips parted to speak, it was not painful in the slightest…

"I…"

Harry's euphoric mind was filled with an instant, sobering horror as he realized what was happening.

Voldemort was possessing him… and it wasn't hurting.

No, he thought in a state of absolute panic. No, no—

The second he internally refused, the light and pleasantness turned into a fierce and terrible storm of pain.

Now it was exactly like it had been at the Ministry. Pain so terrible that Harry wanted to die from it. Harry screamed and crumpled to the floor, seeing nothing but a flash of violent red—

Then everything stopped. Harry's heart raced as he tried to regain his breath, disoriented from such extreme sensations.

When he opened his eyes, Harry was shocked to find that he was eye-level with Voldemort. The Dark Lord had also fallen to the ground, and looked to be in a similar state. He must have shared in that same, earth-shattering pain.

Voldemort glared when Harry caught his eye. Despite what a horrible experience it had been, Harry couldn't help but feel smug. Voldemort had tried to make him beg—had tried once more to possess him, even—and he had failed.

"…Ha," Harry said between labored breaths, grinning.

Voldemort recovered from the pain much quicker than Harry did.

In an imperceptible motion, Voldemort had him around the throat, pinning him against the wall with a single hand by the neck, his strength obscenely inhuman. "I should put you back in that cell and leave you there for all eternity," he snarled, eyes blazing.

"That's no way to treat your last horcrux," Harry said in a raspy voice, even as he struggled to breathe.

True, honest fear cut across Voldemort's features, and his magic became flavored with anxiety. The sight made Harry feel high with superiority, and far, far too reckless.

"You shouldn't force their magic to exist outside of their bodies, either, just so you can harvest whatever you need… So you could heal your broken and damaged body."

Harry knew that his somewhat shaky hypothesis was correct by the way Voldemort's magic brightened, a mixture of even more surprise and—there it was—embarrassment. Voldemort let go of his neck, eyes widening in disbelief. "Yeah, I knew it was you!" Harry shouted, uncaring of the fact that this was sure to end badly for him. "I knew it was you impersonating Narcissa, because you screwed up! She never called me by my name, for whatever reason… Maybe she was afraid of me."

He paused for only a second to laugh before carrying on, relishing Voldemort's thunderstruck expression. "What I don't understand… is why. Why would you bother impersonating her to do whatever it was you did? Why not just do it yourself?"

Voldemort's expression became cold and blank. He looked at Harry with no visible emotion, though his magic was glimmering in an odd fashion. Harry could not decipher at all.

"…Light magic," Voldemort said at length, "cannot be forced. It was dark magic which damaged me. Only light magic could heal it… That must be given willingly, and it needed to come from a soul which was whole."

He said it all in a quiet, reverent tone. Harry was astonished that he was getting any explanation at all. "A whole soul that was willing? Couldn't… couldn't you have used just about anybody, then?"

Voldemort didn't answer, but Harry could see the truth of it in the way his aura shimmered and lightened just barely. "Why me?" he shouted, incensed. "Haven't you tormented me enough? Kidnapping me, blinding me, torturing me—"

"Because I only use the best."

"Making me—what?"

Harry froze at the implication in those words. Voldemort's face was still undecipherable.

"…The best," he repeated in a whisper.

Harry’s mouth went dry, his stomach coiling in an uncomfortable way which he adamantly ignored. He found that he was unable to look anywhere but at the floor, suddenly. "…And you just… thought I would say no?" Voldemort's answering nod was very slight, but Harry caught it from the corner of his eye. "Well, you were wrong," he said, his gaze still downcast.

The air rang in the silence. Harry had never felt more awkward or uncomfortable in his life, standing in a bedroom with Lord Voldemort, who had just told him that his magic—his soul?—was the very best…

It was an unbearable situation which was made even worse by the way Voldemort's aura was… doing something, something that was both mesmerizing and deeply confusing.

Harry didn't see Voldemort move when he finally did. The Dark Lord was suddenly in front of him, making Harry's heart skip several beats when his hands ghosted over his hips.

"I have work to do," he said. "You will be tended to while I am gone. I expect you to be fully rested and capable when I return in a few hours' time with your wayward friend…”

"Are you—"

Harry's inquiries were immediately and literally disrupted when Voldemort caught his lower lip between his teeth. He bit Harry in the exact same place where he had bitten himself earlier, when he'd been determined not to scream.

Voldemort ran his tongue along his trapped, swollen lip, and a heat that was unrelated to anything pertaining to souls pooled in Harry's stomach.

The kiss which followed was the antithesis of the bloody, violent affair which had occurred the night before. Voldemort was exceedingly cautious and gentle, his tongue easily slipping between Harry's lips when he was met with no resistance.

Harry had no coherent thought whatsoever. His body reacted instinctually—which was, in all actuality, illogical and conflicting. His hands flew up to Voldemort's chest, weak but undeniable attempts to push him away. The rest of his body, however, seemed to yearn for the exact thing he was trying to disentangle himself from. Harry's spine arched and his head tilted back, his mouth opening wider like he was starving for the Dark Lord's kiss.

It was dizzying but brief. When Voldemort pulled away, his magic was glittering more vibrantly than ever before, like stars in a night sky. His eyes were darkened, fixed on Harry's with such an intensity he thought he might faint.

Before he vanished, Voldemort smiled, murmuring words that felt more like a confession than a farewell.

"You fascinate me, Harry Potter."

His face felt like it had been lit on fire the blush that followed was so strong. "What the fuck," he breathed out loud, shaking his head. For a time, that seemed to be the only coherent thought that Harry James Potter was capable of.

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?

Harry started pacing. He forced his mind, which seemed intent to race in circles with swears, to form some useful thoughts.

Voldemort had told him that his magic was the best.

Voldemort had then kissed him.

And he, Harry… hadn't exactly hated it.

Harry covered his burning face with his hands. This…was very bad.

You're just really messed up right now, Harry, he told himself, continuing to pace and crossing his arms. Stress is very high, you've been held prisoner for weeks, and wasn't that a thing, growing… affectionate towards your captor?

But Harry did not harbor anything even resembling affection towards Lord Voldemort… Did he?

No, I don't, Harry thought stubbornly. Not at all. Voldemort is still a murderous, dangerous monster, no matter what he looks like… And I am not attracted to him anyway. Regardless of his current features. Not at all.

Harry's fingers traced over his lower lip again, his heart racing and face burning even hotter.

…I am also a liar, he then admitted.

Harry groaned, lamenting the undeniable truth of it. How many times had he referred to the Tom Riddle he'd seen in memories with Dumbledore (in the privacy in his own mind, of course) as handsome? He hadn't thought anything of it at the time though, because they were just memories of a boy. It had been so easy, then, to differentiate between the attractive teenager from the past and the monstrosity of the present.

But now…

Harry felt the blood drain from his flushed face. This was all just a horrible and complex manipulation, he realized—one that had been going on for a long time. The Dark Lord had been underhandedly trying to influence him for a long time now, doing things to endear himself to Harry slowly and stealthily.

The memories, for starters. Voldemort had been feeding him innocent memories of Tom Riddle, young and harmless looking, either acting brilliant and charismatic or being treated poorly by Dumbledore. Memories which were Harry's only moments of being able to see, so that Harry was constantly craving the Dark Lord's presence.

Only Voldemort didn't know that Harry was aware of all the other times that he had visited him, too. Those long stretches of silence where the Dark Lord would merely watch him as a quiet observer in the corner, his black magic writhing covetously and making Harry feel ill.

And thank Merlin he did know! Harry could only imagine how much worse his state of mind might be if he hadn't experienced those disquieting moments to ground him—to viscerally remind him just how deranged the Dark Lord really was.

…There was also the light.

That blissful buoyancy that felt far too good.

Yet that particular form of manipulation, Harry thought, might actually be backfiring on Lord Voldemort. It was a truth that had been dawning on Harry for some time, and now, after sensing that brief but powerful emotion of relief that had emanated in Voldemort's magic before they'd left for Azkaban, Harry knew it with certainty:

Voldemort was becoming increasingly addicted… to Harry's soul.

Even more bizarre was that Harry was not at all surprised by this. He had felt it himself, during those moments when he'd broken into Voldemort's psyche. What was left of Voldemort's soul was so fractured, so cold. It must have been heavenly for him, to feel what it was like to be whole again… Even if it was through the act of feeling the soul of Harry Potter.

Harry shuddered. Was Voldemort still that way, after using Harry's magic to heal his body? Harry contemplated that. More than likely, yes. Magic could only do so much—the only way to repair a fractured soul was through remorse, and Harry was pretty sure the Dark Lord hadn't been doing any sorrowful penitence recently.

A blackened soul within a beautiful body. Lord Voldemort was a more complex entity than ever before.

But Harry couldn't help but wonder… Why return to looking like his old self? Why bother to regain the appearance of Tom Riddle? Wouldn't it have just been simpler to create a new appearance, to—

A horrible fear gripped Harry so abruptly that he nearly swayed.

Did Voldemort know? Did the Dark Lord know that Harry had thought of Tom Riddle as handsome? Harry imagined a terrible possibility, recalling all of the times that he had been asleep under the influence of a Dreamless Draught, wondering if Voldemort might have appeared during those times, and—and could one perform Legilimency on an unconscious person? Was it a real possibility that the Dark Lord had combed through his memories without him being any the wiser, seeing exactly how Harry had known about Tom Riddle Senior and Merope Gaunt and thinking just how handsome their son was?

Harry forced those thoughts away. You're being irrational and paranoid, Harry. You would know, if he had done that. You would know.

He sighed heavily. Harry realized then that he had to come to terms with a few things about himself.

He wasn't gay… was he? No, he had certainly been attracted to Cho, and he had been irrefutably, irrevocably—

No. Don't.

…He fancied girls.

Harry frowned, biting his lower lip and then instantly thinking of Voldemort doing the same thing, heat pooling in his stomach and his back arching instinctively.

…He was attracted to blokes too, then.

Harry stopped pacing, turning to face himself head on in the vanity mirror. He stared into his own eyes, blood-red irises which were the exact same hue as the Dark Lord's. It was disquieting, just how different he looked without his characteristic green eyes and glasses.

Trying not to linger on that, Harry took a deep breath and gave himself a pointed look.

"I am bisexual," he said flatly.

It was enough of a statement to shock his reflection out of mimicking him. The Harry Potter in the mirror raised both of its eyebrows, looking dubious. "Congratulations," it finally responded. Then, "Fix your collar, dear, you look a mess."

Scowling, Harry turned away, ignoring it.

Okay, he thought, okay. That's all fine. Attracted to both sexes—that's fine.

Attracted to Tom Riddle… a bit more problematic.

But he could deal with this. He was a rational person. Being attracted to someone physically didn't mean being attracted to them in any other way. It was absolutely possible to remain unaffected by someone's looks. This was Lord Voldemort—nothing that he could do would ever make it possible for Harry to be so idiotically manipulated, especially not by something as shallow as his appearance.

And yet you keep touching your lower lip, imagining Voldemort kissing you, a small but extremely judgmental voice whispered in the back of his mind.

A momentary lapse of bad judgement! Harry roared back at himself defiantly. A few seconds of being caught off guard!

You enjoyed it.

I did not!

You want it to happen again.

"No!"

Harry jumped when his outburst was met with a high-pitched squeal of surprise. He whipped around to see Narcissa Malfoy in the doorway, clutching her chest and looking frightened.

"I'm sorry!" she shouted, thinking that Harry was yelling at her. Her magic was frazzled and vibrant. "I should have knocked, I—"

"No, no, I'm sorry, I—er, I was just—" Harry stopped short, not even bothering to try and explain. He walked over to her, feeling awful for having scared her so.

Narcissa recovered quickly, though, and she pulled him into a quick hug. She held him at arm's length afterwards and fixed Harry with a serious expression. "Your friend will be here soon," she said. "He's still at the Ministry, but they will be bringing him shortly. The Dark Lord sent me back to tend to you." She paused, examining his robes and quickly fixing his collar which he had ignored. "Do you think you can eat something?"

"Er… I really don't think so, no."

She nodded understandably. "All right, well… Come with me. We can wait in the foyer; they'll be coming by Floo..."

"Okay." Harry said. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Oh, no. You must call me Narcissa," she responded, smiling.

"Well, then, you must call me Harry."

Narcissa smiled wider. "All right, then… Harry. Follow me."

Waiting in the foyer of Malfoy manor with Narcissa had been a strange enough experience the first time around. Now it felt even more surreal, as they sat in two of the most luxurious arm chairs that Harry had ever seen near a giant, currently empty fireplace.

They were silent for a few minutes, their eyes both fixed on the vacant space where they expected emerald flames to erupt at any moment. Where soon, the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy, Draco, and Ron would be arriving…

Harry physically jumped as he realized something—something he should have thought about before. "My eyes," he gasped, looking at a startled Narcissa like she might be able to provide the solution. "What in the world am I supposed to tell Ron about my eyes?"

Narcissa’s lips parting uselessly, speechless. Harry wasn't sure what he expected. Narcissa herself probably didn't understand why they were red, she just didn't question the things that her master did.

Eventually, she offered him a wordless shrug, but no advice. "Shit," Harry said. She didn't chide him for swearing.

The fireplace sparked to life with bright, green fire.

Harry closed his eyes, delaying the inevitable. He and Narcissa both stood, and Harry relied on his other senses for the moment. Right away he could feel the odd, light magic of Draco, which had an almost air-like quality to it. Next to his was a similar aura, only denser, grayer… It must have belonged to Lucius. And then—

How had he not noticed it, before? Why had he not felt Ron's magic when he was in Azkaban? Had he just been that distracted? Or perhaps that thick, metal collar had been suppressing it, smothering Ron's magic and weakening him.

Harry wasn't sure, but he could certainly sense it now. He almost smiled when he did. Ron's magical energy was exactly as Harry might have thought it would be—warm and friendly, a sort of orange hue that reminded him very much of the Weasley's hair.

"Harry!"

That warm magic brightened significantly. Harry kept his eyes closed, and Ron didn't question it, yet—he simply rushed forward and grabbed him, pulling him into a rib-breaking hug.

Harry hugged him back, opening his eyes only to look over Ron's shoulder to where Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco stood. Draco watched the way Ron clung to Harry with distaste, as did his father.

Voldemort's absence was duly noted. "Where is the Dark Lord?" Narcissa asked her husband. 

Lucius turned away from Ron's evidently inappropriate display of affection to look at his wife. "He and your lovely sister are still at the Ministry, finishing a few things… They should be here shortly."

Harry's stomach dropped at that. Bellatrix Lestrange would be coming, too…

Narcissa nodded. "We'll just… give you two a moment," she said, glancing at Harry and Ron. "Shall we? Lucius, Draco…"

Draco didn't need to be told twice. He turned and left, obviously wanting to get as far away from Harry and Ron as possible. Lucius, however, looked uncertain. His wife glared at him, and Harry almost laughed at the way his magic withered under her stare, instantly resigned to listen to her without a word.

Before they followed their son, Narcissa shot Harry a look which he recognized well. It was the same expression he had seen on Mrs. Weasley countless times when addressing the twins, a look that said:

Don't do anything stupid.

Then she and her husband stepped away, giving Harry and Ron the illusion of privacy.

Ron finally released him. Harry shut his eyes again. "Harry," he said, still gripping his shoulders. "Harry—why won't you look at me? Where are your glasses? What—"

"Ron, I—I need you to not freak out," Harry interrupted, eyelids still tightly closed. Ron's magic was pulsating anxiously. "I'll explain everything, but I need you to not scream or something. All right?"

"Okay?"

Harry slowly opened his eyes, looking at Ron with a weak smile that might have made the moment worse.

Ron released Harry's shoulders at once and took several hasty steps back. Before Harry could say anything, he spat out the single word, "Why?"

"I'm going to explain!" Harry said, putting his arms up defensively. He ran a hand through his hair, and even though he tried to come up with some other reason, he knew he couldn't. He exhaled slowly, realizing that he was going to have to do something insane: tell the truth.

"Er… Well, so, I was brought here right after the battle at Hogwarts, like I said," he began, and Ron stood perfectly still, listening. "And… I tried to escape once by summoning Kreacher, and um. That didn't exactly work. He kind of… cut Kreacher's head off, and then dragged me along to a Death Eater meeting and forced me to sign over Grimmauld Place to Bellatrix—which is why I have another fucking scar on my hand, by the way. So that made me pretty mad, and I kind of… called Voldemort a fucking monster in front of all of his Death Eaters."

Ron jumped violently and his magic twitched—whether at Voldemort's name being spoken or the information Harry was relaying to him, Harry wasn't sure. He didn't say anything, though, so Harry kept going. "As you might imagine, he didn't like that, and so he took me back to the cell, and, er. Well, he made a threat about amortentia, and long story short, I essentially told him he was just like his mum and strongly insinuated that he was ugly."

Harry paused to laugh weakly. Ron's face and magic were both so frozen with shock it was like he'd been petrified. Harry cleared his throat and carried on. "So, you know, he blinded me. I was blind for… I don't know, a week, maybe? And when he gave me my sight back, he looked like he does now, and my eyes were like… this."

Silence. Ron stared at Harry with that same, unmoving expression.

"…Oh," he eventually said, his voice far too high. "Okay."

"Just… Just okay?"

Ron shrugged, far too casually. "Sure," he said, his tone still too high-pitched. "That all seems relatively in character for everyone. Yeah, Sure."

"You are taking this… well," Harry said cautiously. "Too well," he added, because it was true.

"Right, well, I think I've just figured it all out." Ron looked around the foyer, his eyes lingering on the chandelier that had once been their saving grace. "Hermione managed to kill me in the forest after all. I'm dead. This is it." He threw his arms out on either side of himself, grinning.

"This is hell."

"Ron, you're not dead," Harry said, trying not to laugh at what was anything but a humorous situation. "You're not in hell."

"Are you sure?" Ron asked, lowering his arms. "Are you quite sure? Because I can literally not think of worse circumstances. Do you know what my sentence was, Harry? Do you know what my life is going to be for the next six months, if this is, in fact, reality?"

Harry shook his head. Ron's grin was becoming wider and more troubling by the second. "Six months of service to the Ministry of Magic, working directly under the Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Committee to re-educate me on my misguided ideals. Do you remember who that is, Harry? Do you?"

Harry's hand flew to his mouth, too horrified to say it out loud.

"Umbridge!" Ron answered for him, his arms flying out again. "Six months of being forced to help Umbridge run that foul operation! Umbridge, Harry!" He giggled in the same way he had when he'd been attacked by giant brains in the Department of Mysteries. Harry cringed at the sound. "But the silver lining is that I don't start until next Monday. Maybe between now and then, something truly awful will happen, and I won't have to go at all."

He stared up at the chandelier longingly, like he was hoping it might fall on him. "Why couldn't he have just killed me?" he murmured morbidly.

"No—Ron, no, get a grip on yourself!" Harry shouted. "It—it could be worse, it…"

Harry tried and failed to come up with something worse, short of life in Azkaban. Ron laughed again. "Oh, but it is worse, Harry!" he exclaimed. "The trial… Do you know what I've done? What he made me tell him?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Hermione?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Ron shook his head. "No… In fact, he only asked me a few questions about her. Only where we went when we first went on the run, the three of us, and if I knew where she was now. I couldn't lie, Harry, they made me take veritaserum, but I wasn't able to tell him where she was, because I don't know. That was all he asked about Hermione…"

His eyes went out of focus for a moment. Harry didn't say anything, and a second later Ron blinked rapidly and kept talking. "No, it was… It's Fred and George, Harry. I… He asked me if I knew who the hosts of Potterwatch were, and I couldn't lie, I couldn't, I…"

Ron's voice broke. Harry put his hands on his arm, a futile attempt to make him feel better. "It's not your fault," he said. "It's n-not your fault, Ron, you couldn't help it... Do they know, though? Do they know that the Dark Lord knows who they are, now?"

"I imagine they probably do. They knew that I knew it was them, and it was all over the news when I was taken into custody… Fred and George are smart, I'm sure they went on the run the moment they heard I was in Azkaban, knowing that I would be forced to tell you-know-who everything I know." Ron swiped at his eyes, obviously trying very hard not to cry. "He did it on purpose, Harry. Having my trial today when he did. They're supposed to host another show this afternoon—soon, really soon. Like, in an hour soon. At four," he said as he frantically checked his watch.

Harry gaped. "You don't think they're still going to broadcast, do you?"

Yet even as he asked the question, Harry knew the answer. "Are you kidding? Of course they will, now more than ever. They'll want to tell everyone what happened from their point of view. But they always move around when they broadcast. They had to start doing that when the Snatchers started looking for them… Just because you-know-who knows who they are now, that doesn't mean he'll be able to find them. Right? I mean, he couldn't find us… Right?"

He looked at Harry pleadingly. Harry nodded, though he had a dark sense of foreboding. "Right," he said, forcing a smile. "Right, I'm sure they'll be fine…"

Ron swallowed thickly. Harry pulled him into another hug, noting then that Ron's body was shaking in a way that he hadn't been able to see by looking at him.

"Aw… Isn't it just so sweet!"

Bellatrix's voice made Harry's skin crawl. Ron jumped away, his magic whirling in a panic.

Lord Voldemort had arrived silently with his deadliest lieutenant at his side, apparating directly into Malfoy manor without notice. His magic was glittering perilously, and there was a hungry gleam in his eyes as he looked back and forth between Harry and Ron.

Harry's focus, however, was on the witch who was currently cackling like a mad woman. Harry had never seen Bellatrix's magic before. It was a deep red, like wine, and it moved with a liquid elegance that was strangely dark and mesmerizing. Powerful, Harry could sense that at once. Bellatrix's magic was full of graceful deadliness.

Harry felt a bit overwhelmed for a moment, sensing the magical auras of three people at once which were all so full of emotion. They couldn't have been more different from one another—Ron's a bright orange which was so friendly feeling, Bellatrix's a rich burgundy which made Harry think of velvet, and the Dark Lord's veil of blackness which shimmered with flecks of gold…

Harry almost missed Bellatrix's arm. Her right hand, which Hermione had severed with a dark curse, had been replaced. Unlike Pettigrew's gift of a new limb, however, Bellatrix's was black, like polished gunmetal.

"Ickle Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, together again at last!" she drawled in that atrocious baby voice. "How adorable!"

"Yes…" Voldemort's tone was the exact opposite of Bellatrix's. He spoke in a soft, low murmur, tilting his head to one side as he assessed the two of them. The gleam in his eyes made Harry's stomach twist into knots. "And yet, they look so… incomplete. Don't you agree, Bellatrix? Only two of the three of Dumbledore's little trio. They look so wrong without their missing puzzle piece. It fills my heart with such… sadness."

"So sad," Bellatrix agreed emphatically, sticking out her lower lip. "Brings me to tears, it does."

"Yes, I think we must do what we can to remedy this terrible tragedy," Voldemort went on. "After all, I like to have the full picture, the complete set… I confess, I have an insatiable interest in collecting rare things… Ah, but you already knew that about me, didn't you? Harry… Ron?"

Ron's face turned a worrisome shade of green when Voldemort called him by his first name. Harry wondered if he, personally, looked any better.

"Bellatrix," Voldemort said. "You are dismissed for the time being. I will summon you when we are ready to leave. Be prepared."

"Of course, my Lord."

Bellatrix bowed deeply before exiting through the same door which the Malfoys had earlier. Voldemort, whose attention had never left his captives, smiled, his magic glinting playfully.

Harry had never been more worried.

Without warning, the Dark Lord grabbed them both, ensnaring Harry's right wrist and Ron's left in each of his hands. A fluttering sensation of that familiar light danced across Harry's skin, slight but irrevocably present. Voldemort looked right at him, smiling deviously.

"This is the part… where things get fun."

They all disapparated.

The three appeared in an unfamiliar chamber.

It reminded Harry somewhat of the Potions classroom at Hogwarts, though that was likely only because there were many shelves full of glass vials, elixirs, and draughts. Harry saw Polyjuice Potion among them, and was that Felix Felicis?

He didn't get to stare for long. Voldemort released his hold on them once they landed, instantly moving across the room and flicking his wrist at one of the cabinets. The doors flew open, and from within came a fragile, silver instrument which Harry recognized. Dumbledore had used one in front of him in his fifth year, after Mr. Weasley had been attacked…

Harry wondered if this was that same instrument, or if Voldemort had acquired one of his own. The Dark Lord levitated it—completely without the use of his wand—until it rested on a table before him. He looked at it intently for a moment before he finally reached into his robes and withdrew the Deathstick.

Harry and Ron exchanged a terrified look. Ron's face was still an abysmal shade of green.

Then, without explaining what he was doing, Voldemort tapped the surface of the silver instrument where there was a small, shallow basin. Smoke began emanating from within, a silvery gas that looked very different from the puffs of green smoke which Dumbledore had conjured.

The gray mist hovered a few inches over the silver basin. Voldemort watched it with little expression on his face, but his magic whirled, curious and enigmatic.

In another rapid motion, Voldemort had Ron's wrist in his hand again. He held it over the basin and, before he or Harry could so much as draw a breath, slashed the Elder Wand across Ron's palm, cutting into his skin and drawing blood. Ron yelped in pain, and though his body jerked away instinctually, Voldemort held him in place.

The blood trailed down Ron's hand and dripped into the mist. The second it did, the gray fog became tinged with red. Voldemort grinned sardonically, casting Ron's arm aside and sending him staggering back towards Harry.

Harry grabbed Ron by the shoulders to steady him. Neither of them said anything as they both watched, engrossed in whatever it was Voldemort was doing. The red mist began whirling, moving like a living entity that had yet to take form.

"Show me," Voldemort murmured to it. "Trace, hunt, find."

The red fog twitched and a soft, hissing sound emitted from within it. "Oh God," Ron whimpered quietly under his breath. "Oh, God, oh God…."

The mist expanded and grew until it was a cloud of ruby plumes. Its shape was becoming clearer—a serpent, a red snake of smoke. "More," Voldemort urged, and the serpentine entity became more solid, a scaly face emerging. It opened its ephemeral mouth, hissing the same word back to Voldemort.

"More…"

Without hesitating, Voldemort had Ron's still-bleeding hand once more over the basin. The ghostly, red serpent unhinged its jaws and tilted its head back, its forked tongue flickering out greedily. Voldemort looked gleeful as Ron whimpered, more of his blood dripping into the serpent's mouth.

The snake's jaw snapped shut. Ron was cast aside again, and they all stared as the snake deteriorated into something… something human…

There were two of them…

"No," Ron gasped in horror.

Fred and George.

Their likenesses were appearing in the bloody mist, sitting at a table where they hastily rearranged papers. It was like watching a movie made of crimson haze. Voldemort's eyes were shining when they appeared, hissing the word, "Yessss…"

Voldemort then held both hands over the silver instrument, and when he moved them out on either side of him, the scene before them became smaller, like a camera lens which was zooming out, showing a larger picture…

He is going to find out where they are, Harry realized in horror as they looked down upon what was now an urban, outdoor environment. He is going to find Fred and George.

Voldemort examined the city street for a few seconds. Harry could sense the precise moment when he realized where it was—both by his magic which swirled and the way his grin widened, exposing his teeth predatorily.

He brandished the Deathstick over the bloody fog, and it vanished; the silver instrument looked so small and innocent in its absence. He then turned his attention to Harry and Ron.

"Don't look so troubled. Ron, you should be happy! You are going to see your charming brothers again."

"No," Ron said, his face no longer tinged with green but a stark white. "No, you can't kill them, you—"

"Kill? You insult me. I do not kill so lightly, though Rapier and Rodent have certainly earned themselves horrible punishments for their transgressions. However… I will not kill them, so long as you two cooperate."

He flashed them both another smile that would have looked right at home on a demon. He grabbed Ron by the elbow—much more gently, this time—and quickly healed the wound on his palm. Ron had clearly reached his threshold for terror and panic: he didn't try and pull away when Voldemort did it, just watched with a blank expression as the cut sealed shut.

"A quick briefing, before we depart," Voldemort said, placing his wand back in his pocket. "You are going to play a very important role in this plan of mine… both of you. I need to make sure you know your lines. So pay close attention. If you so much as utter a single uninstructed word, then there will be death. Is this understood?"

Harry and Ron shared a despairing glance. What else could they possibly say?

"…Yes," Harry finally breathed. Ron swallowed and nodded. Voldemort's magic swelled with pleasure, gold sparkling with exhilaration in a shroud of blackness.

The Dark Lord spoke, and Harry and Ron could do nothing but listen.

They arrived at exactly 3:59.

Voldemort disapparated with both of them, and as if things weren't bad enough, he brought Bellatrix along as well. Harry and Ron clung to each other when they landed, each one gripping the other's forearm like a life line.

There were no wards, there were no sinister enchantments or protective spells—Fred and George were relying completely on the fact that they had chosen a random basement of some muggle building in London to hide themselves. There was nothing at all preventing the Dark Lord from apparating directly into the room which he had just discovered using a brand of blood magic that Harry had never even known existed. Ron's blood, somehow tracing the blood of his siblings through whatever that silver instrument was and dark magic.

Their quiet apparation into the twins' hideout made for quite a scene.

Fred and George were sitting next to each other at a wooden table, papers with scribbled notes and a tall, silver microphone in front of them. The microphone emitted a strange energy; it must have been enchanted to broadcast their show. Fred had just pulled it closer to him, looking like he had been on the verge of speaking when Voldemort appeared before them—their brother and Harry Potter behind him, Bellatrix Lestrange at his side.

Fred's words went unspoken.

It was such a tense and suspended moment that it felt unreal. Fred and George's auras—which were similar to Ron's, only more of a rust-colored red than orange, and one of them was even more so—stilled, looking like frozen static. They both stared with expressions of such disbelief that they did not yet appear to be afraid.

Voldemort and Bellatrix didn't give them the chance to get that far.

Hexes went flying and Fred and George were disarmed, bound, and silenced in seconds. Bellatrix smiled maliciously as she swept them into the corner with a quick and wordless spell. They both attempted to cry out, but no sound left their mouths.

Harry watched miserably as it happened, powerless to stop it. His heart broke as the twins, who had probably thought him dead just moments ago, stared up at him in obvious terror—Harry Potter, alive, at the Dark Lord's side… with eyes that were not his own.

Voldemort touched his shoulder, drawing his attention away from them. He guided both Harry and Ron towards the table, giving them a look that quite clearly said: Obey.

Reluctantly, they did.

Voldemort smiled as he too sat, taking the seat which Fred had occupied just moments ago. Bellatrix remained in the corner, towering over the twins with her wand pointed down at them.

Harry's stomach was doing summersaults as he sat there, thinking of how many people must be whispering passwords into their radios right now, tuning in to Potterwatch… Hopeful, expectant witches and wizards who were still resisting, who craved to hear the familiar voices of the usual hosts, Rodent and Rapier… and who would instead be met with the cold, cruel voice of Lord Voldemort.

…Hermione would be listening.

Wherever she was, however she was surviving, Hermione would undoubtedly be listening to every word.

Voldemort leaned forward. He looked so casual, sitting with his hands folded on the table in front of him and a smile on his lips. "Good evening," he said smoothly, his magic a dark and lustrous haze.

"…And thank you for listening to the very last broadcast of Potterwatch."

"Though I am sure such clarification is unnecessary, I want there to be no incorrect assumptions made by the end of this broadcast. This is your Lord and ruler speaking. The war is over. The side of the so-called light has lost, and I have won. Resistance is both futile and illegal, and continuing to rebel will result in punishments in accordance to the severity of your crimes. Consider this your official pardoning for listening to an unauthorized broadcast."

Harry's eyes flickered to the floor, where Fred and George were watching the Dark Lord with terror-filled eyes, their auras going mad with emotion. Guilt pooled in Harry's stomach.

Voldemort continued, and Harry's attention was once more on his shimmering magic which gleamed with such enthusiasm—a liveliness that was in great contrast to his cool composure. "We are entering into a new age… One which requires magical unity. We must stand as one. Witches and wizards between the ages of eleven and seventeen must attend Hogwarts, as education is a pillar for the foundation of the future. Muggle-borns must be registered officially with the Ministry of Magic. We must be far stricter with our ties to muggle society, and take a stronger stance on eliminating the threats which they pose. We are superior, and it is time that we begin the meticulous process of claiming our rightful place in this world. Magic is might."

There was a clear definitiveness to his last words, his magic swelling with a fierce emotion. Harry and Ron shared a despairing look as he leaned a little bit closer to the microphone. His voice, when he spoke next, was slightly but notably softer.

"I speak now, Hermione Granger… directly to you."

Voldemort was silent for a long moment after saying this, holding his fingers to his lips and looking thoughtful. Everyone's magic was reacting in ways that made Harry's head spin—Voldemort's and Bellatrix's whirling in excitement, Ron, Fred, and George's quivering in dread.

"As of this moment, the only crime you stand accused of is refusing to register—and possibly conspiring against the Ministry of Magic, though this remains to be seen. Should you turn yourself in, these accusations shall be dealt with in an orderly, peaceful manner. The time for fleeing is past. There is nowhere to run. One way or another, you shall be brought to justice, as shall all who feel they can escape from the might of the Ministry of Magic. I can assure you, however, that the manner in which this occurs will make a very great difference in your judgement. It would be in your best interests to surrender willfully."

Voldemort's declaration that Hermione had only committed one crime with certainty was loaded with insinuations; as far as the current regime was concerned, this could not be further from the truth. Hermione Granger had definitely conspired against the Ministry, for a long time—not to mention that she'd blasted off Bellatrix's arm, blown up a portion of the Forbidden Forest, and disappeared right in front of the Dark Lord in a flash of phoenix fire.

Of course, Voldemort would never admit that a muggle-born had managed such things to the public.

"I understand that this is a very daunting decision," Voldemort went on. "The greatest one you shall ever make in your life, in fact. Such choices should not be made lightly. Because I am merciful, I am granting you the opportunity to consider your options for a time. Sleep on it."

His lips curled into the tiniest smirk, waiting several seconds before he continued. "Should you come to the wise decision to surrender, this is how you shall do so. Tomorrow, between the hours of eight and nine in the morning, go to the place in which you first found solace when you fled the wedding of Bill and Fleur Weasley. Go to the counter, where a muggle woman with dark hair will be working. Order anything you like.

"She will go into the back room and return to you with a portkey. It shall be an item you will recognize… and it will recognize you as well. It is a very special portkey, one which only you can activate, and one which requires not just a touch or a moment in time, but a very specific action in order to become activated. You're a smart girl; I trust that you shall figure out what this action is without issue."

Bellatrix failed to suppress a short, quiet laugh at this. Harry wondered whether it was loud enough to carry to the microphone, if Hermione could hear her. Voldemort didn't seem concerned either way. "Once you have completed this small but meaningful task, the portkey shall activate, bringing you… to us."

Voldemort folded his hands on the table and looked meaningfully at Ron, whose face was as pale as a ghost. He seemed paralyzed under Voldemort's stare, and Harry felt a thrill of terror when Voldemort's magic twitched, impatient. If he or Ron screwed this up, Voldemort would have no issue giving Bellatrix the command to kill Fred or George.

Harry touched Ron's shoulder, drawing his focus away from the glower of Lord Voldemort to him. He nodded encouragingly, hoping that, despite his crimson eyes that were hardly reassuring, Ron would find the courage to persevere.

It worked. Ron nodded back, leaning closer to the microphone and speaking into it with a voice that was surprisingly level. "Hermione," he started, and his eyes welled with tears when he said her name. Harry had to look away; the emotion in Ron's face and magic all too much. He could imagine Hermione right now, her hand flying to her mouth when she heard Ron's voice coming from the radio, right after hearing the Dark Lord's.

"It's… It's not what you think. What we thought," he said. "We were wrong, Hermione. I see that now. It was all explained to me properly before my trial. The Ministry's new regime makes a lot of sense. The muggle-borns aren't being registered as some means of repression, it's for the good of everyone. We don't fully understand spontaneous magic, so it's important that such individuals are documented and studied. It's to make sure that it isn't dangerous—it's for everyone's safety, including the muggle-borns themselves."

He glanced at the Dark Lord, who nodded his approval. Ron turned back to the microphone, looking anything but relieved. "…I know that you're scared, but you don't have to be. The war is over, Hermione. If you just surrender and follow protocol, you'll be safe. You don't need to be afraid."

A tear slid down Ron's face. He quickly wiped it away, forcing himself to finish. "The Dark Lord is merciful. Even though I was accused of treason, my sentence was light. Beneficial, even. Working within the Ministry will be enlightening and rewarding… I even get to spend all day, every day with my brother. You know how much I love Percy."

For the briefest moment, Ron grinned, a slap-happy look on his face. Voldemort shot him a warning glare, and it vanished. "I-I'm grateful," he said hurriedly, his voice going up an octave. "So grateful, and… And I'm sure that if mercy can be granted to me, then it will be granted to you, too. I'll be here for you, Hermione. You don't need to run anymore."

He fell silent. Voldemort's eyes locked onto Harry's, his black aura glittering in expectation.

Harry and Ron were both fully aware that Hermione would not believe a single word that Ron had just said—as was the Dark Lord. This was all according to Voldemort's plan, though; everyone else who was listening might take Ron's words at face value, but some, especially Hermione, would hear the real message.

This was Voldemort's way of saying, I have Ron Weasley, and I can and will do far, far worse things to him than make him act as my puppet if you don't submit.

And maybe, if it were just Ron speaking, it wouldn't work. He and Hermione had essentially made a suicide pact, after all. They'd agreed to take each other out if it ever looked like they would become kidnapped.

But Hermione had failed and gone on the run instead, because she was pregnant—a fact which the Dark Lord was currently unaware of. Still, Harry thought that she might not give in if it was only Ron, because he knew that she would know that Ron would never, ever want her to turn herself in, no matter what he was forced to do. She would know that Ron would want her to run away, to leave the country and never look back.

But it wasn't just Ron.

Harry's heart sank as he pictured her, alone and terrified, staring at the radio with tears in her eyes. Right now, at this very moment, Hermione still thought Harry was dead. And while many of the people listening might not recognize Harry's voice… Hermione would.

Harry took a deep breath, his heart aching as he prepared to deliver the one line that could possibly make Voldemort persuade her.

Because Hermione had never once abandoned Harry. Not once.

