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Chapter Text

The Butler skulked through the halls, and the Dark Lord followed in the shadows.

The Butler, to his own credit, seemed quite aware of the man behind him, being as he paused his fast pace every few seconds, waiting for him to catch up. He was subtle, the Dark Lord mentally praised, as he never seemed to stop for nothing, making no sign that an invisible man watched him down the hallway.

He would stop to polish the doorknob, or simply to correct the placement of an odd candle. Once he paused, seemingly with the intention to adjust the wall of house-elf heads, pulling the thing around until it faced the front, which of course came with a horrific creaking sound that, even the Dark Lord had to admit, was not his preferred source of entertainment.

(In all honesty, it reminded him of a horrible creaking sound muggle fabric made when dragged against something equally unpleasant, not that he would ever voice that thought aloud. It left him with an unpleasant shiver that seemed to travel all the way from his spine to his teeth).

And of course, only when he found himself near to tapping his foot, an ever-pressing ache building up behind his scales, did his Butler speak up.

“Would you care for a bath, Sir?”

“You have no idea how much, Evans, no idea.”

The Dark Lord had a sneaking suspicion that he did, but that was far from the point.

The two men walked together easily: pace unwavering.

“It’s all been rather a palaver today; it seems that nobody could stop fooling around. Do I seem the kind of man to attract fools Evans?”

The Butler, used to his disposition of silent observation, simply shook his head. He had learned from a young age that being asked a question and being asked for advice meant two very different things.

“I suppose I must not be; your perceptiveness Evans is what drew you to myself, and yet so few people seem able to mimic this trait of yours.”

Another man might have mistaken the Butler of smiling in that moment.

They turned into the bathroom together and separated immediately. The Butler, or Hadrian as Narcissa would sometimes call him, worked quickly with the tub. He knew to boil the water until he would need to put a protective enchantment over his own skin.

He knew the oils to add, the fragrances that would be subtle enough to not offend a serpentine pallet. He performed every action with a show of character that marked great experience, despite some items being added to the collection only that morning.

Upon his order, of course.

And if anyone had happened to peak through the top of the door at that moment, such as, perhaps, an overeager serpent, excited before a long hunt, they might have seen the Butler do something quite strange. He placed his fingers on either side of his forehead and closed his eyes as if focusing very deeply. They might have seen the way he swayed backwards and forwards, before his eyes snapped open and his gaze filled with a focus driven by a very particular kind of ambition. The kind of ambition that came from knowing exactly where the path ahead of you would go and knowing it would be in your favour.

When the Dark Lord strode in again, skin white and bare, the Butler had already opened the bathroom curtains and used a careful bit of transfiguration to give them both a lovely view of the inside of an untouched cave. It was quite romantic really, all low light and running water.

The Dark Lord always appreciated a view that gave anything more than the Malfoy’s patterned glass and rainbowed reflections.

The small trey of Turkish delight placed upon the recently added side table also appeared to work in his favour.

In all this time, the Dark Lord had not stopped speaking, allowing his Butler to help him into the steaming waters and lean him against the back of the bath.

Then, and only then, did The Butler remove his gloves.

Most people in such a situation would have grabbed the head of the dark Lord and desperately shoved it under water, but his Butler seemed to have no such inclinations. One might even think that his Butler would be a placid, calm man. As unwavering as the ocean, always prepared and never caught with his tail between his legs.

He massaged down the Dark Lords back and arms, applying pressure to the palms, hands and fingers in particular. He always had such a bad habit of clenching his fists, whether a wand was in it or not.

Of course, nobody else had ever noticed. Not even Lord Voldemort himself, not truly.

But he did.

There were times that Lord Voldemort himself, all powerful being that he was, was quite convinced that his faithful, true companion could quite read his mind. However, he knew the logic was impossible, as clever as he was, no man could ever go through his mental shields without his knowledge at the very least.

No, Lord Voldemort was simply too used to fools. When he finally received a true servant and companion, one who knew his needs without needing to be nagged and pushed. Some days, it seemed that one sensible man in his ranks was all he could ask for.

“The prisoners have escaped more than once now! They even got as far as the fireplace before I had to personally round them off. Bellatrix also thought it appropriate to press her own dark mark the other week, and, as expected, they did not have Harry Potter. They picked up some random children in the woods who escaped via house elf.”

If he noticed the brief tensing in his Butler’s shoulders, he said nothing. Massages as lovely and thorough as the ones he gave to the Dark Lord would require some personal sacrifice afterall.

His Butler seemed to further dedicate himself to eradicating the Dark Lords discomfort, rubbing over the same place on his chest over and over until the think layer of skin began to peel.

The Dark Lord had quite forgotten he was due for a light shed.

“How did you know?”

“When you skin needs to go, your eyes grow cloudy, almost as if a layer of film seeps over them. You wish to eat less than usual, and the usual pearly whiteness of your scales turns to a rather interesting, muted tone.”

The Dark Lord internally preened at the compliment.

“You know me so well, Hadrian.”

Lord Voldemort did not often use his Butler’s first name. Afterall, the root was so very unfortunate.

“I would like to think so, Sir.”

His Butler went back to rubbing lightly at his skin.  

They both knew that the Dark Lord should be left to soak, propped up, for a few hours. However, his Butler would never burden or dull the sharpness of his mind by speaking the blatantly obvious.

Circe hopes that they would both be spared from that fate.

And, apparently deciding that this level of relaxation was simply not enough, his Butler reached to the back of his masters head. Two thumbs ran over the bottom of his skull and in little circles. The hands massaged over his scalp and over where his ears would be.

The action worked so well that the Dark Lord’s head dropped to the back of the bathtub, onto the conveniently cushioned neck rest. Lord Voldemort would have sworn that the sensation he felt then was the blow of fresh breath onto the top of his head.

Then hands fell back to his shoulders, lightly rubbing the loosened skin.

His Butler’s chest pressed against him, rough material of the tailcoat jacket almost itching at his skin, if it wasn’t so perfectly well cleaned. The Dark Lord also noted, with pleasure, that his Butler smelled quite wonderful, never with any useless perfumes or unfortunate bouts of sweat.

“My lower spine requires more attention,” The Dark Lord said, swaying dreamily. As always, the warmth of the steam seemed to wash away his concerns and any true thoughts within his brain.

His ever-loyal Butler made no comment. However, he did not immediately follow the instruction, choosing instead to hand a piece of Turkish delight to the Dark Lord, which he took.

Only then did The Butler press gently on his back to lean his torso onto his legs. He worked the bottom of his spine with practised proficiency, all while brushing off a few loose flecks of skin and scale.

“Sir, a house elf is coming our way. I have muted the space around the door to avoid any obnoxious noises. But be warned, I could not remove the full unpleasant effect.”

The Butler had a voice like pure butter, or dripping poison. It filled the dark Lord’s ears, and slipping through his consciousness with not much thought.

The house elf did appear, some raggedy creature with short cut hair and a trembling smile. The elf held a tray of some kind in it’s hands, before it was speedily passed to his Butler.

The elf vanished, the only change being the slight alteration in air pressure.

“Very well done, Evan.”

His Butler only smiled.

“I do not believe Nagini will be joining you this evening, I saw her on a hunt earlier today and I doubt she will be back in time. Should I prepare a warm pot that she may relax within?”

The Dark Lord nodded, and his Butler hastened to do as such. They had a little copper pot for this purpose. It had a padded lining and manmade rock formation in the centre for her to crawl around. The Dark Lord had no idea where his Butler may have bought the item, and rather suspected that he had made it quite himself.

The warm water sloshed lightly as his Butler retrieved it, and a pleasing trickling came as it hit the sides of the pot with a little, pleasant sound. The Dark Lord stared into the window, into the cave beyond and he could almost picture that the water was running there, and not in the room with him.

But then again, that very well could have been his Butler’s intention.

Voldemort felt the relaxing prickle in the air as several different stasis charms where set.

He wished that magic was on him now, just for a moment to have that feeling of cores intertwining – to feel his Butler for a mere second.

And, as always, as soon as the wish popped into his head, the Butler gave it. This time it came in the form of levitating the tea-tray over his chest, allowing a mix of grey magic and tea smoke to waft into the air and further relax the Dark Lord.

The tray remained that way for quite some time. Every once in a while, Lord Voldemort drew enough strength in his arm to lift the cup to his lips.

But mostly he talked.

“I must have new robes; the current ones are too heavy on my skin.”

“You must find a way to make the dungeons warmer for me, and not for the prisoners. I cannot be expected to go down there and shiver like a mouse.”

“We need to manually feed Nagini more, I do think she hunts too much. While more than capable, I am concerned that she will bring something undesirable back.”

His Butler remained silent and unmoving in the corner, listening intently. He did not need to reply, nor make notes. The Dark Lord further relaxed in the knowledge that these tasks had probably already been completed, quite without him noticing.

His Butler did like to do that, after all.

Eventually the tray levitated back down to a nearby table, and The Butler hastened to grab a towel. The Dark Lord was not too concerned, he knew he would not be asked to get out just yet. The towels were systematically laid out: One on the ground, and another to the side of the bath.

Just by looking at them, he could tell they had been heated.

At peace and relaxed, the Dark Lord simply allowed for his Butler to leave the room, assuming he would be off to complete some meaningless tasks that would somehow make his day better.

As such, he did not see when his Butler removed his glasses (rubbing his eyes in a weary action, seen most commonly with elderly men) and replaced them with round, black ones sealed together with tape. Nor did he see when his Butler rubbed a weary arm over his forehead, seeming to brush off the sweat from the days work, and instead a line of makeup came off onto his sleeve.

The oddly shaped scar revealed from beneath also went unnoticed.

And conceivably, if some other man, perhaps with a particularly rat-like face, was watching from behind a hidden door, he would have seen the Butler walk near the fireplace before ducking around a pillar.

The rat might have imagined it, but just for a second, he could have sworn that a very different man stepped out from behind that pillar.

But before he could shout for help, or assistance that would never be granted, the fire blazed emerald green, the man stepped in, and he was gone.

Harry Potter had vanished.

Chapter Text

It was the beginning of summer, and Harry Potter was already looking for an escape. The air was sweltering and thick, enough so that even Aunt Petunia deemed it too much of a risk to have him outside doing chores.

Instead, they had shut him in his room. He spent a considerable portion of his days lying boneless on the bed in Dudley’s second bedroom. He had become uncomfortably familiar with feeling the slight bend in the wood from where a younger Dudley had jumped on it and snapped it clean in two.  

As always, Hedwig was allowed, but only if she stayed in her cage in the corner. It had taken Harry around four days before he started to completely ignore this rule and let her out at night, both to pick up his copy of the Prophet (something about owl shortages and security concerns) and to prevent her from passing out due to heat exhaustion.

The coldness of the night air seemed to be offering some protection.

As always, Hedwig hopped back in through the open window (they hadn’t even tried to argue around that one, probably out of fear that his Godfather would come and try something. He hadn’t bothered to tell them he was gone - dead for over a year. They never bought him up, and every time Harry wanted to broach the topic - not to them, but even to himself - he felt rather like the Great Squid had settled within his chest and was having a rather nice lark ripping apart his internal organs).

Nobody from the Order had reached out, not even once. Barring the letter sent to him from Gringotts bank with Sirius’s passing on of assets and acknowledgement of his innocence (also almost a year late), it rather felt like everyone had forgotten he even existed. As he had no guardian, the will stated that the money and assets would be held by the bank until he turned twenty.

The Order had been kicked out, and he couldn’t even use the property or elf himself.

He pressed his forehead against the cold window and allowed Hedwig to nuzzle up to his face. Despite the cold air managing to breach her feathers, the skin underneath was painfully warm.

Harry took the paper and led his owl to her cage, before he poured the remainder of his water glass into her tray. He left the door open. He never wanted her to feel as trapped as he was, at least when he could avoid it.

He pressed the cold paper into his bare chest and hoped it wouldn’t end up covered in horrible sweat stains.

An escape, he pondered once more. That’s what he needed.

He allowed those words to flit around in his skull, barely thinking of anything in his heat-struck haze. He moved the paper to his face.

Once he thought he better actually look at something contained within the pages, he lifted it from his head and made an effort not to sniff at the thing.

That was another thing he had been taught rather recently.

A large, shaky picture of an empty Ministry atrium greeted him, ‘Will He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Be Seen again Soon? How to Protect Yourself in Three Easy Steps, according to ministry officials.’

He’d forgotten about the part where they had apparently turned into a teenage girls magazine.

He flipped straight past it.

A vanity piece, something about attacks in Diagon Alley, some men claiming about stolen Thestrals and blaming it on “that man”.

And then, taking even his foggy brain by surprise, ‘Live in Work Opportunities to become Increasingly Common among the Wealthy During Crisis, see more on page 17 under the subsection’.

Live-in work opportunities for the wealthy.

He flicked to the page without even thinking about his actions.

It wasn’t like he would be underqualified. He did have some rather recent experience.

For you see, in his will (no matter how delayed - apparently the ministry was running a massive backlog) Sirius left him with one piece of advice. “Make sure you do something that you know I would not approve of and know that I love you enough to trust you with that.”

So, Harry had.

He had taken a mail-order Pureblood Etiquette course.

He’d, naturally, done it as a joke, had seen it in the paper after one too many hours by the window and thought it would be a bit of a laugh. The closest thing he could get to teenage rebellion before his wizarding childhood was officially over. 

It was only by his twenty forth lesson that he realised he may have gone too far, but he was only three away from his bronze award.

He hung his silver qualification alongside the first.

And to think, it might be the very thing that rescued him from this Hell Hole at any rate. (Not Dumbledore and the Order, who could take him into a different, colder safe house, who could give him some notice for what was going on or comfort after he lost the only family he ever had. It still felt to Harry like it had all happened just the day before). 

Job Positions, Section: “Live In Roles”.

Maid Nurse for young children ages 6 months-6 years. Female preferred. (Harry scoffed at that one, changing the last word to “required” in his head).

Personal Valet and Gardner (In this heat, Harry would rather die).

Butler for Large Household, relevant experience or matching qualifications. Animal care, minimal cleaning and caretaking, correspondence, management and event planning. Willing to work during challenging conditions and circumstances. Board, private bed and full access to the kitchen and subsequent amenities. Must be available immediately, and on-call full time for emergencies. Temporary contract and strict privacy clause to be agreed upon. Please send personal letter if interested.

Harry paused.

That…almost sounded like a good offer. Sure, “Challenging conditions” didn’t sound immediately positive, but that could come from anything really, such as the current crisis.

It was better than calling themselves and their staff ‘like a family’.

And then again, challenging conditions could simply refer to raising a child as two working parents, or something along those lines. And, as for the “strict privacy clause” that almost worked in his favour. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to the poor family who unknowingly hired him.

His heat-frozen mind finally remembered to look at the wage attached to the side of the sheet.

His eyes went wide, and he pulled off and cleaned his glasses to ensure he had gotten it correct the first time.

For a Butler position? For basic manual labour and assistance?

At that point it would almost be a shame to pass up the opportunity.

It only took him another minute to locate his parchment and ink.

Dear Employee manager for position #01223 (he ensured to print that number incredibly clearly).

I am applying for your advertised Butler position and find that I meet all the needed criteria. I have eleven years of experience cleaning without magical assistance, and a full year cleaning with. I also have a Silver Level award in “Pureblood Culture, Organisation and Etiquette” and am intending to go for my gold within the next couple of months.

I have an OWL qualification in ‘Care Of Magical Creatures’ at the Grade Exceeds Expectations, and I spent some time where I was placed in charge of both a Hippogriff and a newborn Dragon, both of which I was able to care for appropriately and deliver them to the needed locations.

Harry scanned the job notice again to ensure that he had covered all of his basis. He was quite sure this was not what a standard formal job letter would look like, but he had nothing to compare it too.

I also am a more than competent cook, and have been cooking for a family of four plus for nearly seventeen years. (He rather thought that his uncle and cousin could count for at least two different people, but he didn’t bother to try and explain that.) I am also more than adept at dealing with emergencies, and keeping cool under extreme amounts of pressure and stress. I am available immediately for the course of a one-and-a-half-month temporary contract.

Sincerely,

Hadrian J. Evans

He had no idea where that name had come from, barring the fact it was the same one that he had used for his course. (He may or may not have sent a letter out to a baby name consultant somewhere in Norway to ask for ‘fancy versions of the name Harry’ but they didn’t need to know that). And the surname sounded better, and less obvious than Potter.

He read the letter over again, trying to spot any locations that might encourage him to re-write the entire thing from scratch.

He praised himself on his penmanship, using the loopy pattern that his instructor had insisted that he practised, after receiving the first progress entry from him. Apparently, the course was ‘designed to be changed and altered to meet the needs of the client’. Whatever that meant.

Either way.

Harry neatly folded the letter and sealed it with the specialised wax and signet ring he had ordered off another wizarding catalogue that he was subscribed too.

He went over to Hedwig and gently rustled her feathers, trying to determine if she was awake. He almost felt bad asking her to go out again, but despite what his instructor might say, he was completely incapable of learning patience.

“And at least you’ll be out of here for a bit Wigs,” Harry gently persuaded. To his astonishment, it was unneeded, as his owl had drunk her fill of water and was ready to go.

We both are, apparently.

Even with his gentle stroke he knew she was gaining heat far too quickly, to the point even he could feel it through his sweat. Going out in the late and cold, even to exercise and fly would be better.

“You can stop if you need to, slow yourself down a bit. In fact, maybe don’t come back until tomorrow night, let yourself breathe a little.”

While Harry fussed, she leant her head against the back of his hand, before shortly deciding that she had enough and giving his hand a good peck and snatching the letter.

Harry gave a hiss and a laugh, lifting his sore finger into his mouth and wincing at the added heat on his injury.

Hedwig flew straight out of the window.

And now, he only had to wait.

But that didn’t mean that he could sit still, he knew he had things to do before his relatives woke up. He went to the bathroom and wiped himself down with a cold flannel (the shower was too loud, and the bath took too long) and took a secondary cold flannel back to his room. He brushed his teeth and had a good go at his hair.

He rushed down to the kitchen, filling up a few glasses of water and carrying them up to his room. He also managed to snatch several breakfast bars and a bowl of leftover lasagne from last night. If it was something with vegetables, he knew they would not notice.

He managed to shut and lock the door before anyone else awoke.

Who knows, maybe this level of preparedness would work in his favour with this new job, if they even wanted to interview him at all.

Not many people wanted to hire some unknown person without actual references (unless they counted his instructor), especially for a job that could be deemed as almost wide scoped in both ability and tasks. Especially not a seventeen-year-old teenager at that.

For the first time, Harry started to think that he might have made a mistake.

The add didn’t list any childcare responsibilities that he would be completely incapable of doing. Perhaps they were an elderly family (did wizards have retirement homes?) who needed help for things like correspondence?

At this point, Harry didn’t really care.

Even if it all went horribly wrong, or he had to apply to a different add, then he could simply laugh about it later. Sirius would have found it hilarious.

For a second, he got a vision in his eyes, of his Godfather standing with his parents, smirking down at him from wherever the hell he went. I hope I don’t make you proud, and I hope my teenage rebellion was more traitorous than yours ever was. I do have a legacy to live up too.

Harry smiled at the thought, and wondered if the heat really was corrupting his brain.

There was no way his situation could get any worse than it already was.  

Afterall, it was his seventeenth birthday today.

Officially an adult, and nobody even trusted him with the truth. 

Chapter Text

Hedwig returned the next night.

She had cooled down considerably, and Harry perked up a little when he realised that the people at the owlery had clearly taken pity and fed her.

She passed him an embossed letter, sealed with a piece of rough wax. Harry exchanged it with the rest of his stored food, and all his remaining water.

And, for the first time, Harry stopped. Should he? Should he really?

The wax tore as he ripped open the envelope.

For what was Harry Potter if he didn’t have an adventure to chase? A goal to accomplish? It was the only time he truly meant something afterall.

Dear Mr Evans,

We are so pleased that you have considered our position, and based on your listed qualifications we believe you might be a good fit. As such, we wish to offer you an informal interview for tomorrow, 2pm. A single-way, time activated portkey has been enclosed. The one sending you home will be given upon arrival, however we hold the right to automatically set it off if we believe any of our family to be in danger or under risk of severe consequences.

I hope you understand this necessity with the danger levels as high as they are.

The Lady of the Manor and Head of Staff

Beneath the letter there was a family seal printed in wax, which harry was glad for as he had destroyed the original. It was a dragon curled in on itself alongside some (rather smudged) Latin words he did not know how to read.

Even the handwriting seemed rushed, messy, hastily done. The kind of letter he had written to his instructor whilst Aunt Petunia was yelling at him to come and finish the cleaning up.

Not a retirement home then.

He couldn’t help but think it was a little strange that she had chosen to not use her name, and instead put her title on the bottom of the letter. However, he shrugged decided to put it down to pureblood etiquette that he didn’t fully understand. He didn’t really have much choice.

He didn’t have very long. It was 7am now, but he had to go out and make some…purchases before he could attend. (Something he should have done the previous day).

He rustled around in his wardrobe, and managed to pull out an old, muggle basketball cap. The few minutes spent adjusting his hair and cap managed to make it lie just so it covered his scar and shadowed his face.

Harry Potter was not the person going on this trip. But Harry Potter still had to be the person to ask if he could.

“Aunt Petunia?”

The woman looked up from her book with a scowl. Lately, she had been trying to give the neighbours the impression that she was an educated woman and had taken to sitting in the back garden, pretending to read.

“What is it boy?”

Her glare did not contain the pure hatred it once had, but it might have sent shivers down Harry’s spine. Or, at least it would have done a few years ago – he couldn’t remember the last time he thought of her as a threat.

Not when they were so scared of him.

“I have been asked to attend an interview for a possible placement over the summer. So I’ll be gone, then.” He wouldn’t even bother to tell her if he didn’t get the place. If that happened, he would just camp out on the streets until he got another interview.

He couldn’t leave himself or Hedwig in this place any longer.

Her glare faded to mild confusion, looking at his cap again, and back to annoyance.

“You could have mentioned that before I cleaned your room for the summer.” Harry waited for her to say more, but she re-adjusted her sunglasses and waved him away in a dismissive gesture, “be off with you then!”

Harry didn’t know why he had expected more resistance than that. They didn’t want him here, they never had done.

He threw his backpack over one shoulder and made his way out the back gate.

There was a road around Privet Drive that was almost empty near the local park. It was shaded by trees, and due to it being Dudley’s hunting ground of choice, it was every definition of dark and dingy.

The final stage of his initial disguise would be needed here. For, his scar and hair was only two of the three identifiable elements of Harry Potter.

One of the things Aunt Marge had continuously send Dudley over the years that he never used was endless supplies of paint. Harry had found a bench where he pulled his glasses of and tried to paint them an odd shade of silver-grey. The paint was mostly hard, to the point he needed to use water from the local river, and it was clearly not made for whatever his glasses frames were, but the final patchy result was deemed good enough.

After a while spent blowing on them, he put them on. They would have to suffice.

He thrust out his wand arm and the magnificent form of the Knight Bus flashed into view. He felt it before he even saw it, the first truly, in-person magical thing he had seen in months. The wish of wind against his face, the giant structure nearly taking of the top of his nose. It felt rather like freedom.

The greasy face of Stan Shunpike stuck his head out of the front window, and Harry saw for the first time that a protective shield had been put up around the front cabin.

“Hey mate? Wher’ya off to then?” Stan was speaking loudly, as if talking to someone who was on the more severe end of the deaf spectrum. Stan looked at him like he was recognisable, but didn’t say anything.  

“Diagon Alley,” Harry replied, with equal volume.

Stan blinked, “Well, ther’s no need to be shouting. 10 galleons for the trip, 15 if you want lunch and a snack as well.”

Harry nodded to the second price and rustled around for his wallet.

Stan pointed him towards a little tray, just beyond the field, where his money could be put through.

As he did, a ticket came out in return, with a little added stamp for ‘single meal’ and ‘private bay’. Harry looked up in confusion at the second note but got on the bus regardless.

It all became clear when Stan began to walk him through the bus and where there was once beds or plush armchairs, everything had been transfigured into separate wooden booths with a very thin corridor going down the middle.

The door to one of them was opened to him, and Harry noticed that the frame didn’t have any hinges, and instead simply had a gap where they probably should be.

“Meals will be at 11-ish,” was all he said before the door was closed and Harry was alone again.

Alone in his thoughts, with only the ever pressing and inescapable heat that had followed him even here.

The bay was small, and clearly made even more hastily than the door had been. Even as just the singular person he was, the space felt cramped, and his elbows drew into his sides rather naturally. It was dark too, lit with a faint light on the ceiling that seemed to have all the effectiveness of fire light in a rainstorm.

The wall to his left (there were no visible windows in the bus anymore) had a long claw mark scratched through it that reeked of magic dark enough that Harry couldn’t even begin to identify it.

As his instructor said, he needed to slow down. Needing to think things through. The interview, informal. What did he need to bring up? How was he going to do this?

Well, Hedwig needed to stay with him. That would most likely be fine, if he was being employed for magical pet care.

He required a private bedroom? He didn’t even know what to ask for.

A bell dinged from further along in the bus and Harry jumped out of his skin.

Lunch was dropped off soon after, a very plain salad in an equally plain container. The food was limp, and Harry picked at some, seemingly random, pieces of pineapple before it was time to go. They had also forgotten to bring him any kind of fork.

“Diagon Alley! All for Diagon alley!” Stan cried out and a loud groan came, from both the patrons and the bus as it screeched to an uncomfortable halt.

He stood up fast, lugging his muggle backpack over his shoulder.

He got off the bus and made his way onto the street, allowing himself to be lost in the crowd.

****

He was going to be late.

Harry shuffled to the bathroom at the back of the bus, and awkwardly opened a stall, quickly locking it behind him.

When he looked back, he was surprised to find a fully outfitted bathroom space with a separate shower area. There was a little stool in the corner as well, but it had clearly been thrown around and was currently sitting upside down.

All of the countertop bathroom elements were left strewn around on the floor and Harry awkwardly stepped over a broken soap bottle and the subsequent spill left in its wake.

As lent forward to put down his return ticket the bus lurched.

Harry reached forward to grasp the sink; fingertips turning white under the pressure. His foot threw out behind him and wacked into the side of the toilet and he hissed in complaint. That was going to bruise.

Knowing now what would happen if he dawdled, Harry was quick and efficient. He turned on the narrow shower and stepped into the warm water. His feet naturally pressed into the sides to prevent him slipping over in some hilariously embarrassing way in the shower.

The heat was turned down to an almost shivering degree, but he couldn’t risk burning his skin. Not today.

After his shower he shaved. His legs, his face, his arms, everything. Then he applied fast-drying skin cream until he grew oily – that was easily his least favourite part.

He reached into his bag to retrieve both the items he had purchased, and the things he had bought from home for this exact purpose. It was almost as if he knew he would be late.

It was the hair next.

Harry had a bottle of Fred and Georges instant, permanent hair dye. It came with the matching cure. And a few bottles of Snape’s hair growth potion, that he had admittedly stolen quite a lot of.

Harry rubbed the lengthening potion into his hair, careful to make it far beyond his normal length, until it was just past his shoulders. He quickly turned his hair and eyebrows into his preferred dark (so dark it was almost a brown), natural red. Not unalike his mothers. It had (admittedly) taken far too long to find the perfect shade. Because darn it, he was a teenage boy. He wanted to look good. And he had to admit, his pale skin wore that colour incredibly well indeed. He rather thought he looked like some form of nymph like this. Especially with his emerald eyes – a feature that had been particularly pronounced by the test sample he had used in the dressing room. He felt significant relief that he could finally cover up the other practise streaks – and even more glad that he had chosen one of his top curls to be dyed green.

A quick simple charm made it fall into waves. (God, he was glad to be doing magic again, nobody could possibly track it back to him in an area so full of wizards…perhaps that was another reason he had decided to position working among purebloods to be in his benefit). He had been rather frustrated to learn that his hair could be tamed by simply lengthening it and using this particular charm. He had only mentioned it to his instructor briefly, and that had immediately been sent back. Harry was even more annoyed to learn that he couldn’t even use it in his daily life due to the link it would make to Hadrian. Who was also himself, but not really? (And if he was also convinced that his previous mentors had left that information out to spite him, that was his own business).

It was such a shame he couldn’t swap the two people completely, people knew Harry with the ‘Potter’ hair.

He had to be careful. Now more than ever.

The makeup came next, a bottle of concealer Ginny had given him ages ago to cover his scar. She had made it herself, with Slughorn’s help, so they could go on a date just as Harry and Ginny. Not Ginny and the Boy who Lived.

Of course, everyone immediately saw through that, and it was a huge disaster, but Harry liked the sentiment.

He covered his scar with more ease than he was used to. It never even matted at this point. After nearly a year, it should probably be difficult. But it wasn’t; he had gone over the steps in his head too many times. He liked the feeling of anonymity, that maybe someone would look into his eyes as opposed to his forehead.

Looking in the mirror he took a makeup brush to his face and little by little, became a completely different person. Long, wispy eyelashes. Perfectly filled in, neat brows (god he hated plucking them). Pinker lips, with a more defined dip at the top. The changes were subtle, but effective.

After a point, he wasn’t even sure that he looked better, just different. And different was the only goal.

Good god, he almost forgot how difficult it was working the brush around his glasses (for Ginny could have never just stopped at the concealer).

“How much of a shock do you reckon I would give Ron and Hermione?” He asked the mirror. The Mirror did not respond, having been silenced by some other put-off patron many years before.

A quick wave of his wand fixed it so nothing would fade away until he used the counter spell – another thing he had received in his letters.

In his haste to take them off, his original glasses nearly fell and shattered on the floor. He replaced them with smaller, very neat, silver rimmed ones. He thought they made him look rather accomplished – another personal recommendation from his instructor. He could almost hear the wince over letter after he had told his instructor the kind of glasses he wore.

He couldn’t deny that these custom-made ones made it easier to see and were softer on his face – magic was amazing, and so was the occultist who only charged him a few galleons for them.

The clothes were next.

He had been rather pleased with the quick garments that were sent to his listed pick-up points. While the tailor had been recommended as a friend to his instructor, he couldn’t risk appearing there as Harry Potter (especially not with hair dyed every shade of the rainbow).

So, the measurements he submitted via letter would have to do.

The outfit was simple, as he instructed. He knew so little about this family that he couldn’t dress to match anything, as he was instructed to do.

He pulled out the pressed white shirt and nearly dropped it as the bus jerked him around again. He stabilised on his feet, brushing his hair out of his face.

His wand fell to the ground and rolled to the back of the shower.

Using the brown paper packaging as a tray, he shielded his new clothes until he could put them on. The note attached had specified that they where not to get wet under any ‘unnecessary and unsupervised’ circumstances.

Harry both preferred not to ask nor take the risk.  

He pulled his wand out from where it had fallen and tried to remember a very basic charms spell, they had learned during his first year. He had never actually used the thing, as he had never had long hair, but it seemed to do something for Hermione.

As his eyes squeezed shut, the bus lurched around another corner and his head went flying towards the sink.

When he opened his eyes again, glasses still miraculously on his face, his hair was tied up by what appeared to be a leather band. It was a little messy, with a small knot visible at the back, but he had no idea how to fix it.

He also noted that having his hair pulled away from his face made him look less like a Potter than ever.

He picked up the abandoned clothes and quickly put them on; formal black trousers to go with the top and a waist coat which only took him a few tries to get on correctly. The box also featured a black tie which he debated in putting on, thinking he might end up on the wrong side of overdressed, until he remembered that he was interviewing to be a butler. Only the fanciest of houses would want that.

Besides, the tailor probably knew best.

The look was finished off with a pair of black business shoes. He had no idea that tailors made them and thought they should come from another industry all together. They fit well enough, although they were a little on the tight side.

The skin on his feet was already feeling tender, and he was sure he would end up with blisters before the end of the day.

He smoothed the top of his hair down again, only succeeding in pulling loose a few strands, before he strode bravely into the hallway of the bus, grey backpack held limply in his hand.

It may have been Harry Potter that walked into the bathroom in the Knight bus, but it was Hadrian Evans who walked out the other side.

The clothes he wore were ones Harry never would have, the way he styled his hair, everything was so very different. Even the way he stood, now influenced by the structured shirt and waist coat, was completely changed. He had spent all day carefully ordering his shops, deciding what needed to be purchased and picked up from a hidden point. He had been convinced all day that he would eventually be recognised, and the game would be up.

But even he didn’t recognise the face the looked back at him through the window glass.

He walked back to his seat and tried to show confidence. The bus slid sideways and nearly threw him across the space, but he tried to ignore that.

He knew this man very well, Hadrian Evans that was. He may have only taken the persona over letter before, but he knew more about him than he did about himself. He knew that, according to the (very eclectic, very underwhelming) family tree he had drawn up for him, that the Evan’s were a foreign (where exactly they were foreign from Harry had yet to discover) minor pureblood family on the poorer end of the spectrum, still keeping to tradition, but modern enough to be working class.  

Harry let out a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. His scar was itching. He hoped it was the makeup.

To distract himself from the mild headache creeping up to his hairline, he pulled out the letter again and tipped the portkey onto his lap.

Unlike other portkeys he had seen, this was no piece of junk. It was a delicate, wooden bracelet with an engraved snake upon the surface. When he twisted one of the beads, they all moved together to give the appearance of slithering.

He couldn’t say he didn’t know much about his employers anymore, although this should have been rather obvious.

What other pureblood house would want a Butler of all things?

He slid the bracelet onto his wrist and hoped he would be in a private area when it went off.

The letter was tucked in his pocket for safe keeping.

Chapter Text

Harry soon realized that he had nothing to do until two PM. For, as late as he thought he was, every single moment seemed to drag longer than his mind could take.

Hadrian Evans was a patient man, known for his streak of impulsivity that his qualifications had long since both excused and equally squashed.

It would not do to show up covered in the sweat of his nerves, the sign of his inexperience.

His newly long hair tickled the back of his neck, and the messy ponytail pulled hard at his parting. The new glasses rubbed on his face, a sign of the lack of wear. The seams of the shirt rubbed against his skin, a sign of the unfamiliar.

It felt so right.

The Knight Bus had been driving him around for who knows how long, he had given a return address to a few streets away from where he had come, just in case his employer had any way to track his original location.

The wooden bracelet began to heat. The time, according to the watch he had half poking out of his bag, was ten to two.

Was that normal?

He’d never even touched a portkey before it moved him somewhere else.

He hurried out of the Knight Bus when it stopped, only stopping politely once for a pureblood looking woman with an angry narrow face and pointed jaw. (He was not entirely sure why she decided to get out at the same spot as him, being a muggle neighbourhood and all, but he dismissed it easily.)

She gave him a firm nod.

It would not do for Hadrian Evans first visit to the world of Pureblood culture, or a particularly good look on his new employers, if he was immediately pointed out as rude or disrespectful.

He scurried off the bus, and started madly looking for somewhere where the portkey could take him from without bringing the weight of the ministry down on him.

To his mild displeasure, with the time ticking down, he ended up ducking behind a muggle skip that had been conveniently fitted into the narrow walkway by one of the houses.

He bent deliberately so as his trousers would not get covered in grime, and his nose wrinkled. He hoped desperately that the smell would not end up on him during the interview. To his displeasure, there was a wet patch by his leg. One that he had nearly sat in.

The Portkey activated.

The hook at his navel was just as uncomfortable and off-putting as it usually was. And he swore that he would never travel by anything other than broom again.

He hit the floor with a catastrophic crash, completely winded.

When the world finally cleared around him, he was pleased to see that he was alone. It gave him a few precious moments to stand up and straighten out the wrinkles in his clothing.

Then and only then did he take the time to admire the floor he had been lying on. It was a fascinating carved stone, a giant pentagram, and Harry hoped he had not been thrown in the middle of some kind of ritual.

There was almost nothing else in there.

The windows were less windows and more thick glass slits in the side of the rounded room, or tower he corrected. The spiralled ceiling was covered in cobwebs. A single burnt candle rested on the stone, under one of the slits.

He knew he must have made enough noise to be noticed when he heard footsteps clashing up the hallway and the heavy, wooden door burst open.

Harry did not, at first, recognise the woman in front of him.

She looked haggard, incredibly skinny, her face pinched and pale as if she had never known a day of peace. She had clearly tried to dye her hair, but the roots had long grown in. But, most shockingly, was the dark bruises under her eyes: worse than even Harry’s when he slept beneath the stairs.

If he didn’t know any better, he would say that this woman had been tortured.

And she was pointing a short, black wand directly at his face.

“Who are you? Identify yourself!”

Harry bowed dramatically, body in the perfect structure his course had told him to practise. He straightened into an equally perfect posture.

“I mean no harm, ma’am, my name is Hadrian Evans and I was invited here to interview for the live in role of Butler.”

The woman’s face softened, and Harry thought he saw some kindness hidden beneath the firm exterior.

“Ah, ah of course! My apologies, with everything it seems I had quite forgotten,” she muttered, and Harry had the distinct impression he was not meant to hear that, “Please, please do follow me. I am Lady Malfoy and the head of staff, do step through this doorway.”

Harry had to fight against raising his eyebrows and stepped towards her and through the aforementioned doorway.

He spotted a few small sigls engraved in the wood that seemed to give off a little bit of heat when he passed.

When he looked towards the Lady’s face again, standing beside her this time, she seemed far more relaxed than she had originally.

She held out a hand for a handshake and Harry noticed the cracked and hastily applied nail polish. They shook.

And only then, her previous words seemed to crash down on him like a bucket of cold water.

This was Lady Malfoy – Narcissa. This was Draco’s mother.

This was Malfoy Manor.

This was where Voldemort was staying.

But they had food, and shelter, and a place for Hedwig. Besides, he doubted Voldemort used the Malfoy base for more than a few meetings or to sleep late at night. Staff were invisible. He could stay away from him, rather easily.

And he couldn’t just leave now. He had no way out, and he was quite sure the portkey was a single way, and the runes he just passed had to mean something.

He was trapped.

“Where do we begin Ma’am?”

Lady Malfoy smiled at him, “I have set aside a smaller sitting area for your interview, do come with me.”

They walked together, Harry doing everything he had to not shake in his shoes. He further ensured to follow her footsteps, matching them as well as he could. Make it seem natural, his instructor had told him, like you have always been there and fit perfectly into the workings of the household.

Lady Malfoy pushed open a slim wooden door and led into an elegantly decorated living room. A fire blazed silver in one corner, and two sofas stood apposing each other. An interrogation of the most polite and friendliest kind. The entire place seemed less like a manor, and more like a medieval castle he had visited once as a child. Even Hogwarts could not compete with this level of grandeur.