"Hermione," he said, his voice raw and shaking. Voldemort's aura was dancing in satisfaction because of it—the more broken Harry sounded with his plea, the better.

"…Please come home."

Voldemort raised his wand and flicked it at the microphone, effectively vanishing it. All across the country, the Potterwatch broadcast would be turning back to music, to static, to radio silence.

"Very good," the Dark Lord said as he stood, a crooked smile on his face. Bellatrix laughed, and he turned his attention towards the two struggling, silenced wizards on the floor.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for letting me commandeer your little radio show. Now, what to do with you…"

Fred and George inched away from Voldemort as much as they could in their bindings. "You said you wouldn't kill them!" Harry yelled, jumping to his feet. "You promised you wouldn't if we did everything you said!"

Ron got up as well, but he only nodded fervently, unable to raise his voice to the Dark Lord in the same manner that Harry could. Voldemort stared at Harry, eyes flickering thoughtfully across his face. Harry got the feeling that he was resisting the urge to touch him, his aura darkening with a hunger that Harry was growing disturbingly accustomed to.

Though he would never do that in front of anyone else, surely.

"I know I have said it before, and that you are fully aware of it, by now…" the Dark Lord said, nearly sighing. "But fate truly does favor Lord Voldemort."

A series of cracks made Harry and Ron both jump; Ron let out a whimper of surprise and grabbed Harry's arm. Three wizards whom Harry could only assume were Snatchers appeared. The moment they realized that it was Voldemort himself who had summoned them, they all fell to one knee, looking terrified to be in the Lord's presence so unexpectedly.

"Place these two men under arrest, for the crimes of treason by broadcasting an unauthorized radio program in opposition of the Ministry of Magic," he said calmly. The Snatchers nodded and got to their feet, obeying without question. Harry, though he desperately wanted to, didn't voice his protests—not yet.

He would get them out of this. Harry would, somehow, in some way, save Fred and George from a life spent in Azkaban. He had managed to save Ron, and he would do the same for them.

…He was unsure if he would be able to do the same for Hermione.

"Bellatrix," the Dark Lord said once Fred, George, and the Snatchers were gone. "You know what to do."

"Yes, my Lord. At once."

Bellatrix disapparated. Harry wondered wildly what he'd sent her to do, certain that it was nothing good.

The Dark Lord was smiling when he turned back to Harry and Ron. He put a hand on each of their shoulders, like some mockery of a proud parent who was pleased with how his children had performed in a school play. "Shall we?" he said, eyes glittering. "Ron?" he added, because he seemed to derive a sick sense of gratification at the way Ron's face turned putrid colors whenever he said his name.

Without waiting for a response, the three vanished, leaving the empty basement behind.

They arrived, to Harry's surprise, back in the bedroom he'd been staying in. Ron looked equally bewildered. He seemed at the end of his rope, so overwhelmed with suspense and confusion as he was.

Voldemort clearly didn't care. He lifted his hands from their shoulders when they landed, and Ron backed several paces away, bumping into the vanity and scaring himself when he spotted what was only his own reflection. It promptly told him he looked a right mess.

Harry half-wished Ron wasn't there. He had a feeling that the Dark Lord in the presence of someone else would act very differently than if it were just them.

"I shall be leaving you two here," Voldemort said. "The door is open. The Malfoys are aware that you shall be staying with them for an indefinite amount of time; Narcissa shall be with you shortly. As there is no possibility that Hermione Granger shall be arriving before eight in the morning tomorrow, I shall not return until that time. I would recommend that you rest."

He turned, surely just about to disappear again, when Harry reached out and grabbed his wrist. It was an instinctual reaction that surprised even him when he succeeded. Voldemort glared at his daring, yet at the same time, his magic reeled, darkening with a sense of need that he was currently repressing.

There was no light or warmth now, though. "Wait," Harry said, heart pounding. He couldn't stomach the thought of Voldemort leaving without some kind of reassurance, as unlikely as he was to get it. His mind raced as he tried to come up with something to say to make him stay, to talk. To endear himself to him, as Narcissa would say. "Why did you do it like that?" he asked. "Why make her wait until tomorrow? Is it… Is it just because you like the idea of her freaking out all night, or something?"

Harry's voice, which had started so hesitantly, was furious by the end of his last question. Voldemort deftly twisted his wrist so that he was the one holding onto Harry instead. Ron watched the interaction with a frightened look on his face. "Because coffee shops close in the evenings, Harry, and it would look strange to have an Imperiused muggle operating on my orders at night," he answered condescendingly. "That, and I have other matters to attend to before that time."

"…Oh." Harry hated that this simple explanation made his face burn. "Er—what is the portkey? What will she have to do?" he went on quickly.

"It is unimportant. If we are fortunate, you shall know tomorrow."

He released Harry's hand. "Wait!" Harry shouted again, making Voldemort glare but pause. "I'm sorry, I just—what was that magic? That silver thing you used, with the fog and the snake? I've n-never seen such magic performed before. It was incredible."

Harry knew he'd succeeded in piquing his interest. Voldemort's annoyed expression softened only slightly, but his magic swelled at the word incredible. Harry repressed a grin—the Dark Lord truly was the most arrogant man alive.

He also ignored Ron's boggled expression, who was staring at Harry like he'd just sprouted an extra head. "That was a Circuitus," Voldemort explained. "An extremely rare and powerful magical object. Dumbledore held one of very few in existence. They are generally used to confirm abstract ideas and visions, but they can be… persuaded to give more information, if the wizard is skilled enough and the right ingredients provided."

"Like blood," Harry murmured, glancing at Ron.

"Yes," Voldemort agreed. "Blood magic is a very powerful brand of sorcery. It can forge connections, create unbreakable bonds, bridge gaps… That method of finding his brothers worked especially well, because they share two parents. Their blood is very similar."

"Would it have worked, otherwise?" Harry said, dreading the answer. "Like… If they had only shared one parent?"

"It may not have been as quick or simple, but yes, ultimately—under my influence, at least. Though it is easier with direct siblings, or parents and their children."

Ron fainted.

It happened so quickly that Harry couldn't even try and catch him. One moment Ron was standing there, looking sickly but steady; the next, he was on the floor, the back of his skull hitting the wood with an unnervingly loud thud which sounded very much like a bowling ball being dropped.

"Shit! Ron!" Harry fell to his knees at his side. He slapped his face a few times, trying to rouse him, but it was no use. Ron was out cold.

"I think you may have killed him," Harry said, though he was fairly sure that this was untrue. Though he was undoubtedly unconscious, Ron was breathing normally, and his magic was still present.

Voldemort looked bored. "If merely being in my presence killed him, then he was hardly worth keeping alive in the first place," he drawled.

"I'm serious, he's probably really hurt!"

"Probably." Voldemort offered up nothing else in consideration of Ron. "I have more important matters to tend to. I know it may come as a shock to you, Harry, but you are not my only concern."

Harry stood, realizing then that Ron passing out may have been a blessing in disguise. "No," he said, agreeing with the Dark Lord, "I'm sure I'm not. Just the most… fascinating one."

He held his breath, wondering if Voldemort would take the bait or not. His scarlet eyes darted down to Ron again, like he was making sure that he truly was unconscious. Seemingly satisfied, he refocused on Harry. "Yes," he agreed, stepping closer to him. His dark magic glittered and whirled.

"…I would never deny that."

Then he was holding Harry's face in his hands, touching his forehead to his and bringing forth such a powerful wave of light that Harry's knees almost buckled. Voldemort sighed, drinking in the sensation of it all, basking in the feeling of wholeness.

Harry didn't say or do anything for a time, only closed his eyes and let Voldemort relish the respite which his intact soul offered. It was difficult to keep his own mind level, despite the temptation to also sink into that warmth in a state of complete thoughtlessness.

He had to focus.

It was bizarre how difficult it was for Harry to act, then. He'd flown past dragons, he'd faced off against dementors, he'd escaped inferi—he'd even reached out and touched the Dark Lord of his own volition before. But there was something about this moment which was more frightening than all of those memories combined. Perhaps it was because Harry moved with an underhanded intent, this time. With purpose.

Harry slowly raised one hand, trembling as he placed it on the Dark Lord's neck. The warmth escalated at the increased contact, so pleasant and inviting. Harry wondered if Voldemort could feel his emotions through all of the blissful light, if he could sense Harry's nervousness. Probably. Harry wasn't sure if that would work in his favor or not.

"You won't just leave them there, will you?" he asked quietly, their foreheads still touching, his eyes still closed. "You won't damn them to Azkaban forever?"

Voldemort didn't answer. Harry waited, expecting the warmth to abruptly vanish at any moment, for the Dark Lord to release him, tell him that he would do whatever he damn well pleased, and leave Harry alone with his friend who was likely experiencing a concussion to drown in anxiety for the night.

"…No."

Voldemort's reply was the softest whisper. Harry could feel the heat of his breath on his face, making his heart beat faster. And then, before Harry could process that response and what it meant, he was lost.

Voldemort closed the small gap between them, claiming his lips in a gentle, severely uncharacteristic manner. The warmth that exploded at the contact was overwhelming. Harry gasped, and when his lips parted with the sound Voldemort's tongue dove in, taking advantage, claiming his mouth and—

Oh, God.

This had never happened before. They had never touched in such an intimate way while Voldemort was calling forth that light, tapping into the connection to Harry's soul which the horcrux provided. It was such a powerful sensation that Harry's spine felt like it had been lit on fire, hot, electric currents shooting throughout his body.

His knees did buckle, then. Voldemort easily caught him around the waist, his magic amplifying, glittering in a haze of lust and wrapping around Harry with a pressing sense of possessiveness.

Unsure of how it had happened, Harry found himself with his back against the wall. The Dark Lord was holding him against it and ravaging his mouth, his nails digging into his hips, his magic darkening, wanting more, more, more—

A low, pain-filled groan caused Voldemort to stop what he was doing and turn, the light and warmth dissipating as he released his vicious hold on Harry and stepped away. Ron had moaned, though his eyes were still closed and he did not appear to be cognizant.

Harry, who hadn't been standing on his own, slid to the floor: the second time that he'd been reduced to such a state after being ravaged by Voldemort. He was panting, feeling far too overheated for it to mean anything good. Voldemort looked down at him with a stone cold expression on his face.

His magic however, told a very different story. It was vibrating and glinting, emitting a plethora of emotions that tangled together—a slight amount of shame that he had just lost control of himself like that, a sense of both relief and spite, simultaneously, that they'd been interrupted, and then, mostly, overpoweringly—

Oh, god.

"…You are not my only concern," he repeated, but it sounded like he was saying it more to himself than to Harry.

He disappeared.

In his absence, Harry realized what a dangerous game he had begun.

Unwelcome, Harry said to himself with decisiveness. Absolutely unwelcome.

Feeling too unsteady to stand, Harry crawled the short distance on the floor so that he was next to Ron, then sprawled out on his back next to him. Ron was passed out, but Harry was confident that he was fine—physically, anyway. His magic was undulating in a peaceful manner, and Harry was pretty sure that if he was in mortal peril, this would not be the case.

Harry sighed heavily. "What a shit situation we're in, mate," he muttered, and even though he was not conscious, it did feel nice to have Ron by his side again.

They were not left alone for long. Only a few moments passed before there was a soft knock at the door and Narcissa entered. Her deep, navy aura was beautiful.

It became worried, however, when she spotted Harry on the floor next to an unconscious Ronald Weasley. "'Lo," Harry said while still on his back, too tired to attempt being polite.

"Oh, my—what's happened to him? To you?"

She rushed over so that she was kneeling beside Harry, who at least had the decency to sit up, then. "I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile. "And I think he's all right, too—Ron just sort of, er, passed out. From shock," he clarified.

"Oh." Narcissa frowned and retracted her wand, pausing before waving it over Ron with intricate wrist movements, saying nothing. His body glowed a dull, greenish color. It was a light that traveled up and down his spine before turning white, then dissipating.

"He's not suffering any internal damage," Narcissa said, interpreting that bit of magic. "He's just unconscious—like being hit with a powerful stunning spell. I could wake him up…?"

Harry shook his head. "I think it may be kinder to just let him stay like this."

"I think you may be right," Narcissa agreed. She stood and reached down, helping Harry to his feet before pointing her wand at Ron again. She levitated him into the air, guiding his body so that he was laying on the bed which Harry had slept in last night. She moved him so skillfully that Ron didn't even twitch when he landed on top of the comforter, his head on a pillow and looking deceptively peaceful.

"You're really good at that," Harry commented.

Narcissa smiled and pocketed her wand. "Wordless spell-casting is one of my specialties," she said. She then crossed her arms and looked at Harry, her expression suddenly judgmental. "You need to eat."

"I don't know if I—"

Narcissa cut him off with the clicking of her tongue, waved her wand, and conjured up a chair and a tray with a bowl of soup on it, as well as a tea kettle and a cup. "I made this earlier," she said, motioning for him to sit. "It's broth, you should be able to drink it easily enough. And you definitely need to take another one of these."

She pointed towards a nutrition elixir, which sat at the edge of the tray. Harry felt nauseous at just the sight of it. "Maybe two," she added, giving Harry another scrutinizing look.

"Please don't make me."

Narcissa's lip twitched. "All right, just one—but only if you finish the soup. And I'm not leaving until you do."

Harry laughed as she conjured another chair and sat across from him. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Narcissa," she corrected, fixing him with a stern look—one which didn't soften until Harry picked up the spoon and started eating the broth dutifully. Narcissa smiled, then, and her posture relaxed. "Have I ever told you about my sorting?"

Harry's brows rose in surprise at the question, as they both knew that she hadn't. Clearly, she was just asking so that she could tell him another story.

Harry grinned as he listened to Narcissa, who told him all about her first time walking into Hogwarts, and how the hat had truly considered putting her in Hufflepuff, telling her that she had a very gentle, loyal heart, deep down—a declaration which had terrified the eleven-year-old girl, who begged to be placed in Slytherin. Eventually, the hat obliged, and Narcissa Black went on to not disappoint her family.

Harry almost told her about his own, questionable sorting, but decided against it.

"It's our choice, in the end," Narcissa finished, staring detachedly at Ron's sleeping form. "No matter what our inclinations are, we make the final decision… and it's those choices that make all the difference."

Narcissa eventually left them, though not before she offered to show Harry around the house and to another bedroom. Harry declined, not wanting to leave Ron's side in case he woke up.

Time seemed to be moving at an unnaturally slow pace. Harry stared at the clock, lamenting that it was only ten in the evening. He sat on the foot of the bed and sighed, looking at Ron with an intense jealousy. What he wouldn't give to just pass out and feel nothing for a while.

As though the thought had struck him, Ron's magic stirred. He groaned softly and his muscles tensed. He was waking up.

Harry moved so that he was standing at the side of the bed, but he wasn't the first thing that Ron saw when his eyes flew open. Ron looked up, and upon seeing his own reflection directly above him, he did exactly what Harry had. Ron screamed, and it was the highest, most feminine sound that Harry had ever heard come out of Ron's mouth. His orange cloud of magic fluctuated in sporadic bursts.

"Ron! It's—"

Harry was interrupted when Ron shot up and looked at him—Harry Potter with his bright, red eyes—and screamed again. He fell off the bed, landing with a thud and taking the whole comforter and several pillows with him.

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed.

He knew there was nothing funny about their situation at all, but watching Ron wake up and scream like a ten-year-old girl was easily the funniest thing he'd witnessed in a long time. Harry laughed so hard that he was doubled over, almost falling to the floor as well.

Ron eventually gathered himself enough to stand, trying to look angry but failing. Harry stopped laughing, but he couldn't wipe the massive grin from his face. "Are you okay?" he managed to ask.

"Oh, yeah," Ron drawled, rubbing the back of his head. "Never better."

There was a beat of silence before they both started laughing. Harry suspected there was something irreparably wrong with the pair of them, to find humor in anything, all things considered.

"Why is there a mirror up there!?" Ron exclaimed, dumbfounded. "Whose room is this?"

"I don't know," Harry answered. "I don't know much of anything, to be honest. I try not to ask questions when I can stop myself."

Ron shook his head and sat. "Blimey, I think I just had three heart attacks in a row… Shame it didn't kill me." He looked up at his reflection mournfully.

"Don't say that," Harry said as he sat next to him.

"My head feels like it's been hit with a bludger. What happened?"

"You uh, passed out. Pretty spectacularly, might I add. I didn't get a chance to try and catch you before your head hit the floor."

Ron frowned, looking thoughtful, then afraid as it all came rushing back to him. He looked about the room, like he thought the Dark Lord might still be there, lurking in the corner.

Which wasn't exactly out of character for the Dark Lord, but Harry chose not to voice that unhappy fact. "He left," Harry said, and Ron exhaled in relief. "It's just us… until the morning, I imagine."

"Shit," Ron said, looking at the clock. "Harry, what's going to happen if she actually does what he said? If she comes here?"

Harry didn't give him an answer. He didn't have one. "And… and the fact that she's pregnant," he went on, looking haunted. "I-if you-know-who finds out about that, then can't he…?"

His voice trailed off, but Harry didn't need him to finish his question to know what he was thinking. Would Voldemort be able to find Hermione while she was pregnant, using that same brand of dark magic he had used to find the twins?

"I don't know," Harry said. "I… I guess that depends…?"

Ron looked at Harry imploringly, grabbing his shoulder uncomfortably tight. "When do they have blood of their own? How does magic differentiate between individuals like that? When does a-a fetus become a person with a soul and blood and magic of its own?"

"I don't know," Harry repeated. "But those are very, very loaded questions, and I kind of want to stay as far away from them as possible."

"She's doomed, Harry," Ron lamented. "She's doomed! If she doesn't come tomorrow—and she probably won't—then you-know-who will eventually find out, and he'll track her down, and then that will be it! Unless…"

He released Harry's shoulder's, looking suddenly hopeful. "Unless, you think she might know about that kind of magic? Maybe she's aware that people can be tracked using blood like that, and she'll, you know… terminate the pregnancy before it's too late?"

Harry's jaw dropped, momentarily speechless. He doubted that Hermione knew about that specific type of dark magic, despite all her vast knowledge. Voldemort himself had said that the silver object he'd used was a rare one, that Dumbledore had one of very few Circuituses in the world. The likelihood of what Ron was hoping for seemed very improbable: that Hermione would terminate the pregnancy, go on the run, and never get caught by the Dark Lord... especially considering that the reason Hermione had run in the first place was because she was pregnant.

Yet this was clearly the hope which Ron was clinging to. Harry didn't have the heart to disagree. "Maybe," he said, trying to sound genuine. "This is Hermione we're talking about, here."

"Yeah," Ron said, nodding. "Yeah, she… She might know. She could still get away… But… Harry, what if she does come here?"

"He'll keep his word," Harry said firmly, though he was uncertain. "He will."

"That's rubbish. You know he'll probably just kill her anyway. Despite whatever he's told you, even if she does come willingly and surrender…"

Ron's eyes were hollow as he stared at the floor. Harry wanted to say something, anything to wipe the pained expression from his face, but he couldn't find it in himself to do so.

He couldn't, because he knew that Ron was right. The possibility that Voldemort would decide to rid himself of the threat of Hermione Granger permanently was very real.

"I never thought I'd say this," Ron continued when Harry remained silent. He looked up, and the tiny smile he gave was heartbreaking.

"I hope I never see Hermione again."

"Me too," Harry whispered.

They were quiet for a long time. Ron wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. When he glanced at Harry again, he flinched. "Merlin, those are creepy. It's hard to look at you." It wasn't difficult to figure out that he was talking about Harry's delightful new eyes. Ron frowned and pointed at his face. "Also—that's impossible."

"Sorry?"

"That. Your eyes, your vision being fixed. It's not possible. Magic can't fix bad eyesight. Do you think wizards like my brother and dad would wear glasses if they didn't have to? It's not possible."

Ron stared at Harry's face with an intense look, like he might be able to make Harry's eyes turn green again by sheer force of will.

"Er," Harry said, unsure of how to proceed.

"I reject this reality," Ron announced.

Harry laughed, unable not to at Ron's overly serious expression. Ron smiled too, and dropped his arm. "This is all so fucked, Harry," he said. "Nothing makes sense anymore. People don't even look the same! What the hell is going on with you-know-who? How'd he get a new body—again?"

"Dunno," Harry lied.

Ron shuddered like he'd just gotten a chill. "You know, I think he's scarier now than when he looked like he was part snake," he admitted. "It's so freaky, seeing someone that looks almost human but then has those fucking crazy eyes. Sorry," he added, seeing as Harry now had them as well.

"I'm not offended," Harry muttered.

"But he is, isn't he? Creepier now, I mean," Ron went on. "He's fucking terrifying. Being on trial with him staring down on me was the scariest experience of my life."

Ron gripped his hair with both hands in frustration. "He's just such a conniving bastard!" he exclaimed, suddenly angry instead of disturbed. "Everything he does, everything he says! And it's not just what he does, it's how he does it, you know? Like, everything he said on that broadcast was so precise, worded so that no one else would be able to figure out what place he was talking about, so that no one listening could conceivably go there to stop her. Only you, me, and Hermione know it's that muggle coffee shop. And what did he mean, when he was talking about the portkey? What does he want her to do?"

It was a question that had been plaguing Harry too. He had no idea.

"Well, with any luck she'll never have to figure it out, because hopefully she doesn't go," Ron went on when Harry said nothing. "I hope she just… gets rid of the baby and disappears, hiding somewhere far, far away from here."

Harry murmured in agreement.

"…You know she won't though," Ron said, morbid. "Hermione would never just run away. She'll stick around, she'll find what's left of the Order and start rebuilding a resistance. You know that's what she'll do, if she doesn't come."

Harry did know that. He hadn't wanted to voice his opinion on the matter, preferring to let Ron cling to the thought that she might flee—but they both knew Hermione Granger too well. If she did not surrender for the potential safety of her friends and unborn child, then she would fight the Dark Lord and his new regime tooth and nail, to the death.

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice hoarse. "Yeah. I know."

They didn't talk anymore, after that. They sat in silence, unable to sleep and watching the clock as time slipped away, each second bringing them closer to what would either be the true end of the war, or the beginning of a new one.

They were gathered in the foyer.

Narcissa had come to get them at half past seven that morning, wordlessly guiding them to the hall in the front of the manor where, presumably, the portkey would bring Hermione—if she chose to take it.

Lucius, Draco, and Bellatrix were there, too. The Malfoys were standing against the wall like they wanted to be anywhere else but in their own home; Draco adamantly did not look at them when Harry and Ron entered.

Then there was Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was standing in the center of the hall with his eyes closed. It was the exact same stance he'd taken in the Forbidden Forest and again in Azkaban, like he was deep in prayer. The Deathstick was held between his fingers, black against white. His magic was calm.

Bellatrix was at his side, her own aura quivering with excitement. When Harry and Ron entered with Narcissa, she smiled maliciously at them. Harry's blood boiled at the sight.

Voldemort did not even open his eyes upon their arrival, looking as lifeless and cold as a marble sculpture.

They waited.

Harry and Ron stood a few feet away from the Malfoys, near the wall to the left of the Dark Lord. Narcissa grabbed both her husband's and her son's hands, looking extremely stressed.

For a moment, Harry was distracted from his anxiety by their magic. Narcissa's dark and lovely navy; Lucius's, which was a dark gray; and Draco's, which was much lighter, like clouds and light. Their auras melded together when they were close, almost familiarly. It was strange and beautiful.

The clock struck eight.

Hermione did not appear.

Harry was certain in that moment that this meant she would not come at all.

Hermione was punctual if nothing else, and he was sure that she had probably come to a decision last night about which course of action she would take. The fact that she did not arrive right when she could have made Harry think that she had chosen to fight.

But, then again, he was unsure of what Voldemort required that she do to trigger the portkey. Maybe it was something that took some time.

They waited.

Five minutes, ten minutes minutes, twenty minutes. They all glanced continuously at the clock on the wall, growing more nervous as time went on. Bellatrix began pacing, her heels clicking against the wooden floor like a metronome. The Malfoys eventually sat, sitting around a small table in the corner. Harry and Ron remained standing, their backs leaning against the wall. Only Voldemort remained where he was, perfectly still, his magic unmoving. It was the longest hour of Harry's life. It seemed infinitely longer than the hour he had been given to answer the Dark Lord's summons, back when he had made his way through the Forbidden Forest, prepared to die.

It was not until five minutes to nine that Voldemort's aura started to stir.

The cloud of glittering gold and black began to twitch, irritated, angry. Even though Harry was the only one who could sense it so precisely, everyone else must have felt the sinister energy emanating from him as well. Draco, who had been staring at the chandelier, fidgeted in his seat. Lucius and Narcissa shared despairing looks. Bellatrix stopped pacing.

Harry and Ron grabbed each other's forearms at the same time. Time was almost up.

Everyone waited with baited breath. Voldemort did not open his eyes until there was one minute left. His magic was moving, whirling and furious, but his posture remained rigid.

The clock struck nine.

"She did not come," he hissed, his voice icy and soft.

Everyone in the room looked terrified, each wondering who would be the one to suffer the wrath of Voldemort's displeasure. Harry shifted so that Ron was behind him, as he had a dark feeling about who that person might be.

Harry knew what Voldemort's next line would be before he said it. The Dark Lord opened his eyes, not looking at anyone when he spoke.

"I thought she would come."

No one breathed.

The walls started screaming.

Harry's hands flew to his ears, the cry was so shrill and high. It was a familiar shriek—a caterwauling curse. It emanated all around them, like Malfoy manor was a living, tormented entity. The Malfoys all jumped to their feet at the sound, looking horrified and backing away, Narcissa clinging to Draco protectively. Bellatrix, however, started laughing, and Voldemort…

Such a sinister smile could only mean one thing.

Harry thought he might faint, the panic which gripped him was so strong. It was only Ron's hand clasping his arm that kept him grounded, trapped in this moment, this nightmare. A loud crack resounded in the hall. The screaming ceased, and Bellatrix stopped laughing.

There she was.

Hermione had appeared in the center of the foyer, and in her hand she held…

A knife?

Hermione was holding a blade in her right hand, and it was dripping with blood. Harry stared, shocked as his eyes flickered to her other arm, which had the sleeve ripped off and was bleeding profusely.

Mudblood.

The knife had been the portkey.

Harry felt bile clawing at the back of his throat. Voldemort had not only required that Hermione cut herself to activate the portkey—the knife which would recognize her by her blood—but had forced her to re-carve the entirety of the word into her arm, the scar she could not rid herself of, which Bellatrix Lestrange had branded onto her forever.

Mudblood.

She looked horrible.

Hermione's skin was pale and tinged a slight blue color, unnatural and sickly. Upon seeing her, Harry was struck with a memory, an old man's voice echoing in his head as though from a different life:

"Oh, surely not. So crude… Blood…"

Harry was going to be sick.

Hermione dropped the knife, looking frail but somehow standing tall. Despite her awful appearance, what caught Harry most off guard was her magic. It was a deep, reddish violet, and though it was currently in a weakened state, it moved and looked very similar to Bellatrix's magic.

Very similar.

"Ha!"

With a flourish and a shout, Bellatrix cast a spell, and a wand came flying from Hermione's pocket—Bellatrix's wand. It soared straight into the dark witch's outstretched, metallic hand, and the moment she caught it her magic danced in triumph. Her wand, too, emitted a bright and vibrant aura—back in its rightful master's possession once more.

"No!" Ron screamed, rushing forward. "Hermione, no! No!"

"Take him to the cells," Voldemort commanded, his eyes never straying from Hermione. Instantly, Bellatrix obeyed, hitting Ron with a curse which bound and gagged him in a flash. Harry had to fight the powerful urge to try and help him, knowing that doing so could only make the situation worse. He watched helplessly as Bellatrix laughed and dragged Ron from the room with a spell, who struggled against his constraints in vain, his shouts stifled.

Hermione never looked at him.

Not when he screamed, not when Bellatrix hexed him. The moment Hermione appeared in Malfoy manor, her eyes had only flickered for a moment to Harry's before landing on Voldemort's, and she hadn't looked away yet.

Voldemort's own eyes were gleaming as he met hers, unwavering.

His magic was an energetic cloud of black, glistening and whirling. Harry looked back and forth between the two, his heart pounding as he realized what must be happening. Voldemort was using Legilimency, seeing Hermione's thoughts, delving into her mind.

By the way that Hermione was standing there, staring back at him, unflinching, it was clear that she was putting up no resistance whatsoever. Right now, a silent, one-sided conversation was happening. Right now, in this moment, Voldemort was deciding Hermione Granger's fate.

The Dark Lord's magic only became more spirited as time went on. His smile became more sinister. Whatever it was he was seeing, it pleased him immensely.

"…Hermione Granger."

Voldemort's voice was soft and disarming. Harry nearly lost it, barely resisting the overwhelming impulse to throw himself in front of her, to protect her, to do something, but he knew doing anything at all would have the opposite effect. If Harry did a single thing to anger Voldemort now, he might kill her just out of spite.

Hermione didn't react when Voldemort said her name, like Ron always did. She only stood and waited, her chin out and her arm dripping blood on the floor.

Mudblood.

"Are you familiar with the phrase, 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer'?" the Dark Lord asked.

"…Yes," Hermione answered, her voice cracking and raw. Then her lips curled into a tiny smile.

"A muggle man said that."

Narcissa gasped and Lucius pulled his wife and son closer to him. Harry's jaw dropped, both amazed at Hermione's daring and horrified that she would say such a thing.

Astoundingly, the Dark Lord only returned her smile. "Correct," he murmured, stepping closer to her. His eyes flickered down to Hermione's injury, his magic whirling hungrily. His smile widened.

"Five points to Gryffindor."

Voldemort grabbed her wrist like a viper ensnaring its prey, and pressed the Elder Wand to her left forearm. For a wild moment, Harry thought he was going to heal her.

He was only partially right.

"Morsmordre."

Hermione's knees buckled and she screamed, a blood-curdling cry that was far worse than the caterwauling curse.

No.

Harry watched in absolute disbelief as the bleeding cuts were covered with what looked like black ink swirling on her skin, forming into a serpent which protruded from the mouth of a skull. He shook his head, his hands in his hair, unable to process even as he witnessed it happening, because Voldemort could not be branding Hermione with the Dark Mark, it could not be—

"You belong to me, now," the Dark Lord hissed, dropping Hermione's arm. She fell to the floor, howling in pain. Voldemort flicked his wand and the scream was stolen from her throat, silenced. "Your mind is mine. Your every thought, your every idea, your every concern, is mine."

Voldemort's magic was building, swelling with his power, suffocating. The Malfoys were all cowering together, shaking while they watched with huge eyes, as shocked and as terrified as Harry was.

"There is nowhere in this world where you can run from me. There will never be one moment in which you could hope to escape from my ownership. You are mine, and your obedience will be absolute. The very second you think to cross me, you will remember."

Hermione was clutching at her arm, still screaming in agony, though no sound came out. Voldemort towered over her, his magic continuing to build to monstrous proportions, infecting the hall with his power. Unnatural winds stirred the air, causing the chandelier to shimmer and shake.

"The moment you think to undermine me, you will remember your filthy, muggle parents in Australia, and how I will tear them apart, slowly. The second you think to oppose my rule, you will remember that the unborn child you carry can be killed before it has even drawn a breath."

The impossible winds blew more fiercely, and the lights flickered. Hermione continued to scream in silent suffering, tears now streaming down her face as she held her arm to her chest, which Harry was sure was burning with an unfathomable pain.

Voldemort was losing control. His power was too great; he was going to bring the entire manor to the ground, he was going to kill her with his devastating magic alone.

"Stop!" Harry cried out, unable to watch any longer. He tried to go and stand in front of her, to shield her from Voldemort's wrath, but he couldn't. There was a force of some kind which was impossible to move beyond, keeping him from her.

Voldemort carried on, ignoring Harry, intent only on filling Hermione's mind with crushing, immeasurable fear. "You will remember this moment forever, Hermione Granger," he seethed, and she was on her side now, sobbing and writhing. "You will—"

"Stop!" Harry shouted again. "Stop it, Volde—"

"Do. Not."

Voldemort's focus snapped to Harry. The two words alone were far more frightening than anything else he could have said, because Harry's mind immediately supplied a dozen possibilities: Do not interrupt, say that word, dare to speak, move, breathe—

Harry was flung backwards, his skull colliding with the wall behind him before he fell to the floor. His ears rang. His vision went dark for a moment before the world came back into focus, though everything was blurred when it did.But he could see that Voldemort's tempestuous fury had ceased, the winds had stopped… and the Dark Lord's magic was its usual, glittering haze of darkness, deceptively beautiful.

Voldemort stared down at Hermione. "Congratulations, Death Eater," he said with the slightest hint of amusement.

"I shall be seeing you… frequently."

He then strode from the hall, passing the Malfoys, who cowered reverently as he passed.

He didn't so much as spare Harry another glance before he vanished.

The moment he was gone, Hermione's sobs became audible. Harry scrambled across the floor as quickly as he could to get to her, shaking as he pulled her to his chest, where she cried into his shoulder and held him with what must have been the last of her strength.

It was like a wall came crashing down. Harry started crying with her, a wave of emotion so strong washing over him that he thought he might drown in it.

"You shouldn't have come," Harry whispered, his hands tangled in the mess of her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. She only cried harder.

"You shouldn't have come."

Just before she approached, Harry sensed Narcissa's familiar magic. It sparked with liveliness, and when she leaned over to speak to them, she had a sense of purpose about her, her face stern.

"Can you stand?"

It took a moment for Hermione to realize that Mrs. Malfoy was speaking to her. Her magic was quivering and anxious as she looked up. Harry tried not to think of how closely it resembled Bellatrix's.

Hermione shook her head. Harry adjusted her so that she was no longer leaning on him, moving to stand so that he could help her up himself. "Here, I can—"

"No."

Narcissa cut Harry's offer off with a single word, snapping in her family's direction—the corner from which her husband and son had not yet moved. "Draco, come here. Help me move her to a guest room."

"He's not touching her," Harry retaliated, glaring at Draco. "I'm fine, I can help her—"

The second Harry stood and went to pull Hermione up, he realized how wrong he was. He was struck with such a strong spell of dizziness that Narcissa had to hold him steady, grabbing him about the waist as white spots danced across his eyes.

"Child! You were just flung across the hall, you've hit your head—you are injured!"

"It's… Harry."

Narcissa sighed and lowered him back onto the ground, right next to Hermione. "Draco!" she shouted "Over here, now!"

Harry was still seeing stars when Draco finally heeded her, but nothing could stop the overwhelming, somewhat irrational urgency to not let Draco Malfoy lay a finger on Hermione, and to help her himself. "Don't touch her, Malfoy, I—"

"Here." Narcissa held out her hand to Hermione, offering to be the one to assist her. Hermione looked as astounded as she did miserable—and skeptical on top of that. Narcissa wasn't deterred. "I'm just going to show you to a room. I have a salve that will help lessen the pain…"

Hermione's bloodshot eyes fell to her forearm, almost trance-like, staring at the vividly black Dark Mark like she thought she must be dreaming. Harry could hardly blame her. He felt the same way.

"Come."

Hermione finally accepted Narcissa's outstretched hand. Her fingers were trembling as she did, but Narcissa pulled her up and supported her weight with a surprising ease. Harry had to appreciate how calm and in-control she was at the moment, while everyone else around her—he, Harry, whose ears were still ringing; her son, who looked like he might be sick at any moment; Lucius, still standing in the corner, frozen and useless—was so visibly shaken.

He wondered if it was a skill all mothers had.

"Draco, help Harry up, we'll take them to the nearest guest room, here in the west wing…"

Draco made a face as though his mother had just asked him to foster a dozen blast-ended skrewts, but he didn't argue. He reached down to pull Harry to his feet, who immediately refused.

"I don't need your help," Harry said, pushing himself up again. The world spun a bit less the second time, but he must have still looked bad, because Draco's arm wound around him, pulling one of Harry's over his shoulder.

"Don't be stupid," Draco muttered. "Just—just let me help you." When Harry opened his mouth to argue, he whipped out his wand with his free hand, pointing it in Harry's face. "Don't make me levitate you like a child, Potter."

Harry glared, wanting to shout a number of angry, threatening things, but he realized even through his annoyance that that would be dumb. His head was starting to pound—an aching pain that must have been dulled by adrenaline before.

Besides, his concern for Hermione was far greater than his hatred for Draco Malfoy and whatever was left of his pride. Begrudgingly, he allowed Draco to help guide him, far preferring an arm around his torso to being levitated like someone who'd just been knocked out on the Quidditch pitch.

Narcissa, holding onto Hermione, led them away from the foyer. Lucius remained behind, his magic as paralyzed with shock as his body seemingly was. Harry might have found that funny under other circumstances.

Fortunately, the guest rooms in the west wing of the massive building which was Malfoy Manor were much closer than the room Harry had been staying in. Narcissa and Draco brought their two injured charges to a bedroom which was not far at all, only down the hall. It was decorated very differently than Harry's room. This one was monochrome and simple in design, very modern—there were no posts surrounding the bed, nor furniture that bordered on garish, though it was all still quite nice. The west wing must have been a more recent addition to this manor.

Narcissa deposited Hermione on the bed, who sunk into the mattress and looked alarmingly pale. "One moment, I'm going to go get the ointment…"

Without pause, she swept from the room, leaving Harry and Hermione alone with her son. Harry pushed Draco away and sat next to Hermione, ignoring him. "Hermione, I—why—"

She shook her head. "Don't," she whispered, barely audible. She clutched her left arm to her chest, and two, fat tears rolled down her cheeks. "Please."

Harry shut his mouth and said nothing else. Draco kept fidgeting, staring at the ceiling and clutching at his own arm, perhaps subconsciously. His magic was even twitchier than he was, edgy with discomfort. It was making Harry increasingly unnerved, more so than he already was.

Thankfully, Narcissa soon returned with a vial full of clear liquid and a cloth. "Here, hold out your arm…"

Hermione obeyed. The Mark was disturbingly black, fresh and emanating a sinister, dark magic. Narcissa wet the cloth and placed it over the brand.