How was he supposed to clean this entire place? No. He was going to decline the job. He never had to see Voldemort. He could laugh about this later, tell Ron and Hermione when he inevitably showed up at the Weasley’s door, ‘you will never believe what happened to me when I tried to apply for a job this summer!’ Before despratly begging them to take him in and, and don’t tell Dumbledore.

They both positioned on the two sofas, knees pointing neatly before each other. Harry knew he was being assessed. How he sat, the way he moved. Would he fit in here? He had to look like he did, if he ever wanted to use Hadrian’s face again.

“I am so glad you came, my friend,” Narcissa said, secretly jolting Harry out of his thoughts. My friend? He had never heard that pureblood greeting before.

“You are very welcome, ma’am,” Harry responded a little awkwardly, unsure of where this interview was going.

“Would you care for some wine?” She asked, already pulling out a bottle and dishing it between two incrusted glasses. “You’ll need some working around here. Do you know anything about wine, Mr Evans?”

This Harry could answer. Not only had he done a full section of his course on different kinds of alcohol, but he had also known to expect this question.

One of his recommended books had told him that historically Butlers were in charge of the alcohol in the household. And, seeing this place, he had made the assumption that they were more on the traditional side immediately.

“A little yes, there was a full unit covered in my bronze level qualification.”

“Ah, yes, yes, of course, I did look up the list myself. In the chaos of everything…yes of course. Please, do have a drink.”

Ah. Harry knew the interview style now. Get him drunk enough to be honest, and loopy enough to agree to most things. A slippery tongue and an equally slippery mind.

He privately prided himself on his knowledge. How deeply unprofessional of her.

And then, he took a long sip. Her look of approval said everything, as well as the swig she took. Even doing that, she looked elegant.

“Well, let me begin this by saying that I am so pleased you have decided to come and interview for a position with us, and we are very glad you have come,” she turned her head to glance at the door, “How experienced are you with working with house elves?”

“I have spent a considerable amount of time with them, yes.”

“Good, good.”

If there were house-elves – obviously there would be more than just Dobby – what would he be here for? What could he possibly do that they could not in half the time?

“And what about…serpents? Any possible experience? Are you comfortable around them?”

“I am, yes, you can say that me and snakes have always had a…special connection.”

Lady Malfoy beamed.

This…was not going the way he had hoped.

“Wonderful! Wonderful, and what about organisation skills? Could you… organise a complicated schedule? Organise where people need to be? Arrange the transport of sensitive items?”

Sensitive items?

“I admit, my experience is not the most thorough in those areas, however I am quite sure I can manage.”

“Are you prone to asking questions?”

Yes.

“Certainly not. I am a private person, I keep myself to myself. Mind my own business. I am sure you understand, Lady Malfoy.”

Harry had thought she was fully relaxed before, but she seemed to be almost melting into the sofa now. If he hadn’t seen her before she drank, he would have thought she had more than a single sip.

“Please, call me Narcissa.”

“Very well, Narcissa. Call me Hadrian.” He didn’t particularly want her to call him that, but he couldn’t risk his name.

The name that felt more like his than the one he was given at birth.

“Well, Hadrian, we try to keep ourselves to ourselves here as well. I am sure you could fit right in.”

Oh.

This could work.

He wanted to kick himself. But the more he thought, the more he considered. The more it seemed like a good plan.

How many people from the Order would kill for a place in the Dark Base? A place that was essentially being handed to him. And, if he happened to find something that would be useful, he could hand it over.

For Sirius.

Didn’t Bellatrix live here? It would be so easy to just slip something in her food, or while she slept…

“Hadrian?”

“Yes, ma’am. My apologies, I just had to think a few things over. I quite assure you that will not happen again.”

Now he knew he had this…he wouldn’t give it up. He couldn’t give it up.

“Is there any other condition of your employment that I should know about?”

“Yes, yes,” Harry started, “My owl. She’s very quiet,” he lied through his teeth, “I couldn’t imagine my life not living with her. I need her in my room.”

“Oh! That should be no problem at all. We have arranged a private space for you here. It is nothing huge, but it has a private bathroom and a small living and cooking space. You are, of course, welcome to use the main amenities as well.”

Was that it? Harry had never been to an interview before, but this did seem rather…short.

“That sounds perfect, thank you kindly.”

“Very well then, Mr Evans, we will be more than appreciative for your help.”

Harry internally celebrated. Now, all he had to do was ask if he could start the next day so tonight, he could sneak back to the Dursleys and rescue all of his belongings and his owl. He may have left a letter of the bed with a weird scribble on it saying that anyone who touched his belongings would suffer a fate worse than death, but he was sure everything would work out fine.

“Allow me to show you to your room, we can go over the contract tomorrow after we have filled you in on the…further details of your job.”

Harry did not know what was going on, but he did not like the pause.

The two walked together again, Harry having a spring in his step for the first time in as long as he could remember.

They wound down a few staircases, and down more corridors than Harry could count.

“You will receive a full tour later on, of course. Part of your job will be knowing the exact layout of this building. And everything that needs doing in each room.”

They reached a small door that led down a smaller staircase.

The servants quarters. Harry rather thought those had been eradicated centuries ago.

There were a few doors leading out of the end of the stairs, all placed closely together.

“Kitchen, laundry room, and your bedroom,” she said pointing at the two side and middle door in turn.

Narcissa pulled a slightly rusted key out of her pocket and unlocked the door. She quickly handed him the key.

“You will be getting a chain necklace later for all your keys, as you will be…trusted with a considerable amount of them.”

Harry nodded.

They both stepped in the room together and Harry couldn’t help the smile that came over his face.

It might not have been large, but it was cozy. The single bed and wardrobe were pressed against one wall, the chest of draws at the end.

The rest of the room was awkwardly divided into sections, a small living area with a large fireplace and dark green armchairs. A small kitchen area with several cupboards was in one corner. Another door clearly led to the on-suite bathroom.

In some strange way, it almost reminded him of Hagrid’s hut. Sure, it was old and mildly decrepit, but it was clean, warm and it felt like home.

“I know it’s not all that much, but I hope it is suitable for yourself and your owl.”

It’s perfect.  

“I assure you ma’am; this will work fine for me, and I am sure she will love it too.”

“Well, I shall leave you to settle in then.”

Narcissa turned to the door but did not leave.

“Oh, your portkey! This can take you in and out of the wards of the Manor, dropping you off from...wherever you came from. You can alter this later, naturally.”

And she passed back the wooden bracelet, and Harry stared down at it for a few seconds until he realised it was an identical bracelet, with a completely different charm attached.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She still hesitated. It was almost like something was keeping her there, trapped in this homely room.

“I have something to show you Evans. Your job…has many different elements that I should introduce you too immediately.” Lady Malfoy bit hard on her lips and forcibly straightened out the creases on her forehead.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Chapter Text

The two figures strolled down the corridor, one at ease, and one glancing over her shoulder every few seconds. It’s as though she thought something was going to bite her.

They seemed to walk for miles, although Harry knew it was only in his head. Every corridor seemed to twist and turn and change pattern and design. Now and then they would reach a room that seemed to be built recently, full of modern furniture and elegant greens, but soon again they would pass another room, still elegant and formal but with the air of something much older.

Heavy curtains hung over every window that was more than a slit. Only the ever present un-flickering candlelight seemed to display this place, and Harry would have had no idea that it was afternoon outside.

Narcissa stopped a few times, removed her shoes, and took a few steps forward before putting them back on again. Twice she stopped and pressed her back fully into the wall.

Once she dramatically ducked as if to avoid an invisible projectile.

And yet, her face revealed nothing.

“May I ask for some specifics around my duties, madam, a place to start perhaps?”

“Yes, yes, of course, yes. That is where I am taking you now. You will have to forgive me, I hope you will still wish to work with us, despite the circumstances.”

Harry was now minorly convinced that she had some form of mental illness, before he stopped. Remember Harry, Voldemort lives here. Of course she would be afraid.

“I quite assure you; I am not one to give up at the slightest hurdle.”

The term ‘Triwizard Tournament’ came to mind.

“Wonderful. Tell me, Evan, I know I should have asked this within the interview, but how are you at dealing with…temperamental individuals?”

“Are you referring to the Dark Lord, Madam?”

Narcissa started, reaching desperately for her wand, before looking up at him with the first honest expression that he had seen all day.

Pure, honest to Merlin fear.

Strange.

She had her wand pointed at his chest now. Good thing his coach had drilled him about de-escalating situations.

“I quite assure you, Ma’am, I do not mean to disrupt your life here. I am here to serve and aid in whatever my role entails. I told you before, I keep myself to myself.”

“You are remarkably observant Hadrian, that’s a good sign. It will probably save your life around here.” The short black wand was replaced into her waist holster.

Don’t I damn well know that.

“Thank you kindly, Narcissa.”

Dumbledore had told him long ago that Voldemort used names to manipulate and confuse. Harry hadn’t really understood it until that moment.

They walked again.

“As you have figured it out, I suppose there is no issue telling you now. I am taking you to meet My Lord’s snake, Nagini. She requires very specific care and attention that will need to be taken care of by yourself personally.”

Harry nodded dumbly.

Another plan straight out the window.

How could he have imagined that he could stay away from Voldemort as staff? How could he possibly stay under the radar?

They moved up flights of stairs, climbing so many that Harry was quite sure they must have reached the top ten or so minutes ago.

Narcissa turned them out in front of a large, wooden door.

Her hand was trembling as she raised to knock. She pulled back at the last minute, before bringing it forward to try again.

Harry reached forward and knocked neatly. His knock was another thing he had to practise, loud enough to be heard and understood, but quiet enough to show respect and not startle somebody.

Narcissa looked at him, and had she been less refined Harry would have thought her jaw would gape. As it was, she went ghostly pale.

The door swung open on it’s own.

Narcissa peeked around the door, stretching out her neck as far as it would go. Only then, did Harry see that her legs were shaking.

Then, she stepped forward. Harry followed right behind.

Never overtake. Never view yourself as more important.

Never be too brash. Think of your actions.

Harry had broken so many inner rules with that knock, and yet she seemed to appreciate it anyway.

Once they were in Voldemort’s quarters, as that was quite obviously what they were, Harry could not help but be surprised.

His quarters started with a sitting area, before a large archway led into the bedroom. A bathroom and another door led of to the side. Most of the room was impeccable, in it’s shades of black and dark wood, and yet the desk area in the sitting room was strewn with more papers and books than Harry had ever seen. It looked like someone had been working in a hurry.

The room was roasting hot, and Harry could already feel a flush touch his cheeks. There was not a window in sight, and the walls were paved with some black substance that seemed to trap heat.

Narcissa opened the other side door Harry had noticed.

“In here, Evan.”

Inside the room seemed to be a fully functioning, room sized terrarium. The walls were black, as was everything else, but the inside was a fully furnished enclosure.

What appeared to be real plants grew everywhere from the walls to the floor. Branches mapped in vines covered the ceiling and a large, stone pool of water was off to one side.

“She is usually in here somewhere,” whispered Narcissa, “Otherwise she wanders the manor through those vents over there.”

She pointed at a section in the top left of the wall where it faded away into a round gap of darkness.

“You would have to report here in the mornings, of course, to clean everything out. You should change the water, bring in food which you must leave for her – ensuring for it to both be warmed and kept under stasis. You may also choose to bring in live prey, as long as it is properly contained within this room,” Narcissa gulped, “you must also pick up any sheds and reorganise this room from time to time to keep the items interesting for her brain.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She fiddled with her hands, before stepping back outside. Harry followed and the door lightly closed behind them. Entirely on it’s own.

“You will also be expected to clean within this room,” she gestured around, “however you must ensure you never touch or even look at anything on the desk. Everything else will need a thorough clean daily. If you are ever unsure of if you may touch something, summon a house elf outside the room. The Dark Lord does not care for them in here.”

Who was he really working for here?

“Of course.”

“The sheets must be changed daily, and the fires stoked as high as you can possibly get them. You will, of course, be given all of this in a list,” Narcissa paused for a breath, “And if I might be so bold as to recommend that you attempt to do all of this while the Dark Lord is…otherwise occupied. Outside his personal chambers. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Ma’am.”

“You will have other roles, of course. However, a house elf should go over all of them with you tomorrow. I assume that is standard procedure?”

Harry, who had no idea what standard procedure was in a situation such as this, simply responded with, “Yes. It is.”

The Dark Lord wanted a house cleaner. For when he was out.

Unseen forces, helping out and doing things that needed doing.

Out of sight, out of existence.

Harry had always known he would be able to find the perfect job somewhere.

What were the chances Voldemort would pay attention to the individual who simply cleaned his room? Harry doubted he would be given a second look.

Maybe not all was lost.

Narcissa gave a firm nod, and the two travelled back down the stairs to Harry’s room. He tried to remember where everything was, but by the sixth staircase he had quite given up.

This entire place was more a labyrinth than a home.

“Do you need to do anything before your contract is signed Evan?”

“I must collect my owl, this evening. And a few of my other possessions.”

“Of course, of course, you may do just that. Do you wish to leave your current bag with the elves to settle into your room?”

Harry’s heart began to race as he remembered just what was in his bag.

“Ah, it is nothing substantial Madam, and I would prefer to have it with me when collecting my things. It should not take me long now.”

“We can find you a separate storage space if your room will not be adequate.”

“It is alright madam; I keep my possessions few and my mind sharp.” That was what his instructor had told him to say in situations like this.

Never admit you have no family heirlooms or traditions. In higher society, everything is a personal choice, and never a forced circumstance.

She gave him a thin-lipped smile.

“I hope so, Evans, I really do hope so. Your uniform will be dropped off tomorrow morning. I hope you will rest well.”

And then, she turned on her heel and left him in his new room.

Harry closed the door carefully, before rushing over to the bed. He dropped his bag on the covering and dug through it. The hair potions and other toiletries were stashed within the bathroom cupboard, and he quickly used a green pen to hide the label on his hair dye and remover.

Red would be his natural colour, and the green was still the bad decisions he would wish he had never made.

It wasn’t perfect, but he doubted anyone would care for a closer look. He still stacked his shaving kit and creams in front. Just in case.

His old clothes he held in his hands. He turned the oversized, grey fabric over and over in his hands, feeling the scratchy fabric.

He had owned that shirt since he was eight, and it was so large it fit him still.

He wore this when Hagrid told him he was a wizard.

When he first visited Diagon alley.

Harry walked across the room and dumped it into the fireplace. The fabric made an uncomfortable fizzling noise but was soon consumed by the magical flame. His old trousers followed it. And then the underwear.

He could buy new things now.

And now, all he had to do was rescue Hedwig and some of his other things.

After all, it wasn’t fair that he received a new life, and they did not.

Harry scrambled for the portkey and slipped it on his wrist.

For the second time that day, Harry was spinning through nothing, the air tugging at his naval.

The cold night air greeted him, and Harry knew he had been out far longer than he had realised. The moon hung in the sky, and a sheen of stars had settled over the night sky.

Harry of old might have found it beautiful, as he had rarely been able to see the stars growing up. There wasn’t much of a view under a staircase.

But, as Harry breathed in the stuffy summer air, he began to wish for the simultaneously breezy and roasting interior of Malfoy Manor. The coolness and cozy nature of his rooms. The first rooms he had ever had that truly were his.

The only ones he did not have to compromise on or share.

Harry knew he had made the right decision.

He made his way down to the Dursley’s under cover of darkness and scaled the side of the building into his room (with only a little help from his firebolt hidden in the bushes).

All of his possessions he valued enough to take were easy to pack. His firebolt was shrunk with a potion as shoved in the front pocket. The map. His cloak. His Hogwarts robes. His school trunk and everything inside was similarly downsized. Sirius’s mirror. And all of Hedwigs remaining treats and bedding.

He couldn’t wait to take her out of her cage in their new home.

Trunk and owl in hand, backpack slung limply over one shoulder in a way his fancy dress did not suit, Harry ran a finger down his serpentine bracelet.

The moon gleamed through the open window.

And then the only thing that remained in that room was a little scrap of parchment, with a bogus symbol drawn on the front.

Harry Potter was nowhere in sight.

From the depths of Malfoy Manor, Hadrian Evans brushed a tuft of hair away from his face.

Welcome home, Hadrian. 

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke the next morning, it took a few moments before he was sure if he really had done. The bed beneath him was thinner than the one at Hogwarts, which was just slightly larger than a double, but the fabric beneath him was softer than he had ever been used to.

Something tickled the back of his neck, and when he reached his hand up, he realised it was his own hair, thrown everywhere during the night.

In the end, it was Hedwig who finally made his eyes blink and clear. He sat up slowly, breathing in the morning air.

For the first time in a long time, he felt that he was not being watched. He felt truly and utterly alone.

He smiled.

Hedwig had clearly been out flying the previous night, as a dead mouse now sat on Harry’s bedside table. He didn’t overly care, as long as she ate the thing before it went bad.

This was his space. He didn’t have to do anything that he didn’t want to do in it.

And he had the key to the lock.

As far as Narcissa had told him, the only key to the lock.

Harry stretched, and reached over a hand to pull his backpack onto the bed and began to rustle through it for some more of the clothes he had picked up in Diagon, before noticing something black and bulky on his bedside table.

He reached over it for his new silver frames.

The backpack was forgotten, and the lid of the large black box was raised.

On top of the pile of clothing – uniform – within, there was a scroll of parchment detailing a suggested time to meet ‘The Lord and Lady’ of the Manor to sign his contract and go over all workplace commitments. He skimmed it and put it down with a mental note to read it in more detail after.

He placed it aside in favour of the clothes that he would be wearing for the foreseeable future.

All in all, it was not too different than his interview outfit.

There were several sets of everything, and Harry could practically feel the automatic fitting charms woven into the fabric.

A neat buttoned up white top with a black undercoat and dark green bowtie. A matching green tailcoat made of dragons leather. Black socks, black shoes and a dark green ribbon for securing his hair in a low ponytail. Then finally a pair of white gloves that he neatly slipped on and must have looked near comical next to his pyjamas.

The clothes had that strange soft feeling of cloth that had not been worn nor washed for a long time, but they still had the musk of something second hand – albeit old and gentle on the skin.

He decided not to care.

Especially when he noticed that there was a shiny, leather wand holster at the bottom of the package. That was almost certainly new, or at least newly treated. He could smell the warm, homely scent of polish almost radiating off it.

With the sound of Hedwig prodding at her mouse in the corner, he dressed himself, not bothering to remove the gloves.

He realised, belatedly, that in his lackadaisical state of the previous evening, he had completely forgotten that he would need to have a hairbrush for the new lengths of his hair. He ran it through with his fingers and winced as it yanked at the knots.

He could not spend time with his new employers like this.

He grabbed a fistful of his hair and began pulling his fingers through in a desperate attempt to make it look somewhat presentable.

Grabbing his wand, he managed the spell, and using the ribbon succeeded in turning it into something that looked somewhat professional. He flattened the top with his hands, and sighed at it popped right back into the way it was before, with a little added static.

It looked fine.

“You should take the time to buy a proper hairbrush. One with boar bristles. Works very well,” said the slightly delirious voice of his mirror.

“Yes, I will, when I can,” Harry answered, already digging around for his makeup. The white gloves made his hands feel clumsy, and they were so soft that his hand simply seemed to slide off any slick surface.

The makeup brushes were an entirely new challenge, when it came to the part of trying to avoid smudging makeup on the collar of his new shirt. He had no idea how he would clean such a thing as the fabric seemed too delicate, but he supposed the house-elves would know.

Still, it would not do for something to happen on the first day.

Staring at himself in the mirror, he was quite content.

Until he felt an odd bulge in the front of his jacket and reached his hand into the pocket.

There was a handkerchief in the pocket, one that he doubted was supposed to be there, due to the way it was scrunched up.

He tried not to pull a face, until he unfolded it and realised it seemed quite unused.

As a matter of fact, it was rather pretty. A soft white with a stitching of some kind of red flower in one corner. It seemed utterly out of place with his outfit, which gave him the impression of someone darker and more dangerous than he had ever been.

Than he had ever needed to be.

He lay the handkerchief out flat inside a draw. He would have bought it with him, except for the fact it gave him that strangest feeling.

Like he was never supposed to have even seen it.

Like it was something secret.

He shut the draw. And with a second thought, he tapped and locked it with his wand.

And then, he reached for the letter.

Dear Master Hadrian Evans,

We are so glad that you have decided to join our staff body here at The Manor, and we are grateful to have you here. We hope you have settled in nicely.

Enclosed is the uniform which you will be wearing for your time here. We also propose that we arrange a time – ten O’clock this morning perhaps, in which you can come down to the second floor formal sitting room and speak with both myself and my wife, and sign any necessary paperwork and go over a job description in more detail.

We shall meet for afternoon tea, and as such ask that you yourself bring the refreshments from the kitchen. Consider it a first task, if you will.

Many congratulations, and we hope that you shall endeavour to bring pride to the Malfoy name.

Lucius Malfoy.

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

The letter ended with a family crest, seemingly drawn in emerald ink.

Well, that was something.  

Harry decided not to care, he knew Narcissa was warm enough to make up for the ice that radiated from her husband, and besides he didn’t overly care about the personalities of his employers.

He just needed to be out of that house. And be able to use magic freely.

And to spy for the order, of course, he reminded himself strongly as the thought had slipped from his mind during the luxury of his previous night of rest.

Still unused to using magic outside of Hogwarts, Harry pulled his fallen backpack over and dug through it to find his watch. It was almost half eight in the morning.

He had never been allowed to sleep in that late before, not even at Hogwarts. Not even when staying with Sirius. Someone always insisted that he wake up unbelievably early to do something.

“Look after yourself, girl,” Harry told his owl, who already had her head under her wing. She was going to be something rather difficult to explain.

Harry Potter’s owl was not exactly subtle. But that was a later problem.

With confident fingers, Harry took the key to the door that had be bought to him late last night. The kitchen was the room right next door, but he still had an hour and a half before he needed to be in the sitting room.

However, he did need to associate himself with the house elves. Another piece of information that his coach had given him, that he had never even considered before, was how important it was to gin the respect and aid of the elves in a new household.

Not, his coach had instructed, to be their friends. They know the place better than almost any other being within it and will be able to help you with almost anything you need. Besides, a few of the more modernised folk check on your behaviour with the elves.  

Harry knew what elves liked.

But that being said, he didn’t really know which kind of elves to expect. Narcissa had mentioned the previous day that they had many elves, and he had assumed they would work in a certain way due to their family.

However, the Malfoy’s had also had Dobby.

And Dobby had never mentioned any other elves, and Harry had not dared to ask.

He edged his own door open and walked the couple of needed paces to the kitchen, before he knocked.

Like within the Dark Lord’s chambers, the door swung open smoothly without anyone behind it.

When he stepped inside, a flurry of noise greeted him that he had been unable to hear from the outside.

Three elves stood in front of the stove, and they all froze and slowly turned when they saw him come in.

The elf who was cooking, a female, was stood on a small step stool. The other two seemed to be male, and they all wore tea-towels, but certainly more washed and put together than Dobby’s.

These elves had draped and dressed themselves with care.

And suddenly, Harry knew all he needed to.

“Greetings,” he said in his new accent, “My name is Hadrian Evans and I am here to take over for the role of Butler here.”

The three elves looked at him slowly, before the female jumped off her stool and walked towards him.

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Master Evans,” she said in a voice so soft and gentle it reminded Harry of little twinkling bells. “It is an honour to have you here. My name is Mispy.”

“Hello Mipsy, it is wonderful to meet you,” he looked at the others in a clear prompt.

“I’m Deek,” said one of the male elves, and Harry noted that he had a few grass stains down his front. His name and voice sounded familiar, but Harry could not place it.

“Tufty,” the third replied, and Harry fought not to startle at the deep, commanding tone of the elf who happened to be the shortest of the three.

“A pleasure.”

The three nodded simultaneously, and a shiver went up Harry’s spine at the unnatural movement.

“At 10 this morning, I will be having afternoon tea,” Harry said, only realising the irony of the statement as it came out, and yet the elves didn’t react to it. “I will be helping to prepare it and bring it to the sitting room myself. Would you be able to assist me?”

Mipsy nodded first, planting a hand firmly on his leg and giving his trouser leg a gentle tug towards the countertops.

“Thank you.”

The elves once again froze as though somebody had casted a full body bind over them.

“You are welcome, Sir,” Tufty spoke first, a slow nod of his old head going along with the deep tone.

They worked in silence for a while, as Harry was reminded of all the ways of creating an afternoon tea. Unfortunately, while he had covered it in his original bronze level qualification as part of his basics, he had hardly paid attention to it at all. At that point, he was still at the stage of only doing it for rebellion and finding it all rather funny, something he still regretted.

The ingredients were bought out and as such they began with the tiny sandwiches with fillings of ham and mustard, or beef and horseradish or a few notable ones filled with smoked salmon or cucumber with creamed cheese. Harry rather thought those ones looked the nicest, as he had never attempted wizarding mustard, which was apparently made with Billywig honey, and he had never attempted horseradish before, wizarding or otherwise.

Tossing his gloves to a nearby clean countertop, he soon discovered that the scones were much more to his preference. The cooking supplies were clearly magic, but the muggle influences were strong enough that he was able to work through it without too much effort.

Everything was similar enough to the Hogwarts kitchens that he managed to create decent enough fruit scones, that didn’t look like he was struggling against some great force. The elves had created a jam, supposedly seasoned with some specialised imported sugar that he had never heard of.

He thanked them profusely for it, anyway.

Even more so for the dab he snuck from his finger into his mouth when they rather deliberately looked the other way.

He was rather worried for time, but as it turned out the elves had already created some fresh cake for such a situation that morning. Apparently the two options of Battenberg and Butter-drizzle would both contrast and compliment the meal.

The sweep of crumbs he had off the table seemed to agree with that assessment.

To his embarrassment, his lack of knowledge showed even in his assembly of the final version. He had remembered that it was eaten in three courses, however he had no clue about the fact that it was eaten from the bottom up.

He really needed to go over some of the basics again, lest he be caught out by something so foolish.

He was still shocked at the amount of effort needed to create something that seemed so small and felt rather bad that he had been taking the enormous feasts at Hogwarts in vain for years. When he said as much to the elves he received two bright smiles, and one twitch of the lips.

“Just the tea left, Master Evans,” replied Mipsy in her quiet way. “Always best done last.” She didn’t speak like the typical elves that Harry knew, who typically spoke in loud, disjointed English. He nodded along to her instructions.

The two prepared a steaming pot of tea, which Harry was able to do almost entirely independently and with minimal struggle. Tea had been an area his course had more than covered, and had interested him enough that he had experimented with a few bags of loose leaves he had secretly bought from a local muggle shop.

The two prepared a mix of Silver needle and Jasmine, and the heavenly scent made Harry’s mouth water just from the loose-blend alone.

They assembled some fine china, and Harry pushed down his nerves at having to select them himself. He chose a set he assumed would be safe, black, with green embellishments on the inside of each cup.

He would only admit to being minorly relieved at Tufty’s approving nod.

Deek had been out doing something in most of the time they had been cooking (or, more accurately, Harry and Mipsy had been cooking and Tufty had watched in silent judgment), but he soon returned, only to reach for a tray and walk off again.

Harry had never understood house elves and all their strange ways.

Mipsy helped him plate everything with the utmost care, and even took the time to use some elvish magic to keep everything in place, just in case it was needed.

“Mipsy cannot escort you to the sitting room, Master Evans will have to accomplish that on his own. There is a map of the Manor in the corner.” She pointed to a mounted frame on the wall, which Harry had thought contained some blank parchment for writing.

When he moved closer, ink spilled out from the middle of the frame creating a fully annotated map of the serving floor. A few seconds later the ink retreated to create the next floor up, which Harry was almost horrified to find out was the dungeons.

At least, he certainly knew his place around here.

The ‘ground floor’ turned out to be the sixth, and the second floor the one after that. The staircases would be easy to remember as they seemed a straight way up, and the sitting room was right next to the top of the flight.

Easy.

When he turned back to grab the tray, Mispy was looking at him with a strangely pleased expression, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that Tufty was as well. Suddenly, Harry had the feeling that he had just been tested again.

And for the first time in his life, on his list of many first times, he was positive that he had passed it.

He went to grab the tray but feeling eyes on his back he quickly reassessed and pulled on his gloves. His wand was tucked into his new sleeve holster.

The kitchen door swung open, and even though he knew nobody was there to judge him yet, he straightened out his shoulders and tried his best to keep an even posture. He still had to walk quickly, as he didn’t know how long it would take for the tea to go cold, and he didn’t want to risk it.

Very particularly, he did not look at the double, stone doors near the top of the stairs that he now knew led to the Dungeons.

He had checked the time before he left, and knew he had a full ten minutes before he had to be with the Malfoys. But ten minutes was certainly enough time for tea to go cold, even though Mipsy said that the pot would keep it warm.

His pureblood etiquette course was internally cursed for being so specific and yet so vaguely useless all at the same time.

He quickened his pace.

The stairs took a lot more effort than he was used to after a few weeks of being trapped in a boiling room, he felt quite winded.

When he reached the door, he hesitated, unsure of how to knock with the tray in his hands that prevented the movement.

Eventually, he gently placed the tray on the floor, knocked quickly, and picked it up again just in time for the door to swing open as they all seemed to.

“Good morning, Hadrian,” came the familiar voice of Narcissa from her place on the couch. “It is quite lovely to see you again.”

Harry nodded and gave a slight bow paired with an awkward smile, before he walked over and placed the tray upon the table.

He moved the afternoon tea to the centre and laid out the cup place settings without looking up.

He picked the teapot up in his hand and shyly asked.

“Tea?”

“For both of us. Yes.”

The boiling lavender water spilled into the cup with a plume of white steam and a floral smell entering the room. Harry breathed it in deeply, calming his racing heartbeat down into something more manageable.

Moving over, Harry did the second cup.

And only then did he look upwards.

Lucius Malfoy sat with a domineering presence, relaxed within his place on the sofa, with his serpentine cane lying next to him. He had attacked Harry with that cane once. Had screamed in his face.

He forced himself not to be nervous.

Especially when he saw the added wrinkles to the man’s face that no amount of aging could execute, and the runaway hairs from his own ponytail.

Narcissa sat beside him, looking slightly refreshed but still tired and somewhat…absent looking. Like her mind was far, far away.

Harry lowered himself into one of the armchair’s facing them.

“My wife has been pleased with your demeanour, history and working ability,” began Malfoy senior, running his eyes over the afternoon tea Harry had bought to them, “and I am pleased to see that she did not place seemingly her faith incorrectly. I have every hope that you shall be an asset to our manor and it’s…extremities.”

Harry nodded slowly, allowing a soft smile to cross his face. Grateful. Quiet. Humble.

“Please, help yourself,” Malfoy waved at the serving tray and Harry knew that he was being tested again.

He neatly poured himself a cup of tea, and raised it to his lips, holding it in such the way he had copied from his diagrams.

He gave an extra effort to not slurp and made sure to look down into the cup as he had been taught.

He placed the cup back down with only the smallest of clinks.

“Thank you very much, Sir.”

Lucius Malfoy gave him one slight incline of his head.

“We will meet here most days for an afternoon tea. On a standard day it would be in the afternoon, usually around four to five. You will be expected to have that hour to come and dine with us on such days we take part in those events. To keep us updated on the going’s on and running of the Manor as my wife is too tired to accomplish such things to the standard she wishes.”

Harry gave a slow nod. An hour off daily to be minorly grilled, drink tea and eat cake? He could do that.

“My wife informs me that you have been shown around some of the areas of the Manor, including the chambers of our…remarkable host. And that you have been informed of your role hereafter in that regard.”

“I have.” Harry fought to keep the accent in place.

“It should go without saying that as a member of our serving staff, albeit a high positioned one, that if you are given a task by anyone who walks in here or you meet, you are expected to fulfil it yourself or delegate accordingly. It should be your best judgment on the situation, and I am sure you will learn our preferences in time.”

Harry did not nod, and simply met the eye contact being given.

Malfoy reached behind him to pull out a piece of formal parchment, which he handed over the table. He then, reached for a sandwich.

Harry skimmed the contract, reading between the lines. If they had ever met in person, he was quite convinced that his instructor would have rapped him over the knuckles for even considering doing such a thing.

But he knew he was going to take the job, no matter what. And as long as the contract didn’t include anything beyond the agreed upon period of time, then he had no problems with it.

Eternal slavery was where the line was drawn.

He spotted a few lines that gave him pause, things about cleaning up all ‘suspicious stains’ and ‘keeping utmost discretion in difficult and unduly stressful’, however he imagined some of them to be rather boilerplate.

In all honesty, he had no idea how to properly read a contract, and most of it didn’t make any sense. It washed over in his brain, until the words came out of his mouth.

“This all seems acceptable to me.”

Lucius nodded and looked to his wife who had just taken a small bite from one of the sandwiches. At a guess, Harry thought it must have been the one with salmon and creamed cheese. She nodded back.

A quill box was pulled out from behind them, and Harry’s heart almost stopped at the sight of the blood quill within it.

But still, he picked it up, remembering that the first few times of use for a phrase never hurt that badly.

He lay the contract on the table and signed it in his practised loopy signature.

Hadrian. J Evans

The pain was hardly even noticeable, almost as if it had just sucked a small amount of blood from a prick on his finger as opposed to a whole hand. Harry could only imagine the sight of that single drop of blood, falling onto that white, floral handkerchief.

A second later, the contract bond visibly snapped in place.

“Very well then,” Lucius interrupted his darkened musings, “I must extend a formal welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr Evans. I do hope that this arrangement works consistently well for…every individual involved.”

Harry rather hoped so himself.

For, unlike the Malfoy’s who could fire him anytime they wished, Harry had no way of backing out.

He pushed the contract from his mind to Malfoy’s comments of sending him a spare copy and arranging bank transfers, in favour of a ham and mustard sandwich.

He ate it in two bites.

Chapter Text

Dear Hadrian Evans,

My most sincere compliments on your newest job position and role. I hope you are as proud of yourself as we are: it is rather…lets go with fascinating to see how far you have come. Remember, dear childe, there is always another ladder you can climb, another boulder to be pushed down the mountain of the ages and break open the tomb the covers over the secrets of old.

On that note, I have enclosed the forms which will allow you to sign up for the ‘Gold’ level of the course, as I assume you wish to do so. The course load is much the same, going more in depth. However, as always and especially now we can cater it to your person and necessary roles. Everything is open to interpretation, Hadrian, but I have made a few notes to send to head office when considering the kind of thing you might find some use in.

(You may deny it Evans, but even as an old man I know my things. If something is impractical, it bores you to tears. Indeed, do not try to deny – I know you too well at this point.)

Such elements of the course may include, but are not limited to: the use of symbolism and complicated sigls (to use your own past words – another thing we tend to do, dear Hadrian, so keep that in mind), protection enchantments, history of locations and use of magic in such situations, advanced dining etiquette, advanced situational awareness (not that you overly need this, clever boy that you are, however I do believe it is a good thing to promote), the handling and acquisition of magical artefacts…the list goes on, however I will not bore you with the details. You may, of course, (and I highly encourage) spend time going through the enclosed pamphlet with the gold level award and selecting different courses which you would enjoy doing.

That is the wondrous thing around reaching a gold award, people care more that you have it, rather than the true contents within. (Please do not refer as such to upper management, I know you are the secretive type, dear. I doubt you would find their response of overt use, personally I do not.)

Either way, I congratulate you most sincerely on your achievements in this area, but do wish that you had informed me earlier so I could have helped you prepare and aided you with the interview. Please feel encouraged to include me further if you ever attempt such a thing again. I do get paid for this; you know.

You should be proud, however, as it seems like you have truly taken my words to heart, and held them close to your chest as you did in that interview.

Consider me impressed, and know that I stand behind you. (Aside, of course, with that thing with the accent. As I told you before, it should be shaped and not obliterated and changed: however, I know nothing I say will change you mind and so I must quitly sigh to myself in defeat on such a point).

Most sincerely,

Your attentive and ever-present mentor,

Angus Augurillus

Sit lux luceat, et in flamma mundi terminus

Over the course of the many books Harry had read, he came across a single thing that gave him more pause than anything else.

You cannot fake an accent for long, inevitably your voice stutters or you simply forget. It is impossible as a method of disguise.

Harry had once believed that to be true. Before he burned the book in the fireplace. For, he could keep his accent.

He had spent many nights in his room practising as such, talking to the broken toys on the wall as if they were fancy people he met at some kind of gala.

The new voice came far more naturally than his own original way of speaking, which had started to feel like he had to force it uncomfortably down a few octaves. How he used to speak sounded wrong on his tongue – even after months of using both.

Like someone else had been talking through him all that time - a puppet on a never ending set of strings.

Sometimes, he would whisper in his new accent to himself at the Dursleys, his change in voice remaining unnoticed. By using it full time, he could already feel the difference in the strain of his throat - healthier almost. Less like he was trying to force something that didn't match who he was inside.

However, he was rather convinced the person upstairs would not be feeling the same.

After returning from his bought of afternoon tea, he had been instructed to wrap up for the day, and finish settling in, as well as memorising the list of tasks and reading any necessary correspondence.

The weather had turned for the worse, lashing through his open window and forcing a few expletives from his mouth.

His windowsill had been more than drenched, and Hedwig’s spot had been soiled with it. It appeared, that despite enjoying a rainy flight on most nights, the slightest breath of water upon her wings was a deep grievance that should be taken with the utmost sincerity.

He wasn’t even entirely sure where he managed to dig the cloth from, but he knew Hedwig had been clicking her beak at him the entire time.

And it was then the screaming began. And with every second that went on, the haggard appearance the two seemed to have sunk into their skin made more sense than ever.

It was a man’s scream, piercing, loud and destructive. It filled every space, every cranny of Harry’s living area seemed filled with the sound.

Hedwig flew out of the window, into the pouring rain. He found himself wishing he could do the same.

Harry rather found himself hoping that the suffering man would just die. The pained screams ticked higher and higher in volume.

And every time, it was like Harry was frozen in place.

The screams filled his veins with ice, and he sat frozen, knuckles clasped white over the dampened cloth.

He had known this was coming.

But, somehow, despite being informed that he slept right under the dungeons, he had never imagined it to be so.

He closed his eyes, bringing a hand up to rub them.

After that he tried to keep them open. Without it, he could almost think that they were in the room with him.

The ceiling creaked under the weight of the struggle.