The reaction was instant: Hermione's eyes rolled back and she sighed, slumping against Harry's side like she'd just sunk into a warm bath. Harry held her up, capable of doing so while he was sitting, at least. Narcissa pulled out her wand and conjured up a bandage which wrapped around Hermione's arm, keeping the salve in place and concealing the cursed mark from sight.

"Now you," Narcissa said when she was done, pointing her wand at Harry and setting the empty vial aside. "Stay still, Harry."

Harry did. Narcissa cast a wordless spell over him, and he felt a kind of tingling sensation sweep up and down his spine—he assumed it was the same charm she had used on Ron before.

"Just some swelling, nothing terrible," she announced after a moment. "I can fix it, now… Just close your eyes for me and don't move, all right? Draco, hold… hold the girl."

The hesitant pause was not missed on Harry—the conflicting moment in which Narcissa did not know what to call the young woman she once referred to as Mudblood, who had just been marked by her Lord as one of his own.

Just like her son.

"Her name is Hermione," Harry said coolly, feeling that if she could be on a first name basis with him, she could deign Hermione with the same curtesy.

To his surprise, Narcissa nodded. "Of course," she said. "…Hermione. Draco, hold Hermione up, please, so that I may heal Harry."

Draco's jaw fell open in shock, his aura trembling with what Harry thought might be the magical equivalent of a seizure, but he recovered quickly. He sat on Hermione's other side and held her steady, grimacing but obeying.

Hermione, for her part, looked like she couldn't give a damn less—her eyes were closed and she was holding her arm, clearly basking in the fact that she was no longer suffering from the injury of a cursed blade and a fresh brand.

"Okay. Close your eyes."

Harry did as he was told. Another spell hit him, a much cooler one. It was like a winter breeze fluttering around his head, only it was very strange, because the sensation of the cold wind was occurring inside his skull. Effective, though. The throbbing pain that had been increasing with every second diminished at once, and the dull ringing in his ears vanished. When Harry opened his eyes, his vision was clear, and he felt nearly normal.

Physically, at least.

"Thank you," he said. Narcissa flashed him a smile before turning her attention to Hermione, concerned.

"You're pregnant," she said bluntly.

Hermione's eyes fluttered open at what was not a question, but a statement. "Yes," she whispered. It only struck Harry then that Hermione was probably unable to speak any louder than that; her voice must have been raw from screaming.

"How far along are you?"

"S-six weeks."

"What?"

The exclamation left Harry's mouth before he could stop it. Hermione recoiled away from him at the shout, which, unfortunately for Draco, meant she was closer to him. He looked as scandalized as Harry, and Narcissa shot both boys a warning look.

Harry cleared his throat and looked away.

"You are going to be fine, Hermione," Narcissa said pacifyingly, grabbing her hand and smiling with a reassurance that Harry was sure she didn't truly feel. "You made the right choice, coming here. We are going to take care of you. You and your baby are going to be fine."

Hermione blinked owlishly, more tears simmering in her eyes at Narcissa's kind words. Her bottom lip trembled, speechless.

"Just do what I say, and everything will be all right. No one has to get hurt, not anymore… Can you do that? Will you listen to me, will you let me take care of you?"

Hermione nodded. She listened, taking the nutrition elixir Narcissa gave her without so much as a grimace. She let Narcissa examine her in the same way she had Harry, only Narcissa made Hermione lay flat on her back on the bed, first. Harry stood and moved out of the way. When the spell lingered on Hermione's stomach, flashing white, Narcissa assured her that this was normal and that she was perfectly fine.

"This is a Dreamless Draught," Narcissa said when she was done, offering her a cup. "You need to rest."

Hermione didn't accept it. "I can't," she whispered.

"One time, at this stage, won't hurt anything," Narcissa said knowingly. "Not recovering from high stress will be far more detrimental."

Hermione stared at the cup, clearly torn, but still didn't take it. Narcissa sighed and set it on the bedside table.

"All right… I'll leave it here, in case you change your mind. Either way, we should leave you to rest."

Draco made for the door at once; Harry almost laughed at how quickly he bolted.

Narcissa made no comment on her son's cowardice. "I take it you'd like a moment with her as well?" she said, looking between him and Hermione.

Harry waited for Hermione to nod before speaking. "Yes," he said. "Please."

Narcissa nodded as well, pocketing her wand. "I'll be in the foyer, Harry," she said. Then, pausing in the doorway and looking over her shoulder, she added, "Please don't do anything reckless?"

Harry smiled despite himself. "Me? Reckless? Never."

Narcissa did not return his grin, but Harry could tell by the way her magic brightened that she was amused. "I'll be in the foyer," she repeated with finality.

Narcissa closed the door behind her when she left. Harry and Hermione were alone.

"Hermione," Harry said once she was gone, sitting at her side again. He knew it was not the kindest thing, asking her right away when she so clearly needed rest, but he couldn't help himself. "Why on earth did you come here? Why?"

Hermione buried her face in her hands, a pained sob escaping her throat. Harry's heart broke all over again, and he pulled her to his chest in another gentle embrace. "Not that I'm not happy to see you," he said in an ill-attempt at a joke.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione didn't laugh. "Oh, Harry," she said, her voice still hardly above a whisper. She pulled away from him and grabbed his shoulders, examining his face with bloodshot eyes. "I th-thought you were d-dead… We th-thought you w-went to him in the f-forest…"

"Yeah, well… I did." Hermione hiccupped, but Harry didn't pause long enough to let her get emotional. "I did, but he didn't kill me, and I'm fine. Er, alive."

Unlike Ron, she did not ask why this would be the case. Harry decided to not to let the conversation go that route if he could help it—at least, not right now. "But why would you come here? He could have killed you, Hermione, w-would have…"

Harry's voice trailed off as he shuddered, the reality of how close Hermione may have just come to being murdered in front of him, once more in Malfoy Manor, truly sinking in.

"I wasn't going to."

Hermione whispered it like she was admitting a vile, atrocious sin. Her eyes looked vacant as she stared at the wall. "I wasn't going to… I decided last night that I couldn't. He had Ron, he had you. I had to keep fighting, I was the only one left… All night I said I wouldn't come. Morning came, and I told myself, no, I can't."

She looked at Harry, her eyes once more wet with tears. "I cracked just before nine. Five minutes left, and I fell apart completely. I…"

Hermione twisted her fingers together in her lap, her magic spiraling anxiously. "But why?" Harry asked again. "What made you change your mind at the last minute like that, why—?"

"Because I'm selfish," she interrupted, and Harry would have never thought such a fragile voice could sound so bitter. "Because I knew that to fight would be to die, eventually. I could form a resistance, but I would undoubtedly wind up dead, probably soon. And… and I knew the only chance of living at all—even if it was an infinitesimal one—would be to do what he said. The only chance for us to live…"

She stopped talking, eyes glassy as she looked at the floor, deep in thought. Her magic began undulating in a mesmeric way, like liquid velvet. Harry tried not to be distracted by it.

"And I couldn't leave you, Harry," she said after a long moment, seemingly coming back to herself. "Not after I thought you were dead. I'd never run if it meant both you and Ron being hurt… You know that, don't you?"

Harry was shocked. He knew that Hermione was loyal, but he never would have thought that her friendship with Ron and him outweighed her conscience, her need to fight for what she believed in.

She must have seen his disbelief on his face, because her magic withered with guilt, and she let out a shrill sob. "D-does that make me a terrible person?" she asked, tears clinging to her lashes. "Does that make me horrible, valuing the life of my few friendships more than countless, faceless others? For caring more about my present than everyone else's future?" She paused, swallowing thickly, her hands falling to her stomach. "For someone who doesn't even exist yet?"

Harry grabbed her hands and held them. "No," he said. Her face looked so pale, the bags under her eyes so dark they may as well have been bruises. "It doesn't make you terrible. It makes you human."

"Is that a good thing?"

To that, Harry had no answer.

Hermione squeezed his hands, and her head fell on his shoulder. Harry felt so heavy with guilt it was unbearable. He remembered how badly he had wanted to rest right after the Triwizard Tournament, how he had wanted nothing more than to sleep dreamlessly under the influence of a draught… and how Dumbledore had made him relive it all anyway, right then, right there.

Now here he was, doing the same to Hermione. As much as he wanted to ask her a hundred more questions, he knew it wasn't fair or right. "You should take this," Harry said, grabbing the cup. "You heard Narcissa, she said it wouldn't hurt anything…"

She sniffed loudly. Harry had never seen such a defeated-looking Hermione Granger before. "B-but what about Ron, what's going to happen with him, and with—"

"He'll be fine, I promise," Harry said. "I'll talk to Narcissa, to… to the Dark Lord. He listens to me, sometimes. Life is crazy. I'll explain everything later, but right now, the best thing you can do is rest."

She stared at him for a long, long moment. Her magic whirled in a steady rhythm, making Harry think of something prowling, like a tiger stalking back and forth. Analyzing, thinking.

"Okay," she said at length. Then, to Harry's astonishment, she took the cup and drank with no further argument.

She handed it back to him once she drained it, and Harry stood so that she could lay down. "You'll stay?" she asked, her aura flickering with anxiety. "Until I fall asleep… You'll stay?"

Harry smiled and grabbed a chair, pulling it up so that he was sitting at the side of the bed. "Of course."

Hermione's magic calmed, and she laid down, holding on to Harry's hand as she did.

It was almost laughable, watching how quickly the draught worked. Harry knew the feeling—Narcissa Malfoy certainly knew how to brew.

"I'm so glad you're okay, Harry," she whispered, her eyelids falling shut even as she spoke.

"That you're alive… that you're…"

Her sentence went unfinished.

Hermione was asleep, her magic confirmed it. It moved slowly around her in a peaceful manner, like dark, ruby waves. Harry smirked and grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed, tucking her in. As tempted as he was to stay, he thought it best to let her sleep.

It wasn't until he had his hand on the door handle that Harry realized it. Hermione… She had just been staring at him, blatantly, extensively…

And she had not commented on his eyes.

She had not so much as reacted to them, in fact. Harry had forgotten to even think of explaining them, and it never occurred to him to do so once he was alone with her, because she never said anything. He turned and looked at her over his shoulder, his mind racing. She looked so innocent and peaceful, lying there.

Harry shook his head. Later. He would talk to her later, when she was somewhat recovered.

With that internal promise, Harry quietly left, closing the door behind him and heading towards the foyer. He would speak to Narcissa and plead with her to get Ron out of the dungeons. Harry's stomach churned at the thought of Ron being held in the same cell he had been. Was Bellatrix still down there with him, tormenting him, torturing him?

Harry increased his gait, almost running with the sudden need to go to Narcissa, rushing to the foyer—but he never made it there. He never even made it down the hall, as short of a distance as it was.

He only had a split-second warning.

The familiar feel of Voldemort's dark and glistening magic came from behind him… and it was radiating a fierce and toxic want. Harry couldn't possibly turn quickly enough. Voldemort suddenly had him by the throat, effectively preventing whatever sound he might have made.

The Dark Lord didn't say anything. He only held his human horcrux by his neck from behind, the softest tendrils of that intoxicating light fluttering across Harry's skin before he was pulled into a side-along apparition.

Harry thought to shout about a dozen different, venomous things—but the grip on his throat tightened, trapping the very breath in his throat mid-inhale. Voldemort leaned into his neck, hissing the threat:

"For the sake of your friends, their families, and every single thing you hold dear in this world—hold your tongue."

Harry nodded as best he could in his grasp, and Voldemort smirked. His magic glistened enigmatically… Pleased, Harry realized without much effort. The Dark Lord was very pleased.

But that toxic want hadn't waned one bit.

"Good boy," Voldemort murmured, loosening his hold.

Harry wasn't granted a moment to feel indignant. That indescribable warmth began washing over him, buoyant bliss that radiated from Voldemort's touch and traveled to the depths of his soul.

His whole soul, his pure soul. Harry could sense Voldemort's desire for it—powerful but… contained. It was not the nauseating need that had made him feel like he might be torn apart, as he'd experienced before, but it was disorienting nonetheless.

Voldemort pulled him closer. For a moment Harry thought he was going to kiss him again, but he didn't. The Dark Lord simply touched his forehead to Harry's, just like he had when he'd gifted him with his memories.

Harry struggled to not lose himself in the sensation of weightlessness, to remain level-headed, though it was very tempting to do so… and it was exactly what Voldemort was doing.

The Dark Lord sighed, his eyes fluttering shut as he released Harry's throat and began to run his fingers gently along his scalp—an action which, admittedly, felt pleasant. Voldemort was just drinking in the beautiful light that was Harry's soul, basking in the feeling of being whole…

Like an addict, Harry thought. He'd considered that this might be the case before, but now he could tell with absolute certainty. With the way Voldemort's magic was moving—glittering and brimming with such a powerful relief now that he was touching his human horcrux again—there was no question that the Dark Lord was addicted to Harry's soul.

And wasn't that the most horrifying concept in the world?

Harry pulled away slightly, and Voldemort's fingers twitched in response, tightening in his hair and keeping him close. "Do not," he hissed, his eyes still closed, his breath ghosting across Harry's face.

It was such a vague yet perilous command. Harry never would have thought he could hate two, simple words so fiercely.

Still, he listened. Harry closed his eyes and resigned himself. Voldemort started running both his hands through Harry's mess of hair again, practically petting him.

They stayed like that for a long time: Harry, motionless and trying not to get lost in that seductive connection which hummed like a live wire between them; and Voldemort, doing precisely that as he carded his fingers through his locks… rather shamelessly, Harry thought.

He was bewildering, wasn't he? Voldemort was so unstable that Harry was in a constant state of emotional whiplash. One moment, he was focused solely on imposing as much fear into everyone in the room, not even glancing at Harry, and then, just minutes after the most unsettling departure, returning just to grab him by the neck in—

In the hallway, Harry realized, barely keeping his mind from slipping into that warmth, that tempting loss of thought. He came to get me in the hallway, when I was alone, because… It was all a show. The fear-inducing exit, the way in which he terrified them all before leaving as though they meant less than nothing to him… It was all an act. He must have been waiting for the second when I was by myself so that he could whisk me away and they wouldn't see… because he didn't want them to know, doesn't want them to find out about… this.

Voldemort's pull lessened, and his glittering aura began to surge back and forth, undulating like a placated, gilded serpent. The blissful light receded to a more bearable level, and it was easier to think clearly.

Physically, Voldemort had not moved at all. He kept his forehead to Harry's and his hands remained in his hair, lightly stroking his scalp.

"The trial for Fred and George Weasley will be held in two days' time," he said, and though he spoke softly, the unexpected sound of his voice after such a long stretch of silence made Harry's heart skip a beat. "If they are acquiescent, they shall face minimal charges. They no doubt will be, knowing that I hold their brother." He paused, lowering one of his hands and trailing his fingers down Harry's face, down his neck, stopping only to rest his palm on his collarbone. Harry's eyes flew open, but Voldemort's remained closed as he continued speaking.

"Hermione Granger will not be harmed—in fact, she shall be well cared for. Tomorrow morning, she will be accompanied by Lucius and Narcissa to the Ministry, where she shall officially register as a muggle-born witch. She shall go through all the necessary protocol under the new regime of the Ministry of Magic. Afterwards, if all goes according to plan—and it will—she shall, in the Ministry's eyes, be a free witch."

Harry was stunned. His mind raced as he tried to comprehend what was happening. The Dark Lord was… briefing him? Actually informing him of what was going on without first insisting that he beg, or… or torture him in some other, unethical manner?

"Of course, she shall be staying here as well. As troublesome as I know the you three have been in the past, I have no such concerns this time… as I so undeniably and unquestionably own all of you."

He lifted his head and opened his eyes, the smallest smirk brimming with superiority gracing his lips. Harry's shock at being informed vanished, replaced by malice. "You don't own anyone," he snapped.

It didn't matter. Harry's words only amused the Dark Lord, whose magic writhed around him like silent laughter, black and glinting gold. "Even with impeccable eyesight, you are blind, Harry," he murmured, and there it was, again—that emotion resembling fondness emanating from his magic.

Harry hated it.

He shoved the Dark Lord away from him, feeling triumphant when the action caught Voldemort off guard, making him step back. "How could you?" Harry snarled, and the pleasant warmth disappeared. "How could you brand her with the Dark Mark, Hermione, how could you, how—"

"I have given her an honor far above her station," Voldemort interrupted. "I have granted her a place among my own which many wizards and witches would kill for—some who have done precisely that. Hermione Granger shall serve to act as the poster-child which every muggle-born shall strive to be for generations to come, so long as she does not do something incredibly foolish… She is being given the gift of life, a protected and envious life, and you have the thoughtless nerve to question this decision?"

His magic darkened, rising behind him in a wall of blackness. "Perhaps it is my own fault, that I continue to be shocked at the foolish audacity that is Harry Potter," he seethed, advancing. "Allow me to extend the vast and endless sea which is my patience when it comes to you and your snap-judgements, Harry. By marking Hermione Granger and making her one of my own followers, I am protecting her life. Not even Bellatrix would dare to lay a hand on her now, knowing that she is branded. She will be safe. Her future child will be safe."

Harry clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Voldemort was doing what he always did, backing him into a wall, making him feel powerless. Harry stood his ground, refusing to allow him to do that to him yet again.

"Everything you do is so—so fucking underhanded and confusing!" he spluttered, unable to stop himself. "Why be so horrible as to make her reopen that wound Bellatrix gave her—with the same blade? You wanted her to come, didn't you? So why not just give her a normal damn portkey that didn't make her hurt herself? Not to mention is was a bloody fucking riddle—what if she'd wanted to come, but just couldn't figure it out? And then—and then the timing thing! Was it really necessary to make us wait an hour, wondering if she was going to show up? Why not just tell her 'be there at eight' and be done with it? Why the window? Why? Just… why?"

Harry was panting by the time he was done, having not paused to take breath once. Voldemort's expression and magic remained neutral the entire time.

"…Because," the Dark Lord began after a moment, crimson eyes flickering briefly to Harry's heaving chest before settling once more on his face, "I wanted to learn, Harry."

"What?"

Voldemort took another step closer, drawing near enough that their foreheads were almost touching again, but Harry didn't step back in response. "One can learn a great deal about other people, but one must give them choices in order to do so," he said, like this was all perfectly obvious. "I discovered a great deal about Hermione Granger, by the manner in which she arrived, by how she appeared at the very last moment, standing tall despite her bleeding wound… a very different statement than if she had showed up right at eight, on her knees and begging for mercy. And if she would have not showed up at all, whether from defiance or inability to do so, well… Then I would not have wanted her at all."

His lips twitched, his aura saturated with egotism. Harry may not have believed such vanity possible, if he couldn't feel it for himself in Voldemort's magic.

"And just what do you really expect Hermione to do, now?" he asked, deciding not to acknowledge the Dark Lord's admittedly admirable cunning; he seemed to be doing a fine job of secretly acknowledging it himself. "Do you honestly think she'll serve you as a Death Eater? She will never do that. It doesn't matter that you have Ron and me, or that she's pregnant; Hermione is a muggle-born herself! She came to surrender, not join you! People's rights matter to her! Even if you make some kind of exception for her, she'll never willingly help you!"

Voldemort's head tilted to one side, looking honestly confused—a rare expression on the Dark Lord's face. His magic, too, seemed perplexed.

Then he laughed.

A few beats of suspended silence, and then the Dark Lord was laughing, his magic dancing and glistening around him. It wasn't a mirthless sound. It wasn't cold, high, or cruel. It was a genuine laugh; the likes of which Harry had never heard from Voldemort before.

Harry… wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Before he could make up his mind, Voldemort fell silent, though his delighted expression remained. His lips were curled in a smile that reached his scarlet eyes, that made his whole, deceptively beautiful face light up.

He almost looked human.

Harry was still processing that thought when Voldemort had his hands under his chin, pressing his lips to his forehead in a chaste gesture. Warmth bloomed at his touch, the softest tendrils of light like a caress. "Oh, Harry," Voldemort murmured against his scar, cradling his face. Harry was too befuddled to react. "You are so pure that it is nearly unforgiveable."

Harry's blood boiled in an instant. The Dark Lord was smiling so superciliously, his magic radiating such arrogance that it made Harry want to scream. It reminded him of the moment after Ron's trial when Voldemort had just sentenced him to six months of Umbridge, but had just decided to keep that information from Harry at the time.

"You're purposefully not telling me something extremely pertinent."

Harry made the accusation in as controlled a voice as he could manage. Voldemort only laughed quietly in response.

Harry snapped. "Wow," he said loudly. He crossed his arms and looked away from the Dark Lord.

"And I thought Dumbledore was bad."

The tendrils of warmth disappeared.

Harry only got to relish Voldemort's pure, undiluted shock and revulsion at being compared to Albus Dumbledore for a second. His vision blurred, his feet left the ground, and the next thing Harry knew, the world was shattering apart around him in the form of sharp fragments and splintered wood.

The vanity—the actual vanity. Voldemort had grabbed him by the collar and shoved him with an inhuman strength into the mirror over the vanity, causing the glass to shatter and the wooden surface of the dressing table itself to break.

"If you ever compare me to Dumbledore again, you will find out precisely how different we are," Voldemort snarled, his magic convulsing with rage.

Harry didn't feel what he knew should have been pain. Even Voldemort had a few cuts on his face from the glass; surely he, Harry, had far more on his backside, seeing as it was his body which had been thrown into the mirror.

But Harry felt nothing but spite. "Maybe you shouldn't act like him, then," he said coldly.

He braced himself, ready for the torturing curse that was assuredly headed his way, for the pain—but then Voldemort's magic whirled in a different manner, and Harry didn't understand it at all.

"And what would Dumbledore do with you, Harry?" Voldemort murmured, pressing him more firmly against the broken mirror. The glass dug into his back through his robes, and suddenly Harry was very aware of every little bit of silver, like hundreds of teeth on his shoulders and spine. "You would be worthless to him now. He would want nothing more than your death; struck by the killing curse which he expected me to cast… But he was wrong, and now he is dead, and I own every, single part of you. I control you, Harry Potter—mind, body, and soul…"

"Wrong," Harry gasped. Rather than try and shove him off, which he knew would be useless, Harry stayed still and jutted his chin forward, speaking evenly. "You're wrong. You've tried twice, now. You can't control me. You don't have any power over me, not like that—not over my mind, not over my body, and definitely not over my soul."

He expected to be thrown into another piece of furniture, or perhaps onto the floor. He was shocked when the vicious expression on Voldemort's face melted away, replaced by a thin smile.

Would he ever be able to anticipate the reactions of Lord Voldemort?

"Don't I?"

Voldemort leaned in closer, releasing his hold on Harry's robes so that he could trace his lower lip with his thumb. The Dark Lord's magic started to swell with a different kind of want, one which Harry had seen before.

Oh, God.

"I can make you feel bliss, if I want."

Voldemort all but purred the words, making warmth bloom in Harry's heart like a sunrise, and for a moment everything else vanished, eclipsed by beautiful, thoughtless light.

"I can make you hurt, if I want."

Immediately, the light vanished, and a white-hot pain cut across Harry's forehead, burning in his bones. Voldemort held him against the shattered mirror when his body jerked. Harry had just opened his mouth to scream when it was gone, a fleeting moment of agony.

"I can make you fall into a pit of oblivion, I can render you unconscious with a touch… or did you think that was normal magic? The way I have been able to merely tell you to sleep, and your body so eagerly obeys?"

That statement struck Harry with an abrupt and colossal wave of terror.

He had never considered this. He had always assumed that Voldemort was just that powerful, that he could make anyone pass out without a wand or an uttered incantation. Judging by how twisted Voldemort's smile was, savoring Harry's pale face, this was not the case.

It was just Harry.

"What else, I wonder…"

Voldemort's words were a whisper, his magic lustrous.

"…can I make you do?"

Voldemort leaned over the vanity and pressed his lips to Harry's neck, making that unfathomable light blossom there. The wood creaked in protest as Voldemort pushed against it, and the broken mirror rained down fragments of silver—sharp stars spilling over Harry's shoulders.

He barely noticed.

The room could have been on fire, and Harry wouldn't have been any the wiser. His blood ignited under Voldemort's touch, at his tongue against his neck, and the all-encompassing, radiant light—

And it was radiant, it was exquisite, it was everything—it was his, all his, and he wanted to drown in it, this light; he wanted to sink below its surface and breathe it in, liquid gold in his blackened lungs, he wanted—

Harry gasped like someone coming up for air, having briefly experienced Voldemort's thoughts. The Dark Lord's magic was ravenous; Voldemort's body moved with expert control, ravishing Harry's neck with his mouth but otherwise barely touching him.

Yes, said a voice, and it was Voldemort's, but Voldemort couldn't be speaking, because his lips were on his throat, and oh, oh—

Harry's whole body was burning. Some part of him knew this couldn't be a good thing, but it felt like such a good thing, oh, it felt so good—

Look at you.

Heat like a volcanic eruption was pouring down his spine, pooling in places it shouldn't and making Harry's back arch into the mirror. Glass pierced his shoulder blades through his clothes.

This is wrong, Harry thought, his pulse quickening.

Voldemort's lips found his ear, and he ran his tongue along the shell of it before speaking. "Unlike you, Harry, I am not blind," he murmured, pausing to bite his earlobe, making Harry's breath hitch. "I know you and all of your flaws… I know your every weakness… Look at you."

Voldemort trailed one hand down Harry's chest, and heat followed his fingertips. "Do you see how you bend to me?" His mouth was still to Harry's ear, every word making his heart beat harder. "How badly you crave my touch…"

Harry opened his mouth to retaliate, to deny it—I don't want this, I don't—but just as he was about to voice his protest, Voldemort bit his neck, turning his words into a gasp before he could give them life.

Tell me, came the same command, Voldemort's smug voice in his mind. Tell me how much you don't want this.

Harry threw his head back, hitting the broken mirror but feeling nothing but the sharpness of the Dark Lord's teeth on his throat. He tried again to say something, but just as he was about to speak, Voldemort sucked on the sensitive skin on his neck, making what was meant to be a plea turn into another sharp intake of breath.

Tell me, Harry. Tell me.

Such suffocating arrogance with every unspoken syllable. It was like a game to him, demanding that Harry say no, only to so skillfully ruin his every attempt with his lips and his tongue, to make every intended refusal come out as a gasp or a muffled, wordless cry.

Tell me how much you don't want this.

Voldemort's hand went lower, lower… Harry put his palms against the Dark Lord's shoulders, meaning to push him away, to end this before—

Voldemort's hand was between his legs. Harry's fingers clenched at the fabric of Voldemort's robes instead, an involuntary reaction.

"Look at how your body betrays you," Voldemort breathed into his ear as his fingers curled around the hem of his pants.

It was true. Harry’s body was betraying him; his hips canted, seeking the Dark Lord’s touch.

With his other hand, the Dark Lord grabbed Harry's jaw, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Tell me you hate this, Harry," he commanded at the same time that he forced his pants down, just far enough so that Harry's cock was exposed. He was irrevocably hard, he was desperate.

Despite what he was doing, Voldemort's eyes never left Harry's, and his other hand never released his chin. His magic was going wild with lust, but Voldemort's face was so carefully controlled, looking smug. "Tell me just how much…" he said, his mouth far too close to Harry's own. Harry bit his lower lip, knowing words were beyond him, and any sound which might come out would be a sin.

"…you hate the touch…"

His fingers ghosted over Harry's length, his eyes smoldering with challenge.

"…of a fucking monster."

One slow caress, and there was no help for it—Harry moaned, the sound choking out of his throat like it was escaping. The buoyant light that had been coiling up his spine bloomed there, too—such a pleasurable sensation that Harry knew he was lost. He closed his eyes, unable to meet Voldemort's intense stare any longer under such a wave of pleasure and, somewhere on the periphery of his mind, shame.

"You see, Harry?" Voldemort whispered, touching him so teasingly and slow that Harry thought it could qualify as torture. "How weak you are… You are a slave to your desires, to your traitorous body…"

Harry kept his eyes closed, clenching the fabric of Voldemort's robes far too tightly. Voldemort was relentless, never fully wrapping his fingers around his length, only touching him enough to make him whimper and moan and—

Not beg, Harry told himself firmly, refusing to not, at least, lower himself to that. I won't beg.

"It's fascinating," Voldemort said, laughing softly.

"It's pathetic."

And yet, even through all the gorgeous light and heat and veil of shame, Harry had a poignant thought.

Hypocrite.

Lord Voldemort was the most horrendous hypocrite to ever live. Here he was, telling Harry that he was weak for the way his body reacted—because of his forced ministrations—but the truth was that, despite his expert control over his body… Voldemort was far more aroused than Harry was.

The proof of it was in that fleeting transgression into his mind; it was in his magic, which Harry could sense so clearly—he was so ravenous with lust that Harry wondered how he was maintaining his façade of cold, haughty detachment at all.

Harry realized two things, then.

There was nothing more dangerous than the Dark Lord when he wanted to prove a point for the sake of his pride… and that this front could not possibly last forever.

Harry failed to stifle another whimper when Voldemort's nails dug into his jaw. "Look at me," he hissed.

He knew he shouldn't.

Harry did it, anyway.

Maybe it was just the overabundance of buoyant light; perhaps it was only because the bond between them was thrumming with such an intensity, and this was one more way in which Voldemort had some control over his human horcrux… but Harry found himself unable to disobey Voldemort's command.

His eyes were dark with lust, but Voldemort only smirked, like he merely found all of this so amusing and pathetic.

His fingers finally wrapped around Harry's aching erection.

"Come for your master."

Harry did.

Only one satisfying stroke, and Harry broke. His muscles quivered, his hips bucked. His cock throbbed, and oh—fuck, yes—yes—

The pleasure was mind-numbing and glorious; he had never known anything like it. Harry choked out a broken moan as his cock pulsed, coming hard in the hold of the Dark Lord’s tightly curled fingers.

Harry was sure his skull would have rammed back into the broken mirror, had Voldemort not had such a tight hold on his chin—but he did. Voldemort had Harry's face in one hand and his cock in the other, where he stroked him once more as he continued to throb and spill himself in violent spurts. He held Harry’s gaze the entire time, that dark magic glistening with triumph as the Boy Who Lived came undone in his grasp, lost in uncontainable, blinding ecstasy. 

Harry's body went limp after his orgasm finally ended, though he was panting heavily. Voldemort didn't loosen his hold on him afterwards, only continued to stare into his eyes.

"…Do you know what I think, Harry?"

Harry tried and failed to catch his breath, to say something, anything… but he couldn't. He had no words.

Voldemort smiled.

The intoxicating light dissipated, and Harry felt a cold wave of dread wash over him in its absence. Reality returned in the form of sharp fragments and splintered wood, of stinging pain and blood on his back.

"I think it is time… that the elusive Undesirable number one is found."

Harry, Ron, and Draco all got to their feet as the fireplace ignited. Narcissa and Lucius appeared first—Harry perceived flashes of corresponding navy and gray when they entered—and then, following directly behind them—

"Hermione."

She looked pale and thin, but physically far better than she had yesterday. Hermione's magic hung heavy around her, a deeply saturated burgundy that flowed in lethargic waves. Her eyes landed first on Harry's, then went to Ron's.

No one spoke. Harry and Ron both stood there, staring, and Hermione too seemed unable to move. It was the first time the three of them were together again. The first time since…

Harry almost couldn't recall when. The three had not been united since the battle of Hogwarts, after they had witnessed Snape's murder and he had taken his memories to Dumbledore's office…

Harry hadn't said goodbye, before going to meet what he had anticipated to be his death.

And Ron, the last time Hermione had looked at Ron had been right before she disappeared in a fiery wall of phoenix flames, attempting to destroy both him and the Dark Lord in a cursed explosion in her retreat…

Ron's magic was vibrating with emotion, though which one, Harry couldn't tell. Draco's light aura was twitching almost just as much, his eyes darting about the three of them as he waited to see what would happen.

Hermione swallowed audibly, and spoke in a small, timid voice.

"…H-hi."

A wordless, unanimous decision was made. Harry and Ron both rushed towards her at the same time, and in a single motion trapped her in an embrace from both sides.

If any of the Malfoys reacted to this, Harry had no idea. For a blessed moment, his mind was flooded with a singular emotion, something so pure and simple he had forgotten how it felt.

Joy.

Hermione and Ron were here, they were alive and in his arms and safe…

And so long as he had them, Harry felt he could do anything.

The heartwarming moment of reunion was soon shattered. Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, loudly, and they all turned to look—though none of them released their hold on one another.

"As… touching as this is, your presence is required. The Dark Lord wants you at the Ministry. I was instructed to bring you to him. Now."

Harry exchanged an anxious glance with Hermione and Ron, but nodded and stepped away before they could say anything. Lucius smirked and shook his head.

"Not you, Potter. You're supposed to be in Azkaban, remember? I meant you."

His eyes flickered to Ron. Ron, who still had his arms around Hermione's waist, blinked in surprise. He even turned and looked over his shoulder, like Lucius Malfoy might be talking to some other ex-vigilante who had been hiding behind a chair. "Me?" he asked, his voice going up an octave. "H-he needs me? Why?"

"I suspect you shall find out when we get there." Lucius beckoned towards Ron with one hand, impatient. "Now, Weasley. Believe me when I say you do not want to keep the Dark Lord waiting."

Ron looked ill. Hermione grabbed his face, stood on her tiptoes, and placed a swift kiss to his cheek. "It will be fine," she said. "Everything will be fine."

Ron stared at her as though he was in a daze. Harry was certain that if she had not given him a stern look afterwards and pushed him in Lucius's direction that he would have been content to just stare at her forever.

Finally, Ron nodded. "Well. All right, then," he said in a most painful, forced attempt at casualty. He caught Harry's eye one last time before following Lucius towards the fireplace. Harry could tell he regretted the action at once—he winced afterwards, and Harry knew it was because of his new, crimson eyes that he was about to go see on a far more terrifying face.

Lucius gathered up a handful of powder and tossed it into the fireplace. "The Ministry of Magic," he said clearly. When the flames burst in plumes of green, he motioned for Ron to go first—like he didn't trust him to use the Floo network correctly himself. Ron grimaced and stepped into the fire, disappearing in a flash of emerald. Lucius followed him immediately afterwards.

Narcissa turned her attention to Harry and Hermione once they'd gone. "Are you feeling all right, Harry?" she asked, her soothing, blue magic deepening with concern. "I trust my son has been a courteous host?"

"Er, yeah," Harry answered. "Very courteous."

Narcissa beamed, and Draco scoffed. "Right, and now I'm done," he said. He looking at his mother expectantly. "Can I go to Zabini's, now? He's been inviting me over for ages, says Parkinson's been driving him completely mental without me around."

"All right, but be back before dinner." Narcissa raised her arms as though to hug him, but Draco stepped away, eyes flashing towards Harry with a distraught look on his face. He glared at Narcissa, and it was easy to tell what he was thinking. Don't embarrass me in front of Potter, Mother.

Narcissa's arms fell to her side, looking crestfallen. Draco ignored her and went to the fireplace, tossing some powder in the flames and shouting, Zabini Manor! He stepped into the flames and disappeared without so much as a backwards glance towards any of them.

Narcissa's magic withered, so saddened. Harry felt abhorrently upset by this. Realizing that telling her that her son was a sodding idiot would probably not make her feel better, Harry instead smiled sheepishly and said, "I'll hug you."

She let out a short laugh. "You're sweet," she said. She laughed again when Harry followed through—captivity was making him oddly affectionate, it would seem. She was still smiling when he pulled away, and Harry would be lying if he said that didn't make him feel like he accomplished something.

"Hermione, are you hungry?" she said, turning to her. "Shall I have our house-elf make you something?"

Hermione shook her head. Harry noticed then how glazed her eyes were, and though he had sensed her magic being lethargic before, realized just how sluggish it was.

What had they done to her at the Ministry?

"All right, then. I'll show you to your room, again, in case you've forgotten. You're on strict bedrest."

Narcissa motioned for Hermione to follow her.

"Can I—?"

"Of course, dear." Narcissa answered Harry's question as to whether or not he was allowed to go with before he could ask it. Harry's heart welled with sadness, though—there was something about the way she said dear that reminded him painfully of Mrs. Weasley.

She led them to the same room Hermione had slept in before. "Your other friend will be staying in that room there," she explained to them, pointing towards a door further down the hall. "There are some clothes in the wardrobe, Hermione; there should be plenty there to choose from until you get your things in a few days. If something doesn't fit just let me know, and I'll have it adjusted for you."

Hermione nodded feebly. "All right. I'll let you sleep… Don't keep her up long, Harry. She needs rest."

Hermione did need rest; she was blinking slowly at the door as Narcissa closed it in a manner that had Harry very concerned. "Hermione, are you all right?" he asked the moment they were alone.

"Yes… Just tired, is all… It was a very taxing day…"

She sat on the edge of the bed, and Harry joined her. "What did they make you do?"

"I had to give a blood sample for genetic testing, to see if I have any familial ties to any witches or wizards that I am unaware of… which I don't, of course. They declared that my magic was inexplicably sporadic but seemingly stable, in the end. The paperwork has been submitted to the Muggle-born Registration Committee… the official request for my ability to use a wand."

Harry's brows rose at that. A wand. Lord Voldemort was actually allowing Hermione Granger the use of her wand?

Before he could dwell on this, Hermione went on. "Then they had me answer some questions in front of the entire Committee, rather like a hearing, though I wasn't being accused of anything… in front of Umbridge and all of them. They asked me about my background and upbringing—all under the influence of veritaserum—and… and they made me vow that I would never contact my muggle relatives again…"

"What?" Fury burned in Harry's chest. His jaw dropped, appalled by this—and yet, in nearly the very same thought, was not surprised by this news in the least. "They won't let you talk to your family again? Ever?"

Hermione's eyes went further out of focus, her gaze drifting over Harry's head towards the ceiling. "Hermione?" Harry said after a moment. She blinked and came back to herself, and then she pursed her lips, frowning.

"Sorry," she murmured. "My head feels a biz fuzzy. I don't think I should have taken that Dreamless Draught last night…"

"What else did they have you do?"

"That was it," she said. "I'll supposedly hear from them in a few days' time if my request for a wand has been approved."

Harry didn't believe it. He felt the way her magic was whirling as though it were stuck in slow motion, and figured that there must be more to this story.