And somehow, despite it all, the screaming seemed to fade away into whiteness in his head. A repetitive, noiseless buzzing.

And a voice was playing in his ears.

He thought it was a voice, but it more closely resembled a disembodied buzzing. Something just out of reach, like trying to hear a conversation through a thin wall.

The muttering hissed, and grunted, and buzzed.

Without quite meaning too, head full of blur that it was, he found himself across the room with his hand clasped on the draw, pulling it open.

He shook his head at the handkerchief, unsure of why he had ever bothered to check on it in the first place.

The whiteness stayed. The muttering continued.

Had Harry Potter finally gone mad? Like in second year? Like every newspaper in the tournament said?

He made a grab for his wand.

“Hedwig?” He pressed his face against the crack of open window. “Hedwig?”

But she had flown away into the rain. The world was a mess of over-washed grey, and the rain beat down hard enough that even the voice in his head faded to insignificance.

She would come back when she was ready.

His hands shook as he worked, once again leaving her out a dish of water and some “food” he had commandeered from the kitchen when nobody was looking.

Perhaps stealing from the Dark Lord’s personal supply of frozen thawed rodents wasn’t the best plan he had ever had on his first day, but he very much doubted that anyone would be noticing.

It was his job to manage them anyway, and it wasn’t entirely impossible that one could have simply come alive again and run off into the corridor. Or went bad.

One of the two probable solutions.

The screams still came to him. As he had been told to do, to distract himself in times of trial, he guessed.

He thought the man must be at least thirty, voice deep enough to account for it. And, it would not have been much of an estimate to suppose he had been screaming for a very long while before it had broken through the charms.

He knew he could have just re-enforced them. Part of the contract had stated that keeping up the defences and adding other needed charms when he saw fit was part of what he had to do.

If he would ever have admitted to that thought, he would have said he quickly forgot it.

Good butlers did what needed to be done. Calm, emotionless and steady. A reliable quiet presence, there to fix any spill and whisk away a filthy stain before the guests noticed.

A stain of any kind, really.

But no book had ever taught him the feeling of leaving his room in such a flurry of motion. It, probably, would have advised that he did not. That he took his time, never to rush anything as it would make him look unprofessional.

He hardly noticed pulling the key from the door and locking it behind him.

Feeling his hand on the warmed, wooden railing came as a shock to the system. As did the overly loud sound of his feet on the carpeted steps.

He took a deep breath when he reached the top of the stairs, looking left and right as if some imaginary assailant was waiting over his shoulder. Waiting for him to mess up and do something foolish, for him to show his true face.

Golden boys had arrows pointing at everything they did. Every move, every hug, every show of affection.

Butlers, did not.

But Butler’s didn’t have any of those things either.

The rooms seemed to darken as he went down the corridor, the narrow lamps on the floor growing dimmer and dimmer as he walked along.

The walls were papered, glamourous and bold. But still the screaming came, somehow so out of place in this dim, formal place.

Until it stopped.

The long corridor had grown smaller, so Harry had to walk almost on his side to get through, and it was still a tight fit. The carpeted floor had long since worn away into stone. The wallpaper faded off the walls. There hadn’t been any windows for at least ten minutes.

If he hadn’t known that this…space was one above his own, he would have thought that he had to be underground.

Harry dodged a pile of bones on the floor, they were drenched in some strange liquid. An emerald beetle crawled out of it, hiding in a shadowy corner.

The corridor led to a wooden door carved with horrific images of death. A man being stabbed in the chest. A beheaded woman. With the added (perhaps unintentional) added décor of a heavy line of blood coating the bottom.

Leaking through like a barrel of overturned wine.

As his instructor had always told him, breathe through your mouth in times of a particularly bad smell. Be aware not to look gormless when you do – not that I would anticipate that of you Evans.

Harry nearly laughed at the irony, trying as he was not to gag and reveal where he was.

Somehow it didn’t seem as horrid as he might have thought.

But still his brain buzzed. Over the screaming, somehow the ear-splitting wail not having changed in volume, but perhaps it was the fog that now clouded his thoughts.

It was like someone had casted a Muffliato on his own brain. Like there was something he wasn’t supposed to know.

Harry Potter would have run towards the sound, in his own head as it might be. Panting and red with effort and sweat, breathing through the cramps for knowledge.

Hadrian Evans strode towards the door, pulling his gloves up his wrists, and holding his head up high.

Luckily for him, the door was pressed open, only by the smallest crack.

He had fit himself into smaller as a child. And certainly, had no criticism of doing so now. After all, what was a good butler for?

The room was dark, circular – he rather thought. Dimly lit in candles as it was, he could hardly stand the size of it, or at least the part that flickered in and out of his vision. Every wall was lined with cages, bars thick with more than one grimy face pressing at the backs walls of each one.

They stacked on top of each other, shaking almost with the force of the rage pressed upon such a space. Harry could almost feel the rust on the bars, dangerous enough to not dare touch it.

The dark curses.

The runes of untold dangers woven so deeply into the metal that no curse breaker could ever rip them out.

The door pressed open a little further against the pressure of his gloved hand.

He drew in a shocked breath, forcibly silencing himself with his other glove. He would need to learn to stop doing that.

Good butlers never showed emotion.  

There was a man on the floor.

He didn’t appear visibly wounded, he looked down at his feet to ensure he was still suitably far away from the blood such as it would not ruin his newly given leather shoes.

He knew he looked ridiculous.

And yet, the man screamed.

He didn’t move or writhe, as Harry remembered his own experience under the curse, but seemed to lie quite still.

But his hoarse, screaming yells told a very different tale.

Sweet Circe.

The floor seemed to shake, the people in the cages shrunk back further into the walls.

A single white foot came into view, the sweeping of a long, dark robe.

Then, it was gone.

“You fool,” Lord Voldemort said, breaking over the screaming in his quiet, hissing way.

And suddenly, like a dam breaking, the words became clear in his head.

His eyes flickered closed.

Lemon. The words said. No milk. Silver spoon.

Even in his abject horror, Harry blinked in surprise. Lemon tea? No Milk?

But he knew that voice, not as he had heard it just now in his head, but he knew it when it was hard and cold. He knew it when it hissed.

He knew it was going to be here. And yet he had hoped, so desperately hoped that he would be able to avoid it.

He knew, somewhere cold and deep within him that he would be unable to.

He had known it when he heard it.

Just as he knew that there was a presence behind him.

The floor beneath seemed to vertebrate with the movement, and gentle hissing – not the harshness that used to reverberate in his ears at night.

He pressed himself to the side of the wall, heart racing in his chest.

But Nagini seemed not to notice him, even when she passed by his feet and pushed her way through the tiny gap he had created.

His eyes rested on the ground for a long while after she had gone through, only vaguely aware of the residue she was leaving on the floor.

When he looked up once again, his eyes met another through the small crack.

Sad, brown eyes, surrounded by deep, dripping red.

He turned and ran.

He was in a daze, hardly aware of where he put his feet or where he moved. He just had to leave, to escape.

To take his mind of off whatever he had just seen, had just walked into.

If those eyes had been of the others that occupied the room, he would have been done for. He had been foolish.

He didn’t run. Running was loud even over the screams, even over the friendly hisses from the Dark Lord to his pet.

The leaning down of a single white hand, petting her gently on the head, before Harry turned and pattered away.

From what his feet did not, his heart made up for in hammering out of his chest.

He hardly even knew where he was going, other than away.

And yet, somehow his feet knew where to take him.

There were no house elves in the kitchen when he arrived, no sign of his friends who he thought might be able to help.

He didn’t question it, didn’t question the darkness the enveloped the room, peaceful almost.

He was glad they wouldn’t see him this way, not this early on. Panting with exhaustion and likely red in the face.

It was a good thing in many ways that he had practised making food just earlier that day, the lifetime away that it seemed to be.

Lemon tea, no milk. A silver spoon.

The instructions came into his mind easier than slick butter.

The tray came out of the cupboard, black. He didn’t dare reach for anything fancy out of some weird thought that it might hide the dreaded spoon.

Which silver spoon would a Dark Lord, as he had assumed the voice came from there, would he want? A sleek silver one? Covered in sigls?

Why silver?

Why did that matter in any way?

Was it even lemon tea he had wanted in the first place, or was Harry simply being his old presumptuous self?

He breathed through his nose and picked one out at random. Was he really going to do this? The chances of this working were astronomically, dangerously low.

Inconceivably so.

But Butlers attended to needs, predicted whenever they could do so. And Harry knew better than to throw away a gift horse opening it’s very throat towards him.

He lay the spoon simply on the tray, pulling out a black saucer to blend in with the tray. When in doubts, match it up. Hide any mistakes.

Besides, black and yellow had an odd synchronicity to them.

He lay the teacup out on the side, unwilling to risk even the slightest chance of a spill. Of a mistake.

He had practised this tea. Breathe in. Follow the instructions.

First boil water, then add tea powder boil well to make a tea decoction. Then strain and when it is still warm add lemon juice and honey to it, and the tea was done.

The steam once more warmed his face, and he breathed in the refreshing citrus scent. In all honesty, he had struggled with tea many a time. Had thought it was rather repulsive, actually.

The lemon and ginger he had at the Dursley’s was the closest he had owned that didn’t taste like boiler water.

Even the stuff from earlier tasted as such.

But still, the smell relaxed his muscles in a way that could only be compared to a warm bath on a cold winters eve.

He graced the side of the cup with a single piece of sliced lemon, to ensure that it was known what it was. If there was ever a situation, where he could possibly risk misinterpretation going horribly wrong…

And it was placed on the small tray.

It seemed so empty, so cold and full of nothingness. No matter how he positioned the spoon or moved the angle of the handle, it just seemed so bland.

He didn’t want to push it.

But the voice had been going on for so long. Surely, no-one thought about the same kind of tea over and over again in their minds?

But, perhaps, the man of serpents that shook Harry to his core, didn’t think the same way he did.

The tray shook in his hands, cup nearly splashing towards the edge before he finally stopped to add a stasis charm.

Although it was warm in the kitchen, his teeth seemed to chatter. His shoulders ached, despite seeming to have not done much.

He almost ran past the first turn in the corridor that led to those dungeons.

He would know if anyone had left. He would be able to tell if there would be something, or someone waiting for him.

He had good instincts.

For him to even survive till the end of the day, he damn well needed them. He gripped the tray harder with his hands, giving up on the elegant hold to grasp it on the handles.

He had been told he should never do that.

His instructor had, most likely, not accounted for this…slightly abnormal turn of events when teaching him how purebloods preferred for trays to be held with a single hand underneath. Exactly how one was meant to do that was entirely lost on Harry, especially with delicate China upon the top.

The large false plastic one with farm animals he had found to trial his efforts on at the Dursleys was probably not the best material either.

The Dark Lord’s chambers were up ahead, and it took Harry a while to realise that the China was shaking, clashing together on his trey.

He straightened his posture.

His elbows seemed to shake themselves right out of their sockets.

A gloved hand came up, and the door swung open, just as it had the first time he had done so.  And, much alike in that first time as well, it was completely deserted.

The window had been left open, and Harry felt the shiver within his bones.

It was bloody freezing.

He dared not touch the desk, but instead took his tray and placed it next to the bed, where the cold seemed to only get worse. He cast a stasis charm, weaving it into the layers beneath.

And didn’t that feel amazing?

No Ministry letters chasing him here.

It perforated every inch of the room, worse maybe even than the dungeons.

He knew he couldn’t leave the rooms this cold. He remembered Nagini’s snake room when he saw the door, remembering the near stifling level of heat within.

Surely, if Lord Voldemort was part snake, he too would hate the cold? When he had touched Harry’s cheek in the graveyard so long ago, his hand was cold. Icy, almost.

It would make sense if he couldn’t bring himself to temperature.

He kneeled down in front of the fireplace, pulse seeming to have risen to the back of his throat. What was he doing? Was he really going to go through with this?

In all the areas he had no instruction, he had never thought this would be one that he encountered.

There was some sort of fuel already in the fireplace, and Harry recognised it. Not by name, but it had been on his lists.

He also remembered that there was a way to stoke these types of fires even hotter with use of a certain liquid kept hidden inside the fireplace itself.

Fidgeting around with the décor, one of the dragon head engraving’s bowed down, mouth opening with a strange clicking sound, and spat out a small vial on a long, golden chain.

He pulled it out with the tip of his fingers, brushing the dust of the sides and choking on the air around it.

Harry’s hands shook as he dripped it once, twice, onto where the flames would sit.

He corked the bottle, feeding it back through the mouth of the dragon. It clicked shut behind, leaving no clue that it had ever been there.

“Incendio,” Harry backed away from the fireplace as the jet of fire sprung from his wand and warmed the room in a thick layer of orange light.

It sweltered. If out in the sun, Harry would have gone inside for fear of burn.

He adjusted his collar and stood up, brushing any hidden particles off his knees.

As he closed the door behind him, he scanned the whole room up and down, remembering to cast a stasis charm over the tea as he was leaving.

One hell of a first day.

Chapter Text

Early morning in Malfoy Manor was shown through wintery greys and softer pinks lighting the morning skies.

The morning cold seemed to have spread through the whole building overnight, and Harry’s room had suffered the most. The warm fireplace had snuffed itself out.

The window was open.

He staggered to his feet, running a hand through his hair and wincing as it pulled through several knots on the way down.

Hedwig hooted quietly from behind him, and he held out a hand to give her a head rub.

“Morning, girl,” he said, yanking the window closed. To damn cold for that. He shook his hand and winced at the painfully numb feeling on the palm of his hand and up his fingers.

Cold enough that, if he was right, somebody else wouldn’t be liking it either.

“I know, I know, it’s horrible,” Harry said to her, “It’s summer!” He gestured around the room vaguely.

Were a few days here long enough for him to go utterly mad?

“It is likely just the morning chill,” said his mirror, and he forced himself not to jump. “You should try to braid your hair whilst you sleep. It would do a world of good.”

“Thank you, I will consider that.” Harry shuffled over to the table and rifled through the paper on his desk. As promised, Lady Malfoy had sent through his list of responsibilities the day before, but even after delivery that voice had refused to leave his brain for hours.

The words had rung over and over until they almost seemed to swallow him whole.

Until it all went quiet. His head had ached, his very bones had felt tired, and he doubted he had ever felt so alone.

Sleep had taken only minutes to pull him under.

I would have known if something happened. Harry told himself, there would have been some explosion of anger. I would probably already be dead.

The list was long, but simple enough. Cleaning, caring for Nagini (for certain things: from the little he knew about her, he could only hope that she was incredibly independent), working with the food and drink, organising events, greeting guests, managing the serving staff…

It all seemed doable.

Another little back folder drew his attention, brilliantly stamped golden lettering across the front. His new course list options. He sighed and picked up the folder, throwing it open and kicking his legs onto the bed in one movement.

Handling Wine Storage

Formal Etiquette; The Inner workings of a Ballroom

The Art of Napkin Folding

Someone – his mentor – had written around some of the points in green ink. Next to ‘Posture and Temperament: An Advanced Guide’ the green ink instructed that they recommended to ‘start here’.

Harry sighed, pulling out an old quill and scratching a rough circle around the edge. Thank Merlin, he wasn’t needed until later that morning for breakfast.

He was hardly aware when the room around his began to somewhat warm up – likely due to the house elves diligent work.

When he finally laid down his quill, the sun had risen, drawing away the greys and pinks of early morning, and clouding them with a clouded summer sun. The summer light drew patterns on the floor and warmed his feet. (He hadn’t thought to ask how underground as he was, he was able to have a window that allowed his owl outside, and the sunlight in. He wasn’t entirely sure he would understand the explanation if he was given one.)

He dressed quickly, pulling the bow tie harshly around his neck, and fixing the buttons tightly. The uniform felt different today. He could feel the way the jacket just didn’t quite fit right, the slight bag in the trousers, and the fact that even the socks seemed to be made for somebody with smaller feet that his.

No amount of automatic fitting charms could fix that. Perhaps one of the house elves could sew it up later?

He was more careful with his hair, brushing over it with a small comb he had found in the cabinet to ensure that no black peaked through the dye.

Put together, he twisted in the mirror.

“You look fine,” the mirror said again, sounding bored.

“I – Yes, thank you.” Harry would never admit that he had forgotten that he was being watched. “Try to be quiet Hedwig,” Harry muttered as he made for the door.

He shut and locked it behind him, putting the key around his neck.

If nothing else, the elves seemed to be enthusiastic about keeping the servants quarters full of life. Mipsy had thrown open the kitchen doors, and they all chatted as they worked. Everything was bathed in warm light from another open window, and the roaring fireplace they had kept on.

“Morning everyone,” Harry awkwardly made his presence known.

Simultaneously, they all turned around to smile at him. He took a deep breath and tried to smile back.

“Morning!” Mipsy cried back, waving at him from her place on the stool. She was already stirring something on the stove, by the scent Harry rather thought it was some kind of stew.

“You seem to have breakfast handled,” Harry thought quickly, “shall I handle the washing up?”

She gave him a joyous nod.

“It’d just be’s the master, mistress and other master, last night. Not too much to be doing!”

“Not too much at all,” Harry nodded.

He slid his gloves off and laid them on the middle island, vaguely waving a hand to start the tap water.

Without really looking, he grabbed the nearest plate he plunged it into the hot water (which had come out full of bubbles) and scrubbing of some remains of meat and gravy.

He shook some loose hair out of his face, huffing in annoyance. Then, he raised his arm to brush it away without covering his hair in suds.

Something caught his eye. Something black and silver on his washing-up pile.

It was the tea tray from last night.

Somehow in his mind, he hadn’t thought he would see it again. Perhaps he had thought it would have been smashed.

Instead, the tea had clearly been drunk – the dregs of the tea at the bottom – and the silver spoon placed within the mug.

He reached for the cup and spoon and plunged them into the scalding water. His hands already felt red and blistered, much alike how they had been at the Dursley’s.

At least, this time, he had gloves to cover and soothe his hands.  

Perhaps he could even spell coldness upon them, easing the swelling that came so naturally to him after years of hard labour to break down the walls of his skin.

“When did this tray come back?”

“Oh, just this morning! Mipsy had assumed from the masters, that you had taken it up yourself.” Her voice was just as sweet and calming as ever, but the wrongness of it all seemed to shake something within Harry.

Where had she been yesterday?

“I did. Yes.”

He nodded. Just how late did Voldemort get back to his rooms that the tea tray had been sent back in the morning?

And what state would that poor man be in?

Harry’s heart clenched. He hated to admit just how much the look of pure, unadulterated terror and pain on his face had haunted Harry.

The night before, curled up in bed, he had almost found himself doing the childish thing of turning on his lamp and opening every door to check outside.

And even when he slept, a featureless, pale face haunted him.

“Are yous being okay, sir?” Deek spoke, and Harry jumped at hearing his voice.

“Yes, yes, I am. My apologies,” said Harry, forcing his shoulders back and his neck straight. He would have thought, after seeing what would happen if he didn’t, that he would have kept himself to a higher standard.

Apparently, his subconscious disagreed with him.

“If you is being saying so, sir,” the little elf replied, gesturing to Tufty, before they both left together. Tending to the garden, Harry supposed, as he had read that gardening was a large part of their responsibility.

“What’s for breakfast this morning?” Harry asked casually, trying to break the silence of the room.

The green flame on the stove hissed.

The little pot Mipsy was stirring seemed to contain some brown stew, with floating bits of meat. Not an unappealing dish, perhaps, but nothing of what Harry would call breakfast.

“I went out and bought some fresh croissant pastry yesterday!” The little creature said joyfully, “The masters do be appreciating having such things on the last day of the week!”

Harry finally released his iron grip on the mug and allowed it to sink into the bubbles.

“Do you want me to start with that?” Harry asking, not thinking overly hard about what he was saying.

Mipsy nodded enthusiastically, pointing one wizened finger towards a random cupboard.

Upon pulling out the pasty and laying it out on the (somehow already floured) board, Harry realised he had no idea what he was doing. He had made pastries for Aunt Petunia’s friend’s many times over the years, but never something like this – not recently anyway.

Mostly as they tended to come over for lunch, and his aunt always said that croissants tasted like sweetened cardboard.

Harry had also noticed that she had gone off it completely one year when Vernon and Dudley had teamed up in an attempt to make her a mother’s day meal.

Upon seeing what must have been a truly hopeless expression, Mipsys sweet face softened further than he could have imagined. Her little hand waved again, and a, rather small, leather-bound recipe book floated neatly across the room, and landed up-right in front of him.

Roll the dough into a large rectangle, 60X30cm. Trim the edges to neaten with a sharp knife or other such tool.

Harry could only smile gratefully as he cut the dough into strips and folded them each way until they resembled the pictures in the book.

He may not have made croissants in many years, but he was quite sure that they were meant to be cooked for a few hours and opposed to the minutes that Mipsy had them in her weird form of the typical oven.

In that time, she had also managed to whip up some (rather delicious smelling) green tea, in matching white cups.

They worked together to lay everything out on another tray, Harry feeling much more confident as his hands deftly moved the hot food and teacups across, hardly even wincing.

It was the gloves, he told himself.

Mipsy seemed pleased, either way.

They cast the spells together, carefully weaving the magic in such a way Harry would never be able to do alone.

Her magic felt soft as it brushed against his own, like fine silk. The tickle of a feather, almost.

“Thank you,” Harry said, lifting the tray into his arms, whilst Mipsy held it underneath.

She nodded, a smile on her face that reminded Harry of Molly Weasley.

His heart seemed to clench in his chest.

And he smiled back, nodding, as he walked the tray up to one of the small sitting rooms Mipsy had pointed out as the breakfast location of the day.

It was only a few floors up, but with every step the tray seemed to shiver in his hands, and the cups rattled in such a way that he wished he had the forethought to cast a silencing spell upon them.

Next time, he told himself. Next time he would be better.

The door to the room was not really a door at all. Instead, a large green drape covered the archway.

He ducked underneath it neatly, pulling a smile on his face and a stabilising arm around the side of the cups.

It was empty.

Harry let out a long sigh, placing the tray down on the table. Half of his job seemed to be serving people who weren’t even there. He lit one of the small candles, bringing a flickering orange light across the room.

And then he looked up.

The room was decorated simply, large white sofas and chairs, and white walls as well. The walls were white too, and Harry could only wonder why this place seemed so fundamentally different in aesthetics than everywhere else.

And of why anyone would want to eat in a room that was completely white.

His eyes finally caught a spot of colour on the curtains, bright red on white.

Little red flowers, stitched right at the very corner. In a pattern oh, so familiar.

“Sir?” A voice from behind started him out of his thoughts.

“Yes Deek?”

“The masters be requesting you,” Deek seemed to whisper as he spoke, hoarse and croaky.

Harry turned on his heel to face him and had to swallow his shock.

The entire side of the elves face was swollen red, and a large scrape ran up his arm.

“What happened?”

Deek’s face was blank.

“Come with me,” Harry said, putting a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder.

“Sir the-”

“It can wait, come on.”

Harry knew he shouldn’t. But the idea of just leaving the poor elf to bleed was horrific.

“I have a medical kit in my room.”

The small smile was worth it all.

Even if he was going to be fired.

Chapter Text

Harry led the trembling elf into his room, over towards the bed.

The small elves eyes darted to the pile of – yet unsorted – clothes on the floor with a worried expression.

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to touch them,” Harry said quickly, making his way over to the bathroom to dig out his medical kit. It was a bag of mixed potions and herbs he had been sent by his mentor ages ago, never thinking he would have to use it.

At least, when he wasn’t at Hogwarts.

“I be’s thanking yous very much, Mister Evans.”

“No problem, it’s my mess to sort, I was in a hurry to get everything ready this morning.” Harry watched the house elf’s shoulders relax.

“Nobody’s tried to give you clothes before, have they? I’m not your master, I doubt I would have the power to do it.”

Deek tensed again.

“Well, you be seeing, sir, I’m not like the other Malfoy elves who have been working here since they is born, and theirs families before.”

“Where did you work before?” Harry pulled the bag out of the cabinet, kneeling besides the elf, and emptying it on the floor. He could pick it up later. After the blood wasn’t dripping.

“Hogwarts, sir.”

Harry’s hands froze at Deek’s quiet voice.

“How come you left?”

Deek shrugged, wincing as it pulled on his wound. Harry put up his hand to steady him, rubbing his shoulder in a way he hoped would be somewhat comforting.

“House elves don’t leave, not if they be having a say in it.”

Harry couldn’t imagine Hogwarts ever throwing anybody out. He thought of Dobby, how excited he was that Dumbledore was willing to take him and pay him and Winky.

The place that had taken him.

“Perhaps it wasn’t intentional. Maybe someone gave you something by mistake. They probably didn’t mean to send you away.”

Harry had a vague memory of one of the Weasley’s telling him that his mum would want a house elf to do the laundry. A simple misunderstanding by people who didn’t understand house elves.

Why would anyone punish a being so loyal and kind?

“I do be wishing I could believe that as you do, Sir Evans.”

Harry tipped a bottle of cleaning solution onto a fabric cloth, pressing it onto Deek’s wound.

The house elf remained silent, the slight shifting the only indicator that he was in real pain. He chose not to comment. It didn’t feel right, he knew all to well the shame that came with showing weakness in front of near strangers.

“I’m just cleaning it with the herbs. I don’t think it’s deep enough to need anything more than a simple spell and maybe a wrap to be careful.”

“You is being very kind.”

Harry gently rubbed over the wound with the cloth, trying to get rid of some of the surrounding blood.

“It’s just my job. To look after the people here.” Harry froze for a moment then, head quickly looking towards Hedwig would normally perch, glad to see that she had gone at flying. He really wasn’t ready to explain why he had an owl almost identical to Harry Potters.

“People?” Deek titled his head to the side, as if considering what Harry was saying.

“Well…yes. That and cleaning. Abd serving meals, just keeping everything here organised and together.” Was he being too soft for a pureblood? He couldn’t be expected to leave Deek bleeding?

Harry was not, and never had been a medic. He couldn’t even remember learning a single healing spell that one of the Order hadn’t used in front of him.

Perhaps, he could ask his mentor.

He pulled the cloth away, cupping his hand beneath until it dropped limply into the sink, little drops of red splashing around. He could clean that up later.

It wasn’t until he was walking back that he noticed something.

“Is all house elf blood that dark, or is it a family thing?” Kneeling down, Harry fiddled again for his wand.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

“Well, it’s just that I noticed that your blood is a lot darker than say what a wizards would be. I just wondered why.”

“I is being not scientist or doctor to give you that knowledge,” said the little elf, looking Harry directly in the eye.

“Ah, yes of course. I’m…sorry for asking.”

“No apologies being necessary, young master.” Harry almost wanted to protest at that one. He was no master, he was a servant in this house like the rest. He had no power over them, aside being head of staff. “But as far as I be understanding it, while inside the body a wizards blood is being clear, turned red when it leaves. House elves are not wizards. Our blood is dark, because we are connected to such alike you, but we is not being the same. We are in between, not the black of a standard elf, and not the clear of a human. But we all is being red in the end.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It is not being necessary for healing. Or for living, just by telling you this you is being knowing more than most masters.”

Harry paused, awkwardly, unsure of how to bring up his next line of conversation.

“Thank – Thank you for telling me. I am going to use a spell on your arm. But I’ve only ever heard about it being used on wizard skin, not elf. Is there anything else I should know about the skin?” Harry didn’t know what he would do it the elf said yes.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“This might sting a little.” He had also not seen it used for anything other than broken noses and split lips, but he could hope for something.

Deek nodded.

“Episkey.”

The wound healed slowly, new skin stretching out over the old and weaving together like the stitching on a cloth.

Harry resisted the urge to run his fingers over the new skin, lighter than everywhere else on his body. And softer, too. Instead, he pulled a bandage out of the bag and wrapped it around a few times. It was almost comically large on the small arm, but when he sealed it down with a simple temporary gluing charm and cut of the end, he couldn’t help but be proud of what he had done.

Was that it?

“Do you need some chocolate?” Harry asked, already reaching for the little box that he grabbed the day before, while rescuing some food for Hedwig. He rather thought, being in the base of Voldemort himself, that some healing supplies might be necessary.

He snapped a piece of, pressing it into the elves hand.

“I need to go to the Lady for her summons. Stay here until you’ve finished that and then try to go back to work, if you can.”

With that, Harry turned on his heels, wand in hand.

“Point me to Narcissa Malfoy.” He was getting fired. The ‘urgent’ part of the summons hadn’t been missed, and he could hardly imagine himself keeping an employee – let alone a new one – after being so catastrophically late.

Held in his gloved hand, his wand didn’t lead him as far as he suspected. Thankfully, past the Dungeon cells – he wasn’t sure he could go back there. Not that quickly, anyway.

Not that he was likely to be given the chance, either way.

The corridor he arrived on seemed more cramped than the others, none of the bold, formal decorations of the rest of the house. If anything, Harry would have assumed that they were still in the dungeons as apposed too directly above them.

Flickering torch light luminated the stone walls and floor, giving the whole place an eery glow. Some of the torches shone in odd colours: green, blue, and a notable black. It did nothing to make the place seem any more joyful. Instead, the light made the place looked poisoned. Dank, even.

So, unlike anything he would associate the Malfoy’s of all people with.

At the end of the corridor, a set of dark wooden double doors awaited. No light seemed to reach that far.

“Hadrian?” Narcissa peered through a slight gap in the doors. “Thank Merlin. Where have you been?”

“You will have to forgive me, my Lady. It was Deek, the elf. He had sustained quite the injury and was unable to perform his duties without immediate treatment. I saw to it personally. I sincerely apologise for my lateness.”

Narcissa looked down at her feet, seemingly thinking something over.

“It is of no consequence now. Come in.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

Only briefly wondering what bizarre ritual he was about to walk into, Harry practically scurried forwards into the room.

It wasn’t as empty as he had originally assumed.

A grand table cut across the room like a scar, slicing it straight in half. And, at the very top of the table, overshadowing everything else was a throne – made for a King. It didn’t take long for Harry to realise who it was for.

He had seen this room before. The thought startled him. Because he had, but never outside the land of his dreams.

What other room in the world had a ceiling so high, and yet no light seemed to come through? Beams lining the walls that seemed stained in invisible blood? A large space, just by the door perfect for a corpse. Or several.

As soon as he had taken the job, he knew he was walking straight into the lions den. But now? He had found the nest.

They weren’t alone in the room. Lucius Malfoy sat at the chair next to the throne, on the right side.

And, right in the middle, as it had been in Harry’s most vivid nightmares that never really were, was Draco Malfoy. Face pale as his hair, eyes staring down at his hands.

“There’s a tray over there.” Narcissa, pointed one rough-nailed finger. It sat neatly on the side of the table, and Harry hastened to grab it.

He didn’t have long to feel glad for his gloves once more. Even through them, he could feel his hands sweating. An impressive feat with the dingy cold of the Death Eaters meeting room.

“Would you care for some tea, young Sir?”

Draco’s head shot up. Harry could see the sweat, the stress and anxiety radiating off him. In another world, Harry might have laughed.

Now, he just wanted to pull him out of here as quickly as he could.

The blond shook his head.

“Of course.”

The silence was awkward, especially once Narcissa’s heels clicked and she sat down next to her son, a hand resting on his shoulder.

Despite his many layers, including the nervous sweat that coated his skin, Harry began to shiver.

Best to make himself useful. Before he got murdered, of course.

Moving to stand by the door, he near pressed himself into the woodwork besides, as if wishing the door would swing and hide him behind.

But as was always his luck, they swung the other way.

In the quiet, dark space every sound seemed so much louder. His own breath sounded like a pant in his ears. Narcissa’s heels nervously clicked against her chair. Lucius adjusted his waistcoat.

Draco took a long shuddering breath, and Harry could only watch as a plume of white came from his lips. The cold, he reminded himself.

Why would a serpent, such as the Dark Lord, ever agree to meet anywhere that was cold enough to see your breath? Perhaps Harry had been wrong after all.

Harry Potter was a fool.

He re-adjusted the grip on the tray. Another moment of silence. Another. A rustle of fabric again. The creaking of a floorboard. Silence. Was that distant footsteps he could hear?

Don’t focus on that, Harry, he reminded himself. Look forward. Onwards. School your face, cool, calm and collected.

The double doors banged open, a flurry of bouncing black curls and flowing fabric burst through.  

Without even thinking, he knew them immediately.

Bellatrix. Rudolphus. Rabastan. The irony rang through his mind: he had spent so long pouring over their pictures in anger. To know who to aim the death shot towards.

He saddened at the fact he had forgotten to bring and suitable poisons with him for her. It would have been the perfect moment.

But, if he played this right, he would have the perfect moment sooner or later.

They positioned themselves quickly, and Harry found himself having to move quickly to catch up.

He decided not to address them immediately, mostly because he would hardly stand the thought of speaking to them. Let alone to ask what he could do for him.

Instead, he bowed, holding the tray out in front in the best angle he was capable.

He looked between husband and wife (who sat on Voldemort’s left side) and gave his best winning smile. If there was anything he knew about Bellatrix Lestrange it was that she liked spirit.

“Tea?”

She nodded dismissively, waving in front of her in a gesture Harry hoped meant yes.

Tentatively, he lowered one of the cups down in front of her, ensuring it went with a matching saucer.

It clinked, loud enough to have him wincing. Luckily, nobody else seemed to be paying attention. He would have to practise that this evening.

If he made it out alive, that was.

Even the pouring of the tea pot sounded unnaturally loud in the space. Even more so when he moved to the husband’s teacup, which he simply slid across the table.

For just a moment, the tea inside wobbled and he near bit his lip in worry.

It was a dark lemon concoction of sorts. Warm, rich, deep and the complete opposite of everything the meeting hall was.

The door shot open again. But this was no mere couple and brother, this was a horde. These people, if they were even that, didn’t even have faces. Long, white masks that cut into cheekbones and hollowed out invisible eyes hid what once have been humanity beneath. The dark cloaks did the rest, hoods pulled up over their heads.

They slotted into place easily, practised.

As they should be, Harry found himself thinking, this was no ordinary set of Death Eaters, something he should have known from the very beginning. He had seen enough in his dreams to recognise the inner circle.

He rushed around, one person at a time. “Tea, sir?” Some waved him off dismissively, some even so far as to scoff. But if there was one rule of being a butler, Harry rather thought it should be ‘don’t take it personally’. He doubted he would be able to drink tea at a time like this either.

The few that did accept didn’t seem to actually drink it.

Instead, it rested neatly in front of them on the table, saucer and all.

One seemed to pretend to look at the wall, while pouring the cup into a flask under the table. But yet, Harry saw it.

He was rather sure everyone else heard it as well.

But two chairs were still empty.

One next to Lucius, near the head.

And the Throne, that was empty too.

Not for long, Harry reminded himself, not for long. He could make a fairly good guess, from memory alone, if his dreams could be trusted, sat in that other chair.

As if summoned by thought itself, Severus Snape walked into the room. He too did not wear a mask, but a pair of simply dark coloured robes that seemed the same as he wore as a teacher. The stern expression still framed by greasy hair.

Features curled into a snarl.

Harry looked down at the tray as his professor brushed past, close enough to feel to breeze coming of the flick of his robes.

He had the strangest feeling that if anyone in the world would somehow recognise him, it would be Snape.

But even after the professor had positioned himself, Harry knew it could not be avoided.

“Tea, sir?”

The man’s head snapped up, snarl carved into his face. If anything, in this context, it looked more like a grimace.

And then, as if just by seeing Harry flipped something inside him, he went pale. If he were a worse butler, he thought the panic would have been seen on his face.

Spying for Dumbledore, Harry told himself, not a traitor. He wouldn’t out Harry in front of the other Death Eaters even if he had somehow worked it out.

“Not for me,” the voice was sharp, degrading almost as dark eyes scanned his face. Harry hastened to make a retreat,

“Narcissa?” Snape’s voice was sharp as he addressed the Lady Malfoy, cocking his head lightly towards Harry. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“Hadrian Evans. New family butler.” Her voice was quiet, unusually so. As if waiting for a trap to spring up and grab her in it’s claws.

Snape nodded, seeming to run the new information over again in his head, looking back at Harry once more before letting his gaze fall to the table.

He was waiting for something now.

Harry guessed they all were in a way. And now he had the joy of knowing that, even if he somehow made it out of this meeting alive, then Albus Dumbledore and Remus and Mr and Mrs Weasley would be on him about danger and risks and foolish behaviour and, if Ron was allowed, consorting with the enemy.

He wondered if the Malfoy’s would consider extending his contract. Surely, he didn’t really need an education? At Hogwarts at least, surely his salary here would be enough to take him to France or Bulgaria…

A sound came from down the corridor, and Harry hastened to make his way back to the door. Out of the firing zone, he fruitlessly hoped, pressing himself into the wall.

If he thought the room was stiff before, it was nothing compared to now.

A hissing came, quiet enough that not even Harry could begin to translate it.

He had seen Nagini in person once before, and somehow now, passing just by his feet as she had before, she didn’t seem any less intimidating.

Perhaps more so, for unlike the last time, she was being followed. By the sweeping of black robes and white, scaled feet.

Just beyond the doorway, only a few feet in front of Harry, the monster stopped. And yet he had ignored Harry. He was irrelevant: nothing in the scheme of the man’s plan.

“My friends.” The cold hiss came and Harry almost jumped out of his skin. “We meet again.” A low, dark chuckle came from the man, more of a hiss than a real, true laugh.

And that, of all things, made Harry look up.

Chapter Text

It was a funny thing really, but the sight that met Harry should have been one he had prepared for years in advance, and yet, it took him by surprise still the same.

Because, despite it all, it was all so very familiar. The room. This lighting. These people in those places.

He had seen red eyes before, red eyes that bore and broke and laughed at the suffering of others.

He had seen the scaleless white skin before, as well. The way blood seemed to float up the arms.

The face without a nose, flattened into slits that huffed like no snake really would.

He had seen Voldemort before, but never had he seen him like this.

Lord Voldemort was a man who mocked, who laughed with nothing other than cruelty in his heart (and at Harry’s own pain, whenever it happened).

His face was still – Harry supposed – it’s old leering self, but it seemed to lack just a little of the bite that usually resided within the features.

Within a dream, Harry had seen it all before.

But this time his feet really were on the ground, he really was looking at that face, and for the very first time it was not pure, euphoric hatred that stared back at him. Instead, he never even looked.

“It feels so long and yet…the time since meeting has been short.”

He addressed the room at large, sweeping and calculating over everything. Straight over Harry as if he was nothing, and onto the Malfoys. It was the same amount of attention that you might perhaps give an old, broken cobweb in the corner of ones room. Slight annoyance, either way, and an air of simply not caring. For, surely, there would be no spider in such an old web?