…But then again, as he thought about it, maybe that was the whole truth. Was it so farfetched to think that Hermione would be in a bit of a daze after all that she had been through? Besides, it wasn't like he knew what being pregnant felt like. He decided not to prod her further on her trip to the Ministry. "What… what does the Dark Lord need Ron for?" he asked instead, a new brand of anxiety pooling in his stomach at the thought.

Hermione looked up, shaking her head slowly. "I don't have any idea."

"You don't?" Harry balked. She had seemed like she knew, before Lucius took Ron with him.

"No, I really don't. Maybe they want him to meet with Umbridge and the rest of the committee? Before he begins his community service or whatever it is they're calling it…"

"Maybe," Harry conceded.

There was a stretch of silence in which Harry contemplated asking her a question that continued to bother him. He wondered why it was she had not commented on his disquieting eyes, before…

But then she was laughing, and Harry was so surprised at the sound that his thoughts were derailed. "What?" he asked, more alarmed by this behavior than anything.

She pulled the sleeve up on her left arm, revealing a very crisp, black Dark Mark. "Do you remember," she said, and Harry thought she sounded a bit slap-happy, "when we were younger, and I made some tactless comment about how you and Ron could run away and join the Death Eaters if you wanted, but I couldn't because I was a Muggle-born?"

Harry felt himself smiling despite how morbid this was, despite everything. "I do," he murmured. "I believe I said something along the lines of, 'yeah, if they just quit trying to do me in, we'd get along just great.'"

"Funny, that."

There was a beat of silence, and then they were both laughing. Life was such tragic irony.

The rest of the evening passed painfully slow.

Narcissa showed Harry to their family library after he left Hermione to get some much needed rest—evidently, she was on bedrest until Narcissa deemed her well enough not to be. Harry mentioned that it was a good thing that she had not told Hermione that they had such a massive personal collection of books, or her bedrest would have been happening in their library, instead.

It was not as impressive as Hogwarts' library, of course—at least, not in terms of number of books. What the Malfoy Manor library lacked in texts, however, it more than made up for in decadence. The grandiose staircase, decorative wallpaper, and plush carpets made Harry feel like he was in some mansion from the Victorian ages.

He passed the time there, and though he attempted to read some book about contemporary wizarding politics—he figured he should become well versed on such things, considering—Harry had a tough time focusing. His thoughts kept straying, wondering what Ron was being forced to do at the Ministry, when he would be back, and…

Voldemort.

Harry tried desperately not to think about what had transpired between the two last night, but found it very difficult not to now that he was alone with his thoughts. He stared at the text in his hand, not taking in a word as his mind wandered.

He kept trying to come up with reasons to justify Voldemort's supposed… control over him, in some respects. Reasons other than the fact that he had a fragment of Voldemort's soul within him, that the reason might be something other than the unsolvable issue of Harry being a human horcrux.

Each explanation he came up with was worse.

It isn't a horcrux thing, I just naturally find him that attractive, so much so that I just… finished really quickly.

It isn't a horcrux thing, and I don't find him, specifically very attractive, I just… always come really quickly.

It isn't a horcrux thing, I don't find him that attractive, I do not always come that fast, and…

Okay, maybe he does have some control over me.

Harry groaned and rubbed his temples. Wasn't it bad enough that Voldemort made his scar hurt with a thought? How was it fair that he could also make him feel that thrumming warmth of the connection between them, and with a single touch make him pass out, or—

Come for your master.

God, damn it Harry, he berated himself, his face burning. Thinking about it isn't going to make anything better. Quit thinking about it.

…He couldn't stop thinking about it.

He's a bastard, I hate him, he is not my master, and if it weren't for him threatening my friends, I would toss myself off a bridge so he'd be one step closer to death, Harry thought fiercely. Everything about him is a lie, and the only reason I find any part of him attractive is because he went and changed his body, and… and I hate him.

You dreamt about him in the Mirror of Erised, that horrible voice in the back of his mind said. He wasn't in his new body, then.

That was just a bloody dream, that means nothing.

You enjoyed it when he touched you.

I did not!

Yes, you did.

Well, fucking fine, of course I did, but it wasn't my fault!

Because it's a horcrux thing.

Yeah, because it's a horcrux thing!

He almost hit himself at his own internal argument, at which he had just proven his own point against himself. He did not want to come to terms with the fact that Voldemort could make him scream and sigh and faint and—and do other things so easily… especially not with how hypocritically Voldemort was dealing with his own desires.

One of these days, the Dark Lord's perfect sense of control was going to shatter, Harry was sure of it—and it would not end well for Harry when it did. Because if just touching made the light that blossomed between them increase, and mere kissing had been like fireworks bursting in his soul, then—

"The conservative party," Harry said loudly, interrupting himself and forcing his attention elsewhere, "is comprised mainly of—"

"Blimey, Harry!"

Harry jumped and dropped the book. "Ron!" he shouted, spotting him and his bright, fuzzy aura. "You're back!"

"Yeah," he said, "And you scared the hell out of me when you started shouting. Mrs. Malfoy just showed me my room and then how to get to where you were—this is place is massive, I'm going to get lost constantly if we have to stay here—but were you reading, just now? Out loud?"

Harry blushed and picked up the book he'd tossed. "Mighta been," he muttered. "But you! What happened at the Ministry, what did he make you do?"

Suddenly Ron was the one blushing. He turned a deep scarlet and had to look at the floor. "I, er, I can't tell you… Not until, ah, all the involved, necessary parties involve sign off."

"…What?"

Ron looked up, shrugged. "I can't tell you," he repeated. "Sorry."

Harry had a bad feeling. When he'd been asked to sign something last, he'd been forced to give away his property to Bellatrix Lestrange. "Was it something horrible? Can you tell me that, at least?"

Ron's blush was now so powerful that Harry could feel the heat radiating off him. His magic was chaotic, too, trembling and whirling with frazzled energy. "N-n-not terrible, no. I promise."

Harry scrutinized his face at length. "But you can't tell me."

"Nope."

A pause. Ron made a great show of looking around the library, though his face was still a bright crimson. "So, a library, huh? Where, uh… Where is Hermione?"

His voice had gotten extremely high when he said Hermione's name. "Asleep," Harry answered.

"Ah. Right, that makes sense. I reckon she should be."

Before Harry could say anything else, Ron grabbed his shoulder and looked into his eyes, his face full of uncharacteristic emotion. "I am really, really glad you're alive," he announced, to Harry's shock.

"I… I'm really glad you're alive too, Ron."

Ron smiled and looked at the many shelves of books. "So, reading then? That's what we're doing to while away the time in Malfoy Manor as captives. Excellent. Great day to read and not be dead."

Harry stared. First Hermione acting almost as though she'd been drugged, and now Ron, some weird mixture of embarrassed and… giddy?

"When will you be able to tell me what's going on?" Harry asked.

"In a few days… I think," Ron answered.

In a few days. After Hermione may or may not get approved for a wand, after…

My trial, Harry realized.

Were all the plans that Voldemort was currently setting into motion hinging on the outcome of his trial? An outcome which, Harry was sure, the Dark Lord already had meticulously planned…

"…Right."

Ron's slight smile fell. "Fred and George are being tried tomorrow," he said numbly. "I… I overheard some Ministry people talking about it, when I was there."

"They'll be all right," Harry said. "He told me that they wouldn't go to Azkaban, and he wouldn't have any reason to lie about that…"

"Yeah," Ron said, but he looked grim. "Yeah… Hey, I meant to ask you. Do you know anything about Neville? He's supposedly gone missing. I heard people talking about that, too."

Harry's blood ran cold. The remaining pinkness of Ron's blush left his face, replaced by fear.

Harry wanted to lie. He wanted to say that he had no idea. He wanted to spare Ron that pain, to shrug and say that he didn't know, maybe he'd gone on the run…

"…He's dead," Harry found himself whispering anyway. "He killed the snake, and now… He's dead, Ron."

Harry couldn't, however, bear to give him details. He couldn't tell Ron how Bellatrix had tortured him, how Neville had looked into Harry's eyes and forgiven him…

How it had been all Harry's fault.

Harry couldn't say any of that, and Ron didn't ask.

"Oh," he said hollowly, his magic wilting. "I… He… Will you excuse me?"

Ron left the way he came in, walking out of the library like he had already forgotten where he was and didn't want to remember. Harry watched him go, and felt something horrible stir in his chest.

It wasn't just the awful sadness for how Neville had died, though that was terrible enough on its own—it wasn't even the fact that he, Harry, was responsible—

It was that he had forgotten.

Harry had been so preoccupied with trying to decipher the Dark Lord's perplexing mood swings, with worrying over what would happen to Ron and Hermione and everyone else, that…

He hadn't thought about Neville once since the tragedy of his death.

…Was it a coping mechanism? Was that a typical response after witnessing such trauma—to force it from your mind? Harry didn't know, but he felt the tidal wave of guilt and shame crash over him, and suddenly, he couldn't breathe.

Harry fell to his knees and clutched at his chest, tears blurring his vision. His body ceased to function as it should. He couldn't inhale properly. It was like something was gripping his lungs, stopping the air from getting in.

Harry felt dizzy and sick and how could he have forgotten?

Somewhere, as though from a great distance, he thought he heard someone calling his name, but Harry wasn't sure.

Everything went dark.

Harry felt numb. He was laying on his side, swathed in something soft and warm. Though his mind stirred sluggishly, he found that he couldn't open his eyes.

Harry didn't need his sight, though—not to perceive the beautiful and familiar magic that belonged to Narcissa Malfoy.

She was holding him close, one arm draped over his shoulder as his head rested on her lap. He could hear the distinctive sound of her voice, though Harry could not make out the words. She sounded muffled—unnaturally so. It almost felt as though Harry's ears were stuffed with cotton.

In fact, his whole body felt very… off, like his muscles had been replaced with solid lead. Harry tried for a moment to lift his fingers, to once more open his eyes, but was unable to do so. He instead tried to recall what happened. He’d been in the library, and Ron had left, because…

Neville.

And then he, Harry, had been suddenly unable to breathe…

Harry deduced that he had been having some sort of panic attack. Narcissa must have found him, and…

She's done something to me, Harry realized without much effort. For he felt beyond calm as he lay there—though Narcissa's singing was more than soothing—he felt drugged.

She must have needed to place some spell on me to get me to stop panicking…

Harry was relieved—and surprised—to have been found by Narcissa at all, rather than wake up to the far too seductive, magnetic pull that was the Dark Lord. Perhaps Harry's fit had not been that devastating; maybe Voldemort hadn't felt it from where he was in London, tending to political matters…

Harry tried to not dwell on such things—he could do nothing about them, anyway—and let the mesmeric feel of Narcissa's magic and song enchant him. Her aura shifted to a picturesque violet, and as Harry put forth a bit more effort, he could discern what it was she was saying.

"…Good morning, my glory, good morning…"

It was not a song Harry recognized. A slow, peaceful melody, somber yet sweet.

"I've been waiting for you for hours…"

Narcissa began to gently run her hands through his hair, and Harry might have sighed if he were able.

"Good morning, my glory, good morning…"

Her magic melted from a deep purple to a garnet red, her aura like liquid gemstones bleeding into each other. It was lovely. Harry wondered if this was her favorite song.

"You are a beauty and a gift…"

Blackness.

It came from somewhere behind them: dark, cold, and glimmering with bright slivers. Concerned.

Voldemort.

The Dark Lord had arrived, and in his typical fashion, he did not immediately announce his presence. If Harry could have reacted, he was sure he would have jumped, twitched, done something.

But he could not move at all.

"You are the reward for painful patience…"

Narcissa, completely unaware, continued to sing and stroke his hair. Her aura turned a brilliant tint of ocher, such a contrast to the blackness in the corner. Harry could feel Voldemort's worry, and realized then that he must have been wrong. Voldemort's concern could only mean that he had been aware of Harry's panic, and was unsettled over it. He must not have been able to escape whatever it was he was doing at the Ministry until just now…

"Good morning, my glory, good morning…"

Harry could do nothing other than hold his breath as he felt the Dark Lord's shuddering magic… and how it shuddered when it shifted; the initial, glittering concern dissipated abruptly into—

Envy.

A putrid rage that was characterized by such a powerful envy that Harry felt sick with it. All traces of gold were gone. There was nothing but blackness emanating from the Dark Lord who lurked in the shadows, and it was horrifying.

Harry's pulse was racing for as still and heavy as his body was. Narcissa must have noticed something was amiss, for her magic stilled as she put a hand to his chest, surely feeling his thundering heartbeat. Her legs shifted beneath his head, and Narcissa leaned down, pulling his body closer to her before singing in an even softer, more angelic tone.

"You always make me wait for hours…"

Harry wanted to warn her, to push her away, but whatever magic she'd cast on him to end his panic attack earlier was still in effect. Narcissa was holding him and rocking him gently in her arms and Voldemort was furious—

Just when Harry was certain that something horrible was going to happen, it vanished.

The blackness, the jealous hatred, the all-encompassing wrath… Lord Voldemort disappeared, taking his hellacious aura with him.

Harry waited with his  breath still held, unsure if the Dark Lord would be making a swift and murderous reappearance. After what felt like hours but was probably no more than a minute, he convinced himself that this would not be the case—Voldemort was not returning anytime soon.

Eventually, Harry's heartrate slowed. Narcissa kept singing in a low and lovely voice.

He tried to get lost in it once more, to let her magic carry him back to sleep, but he couldn't. Voldemort's presence had lasted only a few seconds, flickering into the peacefulness of Narcissa's colorful ambience like a black cloud briefly eclipsing the sun… and though the blackness had faded, the terror he had invoked lingered. Harry had a bitter taste in his mouth and trepidation in his heart.

He wanted to let the false sense of security take him. More than anything in the world, Harry wanted to let Narcissa hold him and pretend that this was something normal and innocent: that he was just a child who was sick, perhaps, and this was his mother, reassuring him that all would be well…

But that reality which Harry so desperately wished for had always been denied him, and he could not fantasize about it now.

"Good morning, my glory, good morning…"

There was no glory in this.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when Harry finally could open his eyes, Narcissa was gone. He was alone in his room.

Harry blinked up at his reflection, the strange mirror above the bed no longer jarring though still rather unwelcome. He felt off as he sat up, a slow and difficult movement. He wondered if he was still being affected by whatever Narcissa had done to calm him down, or if he was just naturally so drained. Pushing the covers off took far too much effort.

Moving carefully, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to focus.

How much time had passed? Harry glanced at the clock, and saw that it read a little after eight—though whether that was in the morning or afternoon, he hadn't the foggiest idea. There were no windows in this room, only garish wallpaper and an unnecessary number of mirrors.

Harry stretched his arms above his head and failed to stifle a yawn. He was midway through the action when he felt it again—the telltale sensation of darkness, of Voldemort's magic.

The Dark Lord was back, once more silent in his re-emergence, but his aura could not have been more different than the last time he'd appeared. It was lively, gleaming with speckled gold—and when Harry yawned, it swelled with an incomprehensible fondness.

Harry lowered his arms and tried to act unaware. He had taken only two steps towards the door when he was struck with that pulsating warmth—the mental bond between them sparking to life with a soft yet inviting light, almost like a greeting.

In comparison to how his magic had been before, this energy felt… sweet.

Voldemort's hand was around his wrist before Harry could turn—not a forceful grasp, but a light, tender hold. He moved so close that his chest was against Harry's back, making warmth blossom everywhere they touched. The sensation chased away Harry's mental haziness like a sunrise obliterating a fog.

"Good morning."

Voldemort's tone was laced with a hint of amusement and disarming affection. Harry swallowed thickly, trying keep his composure—a difficult task when Voldemort was in the vicinity, channeling that radiance between them with such expertise.

Harry had the distressing notion that the Dark Lord was getting better at this.

"What's happening?" Harry skipped the greeting and turned to face him;Voldemort keeping a loose hold on his wrist as he did. "Are Fred and George's trials happening soon, are—"

"They have already happened."

"…But… but you said it was morning. Unless you were just saying that?"

"It is morning. It is Friday."

"…What?"

Voldemort tightened his hold on Harry's wrist as his confusion turned to anxiety. "You mean—I've been—"

"In a relatively comatose state for the past day, yes," Voldemort said. The light between them intensified, making it difficult for Harry to be as incensed as he would like to be. He tried to wrench his arm from Voldemort's grip, but was unable to do so.

"But—but why?"

"Because your emotions," Voldemort said, pulling him closer, "were a distraction."

He said it as though he found Harry's feelings nothing more than a mild nuisance, but Harry knew this was a lie. He had felt genuine worry in Voldemort's magic when he’d first appeared to spy on him with Narcissa, bordering on fear, and Harry knew that it must have been debilitating for him.

Voldemort had nearly lost his human horcrux once, after all.

Harry scoffed and tried to step away. Voldemort, unsurprisingly, did not allow it. "Do you no longer wish to know what has happened to your friends?" he asked lightly, though there was an edge to his voice that spoke of a greater warning—do not move without permission, or suffer the consequences.

Harry grit his teeth, nodding and holding his tongue. Voldemort put his free hand on Harry's neck, making the connection between them grow, distractingly so. Harry willed himself to pay attention. "Fred and George Weasley have been given a similar sentence to their brother, though they shall be serving at the Ministry of Magic for a period of two years rather than six months. Their transgressions were greater, after all... Should they perform well, they shall regain the privilege of their wands after this time."

"Working in the Muggle-born Registration Commission?" Harry couldn't help but ask. "For two years? With Umbridge?"

"Yes."

Harry grimaced. He could only imagine the smug look on Umbridge's face as they were given their sentence, considering how her last interaction with the Weasley twins had gone.

'Give her hell from us, Peeves!'

It could not possibly bode well for them. "They might prefer Azkaban," Harry muttered.

Voldemort laughed softly, his breath warm against Harry's temple. His fingers were trailing up his neck, once more intertwining in Harry's mess of hair. "How do you feel?" he asked, and though his tone was even, his magic glimmered with concern.

"F-fine," Harry stuttered, momentarily caught up in the pleasant feeling of that light.

"Good… You have an exciting day ahead of you, after all…"

This statement made Harry's thoughts snap back to reality. It was Friday. It was Friday. "I have a trial," he said with a blank horror.

"Yes."

Voldemort, in great contrast, sounded rather lax about the whole thing. He had even closed his eyes, far more focused on the alluring light that was thrumming between them than Harry's imminent trial.

"But you haven't told me anything!"

This time, in his sudden panic, Harry managed to break away from him. The light flickered with the loss of physical contact, lessening significantly as he stepped backwards.

Harry immediately wished he hadn't done it. Voldemort's magic convulsed with a sharp anger as he did, and Harry couldn't help but think of a wild animal that had just had its recently acquired prey taken from it.

His expression was livid.

The Dark Lord, who was usually exceptional at concealing his true emotions with a cold mask of indifference, was unable to do so now. His crimson eyes were bright with wrath when the light he had been so shamelessly basking in diminished.

Fear licked up Harry's spine, but he refused to let it overwhelm him. "You haven't told me what you want me to say, what you want me to do!" he said, holding his arms out to his sides in exasperation. The last thing he wanted was to say the wrong thing and make Voldemort even angrier, not when he had his friends held captive.

He wouldn't be the cause for anyone else's suffering.

Voldemort considered him for a moment before his annoyed expression slipped away, his lips curling into a smirk. "Oh, Harry… always so concerned for everyone but yourself…"

The feelings of patronizing fondness were once more so strong in his aura that Harry had to clench his jaw to stop himself from shouting. His hand curled into fists.

"Your role is simple," Voldemort continued, moving closer to him. Though Harry wanted to shove him away, to do something stupid, he did not. Voldemort grabbed both his wrists, light radiating from his fingers with an intense and disorienting heat. Harry's muscles relaxed involuntarily, and Voldemort unfurled his fists with ease. He intertwined Harry's fingers between his own.

It was too much. Harry's eyes fluttered shut and he sighed, nearly moaned when Voldemort spoke with his mouth against Harry's ear.

"All I require of you, my Undesirable…"

He paused, taking a moment to graze his lips along Harry's neck, the ghost of a kiss enough to make Harry's breath hitch and his pulse quicken. Voldemort laughed, another soft and breathy sound, before returning his lips to his ear.

"…is that you be yourself."

Harry winced when the so-called auror forced him towards the green flames, his wand hitting him with some curse that was far more painful than a mere stinging hex. Harry scowled at him. It wasn't exactly easy to walk with heavy chains wrapped around his ankles and shackles binding his wrists together.

He hadn't had much time to gather his bearings after Voldemort had left him.

Harry had not even been able to see Hermione or Ron before Narcissa was fussing over him, giving him clean robes and attempting once more to fix his unruly hair—until she remembered that Harry was supposed to look as though he'd been staying in a cell, not a mansion. He was then ushered out into the foyer of Malfoy Manor, where no less than six massive, brutish looking wizards awaited him. Narcissa explained that they were aurors, but Harry could tell at once that they were dark wizards. Their auras were all deep and unsettling shades, making Harry feel queasy. He tried not to focus on them.

"Don't worry," Narcissa had said in an attempt at sounding reassuring. "I will be there, in the courtroom, along with my family…"

The fact that the Malfoys would be watching his trial was anything but encouraging to Harry. He was relieved, if also unsurprised, to hear that Hermione and Ron would be staying at the manor. If it were up to him, no one would witness this event.

Unfortunately, many people would be present. The Malfoys left long before him, just as Harry was certain Voldemort was already at the Ministry, waiting for his so-called suspected criminal to arrive and await his judgment. Narcissa had given Harry a brief but warm hug before departing. Draco and Lucius didn't look at him, only went straight into the fireplace and disappeared.

Once the Malfoys had gone, the aurors had laden Harry with chains. Obviously, this group of wizards was important enough to be in on the fact that Harry Potter was not being held at Azkaban. Harry wondered if they were newly-made Death Eaters, like Hermione…

He tried not to focus on that, either.

Regardless, the rest of the wizarding world thought that Harry Potter was being kept in a maximum-security cell in Azkaban, and so he was made to look the part of vigilante and prisoner.

The chains were heavy on his frame, suffocating in every sense of the word. The moment his anger spiked in annoyance for being hexed, the thick collar on Harry's neck burned—a sensation reminiscent of the scorching, animate snakes that Voldemort had once cursed him with. A magically suppressing collar, just like the one Ron had been wearing when he was in Azkaban. It was worse than painful; it made Harry feel like there was something dark and heavy in his chest, repressing his magic.

Harry took a deep breath and stepped into the fire.

Everyone was staring.

There was a split second in which it seemed all was perfectly still. Hundreds of people were gathered in the atrium of the Ministry in anticipation of the Undesirable's arrival for his public trial, watching with wide, curious eyes. For a moment, Harry was wholly distracted—but not by their bright expressions or unsettling gazes.

It was their magic.

The magical auras of so many people in one place was dazzling; a sea of mottled colors, textures, and glimmering light. Each witch and wizard had one, a unique flavor that contrasted with the person who was beside them. No two were alike.

Upon arriving, this vision of magic consumed Harry entirely. He thought he might faint from the sheer overabundance of it all.

Then cameras were flashing, people were shouting, enchanted microphones were being shoved towards him, and Harry came crashing back to reality. He couldn't make out one voice over another, and he found that when he forced himself to not dwell on their magic, their auras were less distracting.

He could not, however, ignore their shouts.

"Mr. Potter, look over here!"

"Potter, let us see your eyes!"

Harry did his best to not look at any of them, moving as quickly as was possible. The aurors flicked their wands, instructing the reporters to give them space so that they could move, but they only half-succeeded. There was no stopping the onslaught.

"Potter! Is it true you disarmed two aurors before being detained?"

"Did you know before arriving that the Dark Lord dismissed the dementors, Harry?"

The last voice stood out from the others. Harry's eyes snapped up to settle on none other than Rita Skeeter.

The new regime suited her well—she was back to her old self, her hair glossy and lovely, her make-up flawless and her crystal-encrusted glasses polished. She smiled with triumph at having accomplished what her fellow reporters had failed to do—winning Harry's undivided, if fleeting, attention. "What?" he gasped, unable to stop himself.

The flashes of light that went off from behind her were nearly blinding, but Harry kept his eyes on Skeeter's. He could make out the distinction of her aura—a bright, bubbly turquoise. "The Dark Lord has disbanded the use of dementors for your trial, given your history with how detrimentally they affect you," she said. "An act of mercy on his part. How does that make you feel?"

She shoved the microphone under his chin. A quick quill and a piece of parchment seemingly appeared out of nowhere, ready to jot down whatever contrived version of the statement Harry was about to make, he was sure. Harry gaped at her malicious grin, and for a moment, everything seemed to come to a standstill. The cameras stopped, and even the aurors who were supposed to be forcing him onward had paused, watching him curiously.

Harry glanced at the floating quill before looking back to Rita, glaring. His angry expression had more of an impact than he would have thought—the excited reporter winced, and her magic withered.

Then he remembered. It was probably extremely unsettling to have scarlet eyes the same color as the merciful Dark Lord's fixated on you.

Disbanded the use of dementors…

Harry had almost forgotten that the Ministry was using dementors for the Muggle-born trials at all. But he knew the real reason Voldemort was keeping them away, and it had nothing to do with kindness.

Yet it was, evidently, widely known that dementors affected Harry Potter quite powerfully… and Rita Skeeter had the nerve to ask him how this made him feel. Harry leaned in closer to the microphone, looked directly at her, and smiled.

"Go fuck yourself, Rita Skeeter."

There were gasps and laughter and even an appalled shriek, but Harry only registered the shock on Skeeter's face before he was forced onward by his guard. They moved past the other reporters and spectators whom Harry could only assume were not important enough to be able to witness the trial themselves, down in the courtroom. Fearful that he may see someone else he recognized and wanting to avoid that for as long as possible, Harry aimed his gaze upwards, over their heads. He kept his chin high, despite how mortifying it was to be dragged through the atrium in such a manner.

The Ministry of Magic was much like Harry recalled it from the time he, Ron, and Hermione had infiltrated it while under the guise of Polyjuice Potion, with a few notable differences. The massive sculpture of a handsome wizard and witch upon thrones constructed of living, tormented muggles remained, black stone with foot-high letters carved onto the front: Magic is Might. But there was something else that caught Harry's eyes, something flickering.

It was a banner.

High up near the ceilings, where Harry was fairly certain there used to be British flags, were now large banners of deepest green. They were all the same, each with a massive V in the center, a single letter shining in gold. Encircled around this gilded character was a serpent in equally bright but contrasting silver; a snake which was in a perfect circle, its jaw open as it consumed its own tail, its gleaming head and pointed teeth centered directly in the middle of the golden prongs of the V. The banners were so large that even from far away, Harry could see the serpent's single, visible eye was red, a small but vibrant scarlet.

Just like Voldemort's eyes… just like his eyes.

Harry stared at it. The Dark Lord had crafted himself a new emblem, then. He couldn't deny that it was imposing; the V reminded him of a Roman numeral, powerful and bold. But what confused Harry was the colors he had chosen. The green and the silver he understood, and perhaps even the red, considering they were the hue of his own eyes.

…But gold?

He was forced onwards.

By the time they made it to the gilded lift, Harry felt like he had walked ten miles. The aurors had to work exceptionally hard to get the crowd to back away enough for Harry to make it into the elevator, and three of them remained outside the gates, keeping them at bay. The other three guards stepped onto the platform with him, wands up and ready, and the doors slowly closed.

When they did, it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Everything was quiet and still, the ceasing of camera flashes jarring.

They went down.

'Level 9, the Department of Mysteries.'

Harry was not surprised at these words, but they still made his blood run cold. The gates slid open, and it was the most surreal sense of déjà vu, to be walking these halls once more… Only he was not accompanied by Arthur Weasley this time, and the stakes were so much higher.

The courtrooms on level ten were accessible only by stairwell. Harry might have stumbled and fallen in his constraints if one of the aurors had not held him steady, a painfully tight grasp on his arm.

Finally, they made it to the courtroom—and of course it was the same courtroom he'd been in before, Harry thought with a scowl. The doors were still closed, and one of the aurors checked his watch. Harry could see the time as well—it was five minutes to eleven, which was when his trial was officially set to begin.

At least he was early this time, Harry thought morbidly.

"Stay still." One of the wizards pointed his wand at Harry's chains, and they broke apart and fell into his waiting palms. Harry's hands flew to his throat once he was finally free from the collar, the weight of it suppressing his magic almost enough to make him sigh.

"It's time," the same man said. Harry nodded and took a deep breath, bracing himself.

They opened the doors.

The familiar, dungeon-like hall of courtroom ten filled Harry with dread. The dark stone walls, the torches which illuminated the space with an eerie glow… Along the perimeter of the courtroom were a decent number of spectators—Harry spied the Malfoys, as well as a few other vaguely familiar pureblood families. They were all murmuring to each other in hushed voices, soft but lively whispers. Harry decidedly did not look at them, afraid of who might be in the audience, who he might make eye contact with. Besides, his focus was quickly ensnared by the man directly in front of him, at the end of the courtroom.

Voldemort was like a King upon a throne.

Harry hated that this was the thought that came to his mind, but it was. The Dark Lord was taller, grander, and far more imposing than anyone else in the hall. He was the only one to not be wearing the official, plum-colored robes of the Wizengamot which were embroidered with a silver 'W', even though he was Chief Warlock. Voldemort was wearing black, and fixed on his chest was a gleaming pin of the same emblem representing the Wizarding High Court of Law—but his 'W' was larger, and made of gold.

Harry had not truly appreciated just how… striking the Dark Lord was, with his unnaturally pale skin and vivid, scarlet eyes. He was an enthralling sight to behold, and that was even without taking his distracting magic into account. Voldemort's aura glistened in anticipation when the doors opened and Harry Potter was revealed, but his handsome face remained unreadable.

Harry might have remained there, staring stupidly, if the aurors at his side didn’t push him forward. Harry's eyes flickered to those who were gathered at the Dark Lord's side as he walked. The entire Wizengamot was present, though Harry recognized almost none of them… with the exception of one.

Dolores Umbridge was failing to suppress her gloating, vindictive smile.

A rush of hatred so deep it was almost debilitating coursed through Harry at the sight of her. Umbridge's giant eyes widened at his expression, and her magic brightened, too—a vivid, unattractive yellow that reminded Harry of some kind of poisonous toad.

Harry tore his eyes away, and he was then distracted by a head of flaming red hair. Sitting at a wooden desk between the crowds of spectators and the jury was someone else Harry recognized.

Percy Weasley.

Harry almost couldn't believe it. Percy was here, and he was resolutely not looking at him, his eyes focused instead on the parchment at his desk in front of him. He was recording the trial, just like he had years ago, surrounded by an aura of an amber-ish hue…

Harry was beyond baffled. Had Percy Weasley avoided all punishment, then, despite the fact that he had fought against the Dark Lord in the end? Had he been pardoned in order to keep him in the Ministry's clutches—another weapon to be used against his family, perhaps?

Harry wasn't sure. He was forced to look away from him when one of the aurors roughly shoved him forward again, towards the center of the hall, where his gaze landed on the only item present there.

A single chair, and there were many heavy, threatening looking chains curling on the floor around it. Harry had a dark sense of foreboding that his freedom from shackles was going to be short-lived. He felt the weight of everyone's eyes on him as he was ushered towards it, and did his best not to tremble as he went.

The aurors motioned for him to sit. Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Harry did.

The reaction was instant. Harry hissed in pain and his eyes clamped shut as the chains flew from the floor, ensnaring his wrists and legs with a viciously. They were so violent that the aurors all scrambled away, nearly tripping in their haste to get away from them. They fled to some vacant seats to Harry's right, where they were clearly meant to preside for the rest of the trial.

"Quite unnecessary."

The chains loosened and fell back to the floor. The murmuring died the moment the Dark Lord spoke, and the hall became quiet.

Harry did not immediately open his eyes, but he could sense the Dark Lord's magic glimmering. He rubbed his wrists where the chains had nearly broken the skin.

"Harry James Potter."

Harry looked up.

It was as if the entire courtroom was holding its breath as Voldemort assessed him. "You stand accused of involvement of the murder of Albus Dumbledore, of the attempted murder of several Ministry officials, and of opposing the Ministry of Magic's new regime… treason," he said with little emotion in his voice—yet his magic flickered, twitching excitedly.

"Before the trial commences," he went on, "it has been decided that extraordinary measures and precautions must be taken. The Ministry of Magic is adamant that the public have no doubt in their minds that this is a fair trial… An honest trial. And so, before we begin…"

Voldemort gestured towards one of the guards to the left of the jury. The tall wizard had a glass phial in his hands. At the Dark Lord's nod, he held the small tube up so that the crowd could see.

"Veritaserum."

Harry gaped as the guard walked towards him, the serum in his hands that Harry was quite certain he could not take, if he wanted to make sure not to displease Voldemort in some manner.

"And to test the potion for authenticity…" A different guard turned and opened a door on the other side of the hall. A moment later, and Harry felt another sickening jolt of shock.

Walking alongside the second guard was Horace Slughorn. Harry watched in disbelief as his old Potions Professor shuffled towards him, his eyes on the man holding the phial. His magic was a heavy and gray, full of despair. He walked past Harry without looking at him.

"Horace Slughorn," Voldemort said quietly, and the crowd began muttering in animated, hushed voices again.

Slughorn only briefly glanced at the Dark Lord before nodding. He seemed unable to look at him more than that, and of course Harry understood why. Voldemort was speaking, addressing the crowds as he listed off Slughorn's credentials—Potions Master as Hogwarts for over forty years, Founder of the Apothercarium of Horace E. F. Slughorn, 'Outstanding's' in Potions at both the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level—but Harry hardly heard him as his mind raced.

Most people may not have known or recognized the striking face of Tom Riddle, but Horace Slughorn surely did. He didn't look exactly the same, of course—the Tom Riddle of the past was not so deathly pale, his cheeks not quite as gaunt, and, of course, those eyes—but the resemblance was clearly there to those who knew it. Harry was sure that Slughorn was hardly aware what Voldemort was saying, either, and was instead hearing different words…

…Can one split the soul only once…? For instance, isn't seven…

Once Voldemort was done, Slughorn waved his wand and conjured up a small table. He then took the veritaserum from the guard and began examining it in earnest, beads of sweat visibly forming on his forehead. He conjured up another container, magically filling it with some strange liquid. He was standing not even two feet in front of Harry; facing him, even, but he refused to so much as look at him.

Harry was incensed. He watched as Horace Slughorn, the man who had stated before how much he adored his mother, how much he detested the Death Eaters, was now clearly working on Voldemort's orders. It filled Harry with rage. He didn't care that he was probably forced into it just like everyone else; Harry was suddenly furious, because Slughorn didn't have the courage to acknowledge him.

"Look at me."

Harry said it so quietly that only Slughorn would be able to hear. He paused for a second, but then continued his examination of the serum, ignoring him. Slughorn poured one drop of veritaserum into the container he had conjured, and the strange liquid, which was clear before, suddenly turned green.

"Look at me," Harry hissed again, malice in his voice.

This time, Slughorn did look. His beady eyes locked onto Harry's, and his lined face contorted into a pained expression. Harry didn't blink. He wanted him to see, to look into his green eyes and see his mother there…

And then he remembered that he no longer had Lily's eyes—a fact which Harry was still so quick to forget.

Slughorn swallowed, and quietly, so quietly Harry almost didn't hear it, said, "I'm sorry."

Harry wanted to jump out of the chair and rip the veritaserum from his hands, but even as he had the thought the shackles on either side of him twitched. They had, evidently, felt his surge of emotion, and were prepared to bind him again at a moment's notice.

Slughorn turned away from him and held the phial up in his hands. He addressed the Wizengamot directly when he said, "It is pure."

More muttering from the crowd. Slughorn was escorted not from the courtroom from whence he had come, but to a seat in the crowds.

The first guard thrust the phial towards Harry. "Drink," he commanded. Harry took it, his heart pounding. Was this all supposed to happen? Was this really veritaserum, or had that all been an act? If it was, he couldn't possibly drink it, for surely he would say something that would go against the Dark Lord's wishes. He glanced at Voldemort, searching for confirmation that this was all according to plan…

But there was no indication of anything whatsoever in that passive, emotionless face. His scarlet eyes were indecipherable, and his glimmering magic, while whirling, gave Harry little reassurance.

"Drink," the guard said again, this time pulling out his wand. Feeling there was nothing else he could do, Harry slowly lifted the phial to his lips, and drank.

It tasted like nothing. It felt like nothing. Of course, that was how it was supposed to taste and feel, but… had it worked? Harry didn't feel any different at all.

Before he could contemplate the matter further, Voldemort spoke again. The quiet muttering from the crowd ceased.

"In order to further assure the public that this is, indeed, Harry James Potter, a second precaution has been decided upon." Voldemort made another gesture towards the guard which had escorted Slughorn to his seat. He nodded and left the room, presumably going to retrieve someone else. Harry wondered what familiar face he was going to see this time.

He was surprised when the man returned not with another person, but with a thin, wooden box. The guard stood next to Harry, holding the box in his hands as though it were the most precious item in the world.

"It has become somewhat common knowledge that Harry James Potter is capable of producing a corporeal patronus," Voldemort said. "Tell us, Mr. Potter, what form does your patronus take?"

Harry swallowed. "A st-stag," he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse. "It's always a stag."

That was the truth, he hadn't needed to lie; but the words hadn't felt like they had just burst out of him, either… Was the veritaserum working? Harry didn't know.

More hushed murmurings in agreement from the spectators. Voldemort glanced at the guard next to Harry and nodded.

"Please," the Dark Lord said, and his voice was slightly lower now as he looked back to Harry. "Produce one for us."

The guard opened the box, and Harry saw, to his astonishment, a wand. And not just any wand, it was Voldemort's wand… his original wand, yew with the phoenix feather core. A feather from Fawkes, the same that had been in his broken wand, which was vanished now, gone…

"Get up," the guard seethed under his breath. Awkwardly, Harry stood, the blood rushing dangerously fast to his head when he did.

He didn't think it was possible for his heart to beat any faster. He was actually being expected to produce a patronus? Now? After all that he'd been through, after not having a wand in his hand for weeks…

Harry did not think he could do it.

He glanced nervously from Voldemort to the wand and back again, as though this must be a trap. For the first time, the Dark Lord's face betrayed the ghost of an emotion—his lip twitched ever so slightly in what Harry knew was amusement. "By all means," he said, and although Harry could see that same amusement dancing in his magic, his voice was flat and emotionless.

Harry's mouth went completely dry. He wet his lips in anticipation as he reached for the wand, wiping his sweaty palms on his robes before he did.

It felt warm in his hands. Like the phoenix feather core recognized him, like an old friend. It was a disquieting feeling, considering that this was the wand which had killed his parents, which had attempted to kill him…

For a long time, Harry did not move. A patronus. Something happy, think of something happy…

A more difficult request could not have been asked of him. Why hadn't he been warned about this, Harry thought bitterly; if he had been told ahead of time, he could have at least had a happy memory ready to go… for now he could think of nothing, not a single happy thought came to mind. His old go-to's were all tainted. He could not think of Hermione's warm smile without hearing her screams as the Dark Mark was burned onto her skin; he could not think of Ron without seeing his face go slack with cold realization as Harry told him that Neville was dead…

He could not think of G—

No.

He could not think of her.

The seconds slowly ticked by, turning into minutes during which Harry stood there, still as a statue with the wand in his hand. He had his eyes closed tight as his thoughts raced… Something happy, something happy… The crowd was beginning to grow restless, the murmuring was growing louder…

"Hem, hem."

Harry's eyes snapped open at that most awful of sounds. Umbridge, clearing her throat in impatience. Harry glared, the heat rising to his face as he stared at her wide, toad-like mouth. She grinned again when he looked at her, seemingly unbothered by Harry's red eyes. She relished watching him squirm in his horrible situation…

Harry clenched his fist tightly around the wand in his hand, the words 'I shall not tell lies' still visible there as a faded scar, right beneath the recent addition of his name. He imagined a world without Dolores Umbridge. The idea of her having never existed made him smile, a world where everyone she ever hurt was free from pain, and that, Harry thought, was the closest thing he was going to get to happiness.

Her smug expression faltered at Harry's grin. He was staring right at her when he raised the wand, pointing it towards her, and for a moment the tension in the room was paramount—her face paled—

"Expecto patronum!" he shouted… and there it was.

A magnificent, silver stag burst forth from the wand tip. It charged with a staggering speed, straight towards Umbridge's aghast face. She screamed and ducked beneath the ledge as the stag lowered its antlers as if to run her down. The old wizards on either side of her jostled out of the way, causing a bit of a commotion.

But of course, it couldn't really harm any of them. The patronus passed straight through, cantering about and making a wide loop before returning to Harry's side. The stag hovered next to him, and as Harry looked at it, he was filled with something that had been so long absent from his life that it felt foreign to him now.

Hope.

Here, in the form of a glowing stag, the same as his father's, was proof of something that Harry hadn’t realized he’d needed. He really was still himself, deep down, the same Harry James Potter he'd always been.

Umbridge's face was bright red as she pulled herself up, her magic frazzled. She looked mutinous as she glowered down at him, but a few of the spectators, to Harry's surprise, were laughing.

"There you have it." Voldemort still had an undecipherable expression on his face. His magic lessened in its intensity, and Harry thought he perceived the strangest emotion in it.

…Disappointment?

"The irrefutable Harry James Potter."

Had he done something wrong by succeeding?

The guard which had brought him the wand shoved the box towards him, open, clearly indicating that he should return the wand. Harry gave his patronus one last look. The presence of the silver stag had given him a new-found sense of courage. He took a deep breath before letting the wand fall from his fingertips into the wooden box, and his patronus vanished.

The guard motioned for him to be seated once again. Harry looked at Voldemort, the dark wizard staring down at him intently, impenetrable mask artfully in place. And, although still nervous, although the silvery glow of his patronus had gone, the strength it had imparted in Harry remained. He sat.

The shackles twitched slightly, but did not bind him.

Voldemort's red eyes were fixed on him, his magic rising behind him like an ethereal crown of black and gold.

"Let us begin."

A lie.

"You first stand accused of being involved with the murder of Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort began in a toneless voice. "How do you plead, Mr. Potter?"

"Not guilty."

"Did you witness this murder?"

Harry's eyes fell to the floor as his mind flashed to that fateful night, one of many memories which would forever haunt him. Albus Dumbledore, his posture stooped and his hand blackened, a curse colliding with his chest before he was flung backwards, falling…

And Harry hadn't been able to move. He hadn't been able to do anything.

"Yes," he answered quietly. "I witnessed his murder."

"When and where did it happen?"

"At the end of June last year, the 30th, I believe… at Hogwarts. He… was cursed, and fell from the Astronomy tower."

"Who cast the curse that ultimately killed Albus Dumbledore?"

Harry's focus betrayed him—his eyes flickered to where he'd seen the Malfoys sitting, and he made eye contact with Draco. His silvery magic glinted in alarm, but Harry was looking away again before Draco's face could convey an emotion.

"Severus Snape," Harry answered, his attention once more on the Dark Lord.

Voldemort's expression remained blank, but the witches and wizards of the court all reacted in obvious, if silent, ways. Their eyes widened, their magic whirled. Harry wondered how many of them had known that the man who next claimed the title of Headmaster had murdered his predecessor. To his side, Harry perceived a wave of relief that stuck out from the rest—from Draco, probably, or maybe Narcissa.

"You witnessed Severus Snape, previous Potions professor, murder Albus Dumbledore on the top of the Astronomy tower on the night of June 30th, 1997," Voldemort stated. His magic had flashed perilously at Snape's name. "Is this correct, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes."

"And you were in no way involved with the planning or executing of this crime?"

"No, I wasn't."

"Did you have any knowledge prior to Albus Dumbledore's death that such a violent act would be taking place on the night of June 30th, 1997, that could in any manner condemn you to being accurately labeled as an accessory to murder?"

Harry's thoughts raced, trying to process the words which so quickly and emotionlessly left Voldemort's mouth. He shook his head. "No… No, I had no idea that was going to happen. Albus Dumbledore's death was a shock." A pause. "A tragic shock," he added, voice thick with emotion.

Harry hardly cared that, in the end, Dumbledore had betrayed him. He couldn't harbor any resentment towards the man whom he had looked upon with such great respect for so many years.

Who had died so horribly, in the end…

"…A tragic shock."

Voldemort repeated the words with no inflection, but his magic darkened. Harry's skin crawled at the quality of it.

"All in favor," Voldemort said, raising his voice, "in clearing the accused of the charges concerning his involvement with the murder, or accessory to murder, of Albus Dumbledore?"

There was a moment where the members of the Wizengamot glanced at each other, but then, one right after another, they began to raise their hands… A few at first, and then—

All of them. With Dolores Umbridge being the last to put her short arm in the air, every member of the Wizengamot had voted in favor of Harry's innocence on this matter.

Which should not have been surprising, because he was innocent, but Harry felt an unwarranted rush of relief all the same. Voldemort's face remained impassive as his eyes swept over the many raised arms, though his magic glinted with a sort of mild satisfaction.

"Very well," Voldemort said, his focus returning to Harry. "Mr. Potter, you are hereby cleared of the charges of murder, and accessory to murder… in the case of Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's feeling of relief vanished. It was never that accusation he had been concerned about, anyway. That had all just been a contrived accusation, an excuse to have the Ministry looking for him before it was completely under Voldemort's control. Harry had no reason to fear he would be condemned for that crime.

The rest of his charges, though…

If Voldemort was not planning on tossing him in Azkaban—and Harry knew he was not—then Harry hadn't a clue on how he was going to make him seem innocent in the eyes of this regime.

In a Ministry run by Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter was not innocent.

"You also stand accused of opposing the Ministry of Magic on a number of accounts… This includes fleeing when there was a warrant out for your arrest, attempting to consort with known rebels, and violent assaults against Ministry officials. Treason."

Harry's heart raced, wondering how Voldemort was going to approach this. If he simply asked, 'how do you plead?' and Harry really had just taken veritaserum…

"Tell us, Mr. Potter… about your relationship with the now deceased Albus Dumbledore."

"Er… what?"

Harry was not the only one who was baffled. The spectators shifted animatedly as well, sharing confused looks.

"Tell us about your previous relationship with Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort repeated.

Harry stared, unsure of where to even begin with such a request, and deeply concerned as to why it was being asked.

"Where and when did you first meet Dumbledore?" the Dark Lord prompted, using a much simpler, direct question when Harry remained speechless.

"A-at Hogwarts," Harry finally stuttered out. "I first met him at Hogwarts, when I was eleven."

"At Hogwarts." Voldemort's magic writhed, but Harry wasn't sure what the emotion simmering there meant. "You are saying that Albus Dumbledore, then Headmaster, did not come to see or speak to you, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, before you arrived at Hogwarts alongside the other first-year students."

"Yes."

The muttering of the crowd grew louder; Harry was beginning to find it distracting. It dissipated when Voldemort spoke again. "Tell us, Mr. Potter… Where did you grow up?"

Another baffling question. "Number 4, Privet Drive. Little Whinging, in Surrey."

"With your muggle relatives, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, your aunt and uncle, as well as your cousin. Is this correct?"

"Yes," Harry said, and he couldn't help but think it was the most surreal thing in the world, to hear the Dark Lord say the word 'Dursley'. It was even stranger than when Vernon had mispronounced 'Voldemort'.

"Did your relatives ever inform you that you were a child with magical capabilities, Mr. Potter?" Voldemort asked. "Surely, if Albus Dumbledore left you in their care, they were made fully aware that you were a magical child. Petunia Dursley knew about witches and wizards. Her own sister attended Hogwarts and married a pureblood wizard. Did Petunia Dursley tell you that you were a wizard?"

"No. She never told me."

"And why would she conceal this from you, do you think?"

"She—and my uncle, too—they hated magic," Harry said, the answer leaving his mouth before he had even thought it through. Instantly, the room became fraught with tension. Muttering that was undeniably irate reverberated around him.

"So much so that they concealed your ancestry from you, raising you to believe you were a mere muggle as well?"

"Yes." Harry was trying to see where this was headed, but his concentration was derailed by the spiteful whispers surrounding him from all sides, the pureblood families disgusted at the concept of his life.

"Was Albus Dumbledore ever in contact with your muggle relatives, to your knowledge?" Voldemort continued.

"Yes. Dumbledore had sent my aunt letters…"

"Do you know what they were pertaining to, specifically?"

"Well, me, obviously." Voldemort's magic flashed, and his face almost betrayed his annoyance at the blunt and uninformative response.

"What about you, Mr. Potter?"

"They, er… They were pretty much all threats to stop my aunt from throwing me out, as far as I know," Harry said.

"Am I therefore correct in saying, Mr. Potter, that Albus Dumbledore knowingly sent you to live with muggles who not only detested magic, but who went out of their way to conceal from you your magical heritage? Who were, in fact, purposefully neglectful towards you because you were a wizard?"

Harry felt like there was something lodged in his throat, making it difficult to swallow, to breathe, to speak. "Yes," he said, despite this. "Yes, he… I suppose he did. And they were."

"An unsettlingly common situation," Voldemort said, addressing the Wizengamot and spectators. "I've touched on this subject publicly only briefly, but the truth remains that nearly all muggles who are aware of their superior, magical brethren are not tolerant, but heavy with jealousy and resentment… Non-magical siblings become dangerous in their envy. Parents who do not understand the capabilities of their sporadically magical children become malicious…"

The Dark Lord paused, allowing the hisses of disapproval to grow before continuing. His magic was glistening, so vibrant where it glinted that Harry hardly noticed anyone else's auras, though they were just as active.

Voldemort's focus fell back to Harry. "And so Albus Dumbledore, who was fully aware of all of this, left you there regardless. The most important magical child in Wizarding Brittan, as far as he was concerned, to be raised in a neglectful household by spiteful, prejudiced muggles… Why, Mr. Potter, do you believe he would do this?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Voldemort decided to elaborate and interrupted before he could. "And you can skip the expected, ignorant response that it was for your protection. The very notion that living with Petunia Dursley and her family—who barely tolerated your presence, in a home which would have been easy for you to flee from, had you attempted it—offered you more protection than what the very best of the Wizarding World had to offer is incredulous. A better, safer household could have been provided for you… but Albus Dumbledore denied you this, preferring to leave you with muggles who detested what you were. Why do you think this was the case, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stared. His heart was beating too loudly. He barely heard his own voice when he responded, saying, "I… I don't know."

Voldemort almost smiled.

"Tell us about your relationship with Albus Dumbledore after you arrived at Hogwarts," he went on. Harry was still unable to tell why he was inquiring in the first place, but it was clear by the way his magic shined that, thus far, this was all going the way he intended it to.

"He was… nice to me," Harry said. "I liked him a lot, actually, right away. It was difficult not to. I'd only heard great things about him."

"From who?"

Harry's booming heartbeat stuttered. He was awash in a sudden, terrible wave of guilt. He had not even thought of him since…

"Rubeus Hagrid," he said, his voice breaking twice in two words.

What had become of Hagrid?

"The half-breed who had been employed at Hogwarts first as the Gamekeeper, and later as the Care of Magical Creatures professor?"

"Yes," Harry choked out, and how badly he wanted to ask, and yet how badly he did not want to know… "H-he came to get me when the Dursleys refused to give me my Hogwarts letter."

"They refused to give you your Hogwarts letter?"

Voldemort's tone was suddenly higher and colder. His magic swiftly darkened again, and it was so chilling that Harry shivered at the feel of it.

He hadn't known that.

For as informed as Voldemort seemed to be, it was abundantly clear—to Harry, to everyone—that this was something the Dark Lord had not known. He was blatantly perturbed.

Harry wasn't sure how to feel about this. His initial reaction was simple astonishment. Why, after everything he had just declared, did the Dark Lord find it shocking that his relatives had prevented him from reading his Hogwarts acceptance letter? Harry didn't know, but for whatever reason, Voldemort was genuinely surprised and enraged by this.

His magic was flashing. Frightening.

"Yes," Harry confirmed, adrenaline rushing through him.

"Explain."

Harry felt his face turning red. This was a mortifying story to relay. "…When my letter came in the mail, well… No one ever wrote me, obviously, so my uncle was suspicious, and my aunt knew what it was at once. She threw it in the fire. Another one came the following morning, and she tossed that one too. It got out of hand really quickly. More and more letters came every day, to the point where they were exploding out of our fireplace, our house was filled with them… it was like a snow globe of letters in our living room, but I still couldn't manage to get my hands on one. My uncle ended up dragging us all to this tiny island in the middle of a lake out in the country, even though there was a crazy storm going on, to get away from the owls…"

The crowd was aghast. Harry noted how stone-like Voldemort's face had once more become, despite his active magic.

"But then Hagrid came. Gave me my letter. And a birthday cake… right, because this was all happening the night before my birthday. The Dursleys never acknowledged mine… When my cousin tried to eat it, Hagrid gave him a pig's tail with his pink umbrella." Harry found himself smirking at the fond memory despite himself. "Best birthday I'd ever had."

There was some scattered laughter from the spectators, but the Dark Lord did not look amused in the slightest.

"So Albus Dumbledore sent an incompetent half-breed to rescue you from these hate-filled muggles, even when he must have known that things had escalated to such a level."

Harry scowled, heat rising to his face. "Hagrid wasn't—"

"I always said Dumbledore was off his rocker!"

A short, bald man whom Harry did not recognize from the Wizengamot stood, interrupting Harry with a booming shout. "I said he was inept years ago, when he first spoke out against my proposal for the Muggle Displacement Act—"

"That will do, Rowle," Voldemort said. The man fell silent, but he was glowering when he sat. The rest of the Wizengamot murmured in agreement with his outburst, and Harry comprehended fully just how much the High Court had changed.

Voldemort had not only placed himself as the Chief Warlock, but he had, evidently, replaced everyone he could on the Wizangamot with conservative, like-minded individuals… Many of whom had probably harbored personal vendettas against Albus Dumbledore when he was alive.

"Mr. Dawlish," Voldemort called suddenly, looking down at the guards that were on either side of the elevated bench where the Wizengamot sat. A man on the far left, whom Harry had not noticed before, jumped as though he'd just been struck at the sound of his name.

Harry recognized this wizard. He was an auror, one who had been commanded by Minister Fudge to seize Dumbledore in his own office, years ago…

"Y-yes, my Lord?" he stuttered, quickly getting to his feet and facing the Dark Lord presiding. His magic was a deep blue-green, and it shuddered under Voldemort's scrutiny.

"As the current Head of the Auror Department, it is your solemn duty to track down and locate dangerous criminals. So, tell me… where is Rubeus Hagrid?"

Dawlish's statue shrunk. "W-we have been searching for Rubeus Hagrid as a high-priority rebel, but, er, as of this moment, we are unable to locate him…"

Harry was hit with a rush of relief so strong he felt dizzy. Hagrid had gotten away…

How on earth he had managed that, Harry could not even fathom. The last he had seen of Hagrid was on that crucial night in the forest, when he had been bound and silenced, forced to watch as Harry surrendered himself…

But if what Dawlish was saying was correct, he had somehow escaped.

"You are unable to locate him," Voldemort sneered. "The entire auror department is incapable of finding an uneducated half-breed with no wand." He turned his attention back to the court when he went on, saying, "And to think, there are those in the Ministry who still think I am wrong in my wishes to revamp most departments."

Dawlish turned a bright red. The crowd chuckled at Voldemort's words, and Harry came to a sudden and chilling realization.

They weren't terrified of him anymore.

Well, no, that wasn't true—Harry was certain that every single person in the courtroom harbored a deep fear for Voldemort—but it was no longer the only feeling they had towards him. Just weeks ago, even those who were working within a Voldemort-run Ministry were afraid of the mere idea of him. He hadn't come out in the public eye, preferring instead to remain as a mysterious, omniscient entity in the shadows…

But that had all changed.

Now, Voldemort was very public, and he was holding trials and making humorous remarks and—

And people liked him.

Harry's jaw was dropping as he examined the crowd. Nearly all of them were smirking, nodding in agreement and casting the Dark Lord admiring glances. It reminded Harry viscerally of Slughorn's memory, when a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle sat in his office, surrounded by his peers… In fact, except for Slughorn himself, whose eyes were fixed on the floor, and Draco Malfoy, who was clearly not as good an actor as his mother and father yet, everyone was looking at the Dark Lord with reverence. Their auras, for the most part, seemed to reflect these feelings, too.

Voldemort wasn't forcing them into following him solely out of fear anymore, Harry grasped. He was truly winning them over. With his words, with his ideals, with his charming, handsome face…

Harry felt sick at the comprehension. Lord Voldemort regaining a more human appearance was, perhaps, the most effective and dangerous thing he had done… and it was Harry's fault he had done it.

"That will be all, Dawlish," Voldemort finished. Dawlish sat, bowing his head and looking miserable.

Voldemort's eyes returned to Harry. "Hagrid was fine," Harry snarled before he could be asked another question, defiance burning in his chest.

The light atmosphere that Voldemort's words had cast was quickly gone. His eyes narrowed, and everyone fell silent. "…Was he?" Voldemort said, his voice detached once more. "Was he truly, adequately helpful? In a completely unbiased manner? Tell us, Harry, what did Rubeus Hagrid do when he came to retrieve you from the Dursley family?"

"Well, he cursed Dudley, so that was great—"

"With his illegal, fragmented wand, the pieces of which he kept in an umbrella and which was a hazard to use," Voldemort interrupted smoothly, and though his tone was level, his eyes flashed a brighter red. "He cursed your cousin, performing magic in front of muggles and breaking several laws in the process. But please. Continue with this tale, Mr. Potter. Where did Rubeus Hagrid take you?"

Harry was outraged, and though he wanted to argue about the fact that Hagrid should have been allowed a wand, he found himself answering the question, anyway. "To Diagon Alley, obviously," he said. "To buy school supplies."

"And did he explain to you all which you needed to know about Hogwarts in order to prepare you for attending the school?"

Harry hesitated, thinking. The truth was that he recalled all too clearly how very unprepared he had been. "Er, no, not really," he admitted. "But—"

"What did he tell you?"

Harry bit his lower lip and he contemplated this. It felt like he was recalling someone else's adventure into Diagon Alley. "He… Well, he talked about how wonderful Hogwarts was, of course… That it was the greatest place on earth, especially under Albus Dumbledore… He talked a lot about Dumbledore, actually. Said he was Dumbledore's man, that there was nothing the Headmaster couldn't trust him to do… Er."

He felt like he was rambling, but the Wizengamot was listening with rapt attention, and Voldemort did not interrupt him. "He told me a bit about the houses," Harry continued, "about how he was in Gryffindor when he was a student, just like Dumbledore…"

"What else did he tell you concerning the houses of Hogwarts specifically?"

Voldemort's magic glinted in a way Harry was coming to recognize far too well. It was almost devious.

"He said… He said that Gryffindor was the best, that it was the house my parents had been sorted into as well," Harry answered. "He said that Ravenclaw was all right, that Hufflepuff was… well, it wasn't great, but it wasn't as bad as Slytherin…" He cleared his throat, hoping that he would be cut off. He wasn't. Voldemort was looking at him expectantly. "He said that Slytherin was the worst, that there wasn't a dark witch or wizard who hadn't come from that house."

Harry was surprised when Voldemort didn't comment on that. "Did Rubeus Hagrid continue to watch over you, from this point on? You stated previously that this occurred on your birthday, which is July 31st. There was an entire month from then until the first of September. Were you still forced to spend the remainder of the summer holiday with the Dursley family?"

"Yes."

"Were plans set in motion to make sure that you would safely arrive at King's Cross in London on September first? Clearly, this was a family that would not willingly help you attend Hogwarts, as they had gone to such extremes to keep your letter from you."

"Er. No," Harry said, but it now seemed like that should have been discussed. "No, but, ah. They drove me to King's Cross… Though my uncle did say it was only because they were going to London anyway. My cousin had to have the pigtail removed by a surgeon… Unintentional planning on Hagrid's part?"

Harry wasn't sure why he couldn't stop himself from adding unnecessary thoughts as he had them. Was it just his extreme nervousness, or was he truly being influenced by veritaserum?

The Dark Lord's magic was dim, the opposite of amused. "Was your arrival at Hogwarts seamless, Mr. Potter?"

"…No, not at all," Harry admitted. "Hagrid… sort of forgot to tell me how to get on the platform. I had no idea where 9 ¾ was, that to get to it you had to pass through that section of wall… My aunt and uncle left me there, wandering around with my trunk and an owl… I asked a muggle guard where the train that left at eleven was, but he said there wasn't one, and I was too afraid to show him my ticket…"

There was some mumbling in the crowd that sounded suspiciously like it was sympathetic. Harry hated it, hated the idea that these people might be looking at him with pity.

"How did you eventually board the train?"

"I got lucky," Harry said. "I happened to hear Molly Weasley muttering something about the station being overrun with muggles, and turned and saw her and five children… Four of them were boys, and they had trunks and even an owl, too…"

Harry recalled it all so perfectly. Molly Weasley, arriving at King's Cross with less than ten minutes to go, rushing to get her children on the train…

Percy's magic brightened considerably as Harry recounted this memory, but he kept his face down, writing and recording his words. "Molly Weasley told me how to get onto the platform," Harry finished softly.

Voldemort was still, his glinting magic such a contrast to his cold expression. "And so this was your introduction, as an impressionable, eleven-year-old boy, to the wizarding world. Raised with neglectful muggles, no idea of who or what you were, and suddenly a giant of a man comes to rescue you, performing rudimentary, illegal magic on these relatives, whisking you away and telling you skewed, scattered, and ultimately frivolous information about the world in which you knew nothing. A man who told you of the greatness of a wizard who, as it transpired, knowingly damned you to that household, who told you of his preference of Gryffindor and who slandered the great house of Salazar Slytherin, who gave you very little useful information… leaving you to fend for yourself, to be rescued by the Weasley family."

A pause.

"All when he could have gone himself. Albus Dumbledore had been known to personally go and inform Muggle-born children of their abilities. At the very least, he could have sent an official to go in his stead. The Ministry has been coordinating with Hogwarts for years, producing trained representatives to go to the households of Muggle-born children to explain what Hogwarts was, and why their magically sporadic children should attend. And yet when it came to Harry Potter, he chose instead to send a half-breed who was banned from performing magic. Someone who was incredibly indebted to him, who was fiercely loyal to him… who would, of course, do nothing but sing his praises. Glorified words spoken to an oblivious, neglected boy, so that when he would finally escape the torment of his muggle family, he would first see Albus Dumbledore, seated in the middle of the glorious Great Hall of Hogwarts, in a very flattering—one might say godlike—light."

Harry stared, lips parted uselessly in shock. The crowd was buzzing.

"Mr. Potter, in hindsight, do you feel as though these circumstances caused you to arrive at Hogwarts with unfair prejudices?"

"Yes," Harry bit out unthinkingly.

"Do you believe such unjust biases affected your decisions upon your arrival at the school?"

Voldemort's magic was alight with eagerness. For the first time, Harry tried to lie. The fib was there in his mind, the word 'no' on the tip of his tongue—

And the question as to whether he had taken veritaserum was definitively answered.

He intended to deny it, but the word, "Yes," came spluttering out. As though to make matters worse, Harry instinctually clapped a hand over his mouth right afterwards, and the entirety of the court reacted. His own response was a dead giveaway.

Harry Potter had just tried and failed to lie.

The Dark Lord's aura was so glittery with satisfaction that Harry was nauseated perceiving it. "Give us an example," Voldemort demanded, face still betraying no emotion.

Harry clamped his eyes shut and tried to hold it in. Hadn't he heard once that some people could resist veritaserum if they practiced Occlumency? Harry bit down harshly on his lower lip, mentally chorusing the words empty your mind…

But Harry had never been good at Occlumency. He had no sooner attempted to clear his thoughts when the words burst out of his mouth, quite against his will. "At my sorting," he said in a rush. "My sorting was greatly affected by my pre-conceived notions of Hogwarts because of the conversations I had with Hagrid, as well as my initial friendship with Ronald Weasley, whose entire family was in Gryffindor house."

He couldn't stop. Harry suspected with dread that it was because he had attempted to lie—the effect of the veritaserum was obvious now, and he was powerless to stop speaking. The confessions spilled out of his mouth like water pouring from a broken faucet.

"Draco Malfoy confronted me and offered me his friendship, saying he could help me figure out the right sort of families to associate myself with in the wizarding world. I denied his offer because he had made fun of Ron Weasley, who was the first and only person I had considered even close to a friend at this time. Before the Sorting Hat had ever touched me, I knew I wanted no part of Slytherin house. But—"

Harry managed to pause for only a second, taking a short breath before the rest of the story came rushing out. "But then the Sorting Hat was on my head, and it said I was difficult, very difficult, with an interesting thirst to prove myself, and I just thought, 'not Slytherin, not Slytherin', to which it seemed very surprised, telling me that it was all there, in my head, that Slytherin could help me on my way to greatness, no doubt, but I kept saying no, and finally it put me in Gryffindor. Reluctantly."

Harry took a deep breath afterwards, and even though he thought he was finished, he wasn't. He seemed unable to not voice his thoughts as he had them now, and it was with greatest humiliation that he found himself adding, "The Sorting Hat seemed to think I had bravery, loyalty, and ambition, but in hindsight, I don't think it ever considered Ravenclaw—evidently, it thought I had plenty of strong qualities, but intelligence wasn't fucking one of them—fuck."

Harry kept his eyes closed as he blushed furiously, his body far too hot with embarrassment. The crowd was reacting in a myriad of dramatic manners—some were gasping, some were muttering derisively, and some were laughing—probably because of that last bit Harry had added, unable to even stop himself from voicing aloud the internal swear words he was thinking.

He could stay silent now, at least. Harry sensed the magic around him, and the Dark Lord's was the most vibrant of them all. Tangled sensations like honest shock at Harry's confession, followed quickly by a gratification so powerful it was suffocating.

Harry finally opened his eyes, looking up at the Dark Lord as slowly as he dared. He couldn't be entirely sure, but Harry thought it looked like Voldemort was trying not to join those who had laughed. His mask of indifference appeared on the verge of cracking.

"Your experience at Hogwarts was extremely altered, then, by the influence of Albus Dumbledore… and this was all before he ever bothered to speak with you."

"Manipulative crook!"

The same, balding wizard who had shouted before was on his feet again. He slammed his fists down on the counter in front of him, seething. "I always said Dumbledore was an underhanded, scheming man! Why, when he sought to—"

"That will do, Rowle," Voldemort repeated, a bit sharper this time—and though his expression was one of mild annoyance, his magic danced with obvious approval.

Rowle fell back into his seat. The spectators were nodding, and a few even shouted quick words of agreement, but then the Dark Lord raised one hand, and silence fell.

"Mr. Potter," he said. "Tell us about your first conversation with Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's hesitation at this question was not from a desire to lie—he now knew how futile and potentially damaging such an act was—but from uncertainty. When was the first time he had spoken to Dumbledore? He furrowed his brows, thinking…

"It was not long after Christmas," he answered as it came to him. "I had just gotten my invisibility cloak as a surprise Christmas present, left for me without a note, though now I know it was from Dumbledore himself… So, naturally, I went out after hours—"

"Why?"

It was not the Dark Lord who had voiced the question. Harry bristled at the sound of Umbridge's high, sharp voice, her eyes fixed on him with utmost dislike. Her neon-like aura was putrid.

"Because I wanted to go to the Restricted Section of the library," Harry muttered, injecting as much venom into every syllable as he could.

"Why?"

"Irrelevant."

Voldemort cut Harry off before he could speak, shooting Umbridge a quick and icy look. Her face paled and her magic wilted, terror at being addressed personally by the Dark Lord in a disapproving manner evident in every feature. Harry felt a completely unwarranted rush of something like affection for him in that moment. "You were out of bed after hours under the guise of your invisibility cloak," Voldemort said, turning his attention back to Harry. "Continue."

"I went to the Restricted Section of the library," Harry said, casting Umbridge one last, scathing look, "and the very first book I opened screamed bloody murder. So I ran, barely escaping Filch and that awful cat of his, and—and I don't even know how I got there, but I stumbled upon this room that had the Mirror of Erised."

Harry paused, dreading what was assuredly going to be Voldemort's next question. He tried not to think of the nightmare he'd had, the one in which he had seen not his family in the reflective surface of the mirror, but Lord Voldemort, snake-like and monstrous, his lips grazing his ear—

"And Albus Dumbledore found you?"

Harry seized on the question at once. "No," he said. "At least, not that time. I went back the next night, bringing Ron with me. Then I went again, a third time, by myself… and that was when Dumbledore found me."

Voldemort's aura was light and curious. "Was the then-Headmaster angry? Did he punish or otherwise reprimand you for being out after hours?"

"No, he wasn't mad at all… Just told me what the mirror did, that it showed you your heart's true desire. He seemed more concerned than anything. He warned me against coming back, because it was dangerous, and the mirror was going to be moved soon, anyway."

The Dark Lord's magic flickered like he was conflicted. He was quiet for a moment, but eventually decided to voice the question Harry wished he would not. "…What did you see in the mirror, Mr. Potter?"

"M-my family," Harry stuttered, both to his relief and discomfort. This was the last place in the world he wanted to talk about his family. "I saw my parents for the first time…”

"Your parents."

Voldemort's face and magic both became sinister. He addressed the courtroom at large when he spoke next. "James Potter and Lily Evans. A pure-blooded wizard, who ultimately revealed himself to be a blood-traitor, and a Muggle-born woman."

A long stretch of silence. Harry held his breath.

"Lily Evans, sister of the muggle woman Petunia Evans, who raised Harry Potter, was a mudblood who had somehow attracted the interest of both James Potter and Severus Snape," the Dark Lord went on. Several members of the Wizengamot scoffed disdainfully. "One wonders how such an undesirable individual could manipulate not just one, but two wizards with blood status into pursuing her… Horace Slughorn."

The Dark Lord's voice suddenly calling upon him caused Slughorn to nearly fall out of his seat. He peered up at Voldemort, squinting, rather like he was being forced to look into a bright light. "Tell us… as the Potions Master in her day, how did Lily Evans perform as a student in your class?"

Slughorn was trembling when he stood, his eyes darting around to look at anyone else on the Wizengamot bench besides the Dark Lord. "She… she was magnificent," he said truthfully. "Lily Evans was easily one of my best students. Brilliant at Potions, really. She always got top marks. One of the few to receive an 'Outstanding' both in her O.W.L. and in her N.E.W.T."

"Then it would not be unreasonable to assume that Lily Evans was capable of creating the most complicated brews… such as amortentia."

Slughorn's face turned an unsettling shade of green. His magic was a heavy shroud of desolation as he realized what the Dark Lord was willing him to insinuate. But surely, Harry thought, Slughorn would never actually go along with it…

Harry was wrong.

"I… No, it would not be unreasonable to say that," Slughorn murmured, acquiescent. "Lily Evans would have been more than capable of brewing love potions."

"Thank you," Voldemort murmured, and Slughorn sat.

The anger that erupted in Harry's chest was sudden and fierce.

It consumed him so wholly that he forgot himself, forgot everything; he was on his feet so quickly he hardly registered that he'd stood before he was shouting, fists raised, blood boiling—

"How could you?"

Harry fleetingly caught Slughorn's stricken face and shifting magic, had taken two long, fast strides when the chains on the floor sprung to life. One caught him around each of his wrists and yanked him backwards.

Harry resisted, pulling against them, using every ounce of willpower he had to ignore the burning pain they caused and keep his focus on Slughorn. "You—!"

Before another word could leave his mouth, a third chain snapped around his throat, viciously tight. It turned his accusation into a strangled cry, and in one viciously fast motion, the shackles pulled him back towards the chair. Harry's knees buckled and he was forced to sit. His skin burned, white-hot and horrible as the chains twisted around him, securing him so tightly to the chair that he could hardly breathe.

"Enough."

The bindings cooled and loosened but didn't completely relinquish their hold. Harry inhaled a shuddering breath, and afterwards began coughing. His eyes watered. His ears rang. Harry barely perceived the gasps and shifting movement of the crowd, nor their trembling magic.

The pain did little to sober his anger. Harry turned and glared at Slughorn.

You said she was one of your favorites. You said you adored her. You said she was charming and brilliant and good.

Harry could say none of these things, as a chain was still wrapped around his throat, but he thought them with as much vitriol as he could. Slughorn, who had been so adept at staring at nothing but the floor before, seemed trapped in Harry's glare. His magic was motionless and dark.

How could you?

"Mr. Potter."

Harry begrudgingly looked back to the Dark Lord. Voldemort waited a moment to lift his hand, and when he did, the chain around his neck went limp and fell to the floor. Harry's vision was blurred with the involuntary tears that had surfaced, but Voldemort's magic was crystal clear. It glistened strangely with something… something odd, something like…

Awe?

Harry didn’t care to linger on it. "She'd never," he finally spat out, his voice gravelly and raw. The shackles on his wrists, which still ensnared him, burned slightly hotter. "She'd never use a love potion."

Voldemort's face was, as usual, meticulously void of emotion. "No one can make an accusation one way or the other, Mr. Potter. I was merely asking if such a thing were conceivable. After all, these kinds of incidents generally go unreported, but that does not mean they are unheard-of phenomena… Ah, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

Harry felt the hot blood drain from his face. He was so stunned at those words and the manner in which Voldemort said them that his rage was eclipsed by shock. Voldemort's aura became thick with smugness, and Harry knew exactly what he was referring to.

Like mother, like son, I guess.

This was revenge.

"…Were you not once the intended target of a love potion yourself, Mr. Potter? While you were a student at Hogwarts, no less."

Voldemort folded his hands in front of him, continuing with his questions in a cool, level tone. His aura, however, was whirling with unbearable arrogance at how pale Harry had become.

It took Harry a moment to even consider what it was the Dark Lord was talking about. "I… yes," he finally answered.

Romilda Vane, and the chocolates she'd sent… Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts hardly felt real to him anymore. The members of the Wizengamot were whispering to each other behind their hands at his admission, nodding knowingly…

"But my mother would never have used a love potion!" he shouted. Voldemort's magic flashed when Harry spoke out of turn, and the whispering ceased. "She would never have done such a thing! My father loved her for who she was! She…"

Harry looked round the room, looking for someone, anyone to speak out on his behalf. His eyes landed on Narcissa, and he brightened with hope—she had known his mother, she knew that Lily Evans was not a manipulative witch, but kind and good and—

His hope died as quickly as it had come. Narcissa stared right into Harry's pleading eyes, and her navy magic became saturated in both understanding and deepest remorse. She said nothing, she did nothing. Narcissa looked away, irrefutable guilt in her aura.

In the same moment that Harry felt betrayed, he understood. Of course Narcissa Malfoy was not going to defend a Muggle-born woman in the Dark Lord's court room. Anything she did to oppose Voldemort could spell death for her, or, far more pressingly, her family. Draco was sitting right next to her, her only son, and she would do anything to ensure his safety. Narcissa may have come to care for Harry, but she was not his mother.

Harry's mother was dead.

"You never knew your parents, Mr. Potter," Voldemort said calmly, as though Harry was not aware of this fact. He turned back to face him, scowling. "What are your sources for such a claim?"

"Sirius Black said as much, and Remus Lupin, his best friends—"

"A blood traitor and a werewolf, both of whom are now deceased," Voldemort cut in icily.

Harry's fury returned with a vengeance. The chains tightened on his wrists, but he ignored them and the pain they caused. "I saw it myself!" he roared. "In a memory, I saw it—for the longest time, my mother wasn't even interested in my father at all, he was the one who pursued her!"

"And whose memory was this?"

Harry's rage stuttered, unwilling to say the name out loud again.

But he didn't have a choice. The words were forming on his lips, and he could not stop them. "Severus Snape's," he said.

"And we arrive again at the man himself… Severus Snape."

Voldemort practically hissed the name. For the first time, the Dark Lord made no attempt to mask his emotions. Undiluted ire radiated about him, his magic blackening and swelling so intensely that Harry was sure everyone could feel it. The witches and wizards nearest to him cowered, shifting as far away from him as they could in their seats. Harry's fiery rage was quenched in a moment.