“Despite that fact, it seems, so many have taken lessons of laziness and incompetence to heart, instead of the methods that make you Death Eaters. Although, sometimes I do wonder if you care about the title, in itself, in any way? Being what you are should be considered utmost value, far, far over your own petty lives and problems. Perhaps, today, we shall establish this lesson.”

With that the dark lord fell silent, prowling over to his throne of black.

It was only then that Harry realised just how much he was shaking. Any second now, if that traitor opened his mouth Harry would be found. Found. Killed. Mocked. Tortured. Whichever order the Dark Lord wished.

His eyes caught onto Snape’s head. Stay silent, please. Harry didn’t know how the man had recognised him, and yet he had and if he had any loyalty to his old…company left, Harry prayed every second of it would be pushed forward in that moment.

Perhaps the Dark Lord could laugh it off? Who would believe Harry Potter to be dumb enough to stand in the corner of his own demise?

He really should have established some method of getting out of here if anything went wrong. Could they disactivate his portkey? Did he even have his portkey on? And, if so, could they not just follow him?

Harry watched Snape so closely he saw every single rise of his chest, every twitch of the eyebrows. If he was going to, surely, he would have done it already?

His eye’s flicked up.

Only to be met with deep dark red ones. It rather seemed that he had caught his notice: intended or not. Would he be recognised?

He waited for a curse to come straight at him, but it never came.

Instead, his very back seemed to shiver, as his whole world seemed to be absorbed by red, red, red. His breath seemed to catch in his chest, as they stared at each other. No one spoke, and the dark room around them seemed to be caving in, and Harry really should look away, in case it was seen as disrespectful. Was the Dark Lord in shock? Was he about to be laughed at again?

Why was he being stared at so long, if he hadn’t been recognised, despite being ignored before?

The curse never came.

And the Dark Lord looked away, turning to Lucius to say something snide. Harry’s legs shook beneath him, his arms too. But he forced them to lock in place, afraid that the teacups and pots would rattle and make a noise just frustrating enough to be the end of Harry Potter.

He hadn’t been seen.

And as long as Snape kept his mouth shut it should stay that way.

“Perhaps today, we shall establish what it truly means to be a Death Eater.”

The words took all the breath out of Harry’s lungs. What was he about to watch? Torture? Murder? Worse?

“But alas, the time for that will come soon. It wanes, growing ever closer. Lucius, report.”

Everyone in the room seemed to sit a little straighter at that, eyes flicking down to their hands or the table. None of them dared to make eye contact. Harry followed suit, tracing the pattern on the teapot with his eyes.

He would not be the one caught in all the torture. Not yet, preferably not ever. But would he be able to keep his mouth shut if all the force of that glare was directed towards him? Thise words, evil and bitter? Could he keep his cover even through the clog in his chest and the beating of his heart?

He didn’t know how long Lucius was speaking, only catching the odd word through the rushing in his ears. Muggles…Ministry…News…plans. He tried to listen, to find some meaning in the words being told but he couldn’t.

Perhaps it was for the best: build up some trust before he tried to spy or get any information. Perhaps then they could tell him things to his face. More intimate things than were currently being discussed.

“Severus, do you have any new information you wish to share with us?”

That keyed Harry’s ears in immediately, and he found himself leaning ever so slightly forward. Not that he needed to, the voices echoed across the walls in the quiet. If he didn’t know better, he would think that none of the Death Eaters were even breathing from where they sat.

He mapped out the room in his head.

The Death Eaters were behind a table, if he needed to then he could turn and run. It would take a couple of seconds for them to stand up, unless they started shooting curses as soon as they were capable.

He could duck, perhaps, and use the shield of the table to escape through the door. It wouldn’t be the best, but just until he could…what? He could use his portkey, but then his rooms would be raided and Hedwig, as well as his normal glasses and everything else would be found. Almost everything he owned was in that room, and he couldn’t just abandon it. His cloak? His broom? The broken mirror?

“Dumbledore cares not for this new method of yours,” Severus began, and Harry had to fight relief at the way his shoulders relaxed. If he was going to do it, he would have started with it as opposed to drawing it out until the bitter end.

Unless, of course, he wanted to watch Harry squirm. And Merlin damned he would not give the man that satisfaction. Better to think of him as ignorant as opposed to afraid.

“Tell me, Severus, is there anything I could do with that information? Is there anything of note which I should be made aware?”

“One thing, My Lord. Harry Potter.”

And, just like that, all the blood seemed to have been drained out of Harry. Escape plan long forgotten he almost thought he was about to sag to the floor. Should he turn to run? Deny with everything he had?

“He’s missing.”

The Death Eaters seemed to perk up, just a little, upon hearing those words.

“Missing?” Voldemort’s voice was measured, without any inflection, and colder than the room he spoke it in.

“The Headmaster sent another person in for watch: a woman, I believe, not directly connected to the order in any way, however, once she arrived in Privet Drive, he was gone.”

“And they have no idea where he is?” Bellatrix spoke for the first time since the Dark Lord entered, voice full of the insanity she was so well known for. “None at all?”

“I do believe I just said that.”

The Dark Lord held up a hand.

“Silence. If the Order cannot be bothered to keep track of a young boy, a famous one indeed,” that word was spoken with more venom than Harry knew a human could be capable of, “then they pose less of a threat than we could possibly know.”

“Do you have him? Snatch him right from those nasty little muggles?” Bellatrix seemed to have chosen the option of pure devotion, as opposed to any real showing of respect. And yet, each word seemed to trace ice up and down his spine.

It was honestly surreal, hearing himself be discussed in ways he had experienced many times, but on the opposite end of the scale. Usually only the Order talked about him that way: and their voices didn’t tend to tinge with malice.

“I do not. Let us move on, Severus if you receive a hint of his whereabouts, you shall let me know immediately while he is vulnerable.” The snake paused for a moment, seeming to roll the next words around in his mouth. “Unless, it is, of course, that you are no longer trusted and thus are being fed false information to send to me.”

“I assure you my Lord-”

“You are only in my inner circle for the information provided on the Order. I am sure you know what will happen should you fail to remain in their absolute trust.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“Rodolphus. Report?”

The rest of the meeting hardly registered in Harry’s mind – aside from being distantly aware of some screaming. He had been so sure Snape had recognised him. And yet, the man was hardly a good enough liar to tell the Dark Lord to his face a straight up lie. Especially under such pressure as Harry being in the room.

Although, he caught his eye, just the once when he dared to look up at the table, no further than the side of Snape’s greasy head. Just for a second, dark eyes darted towards him and back again.

If it happened again, Harry didn’t see it.

But he could feel it. It could have easily just been in his head, but he could have sworn that eyes traced his every fidget. Every movement.

Who’s they were, he couldn’t say.

He startled when everyone stood up together, making their way towards the exit. Shoulder’s brushed past his while he stayed transfixed to the floor. Surely, it would look suspicious if he started pushing and shoving his way to the front?

Instead, he bowed as they each left, quickly muttering to Narcissa and Lucius that he would stay to clean up and not to worry about it.

To his surprise, the Dark Lord left quickly as well, with a dramatic flow of the robes and a long hiss, disappearing into the long and twisting corridors. As he walked past, each candle flickered out and died.

Snape seemed to stay longer than everyone else, standing by the door and watching the others chat quietly amongst themselves.

The potions professor did not.

Snape watched Harry.  More closely than he had ever been watched, even when in class he was handling deadly poisons, Snape seemed less fixated on him than this.

It seemed like a millennia when the man finally turned on his heel and left.

Harry took his time packing everything up, lifting each (now slightly dented) cup and placing it precariously back on the tray.

One cup seemed to have a line of red across the bottom, drifting down from the sides. Harry placed it on the bottom of the pile with a wince.

He rather hoped nobody saw that.

Pushing the door open with one foot, he peered out for a long moment. He could feel eyes tracing all over him.

It was probably just paranoia.

And yet, his skin seemed to shiver.

His footsteps rang loudly down the corridor, every step echoing across the shadows. With each step he took, he waved his wand to re-light the candles and bring back some warmth to the space. It didn’t even matter that every candle lit only seemed to make the hall seem more dirty, more covered in the blood of a hundred.

He should come down here with a scrubbing brush later, he supposed, clear some of it up. Taking initiative, that was what a good Butler did, did they not?

And it was just on that thought when a cold hand shot out and grabbed his arm in a burning grip.

Chapter Text

Harry’s head whipped up in shock, ready to mumble whatever apologies he needed to try and avoid any offence caused.

He had avoided being fired (and killed) once, but nothing promised anything for the future. If he even looked at somebody the wrong way (or they thought, he did)…

But his eyes met dark ones, and Severus Snape stared back at him, lips curled in a snarl.

“Who, exactly, are you?”

Harry had been expecting many things from Snape. To be outed as the chosen one, to be called out in front of everyone and sentenced to death.

Even the grip on his arm, still punishing, and one he was sure would leave a nasty bruise, was expected.

That question, on the other hand, was not.

“What do you mean, sir?” Harry tried, glancing from left to right. Could he make an escape before he was asked any more questions? Just worm right out of the vicious grip, and make a run for Hedwig, and his room?

And Portkey.

But Snape did not dither for that long, grabbing Harry harsher than before and pulling him out of the corridor.

Harry had to speed up his pace in order to walk alongside him, and all the time he watched. But there was nobody else (that he could see) through those hallways.

But he did know one thing for sure.

If he ever thought he would be able to grasp the Manor from the sheer map alone, then he had been horribly, horribly, mistaken.

The two men wound through corridors, and down several sets of stairs.

His thoughts raced horribly, feeling sweat start to creep over his skin, and his heartbeat pumping so loud he could hear the blood rush through his ears.

Hopefully, there were no vampires around here.

Then a door was thrown open, he was hurried inside, only to hear it slam closed behind him.

They finally stopped, Harry’s legs starting to ache and his heart pounded harder with nerves. What would the Order think of him, coming back not only after having betrayed them all, but having nothing to show for it?

The grip loosened, but did not release.

The room was silent. A small space, probably no larger than the average cupboard, but a small table was jammed in the middle, along with a few chairs. A meeting room perhaps, a very, small one, lit by a single candle in the middle of the ground table.

It flickered in and out, seeming to pulse with Harry’s nerves, drawing all of the light out of the dark, dingy room.

The silence seemed to stretch between them, barring the panting gained from the hurried walk, the effort to bring them both to this small space.

And for what? For why?

Harry’s brain ran with ideas seeming to collide with the side of his skull with the thoughts it nurtured. What was going to happen?

What would they think of him now?

And then, Snape exploded.

In many ways, it was almost a relief.

“Evans? Evans, really? Cursed, you even took the damn red hair.”

Better than silence. Anything was better than silence.

“How foolish are you?” Snape seemed to spit out every single word, as if Harry disgusted his very being. How could he be so stupid, the voice told him, why?

He tried to open his mouth, give himself a chance to fight back, but his throat was red and sore, and his lips cracked so much from chewing on them in worry, that he had no chance at Snape’s angry ranting.

He bit down again, and his mouth filled with hot copper.

“That you don’t even bother to do the research to find out who knew her before you so casually assumed…a relative of some kind, I presume?”

Harry did not respond to the strange question, shifting uncomfortably in his spot, legs feeling heavier than led.

“If you were going to choose a cover identity, you might have at least picked a pureblood. Would have made a damn lot more sense around here. As opposed to having the pure idiocy to even attempt-”

Snape’s breath seemed to catch, eyes sliding downs Harry’s frame with nothing but pure fury in his eyes. Harry took the moment of silence to really look at the man’s face, he looked far paler than he ever had in Hogwarts, like that one-time Harry had seen him after his run in with Fluffy. His hair was scraggly, greasier than ever before.

But even his face seemed sunken in, just as the Malfoy’s had been, gaunt and suffering.

But never, not even for a single second, did the eye contact break, piecing into Harry’s very soul, until the other man spoke again, quite with rage, and something else that Harry couldn’t even begin to identify.

“But, Circe herself, you do look like her. You could almost be twins.”

Harry looked down at himself, confused. He knew he was Harry Potter, but surely the world knew that he didn’t have a twin. (Or, at least, one that he knew of.) And he was certainly no she.

A sound went of in Harry’s hair, causing the prickling hair on his arms to fall back to normal, and his head to clear for a single, startling second.

“And being as you are not, I must ask, who are you?”

On the last three words, the grip on Harry’s arm intensified, face coming closer to Harry’s own until his vision was almost completely consumed with the pasty face.

Who are you?

Who. Are. You?

Was it possible? Even for a single second, just a thought, that Snape didn’t know who he was? That he hadn’t recognised Harry at first sight?

‘Evans? Evans, really? Cursed, you even took the damn red hair.’

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He had spent his whole life being told he looked like his father, never once, had he been confused for his own mother.

Or at least, her twin.

“Who do you think I am, sir?” Harry forced calm into his voice, lengthening his syllables, in desperate attempt to keep himself calm, more than anything else.

“Some order spy no doubt. If you cannot fool me you have no chance of them. Is Dumbledore trying to send some cruel joke upon you?” Snape seemed to slump then, grip finally releasing from Harry’s arm. “Hadrian Evans, really. You’re lucky you haven’t already been killed.”

Harry would have laughed, had the tension not run through him thicker than any blade could possibly wish to cut.

As if the Order would ever send him here.

The thought truly was laughable.

If only Snape knew.

“I assure you, sir-”

“Don’t bother with that, just tell me who you are so I can get you out of here. I don’t know why they clearly don’t want you there either, but this insanity-”

Harry pulled at every bit of confidence he knew still rested within him. Gryffindor bravery, the kind that pushed him to go down to the Chamber of Secrets, to travel to the Ministry of Magic in the middle of the night, and to fight the man who wracked his nightmares with green light, when he was little more than eleven.

“My name,” Harry said clearly, making his decision in an instant, “Is Hadrian Evans, and I would kindly ask you to release me from this chamber so I may continue on with my work for today. Unless, of course, you have a task for me.”

It was Harry’s turn to stare him down now.

He was not Harry Potter, not anymore.

Not here.

And nobody pushed Hadrian Evans around.

“And, I do not take kindly to such accusations, Mister Snape, even if they do seem to come from the….best intentions.”

Harry pulled from every single second with his mentor, trying his best to make it seem that the silence truly was intentional.

“And I do think it would be in your best interests to avoid telling others of his conversation. I have no problems with giving out memories to any who might be interested.”

Snape bared his teeth slightly, like an animal. But he just looked thin, pale, and cold.

“If you even think for a second that I truly believe that anyone will-”

But Harry interrupted, anger still burning a hot flame in his chest, as his skin prickled with ice.

“Do you know why one chooses the role of Butler, mister Snape?” Harry said, forcing even more calm and smoothness to his own voice, “We see all. We know all, we deal with the household, nothing happens without my knowledge. And nobody pays attention to the help.”

The words were truer than he had ever intended.

And yet, so very impossible.

Neither of them would have fun when Harry reported back to the Order. He could already imagine the red of their faces, the anger filling the room until it was enough to choke him. But the air of darkness allowed him to breath deeply.

Nobody was looking for him here.

Not in the body of a Butler.

Never here.

A grin crept along his face, before he turned on his heel and the left the room, slamming the door behind him.

He walked calmly for a single step, then another.

Before he broke into a mad run towards the kitchen.

Hallways blurred past him as he hoped he really did know where he was going.

When he finally reached down a corridor that seemed far enough away, although still painfully so from the kitchens he wished to hide in, he slumped to the floor, lungs struggling for air.

How long had it been since he had truly been able to run?

Before he left Hogwarts, surely.

He was reminded of how the first Quidditch practise at the start of the year tugged on his body in ways he didn’t know existed.

After spending month upon month sitting in a small, cramped, hot room, it was heaven to feel the wind in his hair.

But now the sweat stuck to his skin, and his heart pounded so loud he could feel it vibrating through every inch of his frame. His hands shook, and his eye twitched beneath the glasses, until he pulled them of to rub his eyes.

He had planned to make no enemies here, but perhaps he could afford to make a single exception.

After all, who really liked Severus Snape?

He didn’t know how long he sat in the floor in that cold corridor, but when he finally pushed himself to his feet his legs were numb, but his hands had stopped shaking.

He had places to be.

The elves would be expecting him back.

He walked quickly after that, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, ringing throughout him like some great bell.

The rest of the way back was just the same blur that it had been on the way over, but this time his breath came easier, and his heartrate slowed.

Without any other idea of what to do, he headed to the meeting room, back through the corridor and back towards the kitchen.

The smell of freshly baked something greeted him from the top of the stairs, and his knees almost collapsed underneath him.

Sure, the Malfoy’s and all other attendants looked underweight and tired, but never afraid. Not outright.

Perhaps he should bring them all something later as well. How anyone could live like this for more than a few days was beyond him, let alone year after year.

But, then, he supposed, that’s what they needed a Butler for.

Before he went back into the kitchen, he ran his hands through his hair, smoothing and re-tying his ponytail back into place, and pulling a smile across his face.

The doors swung open on their own, and two hopeful faces looked up at him, full smiles upon their cheeks.

“Mipsy, Deek,” he greeted them together before turning back to the male of the two, “is your arm fairing any better?”

“Is indeed,” the tiny elf replied, grin growing even wider, “I is thanking you.”

“You already have,” Harry replied, hoping that the warmth in his face matched the look upon the elf’s. “What else is left to do for today?”

“Is you not being told,” Mipsy interjected, moving towards Harry. “You is being needed by the Master’s Master.”

“The Dark Lord needs me? For what?” Harry managed, blinking down at the elf. Could he face the man again, so soon? Without knowing what Snape might have told him?

Or not told him?

But, much to Harry’s discomfort, Mipsy began to wring her hands in distress, looking most upset with herself.

“He is not being letting any elf’s near his room. Or his snakey friend. He is wanting human help. We was being told that’s why they is bringing you in?”

Harry didn’t know how much more his body could take in that day, and as such forced everything deep, deep down. Nodding his head slowly.

Of course they hadn’t told him, of course they hadn’t.

He knew he would be in charge of her care, but why he was the only one was beyond him.

And possibly, the many, many butlers of Malfoy Manor who had come before him.

“I will be on that immediately, Mipsy, thank you for reminding me.”

The elf, naturally, did not catch the context, instead giving him another sympathetic smile and waving him out of the kitchen.

It didn’t take him long to set off towards the rooms, this time with no tray in hand, leaving his hands to scrunch up and twist themselves in nerves.

He questioned knocking on the door for far longer than perhaps he should have done, standing in place before it, wondering what he would do if there really was somebody in there. What he would do, what he would say, if that really was the case.

And yet still, he razed a gloved hand, and he knocked.

Like it always did, it swung straight open alone, and nobody was inside.

And yet still, he scurried across the room like hundreds of eyes covered his movements, but not before taking a moment to re-light the fireplace, that had been left to fall to ashes. The warmth filled the room, and Harry’s shoulder’s fell into relaxation and the pleasing heat.

Perhaps, he was little better than a Snake himself in that regard.

The snake room was just as Harry had remembered it, plants looming menacingly above his head, curled around every corner. Some kind of chips spreading a thick layer over the floor, muffling his footsteps.

How was he supposed to go about cleaning such a place?

He spotted the empty water bowl first, making his way past a few hides that had clearly been put in place for her (he wouldn’t risk cleaning inside those, not for all of Merlin’s power).