"The ultimate traitor," Voldemort continued, his quiet voice nonetheless carrying in the courtroom. "Severus Snape, who, as you stated previously, was responsible for the murder of Albus Dumbledore. Who, at the time, I presumed committed this act in order to gain further favor with me… I thought him loyal to me, then. Was he, Mr. Potter?"

"…No."

"No," Voldemort repeated with unconcealed fury. He addressed the Wizengamot, his eyes fiercely red. "No, Severus Snape was, at this point, working on Dumbledore's orders. Dumbledore had come into contact with a cursed item in the months leading up to that night on June 30th, 1997. He was already dying. He consorted with Snape, the turncloak, using his own, imminent demise to work towards his obsessive goal of destroying me. He ordered Snape to kill him… and Snape, still devastated over the death of the mudblood traitor whom I did not spare, also committed to seeing my demise, complied. It would seem no part of Dumbledore's life went untainted by his manipulative and destructive agenda… not even his death. Such a shame, that dead men cannot take the stand. How… unfortunate."

And it was clear by his tone that by unfortunate the Dark Lord meant convenient. Voldemort's eyes and magic flashed brilliantly, turning once more to Harry, who was shaken with disbelief. Everything he was saying was so wrong, and yet…

"Did you know, Mr. Potter," Voldemort went on, his tone suddenly much more conversational, "that memories rarely stand up in court?"

"N-no. I didn't know that."

Voldemort's lips curled slightly on one side, a crooked smile. "They do not. The reason for this is that memories are subjective. The manner in which we remember our pasts varies greatly based on time elapsed, perception, cognitive abilities, willpower… Yes, Mr. Potter, that is correct. Oftentimes, especially when powerful emotions are involved, we remember things the way we wish to remember them."

His tone was cruel and patronizing. Harry shook his head, refusing the implications. "No, Snape didn't make that up—she really didn't want my father at first, she—"

"Your words at this very moment are proof of the power of will. Right now, under the influence of a truth serum, you are able to vehemently argue that I am wrong, and you are right. Yet you cannot possibly know the truth on this matter. All of your beliefs have been based on what traitorous, biased men have told you, on subjectable memories…"

And Harry knew in that moment that Voldemort was referring not only to Snape's memories of his parents, but to Dumbledore's memories of him.

He knew.

Voldemort knew that Dumbledore had shared with Harry memories of Tom Riddle, memories gathered from Slughorn and house-elves and which had come from the former Headmaster himself…

But in the same second that Harry realized this, he thought of all the memories that Voldemort had shared with him.

A gift…

Were they all lies? Was any of it reliable information?

Harry's head was spinning. Voldemort's smirk was small but malevolent.

"You have been led to believe many inaccurate things about your family and the wizarding world, Mr. Potter… before you even understood what magic was, you had been manipulated into thinking that Dumbledore was an honorable and noble wizard, that the house of Salazar Slytherin was toxic, that your entire family was good and just… Your whole world had been constructed by ignorant muggles, mudbloods, blood traitors and half-breeds… the truth always being kept from you. Always just out of reach."

Harry opened his mouth, trying to come up with an intelligent retort, but he could not. Voldemort's magic was so bright where it glinted with gold that it was nearly blinding. "Have there been times where, in hindsight, you now realize that Albus Dumbledore purposefully kept information from you, Mr. Potter? Were there occasions where you had asked about your past, honest facts which you were entitled to, but that Albus Dumbledore denied you for his own manipulative purposes? The truth about your family, yourself… about me?"

Harry bit his tongue and tried uselessly to contain his response. He couldn't manage it for more than a second.

"Yes."

The sudden frazzled, energized magic of the spectators was disorienting, and their murmurings buzzed around Harry like a swarm of insects. Voldemort let it go one for a few moments, allowing them their hushed words of disdain for Dumbledore.

"Albus Dumbledore justified keeping critical information from an innocent child by telling himself that he was acting for the greater good… It was Dumbledore's greatest ambition to destroy my regime in his failure to recognize my superior ideals. He did everything in his power to see my demise… to see to the fulfillment of a prophecy."

Harry felt like his heart turned to stone.

The stillness which followed was all-encompassing. Even the crowds' magic froze, fluctuating auras becoming motionless as they listened with rapt attention.

"Yes," Voldemort reiterated, who alone looked unfazed as he breached this dangerous and thrilling subject. "It is not a rumor, nor a falsity which was perpetuated by The Daily Prophet… but a reality. Tell us, Mr. Potter—did you know of this prophecy which concerned both of us?"

"I… yes," Harry responded. "But not until the end of my fifth year at Hogwarts."

"Did you hear this prophecy in its entirety?"

"Yes."

"Please… Tell us about it."

The tension in the room could not have gotten any higher. Harry's heart thundered, but the words were pulled from his lips, fear and anxiety nowhere near powerful enough to stifle the effect of the veritaserum.

"I… the prophecy… There was a prophecy. About you and… someone else, someone unnamed… who you took to mean me," Harry grit out, a truth which was vague only in that Harry wasn't quite sure what the Dark Lord wanted.

"Who made this prophecy?" Voldemort asked softly.

"Sibyl Trelawney."

"When?"

"Before I was born, I think. I don't know exactly when…"

"Where and under what circumstances was this prophecy made, to your knowledge?"

"Er… she made it when she was interviewing for a teaching position with Albus Dumbledore… for Divination. At a bar. The Hog's Head…"

"To Albus Dumbledore himself," Voldemort confirmed, and Harry nodded. Voldemort's magic was growing livelier by the second. "Was he the only one who heard the prophecy?"

"No."

"Who else heard the prophecy, Mr. Potter?"

"…Severus Snape."

"Severus Snape."

Voldemort said it with little less fury in his voice the third time. "Correct. It was Severus Snape who heard this prophecy. At the time, he was truly loyal to my cause, and came to tell me at once… Tell us, Mr. Potter… What did this prophecy say?"

Everyone was staring at him, their auras thick and oppressive in anticipation. Harry's mouth was far too dry, and there was a strange, acidic taste in the back of his throat. He felt like he might be sick.

"I-it said… that someone born in the end of July, to parents who had thrice defied him, would have the power to… vanquish the Dark Lord… that he would have power the Dark Lord knows not." 

"…Was that all it said?"

"No." Harry all but whispered, looking down. "It said that the Dark Lord would mark his opponent as his equal… and that neither could live while the other survives."

Silence. It stretched on and on. Harry didn't dare to meet his eye.

"So it did." Voldemort's voice sliced through the quietness of the room like a blade. "We can see quite clearly now how irrelevant such prophecies are… but when this particular prophecy was made, Severus Snape only reported half of it to me. He did not inform me of the second, more pertinent, portion. He only told me of my supposed downfall, and consequently that of our regime, our mission, of all that we had been so close to accomplishing…

"Why he did this is painfully obvious now. Severus Snape was an intelligent man. Intelligent, but clearly influenced. He wanted the woman, Lily Potter née Evans, for his own. He sought to get rid of the other man, James Potter, as well as the unwanted son, in one fell swoop. He informed me of this prophecy only partially. Severus made it sound to me as though both James Potter and the newborn child, a mere infant, were an intricate part of the potential downfall of our regime. He told me it was imperative for the future of our new order that the man and the child be eliminated. And yet… he begged me to spare the mudblood."

"But you killed her."

Harry looked up, and suddenly it was as though everyone else had vanished. There were no spectators, no Wizengamot.

It was just Harry Potter and the man who had ruined his life.

"You killed my mother and my father. You say it was Dumbledore who damned me to a life with the Dursley family, but it was you. You put stock in a prophecy. You murdered them in cold blood, and then you failed to murder me." Harry's breath hitched, and tears, hot and unwanted, welled in his eyes.

"Everything terrible that's happened to me is your fault."

Voldemort's magic became unreadably motionless and black, his eyes empty. Harry stared, his body shaking, hardly noticing the way the chains burned on his arms.

"…James Potter and Lily Evans were rebels and traitors," Voldemort said. "At the height of the first Wizarding War, I personally sought to recruit them for my regime in a peaceful manner… Yes, you heard me correctly. Both of them. I am capable of seeing beyond birth status. But they refused my offer, defying me for the first time. That act alone was punishable by death.

"They escaped the faithful Death Eaters I sent for them after this initial transgression. Unfortunate, but unsurprising. I would not have offered such individuals a place in my order if they did not have prodigious skills. James Potter was responsible for the murder of Gregory Greengrass, and Lily Evans irreparably maimed Alexander Burke… the second time they defied me."

Voldemort paused. Harry was overcome with the strangest feeling, like he had just been handed something solid and heavy. It weighed in his chest like a stone. It took him a moment to realize why this was the case, what it was precisely that had disturbed him so… and then the comprehension dawned on him.

It was the notion that his father had killed.

Why was such a thought so unsettling to him? It had been during a time of war; James Potter and his mother were being pursued by Death Eaters who were surely aiming to kill… His father was simply defending himself and the woman he loved. It was a reasonable act, killing someone who was trying to kill you. Necessary, even.

So why did Harry feel so empty?

The answer came to him a second later. It was because he, Harry, could never do that.

It wasn't that Harry thought himself better or kinder than anyone else; it was just a fact. Harry had been pursued by Death Eaters who'd aimed to kill him and his friends. He'd had killing curses shot at himself and those he cared about far too many times… But never once had Harry attempted to kill in response. Nothing could ever drive him to commit murder. Harry knew that, if it had ever come down to it—to he and Voldemort facing off, the Chosen One and the Dark Lord, with Harry knowing that Voldemort meant to kill him, and knowing that if he, Harry, were to fall, that Tom Riddle would go on to kill and kill again—

Harry still wouldn't do it.

Harry would still shout 'Expelliarmus!' as his greatest hope to the heavens, he would still do whatever he could to make a broken wizard try for some remorse.

Harry was not sure how to feel about this insight. He was not sure if this inability to kill was a flaw or not. All he knew was that, for as much as people told him they looked alike… Harry was not like his father at all.

He felt numb.

"They later went on to join Albus Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, openly opposing me," Voldemort continued. Harry's ears were ringing again, struggling to take in his words. "Three times, they defied me. Their deaths were warranted. It was for this reason that I did not hesitate to act on the prophecy which Severus Snape reported to me… albeit his slanted version of it. He was adamant that this prophecy meant none other than Harry James Potter, that he would be the destruction of our entire cause. He purposefully did not tell me the part of the prophecy which stated that I would mark the other as an equal, that he would have a power I knew not… Had he done so, I would have waited to see what this meant. But Severus Snape was impatient, blinded by greed and lust. He made it seem as though the child had to be destroyed right away. I listened."

Harry was too stunned at how Voldemort was twisting the truth that he could do nothing but gape at him. That wasn't right; Snape hadn't told him the entirety of the prophecy because he hadn't heard it, and it was Voldemort who had decided it meant Harry, not him—and the moment Snape learned that Voldemort meant to kill the Potters, he told Dumbledore, he switched sides then…

But Voldemort kept speaking, and everyone in the courtroom was listening, drinking in every word. "Yet the Potters were under protection. Albus Dumbledore, having heard the prophecy in its entirety himself, divined who it meant. He informed the Potters of this prophetic message. At his suggestion, they were then hidden under the Fidelius Charm. The supposed Secret-Keeper was Sirius Black, but, as we all now know, this was a ruse. They chose instead to trust their lives to Peter Pettigrew… an untalented, unintelligent man, a rat in every sense of the word… a wizard who eventually came to work for me as a spy. He told me where the Potters were, and so I went. To rid the world of the rebellious blood-traitor and the supposed downfall of our regime, the last deaths necessary, or so I had been told, to mar what would soon be the uninterrupted rise of Britain's great magical community…"

Voldemort's face became stony, wrath lurking behind his blood red eyes. "…But even that had Dumbledore's manipulative hand in it. For what parents would prefer to place the safety of their only son with Peter Pettigrew, when they could have had Dumbledore himself be their Secret Keeper?"

Spectators were frowning, their magic whirling as they contemplated this. Harry was having a difficult time breathing.

"I have a theory on this matter," Voldemort continued smoothly, speaking more to the court now than Harry. "I believe the only sort of person who would willingly place the safety of their family in Pettigrew is one who was confounded. The most reasonable explanation is that Dumbledore implanted the idea in the Potters' minds in the first place. For Albus Dumbledore was a master Legilimens, he surely knew that Pettigrew was weak, a spy just waiting for the opportunity to win my favor. I propose that Dumbledore, while acting as though he was trying to protect the Potters, was actually doing everything in his power to make certain that I attacked them. He wanted to see the prophecy come into fruition. He wanted me to mark a prophesized child as my equal, uncaring of the fact that this would surely spell the deaths of James and Lily Potter in the process. He would sacrifice any number of his own followers to help in the supposed progression of my future downfall. Tell us, Harry…"

Harry registered somewhere on the periphery of his mind that the Dark Lord had, perhaps unintentionally, called him by his first name. He looked up, feeling dazed.

"…For all your previous, misplaced feelings towards the man, do you believe Albus Dumbledore to be the sort who would willingly let his own followers—those who trusted him completely, who proclaimed to be his men, through and through… Do you think he would sacrifice them if it meant seeing me fall?"

If he had been asked this question just a month ago, Harry would have said no. He would have undoubtedly proclaimed that Dumbledore would never, ever do that, that the former Headmaster would sooner die himself than watch his own followers perish.

'You have used me… I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to keep Lily Potter's son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter…'

Snape's words echoed in Harry's mind like a ghost speaking in his ear. His eyes were watering again. Why were his eyes watering?

"Yes," he answered. His voice sounded like someone else's.

If Voldemort was affected by Harry's emotion, his face did not show it. The Dark Lord's magic was glinting brightly again, but Harry couldn't tell what it meant. He hardly had the wherewithal to focus at all.

"Albus Dumbledore was a terrible man," Voldemort declared. "I suspect that he knew exactly what Pettigrew was, just as he surely knew that Sirius Black was innocent of Pettigrew's murder. Another monstrous crime, to add to the long list of atrocities performed by Dumbledore."

Harry's heavy heart leapt in his throat at the mention of his godfather. Was Voldemort going to ruin his memory with some convoluted version of the truth, too?

"Dumbledore knew Sirius Black was innocent of that particular crime, yet did nothing to prevent him from being thrown into Azkaban without a trial. For his own purposes, of course. He preferred Harry Potter to be raised in a neglectful household so that he would arrive at Hogwarts a desperate, ignorant child; one he could easily manipulate and control. But it is fascinating to think of, isn't it? In a world largely influenced by Albus Dumbledore, witches and wizards were wrongly placed in Azkaban without so much as a hearing in their defense. And yet under my rule, my supposed, greatest threat sits before you, having a just and fair trial."

The spectators murmured approvingly, their auras once more glistening with reverence. Voldemort's own magic was dancing at their admiring looks.

"Ah, forgive me," he said after a moment, shaking his head and looking shockingly human. "I have allowed my own ire towards a man who no longer lives to distract me. I was in the middle of a very critical story.

"As you all know, I fell for this most complicated of ploys. I went to the Potter household with every intention to end the war with what I believed would be the last death. I confess, I did not look forward to it. But what was one death, I thought, to prevent the slaughter of thousands more? He was the son of a blood-traitor and a mudblood. If killing him would mean saving my people—unlike Dumbledore, I do not reward faith with sacrifice and death—then it had to be done. I ended the lives of James and Lily Potter quickly—merciful, painless deaths. Then I attempted to do the same with their son… Harry James Potter."

His red eyes brightened as they bored into Harry's. Harry wondered if he was reliving that moment right now. Was he recalling what Harry looked like as an infant? A baby with bright eyes, vibrant and green?

"…And was then struck with my own curse. Prophecies exist as only poetic explanations. As it transpired, the 'power which the Dark Lord knows not'—the supposed 'power' of Harry Potter which has been whispered about for years…was my power. The mudblood, as well as James Potter, died protecting their son, instilling a powerful protective enchantment around the boy. A mere deflective shield, but one which I did not foresee, as I did not know the entirety of the prophecy to begin with… an ancient magic I overlooked… My own curse rebounded on me, nearly killing me in the process. Harry Potter was 'marked'… but not as my equal. Not as my prophesied downfall, no…"

The Dark Lord's face was bloodless and white.

"…merely as a victim."

More muttering, the loudest it had been yet, filled the room. Harry's pulse was loud in his ears.

"Mr. Potter," Voldemort said, and all were silent again at once. "Do you confess that you feel as though you've been manipulated into believing falsities about your life and your family from an early age, largely due to the words and manipulations of Albus Dumbledore?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "Yes," he answered, because that was the truth.

"Do you renounce your former, misguided beliefs on the treatment and standardization of muggle-borns and blood treachery? Do you renounce your former, misguided support of Albus Dumbledore and his rebellious forces, should they continue to attempt to de-stabilize the current regime of the Ministry of Magic? Before you answer, Mr. Potter…"

Voldemort leaned forward, his magic gleaming vivaciously. "I advise you to think carefully on this matter. We all know that whatever response leaves your mouth, that you will be saying it with honest intent. Consider all which your answer may mean… and all which you have to lose."

The air in the courtroom felt like it was electrically charged as everyone waited for him to answer. Harry's mind was buzzing, and though the Dark Lord's words were vague enough to be spoken in front of so many people, Harry knew what he meant.

Consider that I have your friends' lives in my hands. Consider what, if you refuse to submit to me here and now, I will do to them… what I will do to you.

When Harry envisioned Ron and Hermione, stuck in Malfoy Manor, he knew there was only one truthful answer he could give.

He would do anything for them.

"Yes," he whispered. "I… I renounce everything."

"Do you, Harry James Potter, pledge your unwavering allegiance to the judicious might of the Ministry of Magic?"

Everyone was craning their necks, the tension in the room was paramount—Harry ignored all of it, thinking only of his friends and how he did not have a choice—

"Yes."

Voldemort's magic was a cascade of gilded sparks, so bright they made Harry think of fireworks. He turned and addressed the Wizengamot with his next words. "All those in favor of pardoning the accused, Harry Potter, on the grounds that he had been unfairly coerced, manipulated, and victimized by Albus Dumbledore?"

"Cleared of all charges?"

Umbridge looked aghast, her bright, yellow magic lighting up around her. "Victimized or not, my Lord, there must be some punishment! All of the Weasley boys who were accused of similar crimes were at least given sentences!"

A few of the other witches and wizards looked like they might be about to murmur agreements, but Voldemort silenced them before they could speak. "The major difference in these cases being that Ronald, Fred, and George Weasley all grew up in pureblood, wizarding households. Their choices were informed, intentional, and, therefore, far more grievous. To look at these cases from the same perspective would be irrational. The days of treating every criminal indiscretion with similar disregard are over, Umbridge."

Harry couldn't believe it. Umbridge was gawking, mouth opening and closing like a dumbstruck fish, clearly torn between her fear of Voldemort and hatred towards Harry. She ultimately settled on nodding in submission, and Harry realized…

Voldemort was actually going to pull this off.

"Though if most of the Wizengamot agrees with you, then we shall, of course, determine a fair sentence… but first." Voldemort looked as though he could care less about the results on the surface, but his magic trembled with an uncharacteristic nervousness. "All in favor of pardoning the accused?"

Slowly, a few arms rose in the air… Then a few more…

It wasn't all of them, but it was quickly clear that over half were voting in Harry's favor. The majority of the Wizengamot, even. Only Umbridge and a few others kept their arms at their sides.

Voldemort turned and looked back to Harry, the same triumphant cascade like fireworks lighting up around him. Harry might have thought it beautiful if he were capable of thinking clearly.

"Of course, there is the issue of rehabilitation."

Harry blinked in surprise. Voldemort elaborated in a sly tone. "Being forgiven for past transgressions is one matter, but with this ruling, we are also recognizing that you have been victimized for nearly your entire life, Mr. Potter. Some structure would be… ideal. I propose a temporary living arrangement, that you stay with a respected, pureblood family who can educate you properly on the wizarding world."

Before Harry could react, someone else stood, clearing his throat and drawing everyone's attention. "My Lord," Lucius Malfoy said. He spoke with great confidence, and Harry could tell at once that this was planned. "My family would be honored to take Mr. Potter into our home and attend to this matter. Our son did, after all, initially offer his guidance to him years ago, but alas, he had already been influenced by Dumbledore… Allow us to right this wrong."

Narcissa nodded, and Draco forced a grin that looked so painful that even Harry's jaw hurt. Voldemort smirked. "Very w—"

"My family can do it."

Everyone looked in shock to Percy Weasley.

Having set his writing aside, Percy was now on his feet, his magic fiery and bold. He glanced at Harry before he turned and addressed Voldemort directly. "The Weasley's have been like a family to Harry Potter since the moment they helped him at King's Cross, he even said so himself. My brothers have risked their personal safety on more than one occasion to free him from his horrible, muggle family; he has been staying for as long as Dumbledore would allow at our home at every opportunity. My parents look at him as another son. During such a traumatic and stressful time, Harry should be allowed to stay in a place where he feels safe, with people he trusts."

Voldemort's smile was gone, and his magic frightening. Lucius scoffed loudly, once more drawing everyone's eyes to him. "Your family? You think that a household which has produced three rebellious children a suitable place for Mr. Potter to learn proper wizarding protocol?"

"'All pureblood families who have sworn allegiance to our Lord, even those previously seen as traitorous, must be pardoned for their transgressions and looked upon with equal favor,'" Percy said defiantly. "Your words from the address you gave just two days ago, Lucius Malfoy. My family has sworn fealty to the new regime. According to you, my family is equally as honorable as yours."

Narcissa paled, grasping her husband's forearm as her magic flashed in alarm. Lucius's face flushed and he floundered at the unexpected opposition. "To—I didn't—that doesn't mean—"

Percy turned his back to him and addressed Voldemort again. "'We must grant them opportunity to prove themselves loyal in this new era, where magical unity is paramount,'" he said, and Voldemort's magic darkened tremendously.

"Your words, my Lord."

Harry was stunned. Percy Weasley was standing up bravely to Lord Voldemort… and it seemed he was going to win. "I beseech you, my Lord. Allow the Weasley family to prove their loyalty to you by housing Harry Potter. There is no family alive who cares for him more."

And what could Voldemort possibly say in argument of that?

Harry felt suddenly so light he thought he might float, regardless of the chains which still bound him to the chair. To go and live at the Burrow… Harry couldn't even think of what that would mean for Hermione and Ron just then. If Percy succeeded, this would mean seeing Molly and Arthur Weasley again, it would mean staying in the same household as—

"Harry Potter shall be staying with the Malfoy family until he is deemed fit for independence," Voldemort hissed, his voice laced with such a cold rage that Harry's skin broke out into goosebumps. The hope that had inflated in his chest popped like a balloon. "My decision on this matter is final."

…And that, it seemed, was that. Percy's magic swiftly dwindled, filled with disappointment.

Voldemort raised one hand in Harry's direction. The shackles on his wrists went limp, releasing him and falling to the floor at his sides.

"Harry James Potter…"

The Dark Lord's bloodless face was once more diplomatically composed, but his eyes were practically on fire as they looked down at Harry, his magic glistening evocatively.

Voldemort, as always, simultaneously terrified and enthralled him.

"…cleared of all charges."

Harry had continually wiped the blood away where he was on the ground, his hands and forearms now stained red. He made his way to the bathroom to wash it off.

The moisture from his overly hot shower had long since dissipated. Harry glanced at his reflection before looking away, rinsing his arms in the sink.

Except his scar still stung, and blood continued to drip from it—albeit at a much slower pace. Harry grabbed a tissue and held it to his forehead. It had bled for hours the last time he'd suffered Voldemort's wrath…

Harry waited a moment before removing the now stained tissue. He groaned. Yes, it was still bleeding. Harry watched with great annoyance as beads of scarlet welled along the line like lightning before tipping over, dripping down his forehead and traveling towards his eyes.

He wiped them up before they could get there. Great, he thought. Either he had to wait until it stopped, or he would be walking around Malfoy Manor holding a cloth to his bloody forehead…

Harry threw away the tissue once it was too saturated and grabbed a towel instead, then went and laid on his bed again, pressing it firmly to his forehead. He was just going to have to wait it out, then.

He closed his eyes to avoid the mirror above him and slowly exhaled. He did not even consider practicing Occlumency again; there was no chance at all that he would be able to clear his mind after what had just happened…

The pain had been so absolute that Harry, shaking and bleeding profusely in the wake of Voldemort's flight, hadn't been able to properly dwell on what he had done; he'd been blinded by agony. When he'd spoken directly afterwards, it was like some other person had made the accusation.

Everything you touch breaks, and someday, you're going to break me, too… And then what will you have, Voldemort?

How could he have said such a thing? How could he still be stupid enough to taunt Voldemort when he knew that he held his friends' lives in his hands?

He wondered what Voldemort would do now. Harry was certain that it would be horrible.

Thoughts of Ron and Hermione being tortured jumped to his mind first, but Harry was not so sure that the Dark Lord would be quick to harm either of them. At the moment, Voldemort was using them for… something. At the very least, that meant that they were out in the public eye, for they had been summoned to the Ministry of Magic. Harry knew that such things did not guarantee their safety—nothing could guarantee that for anyone associated with the Boy Who Lived at this point, Harry thought sourly—but it did… lessen the likelihood that the Dark Lord would interrupt whatever task he had set them, only to drag them back to Malfoy Manor to teach his human horcrux a lesson.

Or did it? Harry frowned, considering this at length as he tried to see the world from the Dark Lord's point of view. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps torturing Hermione and Ron was exactly what Voldemort would do once he'd managed to get his many conflicting emotions in check and settle on rage… as he usually did.

But then a startling comprehension made Harry sit bolt-upright. No, Voldemort would not use Hermione and Ron, not when they were working for him—but he had said it himself, hadn't he? Days and days ago, after he had first taken Harry captive and Neville's body had laid on the dungeon floor, bleeding and sightless—there were countless others he could take—

Do I need chains to hold you, Harry Potter?

"He's going to kill Percy," Harry said aloud to himself. Percy Weasley, who had just spoken for him so boldly at his trial, who had hugged him afterwards, the action causing Voldemort's magic to blacken horrifically…

He had to do something.

Harry stood, grabbed his shoes and outer robe from the bathroom floor, and walked quickly towards the foyer. His scar was still bleeding, but he ignored it, heart thumping rapidly now with this realization storming his mind. There was only one fireplace in this Manor that was connected to the floo network; if he was lucky, Draco would not be near it and he could take it to the Ministry, just as Hermione and Ron had… Percy was probably still there, too…

But luck was not on Harry's side as of late. Draco was sitting at the table right next to the fireplace, sipping on tea and reading a book, looking bored. He perked up at once when Harry arrived,  nearly running as he came down the stairs.

"What are you—"

"I'm going to the Ministry." Harry went straight for the fireplace, but Malfoy dropped his book, stood, and whipped out his wand before he could get close.

Harry cast him the most menacing glower he could muster—which must have been rather effective, considering his scarlet eyes and ominously bleeding forehead—and though Draco's magic danced in apprehension, he did not back down. When Harry reached for the shelf which held a glass container full of floor powder, he raised his wand higher. "Don't even think about it," he said.

"I have to, Malfoy."

Malfoy glared and shouted "Stupefy!", and red flash of magic shot out from the tip of his wand, forcing Harry to jump back in order to avoid it.

"Hey!" he shouted angrily. "You can't just stun me—"

"I absolutely can! "And I've been told to do so if I need to, and—and why do you want to go to the Ministry, anyway? To go after Granger and Weasley? Because I can guarantee that if you think you can save them from whatever the Dark Lord wants them to do, you're just wrong—"

"That's not why," Harry seethed. Blood dripped onto his eyelashes; he hurriedly wiped it away.

"I don't have time to sit here and explain it to you, Malfoy! It's just very important, I need to go warn someone about something is all—I won't be gone long, just a quick Ministry excursion—I'm good at those—"

Harry reached for the floo powder again, and narrowly missed a second curse. "No!" Malfoy yelled afterwards, keeping his wand pointed at Harry's face. "No fucking way! And if you try that again, I will knock you out, Potter!"

Harry's fingers curled in his hair, the urge to tear it from his scalp overwhelming. "Malfoy, you don't understand. It's not Hermione and Ron, it's someone else, and if I don't go warn them…"

"Who?" Draco asked sharply when Harry's voice trailed off.

Harry didn't see the point in not telling him. "Percy Weasley," he said. "I just—I did something stupid to piss him off a few minutes ago, and—"

"A few minutes ago?" Draco's magic twitched in great alarm. "What do you mean, a few minutes ago? The Dark Lord was here? Just now? I thought he was at the Ministry still!"

"Er. Yeah, he was. For a minute, but then he left again—"

"What for? What did he come back here for?"

Harry's mind went blank.

He knew the reason why, of course. The Dark Lord had returned so quickly to Malfoy Manor for Harry—or more precisely, Harry's soul. Harry knew the reason for his swiftness was to bask in that horrendously addictive light that Harry's unbroken soul allowed him, that affected both of them in a bizarre yet glorious way…

But there were about a thousand different reasons why Harry couldn't explain this to Draco. Harry felt his face growing warm despite his best efforts, and Draco's head cocked to the side suspiciously.

"Because—because he lives to torment me, obviously!" Harry shouted, hoping that his red face would be interpreted as anger rather than… something else. "He came back to gloat, and I said something idiotic in response—"

"As you do," Draco interjected drily.

Harry glowered at him. "…As I do," he agreed regardless, "and now I am almost positive he's going to take it out on Percy Weasley."

Draco looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding. "Yeah," he said. "I could see that."

"Great. So, I'm going to—"

"What? Oh, no, I'm not letting you go," Draco sneered, his magic brightening in amusement. "I agree with you, yes. That doesn't mean I'm letting you leave."

Harry gaped at him. "But he's going to—"

"Torment another Weasley to punish you? Yeah, probably. Guess you should have thought of that before you pissed him off."

Harry's hands clenched into fists. Blood dripped into his eyes again, and Draco watched him wipe it away with great apprehension. Harry could tell he was curious as to why his scar was bleeding but was too anxious to ask. "Malfoy, let me go."

"And what if I did? What do you think would happen?" Draco took a step closer to him, but Harry was unaffected by his advance. He supposed having Voldemort constantly attempting to make him back down caused everyone else to look pathetic in comparison. "Say you go. Then what? You find Percy Weasley, tell him to go home, and that's that? Harry Potter has saved the day?" He scoffed condescendingly. "No, what would happen is this. You'd go and you'd be accosted by a hundred people in the atrium and make it absolutely nowhere near your goal. The Dark Lord would find out that I let you leave, and then I'd be the one on the receiving end of a Cruciatus curse right alongside Percy Weasley. And that's the best case scenario. Besides, even if you did manage to warn Weasley, it wouldn't do him any good anyway. The Dark Lord can find anyone. If he wants to make someone suffer, he will. Running only makes that suffering exponentially worse."

Harry contemplated this. As much as he wanted to tell Draco he was wrong, he knew he couldn't. "You're right," he said blankly. He ran a hand through his hair, probably getting blood in it but not much caring. "Fuck. You're right."

Draco looked mildly astonished that Harry Potter had just admitted that he was right about something. "Yeah," he said in a hedged tone, "I am."

Harry was hardly focused on Draco enough to care about his state of disbelief; his mind was already rushing on to other options. He couldn't warn Percy. No, that wouldn't work… He was coming at this from the wrong angle…

What he needed to do was convince Voldemort.

If he could talk to Voldemort again before he sought anyone else out for retribution, then he could make it right, he could persuade him to leave Percy alone…

But where had the Dark Lord gone? Back to the Ministry? Harry doubted it. He had no idea where the Dark Lord might go to sort through his mess of feelings and… plot his next move, undoubtedly, but he was sure it was somewhere secluded. Harry closed his eyes and focused, willing their strange connection to show him the Dark Lord's mind, to allow him to see through his eyes where Lord Voldemort was…

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up."

"You look like you're about to have an aneurism."

"Shut up, Malfoy, I'm trying to focus—"

"On what?"

Harry's eyes flew open and he let out a strangled, angry sound. "God, you're insufferable!"

Malfoy's magic twitched in amusement at getting a rise out of him. Harry glowered. As much as he wished he could blame Malfoy for being unable to see through Voldemort's eyes, he knew that this was not the case. This was not the battle of Hogwarts; Voldemort was not unaware of the extent of their connection anymore, nor was he distracted by a myriad of immediate pressing concerns. Harry could not simply close his eyes and see what the Dark Lord was seeing. Wherever he was, Voldemort was without a doubt practicing Occlumency against him.

Another drop of blood landed in Harry's left eye. Feeling more frustrated with every passing second, he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. Malfoy's nose wrinkled when he did, and Harry  remembered that these were more than likely his robes.

Before he could say anything, the fireplace ignited in green flames. Ron stepped into the foyer first, his magic strangely cheery, followed shortly by Hermione.

Harry opened his mouth with every intention of spewing out the first of a series of questions—Were they okay? What had the Dark Lord made them do? Had they seen Percy?—but then Hermione took a step further into the room, and Harry's attention was effectively sidetracked.

Harry never would have thought he was the type to be distracted by something as asinine as jewelry, but he wasn't quite sure if the thing glinting on Hermione's left hand could qualify as that.

The diamond—was it a diamond?—was absolutely massive.

It was so big and attention-grabbing that it simply had to be enchanted, catching the light as though there were a miniature, magical spotlight shining directly on it. Hermione held her hand to her chest at Harry's wide-eyed stare, and when she moved, it glittered with the majesty of a thousand tiny prisms.

Harry said, 'What is that?' at the same moment that Draco said, 'Holy fuck'. Hermione flushed and her magic whirled nervously.

"What is that?" Harry repeated, glancing quickly to Ron and seeing that his face and ears were turning red. "Hermione, what is that?"

He knew what it was. There were probably people back in London who could see the lights shining off the massive stone on the ring finger of Hermione Granger's left hand. Hermione cleared her throat before saying, in a very timid voice, "M-my engagement ring."

"You're engaged," he said blankly. She nodded meekly. Harry looked at Ron. "Are you also engaged?"

Ron managed to give him a sarcastic, annoyed look before laughing. "Yeah," he said, scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, we're… We're engaged!"

Hermione's eyes fell bashfully to the floor. Harry had never before seen her face turn redder than Ron's.

"Is that what the Dark Lord wanted you both for?" Draco asked in tones of great disbelief. He was still staring at the obviously very expensive ring like it might be a joke.

"Actually, yes," Hermione said quietly. "Th-they've begun developing a new sub-department at the Ministry of Magic, one which falls under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement… The Magical Marriage Registration."

"What?"

Harry and Draco once more spoke at the same time. Harry took some small comfort in knowing that this information was just as new to Draco as it was to him.

"Yes, it—oh, Harry, your scar—"

Harry hurriedly wiped the blood away again. "I'm fine. It's fine," he lied. It did seem to be bleeding less now, at least, and it no longer hurt. "They're forcing people to get married now?" he asked with great revulsion.

"No, no, nothing like that," said Ron.

"Not exactly," Hermione said in a much darker tone. "It's something the Ministry of Magic has never done before. Anyone who wants to get married from now on must first get the approval from this committee—I'm sure you can guess a few of the people who are on it. They're arguing that it's a way to keep track of the growth of magical families more reliably, but that's obviously not the real reason."

Ron raised an eyebrow at her. "It's not?"

"Honestly, Ron, weren't you listening to a single thing he said?" Hermione snapped. For a brief moment it almost felt like they were back in school, and Ron was merely being chastised by Hermione for not paying attention during History of Magic.

"I was, of course I was—"

"Then the underlying reasoning should have been perfectly clear!"

"Excuse me for not catching on to the underlying reasoning. It's a bit hard to think about devious tactics when you know it's very likely that the next words out of the person you're supposed to be listening to's mouth could be 'crucio' or 'avada kedavra' or—"

"What underlying reasoning?" Harry interjected.

"This committee is coming into existence to make sure that muggles can't marry anyone with magical capabilities, obviously," Hermione explained in a distasteful tone. "Along with the need for approval, the Ministry is now only recognizing unions that are made in the traditional, wizarding way… Ron and I are essentially the trial run."

Harry was about to ask what the traditional, wizarding way was, but Draco spoke before he could. "You didn't buy that," he blurted out insensitively, pointing towards Hermione's ring but looking at Ron. "There's no way you could afford something like that, Weasley."

Ron glared at him, and his magic darkened so much that it was nearly red. "…No, as a matter of fact, I didn't pay for it," he said coldly. "I would have, I expected to… but I didn't have to. Harry, remember when I was called to the Ministry the other day, after Hermione came back?"

Harry nodded mutely. "Well, this was why I was summoned. To fill out the first half of the paperwork and—and go ring shopping. With your mum and dad," he finished, looking at Draco. "Yeah. It was the strangest experience of my life. They took me to the kind of store I never would have even considered walking in before, and when I said I couldn't afford anything in there, your dad almost hexed me. Do you seriously think anyone expects you to pay for this, Weasley?"

Harry thought that Ron's impersonation of Lucius Malfoy was rather poor, but he didn't comment on it. "Anyway, the insinuation was clear. I said, 'Oh, well. If that's the case, I want the nicest and most expensive ring in the shop'. I didn't expect them to take me seriously; the shop owner certainly didn't. The poor wizard stared at me like I'd lost my marbles… but then your dad was showing him his Dark Mark, your mum was making this face like the shop owner was the dirt beneath her shoes, and then, well…"

He gestured towards Hermione's dazzling ring. "Blimey," Harry said, staring at it and its unfathomable size. "That thing must weigh a ton! I'm surprised you can lift your hand, Hermione."

"Actually, it doesn't weigh much at all. It's enchanted to be light. I hardly feel anything."

She waved her hand around as though to prove the point. Harry's mind was positively reeling. "But—so—you're getting married!"

"Er, yeah," Ron said.

"When!?"

"…N-next Saturday."

"What?" Harry gasped. "But—how? Where?"

"Um." Hermione fidgeted uncomfortable. "H-here. At Malfoy Manor."

"No."

They all turned at Draco's perilously low tone. His magic turned an unsightly shade of bluish-gray, and his expression was nothing short of horrified. "Here?" he asked, gaping. "Here?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes… I think that's where your mother went, actually, to m-meet with wedding planners… She asked if we wanted to go, but we said we'd rather c-come back here, obviously… And I don't know where your father went, to be honest…"

"No, of course you don't. No one does. Fuck." Draco's face paled further. "A wedding, here... Fuck. This… this is horrible!"

"Why?" Harry asked. Even though he was still in a state of complete shock, he was beginning to grin despite himself. Ron and Hermione were getting married…

"You don't know my family," Draco said in tones of deepest despair. "My mother—she and my father host a huge party for Yuletide every year, and every year, it's absolute mayhem. My mother goes insane when she plans those things. My father always mysteriously vanishes, and I have no idea where he goes, because he doesn't take me with him—just leaves me here with her, scrambling as I try and cover for him… And those parties are with months of notice! But a wedding? A wedding? In a week?" Draco shook his head and looked devastated. "It's going to be a fucking nightmare."

Harry's only experience with wedding planning had been his time at the Burrow for Fleur and Bill's wedding, and he vividly remembered Mrs. Weasley's high-strung attitude. He tried to imagine the equivalent of that anxiety in Mrs. Malfoy.

Somehow, he had a feeling that Draco was not overreacting.

"But why here?" Harry asked, trying to wrap his mind around this most unlikely of situations. "Why are you getting married here, and so soon?"

"Because that's what we were told was going to happen," Ron said. "Apparently it's going to be a huge thing. A huge thing. I don't get it either… You-know-who never struck me as the type to care about weddings or parties…"

"Honestly Ron, how can you be so naïve? He isn't having Mrs. Malfoy organize a huge wizarding wedding because he cares about weddings or likes to party, he's using this as a political event!"

"What?" Ron said, having clearly not realized this at all.

"He's using us as a way to show just how wonderful it can be in his new world. A union between a muggle-born who's been properly registered and a pureblood who's been pardoned, both of whom are known to be close to the Boy Who Lived—if we can be in good graces with the Dark Lord, then it makes the statement that anyone can. He's making our wedding a grand event and basically demanding that everyone even slightly important attend the reception as a statement, to convince those who still oppose him that he's not the tyrannical ruler they think he is. It seems he's already begun to do that quite efficiently by regaining a much more human body and by handling Harry's trial the way he did…"

"He told you about that," said Harry. It was not a question but a statement. Hermione nodded solemnly. "Yes, he did… He was very informative, actually, and unexpectedly polite…"

"Oh, yeah, real polite," Ron muttered. "Once he stopped making your forearm burn like it was on fire, of course."

"But that's not even the craziest thing that happened," Hermione went on in a rush, ignoring Ron. "Harry, look."

She reached into her robes. Harry's eyes went wide as Hermione revealed something even more unimaginable than her engagement ring.

A wand.

Her wand.

Hermione Granger had been given her wand back.

"I know," she said, staring at it like not even she could quite believe she was holding her wand again. "I'm officially and legally allowed to carry a wand, now…"

They all turned when Draco, quite unexpectedly, laughed. He began explaining himself before any of them could ask. "The Muggle-born's a Death Eater, the pureblood was found guilty of treason and is now indentured to the Ministry of Magic for six months—wand privileges suspended, of course—and Harry Potter's a free man." He looked about at the three of them with his hands on his hips, surveying them with false cheer. "Ah, but at least there's a wedding to look forward to! Fuck… You know, If you would've asked me before how everything would pan out after the war, I would have been way off."

Ron glowered at him, but Harry just nodded and shrugged. "Yeah. Can't say I saw any of this coming, either."

Harry turned his attention back to Hermione, who was still staring at her wand in a state of suspended disbelief. Harry's mind raced at the implications. Draco had just said it himself, after all… Harry was, supposedly, a free man as far as the general public was concerned. He hadn't been sentenced to work for the Ministry, he hadn't had his wand privileges suspended…

A fierce desire to carry a wand again stirred within Harry's chest like a laden monster sniffing the air in anticipation. Of course, it wouldn't be his wand if he was allowed one, seeing as Voldemort had vanished it…

Harry forced that boiling anger aside. Hermione's hand and magic had begun trembling, making Harry concerned. "Hermione?" he said, touching her shoulder.

"You know, I thought it was strange, when Malfoy said he made you make a patronus before your trial," she murmured, not lifting her gaze from her wand. "Why would he bother doing that? It was obvious it was you to everyone in the courtroom; you'd supposedly been held for days in Azkaban. Even the most potent Polyjuice potion can't last more than a few hours… So why would he do that? Why would he demand that you make a patronus? A spell that is really difficult to cast no matter when you attempt to do it, but significantly more difficult when you're distressed, or after you've experienced some horrible trauma…"

Harry, Draco, and Ron were all staring at her, her hand trembling more with every word she spoke, but they didn't interrupt. "And I think I know why, now. I don't think it had anything to do with proving it was you. I think he was curious. Because patronuses can change, and they often do after traumatic experiences—especially where regret is involved. I think he wanted to know if you were still the same Harry Potter. He wanted to know if whatever horrible things he's put you through managed to change you, and to broadcast it to the entire world. I think he would like to know that he could accomplish that… But he couldn't." Hermione's eyes suddenly welled with tears. She looked up at Harry and smiled. "Of course you're still you, Harry. Nothing could change you."

She looked back to her wand. Harry suddenly understood her anxiety.

Hermione was wondering if the same was true of her.

"…Something happy," Harry said gently.

Her magic was dark and heavy. She swallowed hard and shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don't know how you did it, Harry," she whispered. "How can you think of something happy enough to make a patronus after all that's happened, with everything that's happening now? We've lost the war, I-I've been marked as a Death Eater, Ron was forced to propose to me so that the Dark Lord could use us to his advantage—and I'm going to bring a child into this world—"

"Is that what you think?"

Ron interrupted her in a quiet but cold voice. Hermione looked at him, and as he stared back, Harry was certain he'd never seen a more serious expression on his face. "You think I only proposed to you because I was forced to?"

The atmosphere in the room became instantly tense. Hermione looked taken aback. "W-weren't you?"

"I wasn't forced to," Ron snapped, sounding uncharacteristically angry. Hermione winced. "I wasn't forced to propose to you, I could have said no—you seriously think I only asked you to marry me because I was threatened or something? I didn't even think about some underhanded bullshit, I was just thinking about you! I thought it was obvious that I'm ridiculously in love with you and want to be with you!"

For such a great confession of love, Ron looked very upset. His magic was quivering and his face was turning red again, but this time it was in anger. "Do you actually want to be with me? Or did you just say yes because you thought you'd be cursed otherwise, or something?"

Hermione's eyes were huge and shining with tears. She was staring at Ron like she'd never seen him properly before. "I… N-no, I…"

The tension was paramount. Harry and Draco glanced at each other, and without saying a word, Harry knew they were both thinking the same thing. Draco jerked his head to one side and started walking away.

"We'll just…" Harry began explaining, but neither Ron nor Hermione looked at him. Their eyes were fixed on each other, contrasting emotions so great that Harry wasn't sure if they were about to have a horrible row or something else entirely. He turned and followed Draco.

Clearly, Hermione and Ron had a lot to talk about.

Harry and Draco left as quickly as possible without breaking out into a run. They left through one of the doors at the back of the foyer, and didn't stop walking at a brisk pace until they had turned into a room at the end of the hall, far, far away from whatever drama was about to unfold between Hermione and Ron.

Harry was surprised to see that Draco had led him to a very old-fashioned looking sitting room. There were cushy chairs, shelves filled with books and odd but impressive-looking magical items, and a game table of some sort that made Harry think of pool but was clearly a wizarding equivalent.

There was also a bar, and Draco went straight for it. He walked behind the counter and grabbed a glass bottle full of amber liquid. Without a word, he pulled out two glasses and filled them, and then slid one across the bar towards Harry.

"I've heard of worse reasons to drink," he said. "You can't say I'm not a courteous host now, either."

Maybe, if he were thinking more clearly, Harry would have declined Malfoy's offer of alcohol. He didn't. Harry reached for the glass without even asking what was in it.

"To the glorious new regime," Draco said, smiling brightly and sarcastically. He lifted his glass towards Harry.

Harry's lips twitched despite himself. At least my scar has stopped bleeding, he thought as he quickly touched a hand to his forehead.

Harry clinked his glass to Draco's. "Cheers," he said with equal fake enthusiasm.

They both forcibly grinned and drained their glasses.

It burned with a familiar feeling as it seared down Harry's throat, and for a moment he felt as though he were transported back in time.

He was not in Malfoy Manor but in the Burrow. He was raising a glass with his friends who had survived, who had risked everything for him in order to escape from Privet Drive unscathed… They were drinking to their fallen comrade who had died at the hands of Lord Voldemort himself, Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody…

Mundungus had abandoned him in the midst of their flight and Voldemort had killed him…

And just as Harry set the glass down on the bar, reality came crashing back in a sickening wave. The whisky did not dispel the numbness, nor give him a sense of courage as it had then, but burned in his gut in a nauseating way.

How could he have allowed himself to be so sidetracked?

He felt like he was losing his mind.

"Percy," he said the moment he was able to speak. His eyes were nearly watering with how strongly the whisky burned at the back of his throat. "I need to go back, I need to ask them—"

"Don't," Draco said shortly. He then pointed his wand at the door and said, "Colloportus."

Harry crossed the room and scowled as he attempted to wrench the door open. It was futile, of course; Draco had just magically locked it, and Harry did not have a wand of his own to cast the counter charm. He rounded on Malfoy. "Let me out," he demanded.

"Or what?" said Draco, who looked glad to have the bar between himself and Harry—as well as the only wand in the room. "Those two were on the verge of either killing each other or shagging, and I don't think you want to be in the middle of either of those interactions—or maybe you do, and you're more of a trio than I thought?"

"What? No, don't—that isn't—shut up!" Harry hated that such a ridiculous statement managed to fluster him. Draco poured himself another drink and smirked. "I need to ask them if they saw Percy or not, if they know if he's okay—"

"Obviously they don't know anything about that or they would have said something. What, do you think the Dark Lord makes a scene and swoops in to abduct people in the middle of crowds? If he did or is going to take Percy Weasley, he'll do it stealthily. Probably have someone else escort him from the Ministry under false pretenses, and no one will be any the wiser that Percy Weasley is mysteriously missing until he wants them to know."

Harry glared at how casually Draco contemplated Percy's possible murder. "I have to do something," he said, his hands beginning to shake. "I need to get there, I need to do something—you have to let me out—"

"No, I don't." Malfoy lifted his glass to his lips, this time taking only a small sip. "Sit down, Potter," he said. He poured him another drink. "I'm going to tell you a story."

"A st…? Malfoy, I don't have time for a—I don't have time to just—to just sit here and have a bloody drink with you!"

"Trust me, you do," Draco murmured. He slid the glass towards him. "Right now, there is nothing that you can do to stop the Dark Lord from doing whatever he wants. In fact, the only thing you can do is not act like a moron and make matters worse for everyone. So take a seat."

Harry grit his teeth and didn't move. "Or don't," said Malfoy, shrugging. "Be stubborn. Fine. I can summon my house-elf and have him take you to your room and force a Dreamless Draught down your throat instead, if you like. Or just stun you and leave you passed out in here on the floor, locked in. My instructions for being a courteous host end the moment I feel you're on the verge of doing something reckless."

He was no longer smirking when he made those threats, which Harry found surprising. Even his magic had brightened with some emotion that was fickle and confusing. It wasn't gleeful, whatever it was. Harry would have expected Draco Malfoy to be relishing the fact that he had so much power over him.

But the days of Draco Malfoy being a prefect—or a member of the Inquisitorial Squad—who liked nothing more than to make Harry Potter suffer were long gone, and Malfoy looked oddly expressionless as he motioned towards the barstool in front of him.

Forcing aside the powerful urge to lunge across the bar and wrestle Draco's wand out of his hand, Harry sat. The last thing he wanted was to be sentenced to an unwanted nap or knocked out and locked in this room, alone.

"Smart choice," said Malfoy. He pocketed his wand. Harry stared down at the second glass he'd been poured but didn't touch it. Draco didn't seem offended; he only took another sip of his own before speaking.

"I never would have thought that this summer could be more stressful than last year's," he said darkly. "After I succeeded in getting Death Eaters into the school, I thought I had done well. My father had been in Azkaban that entire year, but I didn't realize just how much danger he was in. In hindsight, it was rather naïve on my part. I thought that the Dark Lord was punishing him by simply keeping him in there until he thought that he and the others who'd been captured at the Ministry had had enough. I honestly thought he believed in me being able to do Dumbledore in. I never would have thought myself capable of such a feat, but I believed it after he talked to me. He's good at that, you know. Convincing people to believe in impossible things."

Draco took another sip of whisky. Harry didn't join him, though he did wrap his fingers around his glass simply so that he had something to do with his hands. He wondered why Draco was bothering to tell him this. Harry already knew the ending to this story.

"My mother was frantic, but I just blamed it on her being overprotective as usual. My aunt, on the other hand, was so proud, just fueling the fire of my arrogance. I went to Hogwarts with a Dark Mark on my arm feeling like some kind of god… It didn't last long. The full weight of everything really settled in after a few weeks. It became obvious just how hopeless it was. How could I kill Albus Dumbledore, one of the most powerful wizards in the world? I couldn't kill him. I couldn't kill anyone."

"You nearly killed several people, none of which were your intended targets," Harry interjected. "You almost killed Katie Bell with that stupid necklace, you almost killed Ron with—"

"I know!" Draco's magic shook with guilt. "You don't think I know? You don't think I feel bad about all that? Just because I didn't like either of them doesn't mean I wanted to kill them—I was just—I couldn't think of anything better, and I was too big-headed to let Snape help me! I thought I had to do it on my own, because if I did, then surely my father would be forgiven? Surely he would break him out of Azkaban and we could be a family again?"

He ran a hand through his white-blonde locks, his calm disposition effectively shaken. He took a deep breath and carried on. "I didn't kill anyone, but I did succeed in getting the Death Eaters into the school. The Dark Lord was pleased overall—Dumbledore was dead, that was what he'd really wanted—but my father wasn't entirely forgiven. He promised then that he would break my father and the others out of Azkaban… and I'd never seen my mother look so afraid."

Draco laughed mirthlessly. "Do you know how strange it is to dread your father being freed from the most horrible place in the world? To realize fully that someone you care about was better off staying in a fortress surrounded by dementors than back at home, because home was where the Dark Lord's wrath awaited him?"

Harry didn't say anything. He recalled Dumbledore saying something along those lines himself after the fiasco at the Ministry, that Lucius Malfoy was probably thankful to be far away from his master's rage at his failure…

"It happened in late summer—not that the second mass breakout from Azkaban was reported in The Daily Prophet, mind you. Scrimgeour was still alive then, and he didn't want the wizarding world to know just how badly it was fucked, I guess… Regardless, my father was broken out by my aunt and a few of the newer recruits, dragged back here where the Dark Lord already was, where my mother and I were ordered to wait with him. He wanted us to see."

Draco took another drink of his whisky, a much longer one this time. His glass was nearly empty again. "I know you think you have the full measure of me," he said, feigning nonchalance. "I know you think I'm just some cowardly Slytherin who would never risk his own safety. But I'm not. We're more alike than you might think, Potter."

Harry scoffed. "Are we now," he said.

"We are," Draco said seriously. "We both do reckless things when we shouldn't because we think we're saving someone—I think I proved that plenty of times in our sixth year, don't you? I wasn't thinking about who else I might've hurt in the process that year, I was only thinking about saving my father. The major difference between us is just that, though. I only get that kind of daring when it's someone really, really important to me. You? You'll do stupid shit to save just about anyone, even if you barely know them. Even if you despise them, in fact."

Harry's body burned at that. He couldn't exactly deny it. Feeling the sudden need to hide his face, he took a tiny sip of his drink. Draco finished his and poured himself another healthy dose.

"So my father came home," Draco went on, "and was thrown down by my aunt in the middle of the foyer before the Dark Lord, my mother and I standing behind him, forced to watch. He didn't look good, my father. A year in Azkaban had about as profound an effect on him as eleven years did on my aunt. I imagine it was because he spent his time in there dreading the day he would be inevitably rescued… He looked like he was on death's doorstep already. The Dark Lord was hardly sympathetic."

He paused. Draco's airy magic became darker than Harry had ever seen it. "You've been under the Cruciatus Curse when the Dark Lord's cast it."

It wasn't a question. Draco must have heard it, then, when Harry had first been brought to Malfoy Manor after the Battle of Hogwarts… before he was blinded, before Voldemort had gained a new body and still looked like the monster he truly was…

Are you afraid, Tom?

"You know how terrible it is," Draco concluded when Harry said nothing. "Two seconds under his curse feels like an eternity. For my father's punishment… he said he would place him under the curse for fourteen minutes." He paused again, took another drink. "One minute for every year the Dark Lord spent without a body. Fourteen minutes."

Harry's mind reeled, wondering how long he personally had been held under the curse. Fierce memories of Neville writhing on the floor flooded his unwilling mind. It had seemed that Bellatrix had held him under the curse for ages, but Harry knew that in all actuality, no single curse could have lasted more than a minute at a time…

"He conjured an hourglass and everything. Fourteen minutes of torture for fourteen years of abandonment, and the Dark Lord said my father's failure at the Ministry would be forgiven… And my mother and I had to watch… We were told not to say or do anything, just watch what happens to those who fail him…"

Draco shuddered. Harry's heart was filled with an absurd pity for the entire Malfoy family.

"I couldn't do it," Draco said, and suddenly he was smiling. "That's right! I, Draco Malfoy, completely snapped and defied the Dark Lord's orders. I threw myself at his feet and shouted, begging him to end it at just four minutes in. That was when my father had stopped screaming and his mouth had begun to foam like a rabid dog's… My mother couldn't even hold me back. And you know what happened then?" He laughed coldly. "The Dark Lord lifted the curse from my father just to send me sprawling to the floor at his side, bound by an incarcerous. I begged and begged and begged. 'Please, torture me!' I yelled. 'Please, curse me instead!' Because my father already looked so weak. He was so frail, so emaciated. I was sure that he would not last the full fourteen minutes… But I could. I could do anything for him.

"The Dark Lord didn't care for my outburst at all."

Draco ran a hand through his hair again, his magic trembling far more than his body was. "He didn't even acknowledge my request to take it all upon myself. He just said that for my interruption he would be adding a full minute to my father's sentence. Now, I know how that sounds. What's one minute? Sixty seconds more, that doesn't sound so horrible, does it?"

Harry was not making any such argument, though Draco continued speaking as though he had. "It was the longest minute of my life, Potter. Every moment of his long torture was horrifying, don't get me wrong—each second my father was under that curse I felt like I should have been the one suffering, I should have been the one in pain. I had been the one who failed to kill Dumbledore myself, and maybe if I had, he would have been spared that… And it was all made that much worse by the fact that I saw it all happen at eye level, after I interrupted. I was on the floor with him, tied up and unable to do anything to help him…

"Those last sixty seconds, though… He had stopped screaming a long time ago, at that point. His eyes were flickering around in his skull like he was having a seizure. During that last minute, with every second I thought, 'What if this is the moment his sanity cracks? What if this is the exact moment he loses his mind?'"

Harry's heart was pounding. He felt like he was reliving this precise, final minute of torture with Draco right then, whose magic was trembling as he recalled the memory. Even though Harry knew that Lucius Malfoy had clung to his sanity after the fact, adrenaline was flooding Harry's veins, imagining the older Malfoy who was usually so dignified thrashing on the floor, unable to even scream. Draco took another long drink, finishing what was his third serving of firewhisky. Harry followed suit and drained his own glass.

"The point I'm trying to make, Potter," Draco said after a long stretch of silence, "is that you should never try and stop the Dark Lord from doing what it is he wants to do, especially when it comes to hurting the people he wants to hurt. It only makes things worse for them. My mother tried to teach me that lesson herself so that I wouldn't have to learn the hard way. I wish I would have listened. She stood by the entire time my father was tortured and I was bound at his side, never once making a sound… because she knew what would happen if she had. Learn from my mistake. Don't run off trying to be a hero when the Dark Lord is involved, because if you do, you will end up damning whoever it is he's targeting even more than they already are."

Harry knew that there was irrefutable wisdom in his words, but he couldn't just nod and accept them. "I can't," he said, "I can't just sit here and do nothing, not knowing what he—"

"Yes, you can. I know it sucks, I know it's probably the hardest thing for you in the world—little hero Harry Potter, needing to sit still and not run off on some dangerous, thrilling adventure—but it's the only thing you can do. What you need to learn, Potter, is how to compartmentalize."

A strangled laugh was escaping Harry's throat before he could stop it. "Compartmentalize?" he repeated dubiously. "I can't do that, I can't just shut off my feelings—because I'm not like you, I'm not—"

Harry got to his feet. He swayed when he stood as the blood rushed far too quickly to his head. He felt dizzy and too warm, too trapped. He rushed towards the door again, ignoring the reality that it was locked and that he could not get out.

"Potter!" Draco snapped, but Harry didn't turn. Draco followed him, grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him around, slamming him against the locked door with his wand at Harry's chest. He did so with ease; Harry was still so weak from his time in the cell beneath the manor. "Calm down, or I'm going to have to—to stun you or—"

Harry barely heard his threats. His heart was thundering so loudly and there were screams echoing in the back of his mind—he couldn't tell whose they were; they could have been his own or Neville's or his mother's or someone else's entirely—his breath was catching and Draco's eyes were so wide—

There was a flash of glinting darkness, and Draco released his hold on Harry's robes.

The Dark Lord did not arrive silently nor stealthily. All the lights flickered and the glasses trembled loudly on the bar. Voldemort's magic was suffocating and undeniable, and Draco had turned and was on his knees with his head bowed before Harry could blink.

"M-m-m-my Lord," Draco stuttered out in a high voice. Voldemort towered over him, his face bloodless and his eyes fiercely red. Harry had never heard Draco sound so afraid. Perhaps he thought that he was about to be severely punished for being found like this, for having Harry up against a wall and looking like he was about to hex him… which he was, but then again, Draco had been told that he could.

Harry's pulse picked up again as he mentally scrambled to gather himself. He was still shaking from what he was sure was about to be another panic attack.

Voldemort's magic was unreadable, whirling with too many emotions for Harry to try and decode any of them, but his sinister expression softened when his eyes met Harry's. He stepped past Draco—whose bright magic quivered as his master drew near—and grabbed Harry by the forearm.

"Breathe," Voldemort instructed in a low voice.

Harry hadn't realized he wasn't. He drew in a deep breath, and Voldemort's magic flickered with something like approval.

Then, without even the slightest of explanations to Draco, they disapparated.

Harry was compressed with the familiar, uncomfortable sensation of apparition, and in that fragmented moment Harry's thoughts reeled.

This is it. I am being taken to some dungeon where Percy will be waiting, bloodied and bound, about to be murdered. He is going to make me watch. Percy is going to die, and it is going to be all my fault.

They landed. Soft daylight danced across Harry's eyes.

Instantly, Harry made to turn on the spot, but Voldemort did not release his arm. Harry looked around him, held in place as he was, and was confused at what he saw.

Outside. They were outside, they were somewhere that Harry recognized vaguely… There were woods in the distance and the sky was a mixture of intense indigo and purple—the violet brighter than any color Harry had ever seen in the sky in his life—but whether it was sunrise or sunset, Harry was unsure…

More important than where they were, though, was the fact that they were alone. Harry looked up at Voldemort questioningly.

He did not look furious. He did not look as though he were on the verge of murdering someone in an incensed rampage. Even his magic was oddly still.

…Why?

Had he really not thought to torture someone in order to punish his rebellious, human horcrux? Afraid to voice what he thought was an obvious concern on the off chance that Voldemort had not thought to do this, Harry remained silent. Voldemort's magic was glistening. It looked more like the sky than the actual sky did; a star-scape against a backdrop of bleeding purple and blue. Towards the west, the barest pinpricks of stars were visible, but they paled in comparison to the glints of gold in Voldemort's swarming aura.

Voldemort gave Harry a sweeping, appraising look. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Breathe," he repeated, his command a bit sharper this time. Then, when Harry looked baffled, "slower."

Was he breathing that quickly? Harry put one hand to his chest and he realized that yes, yes he was. Putting forth a great deal of self-control for such a simple action, Harry closed his eyes and took a slow, steadying breath, and then another, and then another.

Voldemort released his arm.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see that the Dark Lord was no longer watching him but walking away. He moved several paces from Harry before sitting, rather casually, on the ground where fresh, young grass had begun to grow. He sat facing the violet half of the sky, his legs crossed and his back ramrod straight. He turned towards Harry and, nodding at the space by his side, said "Sit."

Harry was more confused than ever. Voldemort's magic and disposition were both calm—eerily so. Rather than reassure him, this filled Harry with a great sense of foreboding.

What kind of new trick was this?

At Harry's hesitation, Voldemort's magic flickered in annoyance. Unable to see a way out of this ploy, whatever it was, Harry sat next to him as instructed—though he left a healthy gap between them.

Voldemort was quiet for a long time. Harry waited, trying to breathe properly and slowly.

"…Do you have any idea how your heart haunts me?"

Harry stared, sure he must have invented that statement spoken in the detached, cold voice of Lord Voldemort. He was still looking up, away from Harry, his magic simmering about him.

"Your feelings, your torrid emotions… I feel them often. Even suppressed by Occlumency, they constantly flicker on the edges of my mind, especially when you are distraught. Earlier this very day, I felt one with precision. Outside. That thought and the recollection that the last time you had been outside was when you fell to me in the Forbidden Forest… But you were wrong."

Harry held his breath and waited. He felt like he was edging along the side of a cliff, and at any moment something would snap, causing an avalanche of viciousness.

"I brought you here. The last time you were outside was here, precisely here… That was not a memory."

Harry looked towards the horizon, and that was when it hit him—Finland, of course, this was northern Finland… Only it looked so different. It was not night but twilight… The aurora borealis were not currently flooding the sky, which was now a blanket of purple and blue…

But of course Harry had not thought of that moment as the last time he'd been outside. He'd been convinced he was in a memory even as it was happening.

Still, Harry was baffled as to why Voldemort was saying this and why they were here. Why was he so calm, what was he getting at? Harry was convinced that this situation would take a turn at any moment, and he prepared himself for the worst.

"I thought it my own madness at first… your whirlwind of a soul," Voldemort continued. "I thought it must be the repercussions of going without a corporal form for so long; I assumed it was merely a disturbing side effect from the ritual which gained me a solid, if pathetic, body… Random bursts of emotion that had no connection with anything I was doing… Why would I feel a strange surge of happiness when I had nothing to be joyful over, when I was still in such a fragile and pathetic state? Why should I feel anxiety when I was safely hidden behind wards and enchantments, Nagini's protective form coiled around me? I thought it was only because that small body was so unstable. I told myself the bizarre, mysterious emotions would end once I took your blood and was reborn as something stronger… But I was wrong. They became worse."

Harry's heart thundered in his ears. He had once more stopped breathing altogether, unwittingly fascinated.

He had never considered that the Dark Lord might have been feeling his emotions, too…

"I felt them more often and more powerfully. Pangs of pure grief that I had never once experienced in my own life, searing hatred that was not related to anything I was doing… I once felt the sensation of someone's lips being pressed to mine and tears staining my cheeks… I felt the ghost of pain on the back of my hand, could feel blood dripping from a wound that was not there… I felt vicious… Madness, I told myself. This is madness."

He faced Harry, his magic glinting in a disturbing yet gorgeous manner. "But I was wrong yet again. I was not suffering from madness as I secretly feared… I was feeling you."

Harry was unable to hold his silence any longer. He wasn't sure what grand and profound point the Dark Lord was trying to make and he didn't much care, not when he was so distraught. "What is this?" he blurted out. "What are you doing, why are we here, what's happening—what did you do to Percy—"

Harry shouted his name before he could stop himself. His hand flew to his mouth, and Voldemort tilted his head to one side. He looked surprised.

…But his magic revealed other emotions. Voldemort's aura darkened at the word Percy in a menacing way, and Harry knew without a doubt that Percy Weasley had not been forgotten by Lord Voldemort. "Percy Weasley?" he asked, sounding so convincingly nonchalant that Harry was sure he would have otherwise believed it. "Why would I do anything to Percy Weasley?"

"Because—because he questioned you in court, and because you're s-so…"

Harry's words trailed off, suddenly too uncomfortable to say more. The thought was there in his mind, but his jaw froze, unable to voice it.

Because you're so angry that I can keep this sense of wholeness from you. Because I threatened to do just that when your hungry tongue could glean nothing from my unwilling mouth.

And that was something, wasn't it? The way that neither he nor Voldemort had actually put into words the pleasant warmth that bloomed between them because of the shared fragment of Voldemort's soul. It was possibly the most powerful, beautiful thing that Harry had ever felt, that light—and it was certainly the most wonderful thing that the Dark Lord had experienced since he'd first shredded his soul with Dark Magic—but it was a connection that went unspoken.

Harry thought he understood why.

It was such an intimate bond, one that neither of them had wanted nor anticipated, and neither of them wanted to admit that it was real… despite how ostentatiously real it was. To utter the pleasure of the connection between them out loud was nearly impossible, it was so… uncomfortable.

Voldemort's magic whirled but his expression remained light. Harry already knew that this distressing fact remained truer for the Dark Lord than it did for him. Voldemort would never admit that he was infatuated—addicted—to the light of Harry's soul. The Dark Lord would never admit that Harry held something within him that made him feel peaceful and warm and whole, because to do such a thing would be to admit that he was, at least on some small level, wrong.

Lord Voldemort would never confess that having murdered so many innocent people to shatter his soul was wrong.

"…Percy Weasley did nothing wrong by making his arguments," Voldemort eventually said. "He thought that he was correct. He repeated my own words. He is uninformed of the full complications of your predicament, of course, but he had every right to speak. Why would I feel wrathful towards a wizard who was pardoned under my own ruling? Those would not be the reactions of a just and level-headed ruler."

Harry was astounded. His words were so carefully spoken, his expression so sincere, but his magic—his magic had darkened tremendously, and Harry knew that Voldemort felt nothing but ire in his heart for Percy Weasley.

Was that all this was to him, then? Proving Harry wrong? Trying to show that he wasn't a madman when Harry knew that the opposite was true?

Harry wasn't sure, but he did know that if that was the only reason Voldemort had not instantly acted on his impulse to harm someone, it was a temporary respite at best. "You're lying," Harry said, no longer caring if he seemed more perceptive than he should. His heart thumped against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. "You're lying, you wanted to kill Percy the moment he spoke against you and you want to kill him now! And you probably will at any moment, just because you can, just because—"

Harry's outcry was silenced. In a movement that was unsettlingly swift, Voldemort grabbed Harry about the waist and pulled him towards him, and before Harry even had the presence of mind to register what was happening, his legs were spread and his jaw and was in the Dark Lord's hands and—

"This must end."

…Harry was sitting on his lap.

Harry blinked, thinking he might be imagining things, but no—Voldemort had just grabbed him and settled him rather jarringly onto his lap so that Harry was straddling him. Voldemort grabbed his face with one hand so that Harry was for once looking down at the Dark Lord's face rather than up into it under his tall, towering form.

Harry's panic was effectively derailed to say the least. His legs were on either side of the Dark Lord's hips; their chests were separated by barely more than a few layers of fabric. Harry was so close to Voldemort's face that he could count his lashes if he wanted; he could feel his words against his face as he spoke them.

"This panic must stop. Your friends are safe. Anyone who is dear to you is safe. If they are alive now and they have been pardoned then they are under my protection. This constant panicking for their safety is debilitating and unnecessary and it must end."

Harry ignored the fact that he was in such an intimate, physical position with Voldemort and forced himself to focus on what he was saying. "They're not safe at all," he said, incredulous that he had to even make such an argument. "You made that perfectly clear yourself—you'll hurt anyone to punish me, y-you've already—"

"No longer."

Voldemort's magic softened. Harry had never seen it quite so glittery as it was now, the gold sparkling almost blindingly. "I swear to you, from this moment on, that they are safe… No one else needs to die. No one else needs to suffer."

Rather than reassure him, Harry felt his disbelief spike. "Until I do something to piss you off again, or—or one of them says or does something to defy you that's grave enough—and they will, because they don't support you and your ideals and they never really will and—"

Harry's statement was cut off by a sudden onslaught of his own emotion. Voldemort's magic darkened uncomfortably; even his expression, which was usually such a carefully controlled mask, cracked just a hair.

"And Hermione will figure it out."

Harry wrenched his face from Voldemort's grasp. He thought to try and move away but found that his body wouldn't listen. Words were streaming out of his mouth before he could manage it, anyway.

"Hermione will figure it out," he repeated, and it was only as he spoke that he realized the weight of his own statement. It was a fear that had been forming in his subconscious since the moment Hermione had first arrived at Malfoy Manor, since she had looked at Harry's frightening, crimson eyes and not said a word about them.

"Hermione is too smart, she will figure it out, she will find out that I'm a h-h—"

"Hermione Granger knows exactly what you are."

Harry stared, certain he’d misheard him.

“What did you think I was looking for in her mind when she first came to me, to us?” Voldemort said. “She knows. She has known for some time, truthfully, though she did not accept it as a reality until very recently."

Harry was beside himself. He barely noticed when Voldemort moved one hand to rest against his neck. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"Hermione Granger became suspicious that you may be a horcrux of mine on the day that the two of you escaped Godric's Hollow… She sat and tended to you for hours afterwards as you writhed, unconscious yet moaning, hissing… She wiped the sweat from your face and watched as, when your eyes would occasionally flash open, she swore she saw scarlet in the usual green of your irises…

"But no, she convinced herself that it could not be true. Surely Dumbledore would have known? Surely he would have figured out long ago that you were a horcrux if that were the case? And if he had known, Dumbledore would never do something as conniving as intentionally keep that from you for his own purposes… would he?"

Voldemort's voice was not smug nor condescending; he said it all in a soft, neutral tone. "She convinced herself that it could not be true—that the unheard of connection between us was just the repercussions of dark magic and nothing more. She knew that she was wrong the moment she heard your voice on the Potterwatch broadcast. For what other reason would I have for keeping you alive?

"And so she came. A night full of contemplation, but she made her choice to come in the end. To fight me meant to murder you, and she would not do that. Her loyalty to you is unprecedented. I once may have said that friendship was dangerous, that to have faith in anyone was idiotic… but it would appear that in this instance I was wrong. Hermione Granger's unwavering friendship to you was her saving grace. She would never do anything to betray or endanger you… Therefore, her loyalty now also belongs to me."

"She… she knows?" Harry asked stupidly once he had finished. Voldemort nodded. "She knows… Hermione knows…"

Voldemort's expression and magic suddenly became distraught again. It took Harry a moment to realize why; his body had begun reacting before his brain could catch up.

Crying… he was crying…

Silent tears were streaming down his face, and it was with that comprehension that Harry was hit with a debilitating sense of relief.

His repressed fears came bubbling to the surface. Deep, deep down, Harry had been afraid that Hermione would soon learn what he was, and that she would someday turn on him, determined to kill him because that was the only way, the only way…

But now, as the truth came out that this was not the case—that Hermione knew what he was and wanted him to live anyway, that she would not forsake him for something he had never wanted to be—Harry's buried anxiety was washed away, and the rush of gratitude he felt towards her was so strong that he was crying because of it.

They were tears of relief.

Voldemort didn't seem to understand. His magic was tense and his hand went rigid against his neck. Harry got the distinct impression that the Dark Lord would like nothing more than to be as far away from Harry's display of emotion as possible.

But Voldemort could not run from his horcrux's emotions even if he wanted to.

Harry wiped the unbidden tears away. "Ron?" he choked out, needing to know. "Does Ron know?"

"…No. He does not know, and Hermione Granger is sworn to secrecy… I see no reason for Ronald Weasley to be aware."

Harry just nodded and hid his face in his hands, not wanting to begin the discussion as to what would happen if Ron did find out. He didn’t see how that could last forever. Ron was also aware that Voldemort had made horcruxes…

Voldemort didn't breech the subject, either. He reached with both arms and pulled Harry's hands away from his face, shockingly gentle. "This must end," he said quietly but firmly. "I will not harm anyone you care about. They are safe."

"You aren't happy about that."

Harry voice turned spiteful. "You aren't. You wanted to curse Percy right then and you still want to now. You want to torture anyone who displeases you. Just like you tortured me so many times, just like you've tortured and killed so many others."

Voldemort stared at Harry's incensed, tear-stained face for a long moment. Harry fully expected him to lie, to make some comment about being level-headed and just yet again… and was very surprised when he did not.

"Yes," he admitted in a cold hiss, his magic dark. Harry's skin crawled at the feeling. "I do. My instant reaction is always to cause pain. I wanted nothing more than to skin Percy Weasley alive for the mere suggestion that you could be taken from me."

Voldemort's hands tightened on Harry's wrists like living shackles. "But I did not act on the impulse. I may have the gut reaction to strike and kill when one opposes me, but those urges do not matter so long as I do not act on them… We all have individual, visceral reactions, do we not? I cannot control my instincts to wish to kill any more than you can control your instincts which demand that you try and save…"

His dark magic lightened slightly, once more glittering with gold. "Because that is what you do, isn't it, Harry?" he murmured. "You always want to save people…"

"And you don't," Harry agreed tensely, ignoring the way Voldemort's magic had begun to shine. "Since when do you take your time to thoughtfully consider whether you should punish someone? You hurt people all the time without thinking—I would know. I saw the way you treated your followers through your own eyes multiple times throughout the years. You curse and kill people without consideration."

Rather than make him angry, this statement only served to make Voldemort's magic glisten more. "For a time, I did," he agreed, "but that was when I had only recently regained a body. You think that was how I acted before? Fourteen years as something less than a ghost… changed me. I had been shattered. I was burdened with some emotions that were mine and some which weren't, and I thought that if it was madness that plagued me then it should plague the world… I felt broken."

The last word caused his smooth and tenuous voice to break. Harry was shocked at the intensity in his eyes, at the way his magic flashed… Need, he was suddenly consumed by a deep-seated need, and Voldemort's hands were so tight around Harry's wrists that it bordered on painful.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, nor embarrassed about… I understand."

Voldemort's magic was rushing in a whirlwind of desperate emotions. It made Harry's heart ache even as he grappled to understand what he was talking about.

"I'm sorry you've lost that." Voldemort's words were heavy, his voice low in a way that Harry had never heard before. The sensation of desperation in his magic soared. Black and gold. "I'm sorry that you became this…"

Realization struck Harry like a bolt of lightning. Voldemort was… He was reciting Harry's own words back to him, from back when he had been blinded, woken up in a state of desperation by the Dark Lord himself… The one time Harry had begged him for anything…

Don't leave me.

A torrential wave of guilt washed over him. Harry had said that. He had said that he was sorry for what the Dark Lord had become, had even said that his desire to feel whole again was nothing shameful…

And then he had gone and kept it from him in a moment of viciousness.

He knew his guilt was unwarranted. Harry knew that what he had done in that situation was understandable, if bold—Voldemort had just twisted his entire life story to fit his agenda in public, had turned him into some sad little victim and made his mother out to be a terrible, vindictive woman…

And yet he felt guilty, anyway. Voldemort's magic was undulating with a fierce need that was so raw and pleading  that it tugged at his heart strings and—

This was just another manipulation.

A small but very present part of Harry's mind spoke up, a dark voice lurking in the corners of his psyche. This, right here, is another manipulation. Rather than get you to do what he wants through threats to torture your friends—which inconveniences him because of your emotions—he is using another tactic. He knows you, and he's just said it himself—you're Harry Potter, you have a saving people thing. He's used this against you before. He's using it against you now.

Only this time, it was Voldemort himself Harry was being guilted into saving… Though saving from what, precisely, was questionable. Merely from feeling broken? From that horrid sensation of coldness?

Or was he, Harry Potter… could he perhaps save the Dark Lord's soul through this light that bound them?

Voldemort's eyes were searing into his as Harry's mind raced with these thoughts. His usually crimson irises looked more lilac than scarlet under the brightly colored sky; a violent violet that was full of longing.

"I'm sorry that you never knew love…"

Harry thought at first that it was his own body that had begun to shake again, but no. It was Voldemort's hands that had begun to tremble around his wrists.

Harry's heart was breaking and he hated that it was happening. The small, dark voice in the corner of his mind fought against the inevitable—it screamed at him to remember that this man had done this to himself, he had killed his parents and Neville and he was the reason that Sirius and Remus and Tonks and so many, many others were dead—he should deny him the feeling of a whole, pure soul because he did not deserve it, he was a monster—

But then Voldemort spoke again, and the spiteful voice was silenced.

"I'm sorry."

…Was he still just repeating his own words back to him? Harry would have thought so without question were it not for the Dark Lord's magic enveloping itself around him. Harry felt like he was being swathed in constellations. And… it was not remorse that was cradling him from all sides, no…

But it was something like it.

The tiniest glimmer of warmth flickered between them. The irrefutable bond of their souls sparking to life, but it only lasted for a second before dissipating.

A request.

Harry knew he was being manipulated, he knew it… but he let it happen anyway. He said nothing, only looked at Voldemort and nodded.

Light, lovely and all-encompassing, bloomed between them. Voldemort's eyelids fluttered and closed, blessed relief exuding from his aura. His head fell against Harry's chest and his arms wrapped around his waist, the warmth so strong that Harry felt like he was floating up into the twilight sky.

Unthinking, Harry did something he had never done before. He ran his fingers through Voldemort's hair in the same manner that the Dark Lord always did to him, his smooth, wavy locks that reached just a few inches beneath his chin. Voldemort allowed it, his grip around Harry's waist tightening and the beautiful warmth escalating. Harry could feel it radiating from his very core all the way to his fingertips, where he carded them through the Dark Lord's hair like silent promises.

Rationally, no, Harry did not think Voldemort's soul could be saved. The Dark Lord had done too many terrible things, he had hurt too many… He was probably too damaged and broken…

But Harry was stupid enough to try.

Voldemort clung to his body and the light of his soul like a starving man. Harry let him bask in it, uncaring that he was a big-hearted fool, because that was who he was, and he did not know how to be anything else.

Even if the Dark Lord was irredeemable, even if his words were nothing but echoes of Harry's own; more damning, cunning manipulations…

"…I'm sorry."

Even if he did not know for what or to whom he was apologizing.

These were the cryptic, softly spoken instructions that Voldemort had left Harry with before disappearing from his bedroom, not even waiting for his captive to agree. Harry was more than a little annoyed by that, but do course he understood why. The Dark Lord didn't need to hear his acceptance.

He already knew he had it.

Every night before midnight, Harry was to be back in this room with too many mirrors at the far end of Malfoy Manor… alone.

Harry felt like his life was turning into a dark and twisted fairy tale.

He sighed heavily and fell onto his bed, staring at his reflection above him. He looked and felt exhausted. He wondered how long he and Voldemort had sat beneath that twilight sky before the Dark Lord had brought him back to Malfoy Manor. It had not seemed like very long. But then again, time felt warped while under the influence of that blissful warmth.

Harry closed his eyes, ignoring the strange, fluttery feeling in his stomach as he trailed his hands over his chest, recalling how Voldemort's arms had felt wound around his waist. He had felt so warm, his magic had been so lovely and glistening… And that light, as always, had made Harry feel like he was floating…

Floating…

Harry was not on a bed in Malfoy Manor, but atop a fluffy, white cloud. He was floating through the sky, a gentle, pleasantly warm breeze rustling his hair. The sun had set, and Harry looked up into the beauty of the star-strewn sky above him, scanning the heavens intently.

He quickly found what he was looking for—the brightest, most vibrant star in the sky. "'Lo, Sirius," he murmured, waving.

He did not expect a response. To Harry's great surprise, the brightest star brightened even further, flickering and twinkling like a celestial wink.

"Don't forget," came the familiar tenor of Sirius's voice. Harry sat up, his feeling of contentedness dissipating.

"Sirius?" Harry shouted, hardly daring to believe what he had heard. "Is that really you?"

The star flicked again. "Don't forget what he is, Harry."

Another gust of wind stirred the air, but this time it was icy and cold. Harry shivered as chills shook his spine, a dark feeling settling over him. The cloud beneath him felt like it was getting thinner. Harry looked down on it with dread; it was, the cloud was dissolving beneath him, he could feel himself slipping through it, into it—he was going to fall—

"Don't forget."

"Sirius!" Harry shouted, trying to stand to see if he could escape, but it was pointless—there was nowhere to go but down.

"Don't forget."

The cloud vanished, and Harry went plummeting towards the earth—he fell from the heavens, his screams swallowed by the cold air rushing past him.

Down, down, down…

Harry woke with a jolt.

His heart was pounding and he was broken out in a cold sweat, but the dream he had been having—it had been so visceral!—was already fading. He bit his lower lip, trying to remember…

It was gone. Harry sat up and shook his head, deciding it was probably better that he could not recall whatever his nightmare had been. He looked around at the bed he was on in confusion. He did not remember taking his shoes off, nor getting under the covers…

Harry tossed the blankets aside and stood in a panic. How long had he been out this time? He glanced at the clock and gaped—it was eleven. Harry rushed to the door, heading towards the foyer. What was wrong with him, napping with everything that was going on…?

Harry walked briskly through the halls, ignoring the curious looks that portraits gave him as he passed. He paused only when he came to the bay window overlooking the gardens, where he stared, slack-jawed at the sight that greeted him.

Daylight. He had thought that it was eleven at night when he'd looked at the clock in his room, but he could see now that he was wrong. It was morning. He had not slept for a few hours, but all night, well into the morning!

Harry ran. A few painted renditions of Malfoy ancestors scoffed as he went, but Harry hardly cared. He'd slept all night; any number of terrible things could have happened in that time…

He turned a corner and barreled right into Ron. Ron's magic brightened, and he nearly fell backwards with the force of how hard Harry had collided with him. It was a testament to how on edge they were that they both screamed, which in turn caused the portrait nearest to them to scream as well—a blonde witch who looked to be from the Victorian era. She dropped her feather fan and ran out of her frame, fleeing to another.

"Sorry!" Harry shouted as Ron clutched at his chest, looking as taken aback as Harry felt. "Are you all right?"

"Barely," Ron muttered. "I was just coming to see if you were all right. You've taken to sleeping in, I see."

Harry face grew warm. He wasn't sure why he slept for so long when he did. Maybe he was still making up for a sleep debt…

"Sorry," Harry repeated, mumbling this time. "What's happened? What's going on? Where is Hermione?"

Hermione. The moment Harry said her name, he realized how badly he wanted to speak to her in private.

She knew what he was…

"Gone," Ron said sourly. "She's been gone all morning. Summoned again…"

His magic darkened to a rust colored hue, heavy around him. "Oh," said Harry. "I, er, supposed you don't know what for?"

"No. She just had to go…"

"Is… Is everything okay? With you two?"

Harry knew it was a ridiculous question; nothing was okay at all, with any of them, but he had to ask. Ron's face reddened and he looked to the floor.

"Er… Yeah, we're… We're okay," he said. He scratched the back of his head. "Guess we better be, seeing as we're getting married in exactly a week."

Which was what Harry had wanted to ask, but didn't think it would be wise to state his question so bluntly. "Yeah," he said. "I forgot to say it before, but, uh… Congratulations!"

There was a beat of silence, and then they were both grinning despite themselves. "Not the circumstances I would have imagined," Ron said, "but I'm still happy about that one aspect of my life. You wouldn't believe what I had to do last night though, Harry. After—after Hermione and I, er, talked”—his face turned a much brighter red, and his magic quivered erratically—“I realized I had to tell my family. My mother. Preferably before our engagement was, you know, announced in The Daily Prophet for the rest of the world to see."

Harry stared at his slightly delirious grin. "Yeah. I had to write my mum and dad a letter, telling them about how I'm staying with the Malfoy’s of my own free will, and that I'll be busy all week up until then here and at the Ministry, and would she mind sending me my things? And that I'm here with you, and—and my girlfriend who is now my fiancé for a wedding that is happening next week, who I will be marrying in the ancient, traditional wizarding manner… Mrs. Malfoy had to proofread the whole thing— making sure I didn't say anything I wasn't supposed to, I guess—before sending it off with their owl… I expect I'll get a howler back…"

"Did you tell her that Hermione is pregnant?" Harry asked.

"We decided it would probably be best to tell her that bit in person," Ron said. "The letter was already pretty… jarring."

"Ron… what is the ancient, traditional wizarding manner for getting married?"

Ron looked conflicted and his magic trembled. "Let's… Let's go sit down, shall we?" he said, sounding falsely casual. "Instead of standing around in the hall; that witch just came back into her frame, and she looks nosy…"

Indeed, the painted blonde woman had reappeared, and she was clearly eavesdropping, hiding most of her face behind her large feather fan. "Well don't run this time!" she barked after them as Harry followed Ron down the hall, snapping her fan shut.

Ron led him along the familiar path which led to the foyer, where, in his typical, sullen fashion, was Draco Malfoy. He was reading a book and sitting at the same table that Harry had seen him at the day before. "Sorry about the company," Ron muttered, and Draco looked up from his book with narrowed eyes, "but I wanted to be near the floo for whenever Hermione gets back, and he wouldn't let me out of his sight… Except for when I said I was going to wake you up."

"Because I didn't feel like getting attacked again," Draco drawled. His gray eyes settled on Harry and he closed his book. "Look who's finally awake. Did you try and strangle Weasley when he woke you up, scarhead?"

"No, just tried to run me over in the hall is all," said Ron cheerfully. "He was already up. Anyway, you can leave if you like Malfoy. We're not going to go anywhere."

Draco scoffed. "Yeah, right. This one will try to floo himself to Salazar knows where if I walk away from this fireplace," Draco said, nodding towards Harry. "I'm staying right here."

Harry glared but didn't bother arguing. He and Ron took a seat, and Draco smirked, his eyes suddenly gleaming. "Here, Potter. This might interest you. This morning's issue of the Daily Prophet covers your trial."

Draco slid the current issue of the Prophet across the table; Harry didn't touch it. Reading that article was the last thing he wanted to do. "No thanks," said Harry darkly.

"Don't worry, Rita Skeeter didn't write it. It's actually pretty dry… but speaking of Skeeter. What did you say to her?"

Draco leaned forward with his elbows on the table, magic flashing in curiosity. "That's what I want to know. The author of this article mentioned that you only answered one question on your way to your trial, and that you did so with a 'carefully worded obscenity towards Rita Skeeter'. You weren't supposed to talk to anyone so far as I knew. What did she ask? What did you say?"

Harry felt Ron's magic brighten curiously as well. He remembered how the guards had ushered away the reporters on his way to the lifts, but when he, Harry, had frozen upon hearing the voice of Rita Skeeter, intent on saying something to her, even the guards had paused, curious to hear the Undesirable Number One speak…

"She… er…" Harry cleared his throat, his face flushing. He pondered whether or not he should tell them this, but both Draco and Ron looked so eager that he decided to do it anyway. "She asked me how I felt about there being no dementors for my trial, and… and I told her to go fuck herself."

Ron and Draco stared at him, similar looks of shock on their faces… and then they both broke out into laughter.

"That's amazing," Ron said, beaming. "I can't wait to tell Hermione."

Harry grinned sheepishly. He wasn't sure if he should be proud or ashamed of having said that. He supposed a bit of both.

Though Draco did not offer up similar compliments, he looked amused and perhaps impressed despite his best efforts not to be. With a crooked smile still on his face, he looked to the side and shouted, "Binny!", and the elf appeared with a soft pop.

"Well, what would you like?" Draco asked, looking to Harry. "To eat. To drink," he prompted.

"Oh. Ah, tea would be fine. Thank you."

"No," Draco said, the smile sliding from his face. The elf froze mid-bow. "You have to eat something too, Potter."

Harry shot him a venomous look. "Fine," he said. "Toast would be lovely if you don't mind, Binny."

"Of course, sir," Binny squeaked. He then disapparated.

Malfoy made a noise as though he were disgusted. "If you don't mind," he repeated in mocking tones, shaking his head. "Honestly…"

Harry ignored him and turned his attention to Ron. "What is the traditional way wizards get married?" he asked. Draco's magic sparked with renewed interest from across the table.

"Er… well," Ron began, looking uncomfortable. "It's, um… more like a magical ritual then it is a normal wedding…"

His voice trailed off. Before Harry could prompt him to continue, Binny reappeared, hovering a tray of toast, butter, jam, and tea not only for Harry but for all of them onto the table. "Thanks," Harry said distractedly, not touching any of it and staring at Ron. "What does that mean, then?"

Draco's magic was growing brighter still, and Harry was sure that he would interrupt at any moment. Ron cleared his throat and said, "Well. It's between two people, you see…"

"I gathered that, Ron, believe it or not," Harry muttered.

"Er—right—and, well… th-there's a Bonder, and those are the only people necessary for the ritual… They're traditionally really small, intimate things, wizarding unions…"

"It's an oath," Draco said, cutting in just as Harry suspected he would. "A blood oath. There's one blade, which is enchanted by the Bonder, and each individual uses that blade to make a cut on the other person, here." He held out his left palm and traced a section of it with the index finger of his right hand. "On the heart line. And while they're making the cut they utter an incantation. Then, once they've both performed the spell on each other, they press their palms together, thus completing the bond with blood."

"Blood magic," Harry said blankly. Ron's magic was twitching anxiously. "And… and there's a Bonder." Ron nodded. "That… sounds an awful lot like an Unbreakable Vow."

"It sure does," Ron said, his voice an octave too high.

"It's so romantic," Draco sneered, grinning widely and stirring some sugar into his tea.

"Wait, wait," said Harry, shaking his head. "What does this mean? What is the incantation you have to say?"

"Er… Habes… Habes con—"

"Habes cor meum et animam meam," Draco recited. "Merlin, Weasley, it's not very long. I do hope you manage to memorize it properly before your wedding day…"

Rather than look offended, Ron looked worried. "Me too," he said gravely. "Imagine what kind of nightmare it would be if I said the wrong bloody thing…"

"But what does that mean?" asked Harry. "Habes cor… cor whatever—"

"You have my heart and my soul," said Draco loftily, lifting his tea cup. His eyes were glittering with mirth. "It's so romantic."

"Shut up Malfoy, you're not the one who has to do it," said Ron, but he did not sound angry as he usually did when speaking to Malfoy—just nervous.

"Well, I will someday, won't I?" Draco said, shrugging.

Harry and Ron both raised a brow at him. "Of course I will. There are a lot of benefits to it, believe it or not, and besides. It's how my parents were married. It's how most respectable wizarding couples get married. The ones who give a damn about our magical roots and noble traditions, of course."

"But if this is really like an Unbreakable Vow… What does that mean? What does it do? Are you never able to—to cheat on your spouse, or something? And what happens if you do?"

"Don't be so crass, Potter," Malfoy said before taking a sip of tea.

"…Well, is that what it does?" Harry asked again, for neither Draco nor Ron answered his questions.

"Of course not," said Draco. "No one would get married that way if it did. It just opens up a sort of emotional connection between the two people getting married. Heightens your sense of empathy towards the other person or something like that."

"Empathy?"

"Yeah. Makes you understand that person more clearly, I guess. I don’t know exactly how it feels seeing as I'm not married, but my father said it made it much easier to understand why my mother would react in certain ways. That he comprehends her emotions better, and vice versa. Intimate empathy."

"Oh," Harry said, still not quite understanding. "Well… that doesn't sound so horrible, I guess… But if it's an oath… a blood oath… Can it ever be broken?"

Draco looked genuinely confused by Harry's question. "Like, what if one person in the marriage decided they didn't want to be married any longer? That they didn't like those extra feelings of empathy. Is divorce even possible?"

Draco went from looking perplexed to irritated. "That's a muggle thing," he muttered.

"What?" Harry shouted. "A muggle thing? How can divorce be a muggle thing?"

"I've never heard of witches and wizards who are married this way getting divorced," Draco said simply.

Harry looked to Ron, whom he expected to argue against Draco. He didn't. "I actually haven't either," he said thoughtfully.

Harry was astounded. "Is it illegal in wizarding society?"

"I don't think so," said Ron. "It's just… not really something that happens much, I don't think."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than usual. Draco watched him distastefully. "So, these blood oaths are permanent, huh?"

"No one ever said that," Draco said, his eyes gleaming. "The blood bond ends if one person in the union dies, of course. You can't be married to a ghost."

Ron laughed nervously, his magic too bright and trembly to mean anything good. Harry looked at him and, in a voice that was impressively casual, Ron asked, "How many husbands did you say Zabini's mother went through, Harry?"

Draco glowered. Harry thought he recalled it being something along the lines of seven but decided instead to answer with, "A… few. But wait, who is your Bonder going to be?"

Ron's whole demeanor darkened. "Take a guess."

"No," Harry gasped. "Not him."

"Yeah."

"Really?"

"Really."

Harry leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. "Wow," he said. "My best friends are going to get married in Malfoy Manor… in a week… by the Dark Lord."

“Yep.”

No one seemed to have anything to add to this unsettling truth. They fell into a long and awkward silence. Draco picked his book back up, Harry quietly ate his toast, and Ron sipped at his tea, occasionally glancing up at the chandelier like he hadn't quite given up hope that it may fall on him.

Binny had just vanished with the dishes when the fireplace flickered to life in a burst of green flames.

It was Hermione. She entered the foyer with her magic swirling in a much healthier manner than Harry had ever seen it, and she was carrying several large bags in her hands. Upon seeing Harry and Ron she smiled.

"Is everything okay?" Ron said at once, jumping to his feet and rushing towards her. "What did he want?"

"Yes, everything is fine," she answered reassuringly, and Harry stood as well. She gave them each a quick hug, which was not an easy feat considering how full her hands were. Draco remained seated, looking looking his typical, annoyed self.

"What did he want?" said Harry, repeating Ron's question.

"What happened to you last night?" Hermione asked instead, giving Harry a pointed look. "You and Malfoy left, and when we went looking for you later, you'd disappeared…"

Harry's mind went blank. Draco's magic was quivering in a strange fashion, and Harry could tell at once that he had not told Hermione and Ron that Voldemort had snatched him away…

"Fell asleep," Harry lied. "Sorry. I just sort of passed out. I didn't mean to, honestly…"

Hermione scrutinized him for a moment, her magic undulating back and forth in suspicious, burgundy waves… but then she smiled. "You probably needed your rest," she said. "I doubt any of us have slept well lately…"

"So what did the Dark Lord want?" Harry asked, desperate to not talk about himself. As he asked it, he wondered when exactly it had become normal for him to say the Dark Lord rather than you-know-who, or, his preference, Voldemort… And why he was not calling him that now.

He could. Harry was the only one who could say Voldemort's name without triggering the taboo…

"He… wanted to explain a few things to me," Hermione answered. "And I, er, went to St. Mungo's…"

"St. Mungo's?" Ron balked, his magic flashing in panic. "What for? Did something—"

"Nothing happened!" Hermione said quickly. "I just went with Mrs. Malfoy, I picked out a Healer… I have an appointment with her tomorrow. F-for a prenatal exam. Healer Macmillan, she's really great, I think you'll like her… If you want to come with me tomorrow?"

She looked at Ron nervously, who immediately said, "Yes. Of course I want to be there with you."

Hermione smiled, and as she and Ron exchanged an extremely fond, loving look, their magic reacted to each other's—fuzzy, vibrant orange gingerly touching smooth, burgundy waves. Harry felt like he should back slowly out of the room and be nowhere near them, and it was obvious with a single glance towards Draco that he felt the same way.

Perhaps sensing this, Ron cleared his throat. "Er, here, let me take those… What are these?" He took Hermione's bags from her, looking curious.

"Just a few things. I sort of went shopping with Mrs. Malfoy after she took me to St. Mungo's. You weren't exaggerating, Ron, that is an odd experience. She said she's taking you on Monday, Harry, she said that you need robes? She should be here any moment, by the way. And, ah. Harry, did Ron tell you the details of the wedding?"

"Yeah, sort of," Harry answered.

"Oh, good. So… will you be my witness?"

"Sorry? Witness?" Harry raised at brow at Ron, who was now holding all of Hermione's many, heavy-looking bags.

"Didn't explain that bit," Ron said. "I'll just… put these in your room…"

He shuffled away awkwardly, leaving Harry standing next to Hermione. Draco had hidden behind his book again, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

"He explained how the ceremony works, at least?" Hermione asked.

"The basics of it, yeah," Harry said. He was surprised that she did not look more perturbed at the notion of a blood bond. Perhaps she had simply had enough time to accept it.

"So it will be happening here, all of it—this massive reception and the wedding—but the ritual itself is going to be very secluded… Traditionally they only have the three people—the Bonder and the two getting married—but we're each allowed one witness to be in the room with us, and… and Ron has already asked his mother, he had to owl her last night about it, can you believe it? They wouldn't let him leave… But anyway… Harry, w-will you be mine?"

Harry stared, noting the way Hermione's magic trembled and her eyes glistened as she looked up at him. It took him a moment to realize why she was asking him, and why she was on the precipice of tears.

Harry was probably the only person Hermione could ask. She had no siblings; her parents were in Australia with no clue that they even had a daughter… Her entire family was muggles; of course Lord Voldemort would not allow them to attend…

"O-of course," Harry said, though he had no idea what being a witness entailed. "Absolutely."

Hermione beamed and pulled him into a hug, burying her head in his chest. "Oh, thank you!" she said, her magic swelling with a suffocating emotion. Harry hugged her back as he considered what this meant.

In a week's time, he would be alone in a room with Ron, Hermione, Voldemort, and Mrs. Weasley, watching his best friends perform a blood ritual…

The thought of seeing Mrs. Weasley again made his heart ache… and the thought of everyone else that he would see at this reception afterwards made his stomach twist into knots. Surely the entire pardoned, Weasley family would be there… Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George and—

The fireplace once more ignited in green.

Hermione released him. Draco swore under his breath, dropped his book, and jumped up as a slew of people paraded into the foyer.

First was Narcissa Malfoy, followed by no less than six witches and a wizard, all of whom were dressed in long, stylish dress robes. "Welcome to my home," Narcissa announced curtly, and the people surrounded her all made comments along the lines of 'lovely space!', 'such high ceilings!' and 'that chandelier is to die for.' They each brandished their wands, and quick-quills and bits of parchments appeared, all of which immediately began taking notes.

"Mother," Draco said, a smile fixed on his face. "Welcome back."

"This is my son, Draco, and our current guest, Mr. Potter."

The group all stared in awe at Harry. Harry waved shyly, but Narcissa spoke again before he needed to say anything. "And this is the lovely bride, Miss Hermione Granger. Hermione, these are the best wedding planners, florists, and decorators that Wizarding Britain has to offer… or so I've been told. Now, where is—? Oh, there."

Ron returned, looking baffled at the group of people who had manifested in the foyer in the few moments he'd been gone. "This is Ronald Weasley, the groom," Narcissa announced. Ron flushed. "Now, the wedding is in one week, so we have much work to do. Hermione, Ron, of course, your input will be valued; we were thinking the reception would be in the rose garden, but we have options… Draco, where is your father? He was supposed to be here."

"H-he went to Diagon Alley," Draco answered. "He said he was going to—er—"

"Meet with that calligraphy artist who should be sending out the invitations by owl later today, I hope?" she said, her usual navy magic flashing dangerously.

"Yes," Draco said at once. "That's exactly what he said."

"Good." Narcissa then turned to her group of wedding planners, most of whom were still blatantly staring at Harry. Narcissa noticed this and snapped her fingers, drawing their attention to her. "I'll give you all a tour of the gardens and the manor, so we can decide which location would be most suitable. There are going to be three hundred people at this event, so keep this in mind as we look… Ron and Hermione will of course accompany us; Harry, Draco, you're welcome to join if you like."

"Actually, mother," Draco said, "I just told Harry that I would show him to our infirmary. He said he has a bit of a headache, and I didn't want to be rude and leave him with the house-elf when he's still gathering his bearings…"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all gawked at him. He had called him Harry, and he had said it in such a charming, convincing voice. Narcissa and the group of wedding planners didn't seem to notice their confusion though, and they instead cast the youngest Malfoy admiring looks. "That's sweet of you, Draco. Of course," Narcissa said. "But don't be gone too long, I'll have work for you later. Right. Come along, everyone."

She walked away, motioning for the planners, Hermione, and Ron to follow her. Hermione bravely did, but as she reached for Ron's hand, Ron turned and looked over his shoulder. He shot Harry a desperate and unhappy look, like he was being dragged off to a torture session. Harry almost laughed.

"Come on, Harry," Draco said with the most dazzling smile Harry had ever seen gracing his pointed features. They were still within earshot of the others. "Let's get you something for that headache."

Harry said nothing as he nonetheless allowed Draco to guide him away from the foyer. "Your son is such a lamb," he heard one of the witches say behind them, to which Narcissa agreed.

"What," Harry muttered as soon as they were down the hall, "was that?"

The fake smile slid from Malfoy's face. "That was me getting us both out of a very painful afternoon. You're welcome."

Harry didn't see why getting a tour would have been painful; if anything, he would have appreciated being shown around this massive manor and the gardens outside. "Do you really have an infirmary in this house? Because I don't have a headache."

"Of course we do, but I'm not taking you there," Draco said. He was walking quickly as they turned a corner into another corridor. "I have to go to Diagon Alley now and find whoever the calligraphy artist is…"

"What? Why?"

"Because I just lied for my father and now I have to cover his arse. Try and keep up, Potter."

Draco stopped directly in front of a large painting of a what Harry thought must be the entryway to this very manor.

"Why are you covering for him?" Harry asked suspiciously. "If he just disappears and leaves you here when your mother is stressed out, planning things?"

"Because if I do, then he owes me."

"Do you… blackmail your father, Malfoy?"

"Well, it sounds ugly when you put it like that," Draco said. "But trust me. It all works out in the end. We're a family of snakes, what can I say? I was probably going to sneak out of here the moment my mother was back, anyway—"

"But we just left the foyer with the connection to the floo network."

Draco smirked. "Please. There's more than one way out of this manor aside from the floo or walking out the front door. This is an old, magical house, made by wizards. I bet it has more hidden passages and rooms than Hogwarts."

Still smirking at Harry, Draco reached up with one hand and… knocked on the door in the painting. When he did, it made a rapping noise that sounded very much as though he had just struck a wooden door, not a canvas. "I'm going to Diagon Alley," Draco announced to no one.

The door swung open.

"No way," Harry said, staring in awe as Draco stepped into the frame.

Draco's smile widened even more, his magic bright and merry. "Don't get too excited Potter, it wouldn't work for you. You're not a Malfoy," he said, one foot in the frame, one still firmly in the corridor with Harry. "This whole house has secret passages that are enchanted to only react to witches and wizards with Malfoy blood in their veins… And those who have gone through blood oath with a Malfoy, of course. So, unless you plan on trying to marry me, you're shit out of luck."

Malfoy laughed at Harry's expression, which must have been some mixture of revolted and angry. "You're just going to leave me here, then?" Harry shouted, incredulous. "Just like that?"

"No, not just like that. Binny!"

The elf appeared, bowing. "Make sure Potter doesn't go within ten feet of the fireplace in the foyer, or even try to step foot out of this manor." Malfoy's eyes gleamed vindictively. "If he does try to leave, punish yourself severely."

The elf trembled and fell into another bow, and for the first time, Harry noticed it—just barely. A spark of magic emanating around Binny.

He'd never noticed magic around an elf before.

It was gone as soon as he'd perceived it. Trying not to let himself get distracted by this insight, Harry glowered at Malfoy. "You're such an arse."

"Have a lovely day," he said brightly in response. Harry barely resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders and throw him to the ground—the knowledge that Draco had a wand and he did not the only thing keeping him from doing so.

Then he was gone. The painted door closed behind him, and when Harry ran his hands over it curiously, it felt like canvas to him.

Great, Harry thought sourly. He looked down to the tiny elf, who had watched the way Harry's hand touched the painted like he was terrified he might try and make it work for him… and then be forced to punish himself severely.

"I'm not going to leave," Harry said reassuringly.

What he was going to do, he had no idea. "Take me to the library?" he said, unable to come up with anything else.

The elf nodded, grasped Harry's hand, and the two disappeared on the spot.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully.

Harry didn't see Draco nor Narcissa again—and, unsurprisingly, there was no sign of Lucius Malfoy, either. He only saw Ron and Hermione when, many hours later, long after Binny had thoughtfully brought him dinner, they found him in the library. Harry had made himself quite comfortable, sitting in a chair next to the roaring fire that Binny had conjured for him, lost in a torrid, murder-mystery novel. It had been surprisingly relieving, getting lost in somebody else's fictional problems.

"Well?" said Harry when they entered, closing the book. "How did that go?"

They shared despairing looks. "Malfoy wasn't joking about his mother being a nightmare," Ron said bluntly.

"She was nice enough to us," said Hermione, "but she was pretty awful to some of those poor planners… and they haven't even done anything yet… She's gone again now, I think she went to track her husband down…"

Harry snorted. "Draco will probably tell her he's off doing something else important…"

"Draco?" Ron said questionably. He plopped down on the sofa across from Harry, and Hermione began perusing the bookshelf nearest to her. "Are we all on a friendly, first-name basis, then?

"No, not really, but it gets confusing with them all being Malfoys."

"Narcissa insists that I call her by her first name," Hermione said, her still eyes scanning the books. "She told Ron to call her that as well…"

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I do, too." Harry took a moment to appreciate how odd that was. To be on a first name basis with Narcissa, only to still refer to her son as Malfoy…

Hermione seemed not to hear him. "Wow, this library is large, isn't it?" she said, turning a corner and looking around appreciatively. "Look at all these books on dark magic…"

"Books on dark magic? In Malfoy Manor? I'm shocked," Ron drawled from where he sat. He looked like he was half asleep already; Harry could tell by the way his magic was settling around him that he was tired.

And maybe, for all that had happened to them over the past few days, they should discussed a thousand different hopes and fears, but they didn't. Hermione selected a number of books for herself and sat next to Ron, immediately losing herself in one; Harry continued with his, and Ron dozed off, leaning on Hermione's shoulder. Once it was clear by his magic (as well as his slack face, where he began drooling) that Ron was dead asleep, Harry considered breeching the subject that he most desperately wanted to discuss with Hermione—that of his being a human horcrux of Lord Voldemort's—but he just couldn't do it. It was so blissfully calm in the library that he couldn't bring himself to ruin it.

With nothing but the sound of the crackling flames and Ron's light snores, they might have been back in the Gryffindor common room, the last ones up as they sat in their favorite, squishy chairs by the fire.

It wasn't difficult to get away before midnight.

Narcissa came to check on them before it got too late, informing Ron that his mother had written a letter back to him, as well as sent a parcel with some of his clothes and other things. It had certainly woken Ron up, who had snatched the letter in a state of mild panic of what her response might be. At least it wasn't a howler.

In fact, the letter was very short. It only said that she was so happy, and that she and the rest of the Weasley family couldn't wait to see them all the following Saturday.

Harry wondered what she was really thinking.

Regardless, it had been simple enough to leave with Narcissa after that. Harry bid his friends good night, and Narcissa accompanied Harry to his room. She informed him that he had clean pajamas laying out for him as well as more robes in the wardrobe, but that she would be taking him shopping on Monday to buy him all new things.

The thought of going shopping with Narcissa Malfoy was both frightening and exciting. Knowing he would have to deal with people in public was anxiety-inducing—if the way the wedding planners had reacted to him was anything to go by, he would be stared at more than ever before—but the ability to finally leave Malfoy Manor to go somewhere other than the Ministry was too tempting to possibly pass up.

It was with this somewhat cheery thought in mind that Harry was dropped off at his room. The bedroom which was far from his friend's, with its deep green wallpaper, freshly made bed, and numerous mirrors…

It was only eleven.

Harry spotted the pajamas laying out—emerald-colored and silky—and wondered if they were Draco's, too. Probably. He also wondered whether he should put them on or not before Voldemort showed up, to…

To what, exactly? Harry wasn't sure what the Dark Lord would do when he arrived… other then bask in the connection between their souls, of course.

Realizing that he'd been wearing his current clothes for almost two days straight, Harry decided that he should change. This only led him to realizing that he should maybe shower again, too, and suddenly Harry found himself getting very anxious indeed about the fact that Lord Voldemort would be arriving in his bedroom in less than an hour.

Harry knew he shouldn't care if he was clean and presentable for Voldemort. It didn't matter. It wasn't important.

He showered anyway.

Harry was glad he did; letting the warm water and soapy suds wash over him made him feel much calmer. He told himself that this had been his rationale all along as he stepped out of the marble basin, dried off, and went into the bedroom. He quickly dressed in his borrowed night clothes that were, admittedly, very comfortable. The color reminded him of the dress robes that Mrs. Weasley had once bought him.

To bring out your green eyes, she had said.

It was a shame that this was no longer the case.

Forcing himself not to dwell on such sad thoughts, Harry checked the time. It was now only ten minutes until midnight. Somehow, Harry had a feeling that Voldemort was the sort of person who would arrive precisely when he said he would.

He sat on the edge of his bed and waited. He closed his eyes. Harry took a deep breath, attempting to empty his mind, to think of nothing…

A deep breath in, a deep breath out…

Think of nothing, think of no one…

Harry waited…

Breathe…

The clock struck twelve, and he appeared with the softness of a whisper.

Harry felt the Dark Lord's magic dance across his eyelids, simultaneously more and less apparent to him with his eyes closed. He could not see the flecks of gold glittering within the shroud of Voldemort's darkness, but he could feel them. Pinpricks of light that pulsed with a restrained but steady want. Voldemort's magic saturated the air. Harry inhaled slowly through his mouth and he thought, this must be what midnight tastes like.

Not wanting to make it obvious that Harry knew Voldemort was present, he continued to breathe deeply, feigning practicing Occlumency. Voldemort didn't make a sound when he moved, but Harry could feel him, sensing his magic which glistened as he moved. He was behind him, then to his side, then in front of him…

Directly in front of him… But still he did not speak, and still Harry did not open his eyes… He waited…

Then there was a flicker of warmth, and Harry could pretend that he was ignorant no longer. Harry allowed it, letting the light and warmth bloom between them.

Harry opened his eyes just as Voldemort moved closer, making the bed dip to one side as he sat next to Harry, so close their legs were touching. Harry's heart skipped a beat when Voldemort, smiling, placed one hand around Harry's neck and murmured, "Good boy."

Harry didn't have the presence of mind to be embarrassed nor annoyed. At those words, the buoyant light increased dramatically. Harry's eyes fluttered shut and he fell against the Dark Lord's chest, who let out a low and satisfied sound when Harry's head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, the light escalating beautifully.

He's using you, the very small and dark voice somewhere in the recesses of Harry's mind said. He's using you.

I know, Harry thought as Voldemort's fingers trailed through his still-wet hair, blissfully light and warm. The connection between them was thrumming so strongly it was all Harry could do to not sigh. I know…

But he had said he would let him. Perhaps, over time, he could show him… Harry could, maybe, somehow, make Voldemort see that this, having a whole soul, was something he should have… That he should feel remorse… Even if it's painful, even if it's horrible…

But why would he ever bother, when he can just use you?

That sinister thought was chased from his mind as Voldemort reached for Harry's hand with the one which was not carding through his damp hair. He interlaced his long fingers with Harry's, moving so gently and cautiously for someone so lethal. Harry blearily opened his eyes to watch as Voldemort lifted his arm up, lightly pressing his mouth to Harry's wrist and breathing in, slowly…

Harry was just wondering if Voldemort could feel his pulse against his lips when the light escalated further, so pleasant that Harry's eyes closed again… He sighed…

He thought he heard Voldemort speak, but he couldn't make out the words… Harry's chest moved slightly with the slow rhythm of the Dark Lord's breathing, a steady motion… It almost felt like being rocked back and forth…

The world of pleasant light and warmth behind his eyelids was flooding with color…

Red… and yellow, and brown…

Harry was surrounded by them, bits of warm, autumn hues. They were leaves, shimming in their transparency as the afternoon sun shone through them from above, merry and bright. A breeze blew past and the leaves fell, whirling around Harry like a miniature tornado of gold and crimson, ochre and scarlet. Interwoven with the whispers of the wind, Harry heard laughter like a child's, innocent and full of delight. It sounded like music.

Everything was lightness, sweetness, and warmth.