“Auguamenti,” he muttered, allowing the water to flow from his wand, and fill the bowl with a pleasant, if overly loud sound.

It was the first time that day that he truly allowed himself to breath that day, even within the sweating, tropical room he was in.

But, as it always was for Harry, it was not to last.

“Who is you?”

The hiss startled Harry, and his head shot up, only to see the giant form of Nagini peering down at him from above

He fought every instinct within him not to respond with another hiss.

Instead, he bowed, and replied in English.

“Greeting’s missus Nagini, I have been tasked with cleaning out your space, I hope you don’t mind my intrusion.”

In another situation, he might have felt ridiculous, but he had never been more glad to see the snake slide deeper into the greenery and out of sight.

If he strained his ears hard enough, he could have sworn that he heard hisses chuckling, and perhaps even the words ‘silly human’.

He chose to believe that she had appreciated his gesture.

The fact he still had a throat was compelling enough evidence of such a fact.

He had, in his dreams that he had once shared with the Dark Lord, witnessed that snake eat no less than four people. Whole.

Harry worked quietly after that, moving over the ground to find any traces of excrement to spell them away, and spray water over some of the more brown looking plants. He hoped all the time pulling weeds for Aunt Petunia was worth something, at least in terms of what did, and did not, need water.

But most of the plants were utter strangers to him, forcing him to feel at the roots to see if there was any residual water and hope to Merlin that his hand came back up without any residual, bleeding wounds upon it.

Every now and then, a hiss would come from the corner of the room somewhere, a laugh, a mutter of something incomprehensible.

He pushed himself not to care.

It wasn’t like he could tell her that he understood, or that he was actually more capable than he appeared.

After all, he really had no idea how to look after a snake.

Perhaps he should ask his mentor to send him more books. Or, perhaps, he thought with an added lurch of excitement, he could go out and get them himself.

What was stopping him, really? He would forever deny the wicked grin that crept across his face at that. He just could, walk down the streets of Diagon – or even Knockturn – and not look at all out of place, not have anyone question or leer through the windows at him.

Neither the exhilaration, or the grin did not last as long as he hoped it might.

Especially once he realised that Nagini’s was not the only hissing that he could hear.

Except, unlike hers, this one seemed to come from somewhere deep in his head, whispers filling his brain until he focused in to just listen.

He screwed his eyes up as he did.

Mandrake root. Needed. Urgently.

Fools would probably destroy it before it could ever be brought to his room.

There was no anger in the mental voice, merely petty annoyance, and the kind of exasperation that only a man prone to angry outbursts could have.

That if he did not get what he wanted, and soon, the whole place would be set alight.

Once again his heart had started to hammer, and he hurriedly stood up to make his way back out into the corridor.

The invisible fingertips on his arm still throbbed, and Harry knew within the day that they would colour blue and green.

This, he thought, this I can do.

He would not be the next one to go.

Chapter Text

Harry knew that, as a newly acquainted eleven-year-old wizard, he had received a lesson in mandrake roots. He certainly remembered the earmuffs, and the feeling of holding a bawling, screaming mud-creature. And that Ron managed to receive a full face of mud.

And Neville had passed out flat on the floor from the baby’s cries.

But, he couldn’t help but think as he made his way out of the Manor, perhaps he really should have listened to Hermione more.

Because he could remember absolutely nothing else about that lesson.

Did they grow in forests? Would the Malfoy’s even have them? Would he have to purchase them in Diagon? Which bit exactly would be what the Dark Lord wanted? How would he go about getting that?

And then, even worse, another thought crept into Harry’s head, something Hermione had said so long ago, “The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it."

His throat caught.

For all the little time Harry had spent outside the Manor, he could say for certain that the gardens were…overwhelming. He was sure the elves took care of the gardens well, something he had noticed when he first stepped out. Aside from the glade of trees leading out (all containing some strange fruit he didn’t recognise. The kind of fruit in muggle schools they told you was just for the birds, and not to touch because it was poisonous). The grass was neatly trimmed, the flower beds and plants stayed neatly in their pots.

Until, of course, he reached the forest.

A few years ago, he vaguely remembered having a dream about this place. Long, white scaled hands, walking step by step into here, watching a panting, running, screaming man in the distance.

Harry shook himself and walked on, keeping to the far left of the path to avoid tracing those footsteps.

Everything was overgrown, and he found himself whacking at weeds and brambles, and a few times even pointing his wand at things he swore moved when he didn’t look.

Everything was a trip hazard, although he supposed that was probably the intention.

“What is you doing out here?”

Harry jumped at the voice, looking around in every direction and panicking as he saw nothing. Harsh wind whipped his hair and face, making him shiver and his blood feel hotter in his veins.

Just when his heart rate slowed, and he had begun to think he had imagined the voice from lack of sleep, it came again.

“Look down.”

And, hand on his wand, Harry did.

Harry had always thought he would be able to tell when Nagini was coming. She was not a small snake, quite the opposite, but the few times he had the misfortune to interact with her, she had snuck up behind him every single time.

But this time, unlike the others, he realised how foolish he had been.

He had just responded to her command, in parceltounge! A language he wasn’t supposed to understand!

Not like this.

He could risk everything, not for this.

He blinked deliberately, looking down at her as if he had just heard some hissing and decided to check.

“Greetings again, Lady Nagini,” he said, stressing each syllable to ensure it came out in perfect English. “It is my honour to be joined by your presence.”

Nagini hitched up, hissing wordlessly, eyes slitted, and angry seeming.

“I hope my cleaning of your enclosure this morning was to your liking.” He bowed again, forcing his face into a blank expression. “I have a mission to be on, for our Lord this afternoon, but you are more than welcome to accompany me, or hunt alone, depending on what you want.”

She doesn’t need your permission, he cursed within his own mind, eyes shutting with the disgrace.

But she seemed to agree, slithering off out of his view.

Harry continued to struggle through the woodlands, almost wishing he could be worried about walking off the Malfoy grounds all together, despite knowing that their grounds went on and on, for as long as he could think.

Every now and then, just as he had in her room, he could hear her voice speaking about one thing or another, and once he was almost certain he heard her attack something, and likely eat it as well.

The trees were thick enough to cover even the smallest slits of light to come through from the sun, forcibly reminding Harry of an even more overgrown version of the forbidden forest.

It probably had worse creatures in it too. Not that Harry had seen any in his full vision, but more than once, out of the corner of his eye, something would pop up just for a moment. Once, he could have sworn he saw a small collection of shadow people chatting together, stood in a perfect circle. But the second he turned to check, they disappeared.

It kept him on edge, and in some ways, he was glad for it.

He had let his guard down far too much over the last few days, enough to almost allow in disaster. To allow something awful to happen. To forget the mission, he had assigned himself.

He could not allow that to happen.

Every tree seemed to resemble a person, every bush a face in the shadows.

Didn’t mandrakes grow in pots? How would he even know to recognise them, out on their own, growing wild, mixed up with everything else? How big could they grow when left to mature and thrive on their own?

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry finally spotted something that made him stop in his tracks. In amongst all of the foliage, was a greenhouse, with a tree shattering through one of the windows, and all the hinges dirty, and rusted with age, but still a greenhouse, nonetheless.

He pushed past layers of weeds that had grown nearly up to his waist, and peered through the window.

And there they were.

A set of pots at the other end of the greenhouse, with tufty little green stems. And, most welcoming of all, he could see brown roots sneaking around everywhere, climbing into each other’s pots, and overgrown until they resembled a writhing brown mass.

“What is you doing now?” Nagini hissed from her corner, clearly wanting some sort of food.

Harry, of course, ignored her.

Instead, he went to the greenhouse door, huffing and tugging as he tried to open the greenhouse door, before eventually reaching for his wand, and casting a simple unlocking charm.

“He shouldn’t be going in there.” Nagini half climbed up a nearby tree to nose at his shoulder, as if trying to push him away from the door. He jumped at the cold touch of her scaled nose, and light flick of her tongue.

He didn’t move.

She seemed to give a great sigh (not that Harry thought snakes were typically able to do such a thing), before turning around a leaving, sliding back down the forest floor and towards where Harry was almost certain the Manor was.

He tried an unlocking charm, to which to door made a wheezing, clicking sound, but did not budge.

Probably more rust than locks.

He thought to himself, desperately.

He couldn’t just give up now.

Slamming his shoulder into the door he pushed and shoved, letting out a wheezing sound of his own.

And, sure enough, the rust did eventually give away, the door collapsing under him, almost making him trip in.

His first few steps were stumbles as he looked around, but nothing could have made him feel more relived.

Looking around for just a moment, he scurried about, looking at odd varieties of colourful flowers, plants that seemed to buzz and hum, and others that hid in the corners, unwilling to be in his view.

But he still had a destination in mind.

Soon, he stood above the roots, looking down at the writhing mass.

Aside from the walk to the shed, surely the Dark Lord would not think it too strange that one of his Death Eaters could manage that? Surely it wasn’t that difficult.

But before he could magic up some earmuffs, or find some gardening gloves, he looked up and over the top of the writhing roots, he saw a stained-glass window, leaking red light into the room.

A single red flower, right in the middle.

And that was when something grabbed his wrist for a second time that day.

If he was expecting another person, perhaps angry at him for entering a place he should not, those hopes were all dashed to the dust, when he turned to see a long plant vine, wrapped around his wrist multiple times, slowing constricting around him.

In a moment of panic he yelled, pulling at his arm in the hope the thing wasn’t as strong as it looked, and would release the second he fought back.

He was wrong.

The plant pulled back with a force, dragging him along the floor and away from the roots. His shoes stubbed to the floor, as another vine sprung out grasping around his other wrist, forcing a yelp of pain out of him.

And forcing his wand to clatter to the ground, completely out of view of the vines that now had started to coil around his ankles, pushing up towards his knees.

Until they would swallow him completely.

In a desperate bid to free himself, he shook his legs, only to hear helplessly that he had just kicked his wand further away in his flailing.

It rolled and rolled, out of sight, and far out of reach.

Harry let out a scream, quickly swallowed by his own panic.

The more he writhed, the more they tightened, and he had to force himself to think before something worse happened.

Vines were already creeping up his shoulders, and down his back.

His searching through his brain, frantic in his terror. Surely, in all his time at one of the best magical schools in the world, they would have told him something about this.

And then finally, as the vines began to creep over his neck and twin around his throat, he realised that he had.

But not in any sort of lesson.

Devil’s snare.

Going back to his old instincts, he went to relax, before realising what little good it could do. There was no floor beneath. No ground to catch him when he fell.

And no wand to bring out any fire.

He had never managed to do wandless magic before, but he knew he didn’t have any choice. It was getting harder to breath, the vines twitching to wrap him closer and closer, forced to retreat by his lax figure.

But nothing could slow the harsh rise and fall of his chest.

He couldn’t do fire.

Even if he could remember the words, or even manage to do the spell wandlessly, he would have no way to vent it, to put it out, to direct it.

In his last moments before his face was covered, vines slithering up from his neck, he suddenly lurched with all his force, grabbing onto the side of a pot with all his force.

The plants reacted instinctively, tightening around him, lashing into his skin so harshly he thought they would draw blood.

His arms were numb, but his fingers felt smooth pottery.

And in the last moments before the vines twisted over his eyes, he made a grab for the nearest short tuft of green sticking out of the nearest one.

“Muffliato,” he gasped, forcing his brain with all his might to imagine the area around him muffled to silence, protecting him. Him and him alone.

He had only a few moments to feel the tell-tale tingle of magical energy.

The vines were over his face.

Everything was icy darkness.

Harry pulled.

The last time he had heard a mandrake scream, it had been just a baby, and through a pair of earmuffs, but even with the muffling spell upon him the sheer vibration of the sound was horrifying.

The plant thing within his hands twisted and fought and bit at his fingers, clawing and scratching.

It took a few moments before Harry saw light.

The vines shrunk away from the sound, retreating to the floor, and curling into themselves, before they withered, shrunk and faded to the floor.

Those that lived retreated to the corners of the room, cowering under tables, far, far away.

With his arms now free, it took everything for Harry not to drop the shrieking, horrific looking monster to the floor.

Blood rushed to his face; air panted from his lungs.

He yanked a nearby trowel from a wall, and stabbed the shrieking creature straight through, and the world was blissfully, pleasant quiet.

The world froze for a second, everything seeming to stand so perfectly still.

And then, everything was normal again.

He looked up at the sun and furrowed his brow, wincing as the light hit his eyes.

How was devil’s snare even able to grow in such a place to begin with? Why had they even let it grow here?

He rolled his shoulders, looking down at his ripped jacket, muddied shirt, loose bowtie, and limp hair.

He slammed the mandrake down on a nearby table, getting on his hands and knees to search for his poor wand. A smaller devil’s snare plant shifted very slightly, stopping only when Harry gave it a vicious glare.

After finally fishing his wand out from where it had rolled under one of the set of pots, he clutched it tightly in his hand, before beginning to fix his clothing. He re-tied his hair, knowing full well that he wasn’t as neat as he had started with, but it was passable.

When he reached the table again, he rummaged around some more until he managed to find a blade which could pass as sharp enough (as well as less rusty than the other options) in order to cut the mandrake into pieces.

This was certainly something he had never done before.

Pulling a face, he looked down at the weird creature and started to cut.

He would just…remove some of the extra areas, to put them together and make it look neater.

He sliced silently, enjoying the way the blade pressed, and the light sound it made against the wooden tabletop.

Eventually, after deciding he had probably already removed too much, he picked the lot up and shoved it inside a bag he had found in the corner of the room, shrugging it over his shoulder, and making his way out of the greenhouse.

Nagini had made a pathway back through the woodland, and Harry decided to follow it, with little else to do.

And, despite stumbling through a few hedges, and ripping another hole through his waistcoat (which he had to stop and fix), he finally saw the edge of the Manor.

His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, and he rubbed it lightly with his palm, wondering when it was that he had eaten last.

He would afterwards. He just needed to get this done.  

He made the walk to the Dark Lord’s rooms in a haze, tripping about, brain coated in fog with ideas.

Nothing had come through in the Dark Lord’s voice that afternoon, not after the instructions from the Mandrakes. Perhaps he had already received them? Perhaps Harry was too late?

But he had come this far, and wasn’t about to give up that easily.

He knocked again for entry, allowing the nerves to run over his skin. Nothing could be worse. He had faced the worst already.

He had looked the worst in the face that morning, and it’s eyes had wandered right over him.

But, as always before, the door swung open on it’s own, with no Dark Lord in sight.

Harry moved fast.

He waved his wand to create a white cloth, before removing the root from the bag and wrapping it up tightly, laying it out over some of the paper’s on the Dark Lord’s desk.

He was about to leave, before he hesitated, breathing in deeply. Reaching around, he found a quill and ink, as well as a scrap of parchment, and wrote quickly.

Freshly harvested mandrake root, from this morning.

H

Before he could change his mind, he slipped the parchment into the cloth, and left the room faster than he knew that his legs were able to carry him.

He knew not where he was going, only that he needed to get away from there.

Far, far away.

Chapter Text

Many strange things came out of Malfoy Manor, but perhaps, the strangest was the way time seemed to work. The meeting (both with Snape, and the one in the hall), everything with Nagini, and his most recent delivery had seemed to blend together, confusing in a mess of adrenaline and summer heat, until all that could be seen was the last rays on the sun as it disappeared beyond the horizon and made its way to night.

His hair was still messy, sweat sticking the worst of it to the back of his neck, and ribbon tangled to the point he dared not try to pry it free. His hands were covered in the sweat of a day of stress, and the scar on the back of his hand seemed to burn like a newly opened wound.

The night air was a relief to Harry’s system.

Cold in the evenings. Bitter in the mornings. Roasting, the rest of the day.

And not for the first time, Harry found himself wondering where exactly Malfoy Manor was.

Either way, the heated, stuffy atmosphere of the Malfoy kitchen seemed to be none of those things.

Afterall, the workday seemed far from over.

Despite the darkest presence in their home, Harry had always associated the Malfoy’s as being daytime creatures, with their white blonde hair and piecing blue eyes, ready to put on a face for the public, that apparently didn’t extend past the doors of the average bookshop.

And yet, they dined late.

“Take this,” said Mispy absently, as she passed a tray into his hands, unaware that he seemed to almost buckle under the weight.

Harry knew how families ate – he’d cooked for one all his life. And yet, it still seemed to surprise him.

Although he’d noticed it from the start, truly, he never grew less surprised as to how the Malfoy’s ate. Soft, fluffy pastries, light soups, butter cut into delicate floral shapes, food that would never be harsh to chew, or anything that could fill you up for a day or keep you going long into the night.

Fairy foods, Harry thought to himself, lugging the tray up with him, amazed that Mispy could fill it with enough to make him feel unsteady on his feet.

He soon found himself back in the white room, laying the table that always seemed to be vacant. He lit the candles – three this time, all of which a bright, burning red. He assumed to match the odd floral emblem across the curtains.

And how different those curtains looked at night? Without the sun shining through he almost would have thought they might look dull, and yet, the moon seemed to make the white glow. And the red flowers almost seemed to move around with the curtain, which flowed softly up and down with the rise and fall of the breeze.

He shook himself, physically forcing himself to empty the heavy tray within his grasp before he risked dropping it completely.

How strange it was, to be doing something for only a few days, for it to already feel repetitive. Like second nature?

Enough to feel safe being distracted?

He needed to focus. Needed to get this right.

Even through his etiquette courses, he had never quite grasped – and he rather thought his mentor might have given up on teaching him – the finer points to table-laying.

Forks went down however it was that Mispy had rolled them up in the napkins, and plates went wherever Harry thought they might possibly fit.

The candles, long and thin though they were, had a strong scent about them. And certainly not one that he knew.

It was enough to make him look upwards, to notice in horrifying clarity as a single drop of red wax dripped down the side and splashed directly over the top of the uncovered butter dish, he had placed moments before.

He cursed himself internally, as he grabbed for one of the nearest knives and went to try and remove the damage.

He shifted the dish a little further away, moving the others close-by for good measure.

And yet, he could only sigh when he saw the delicate flowers that Mispy had cut out so carefully in the butter, damaged – and slightly melted – by the bright red wax.

Harry looked behind him, listening out for any approaching footsteps. Hearing nothing, he kneeled down next to the table and begun trying to cut the wax off the top of the warmed butter.

The wax came off quickly, half-sticking to his knife, but the delicate flower was beyond recognition, mushed together and left a pale reminder of itself.

He couldn’t fix that.

Panic ran through him quickly, scenarios flashing through his head.

Simply problems required simple solutions, came his mentors voice, soothing down his thoughts. (He’d always imagined it as a slightly disapproving, throaty thing, but he was more than willing to suspect that he might be wrong about that, having never met the man in person).

Using the knife and a single gloved finger, he lifted what remained of the buttered flower onto a nearby napkin, which he wrapped quickly and shoved back on the tray to take down. Reaching across, he shifted the others around until they looked somewhat natural.

They wouldn’t notice, he told himself, this surely wasn’t a fireable offence.

“How dare you.”

Harry’s head snapped around, harshly enough that he felt a stab of pain down his shoulder.

Bellatrix Lestrange leaned against the doorframe lazily, pushing herself up by one heeled boot and gliding towards him, head tilting dramatically.

She looked much the same as she had during the night in the Ministry eyes wide and crazy, Harry half expecting to see blood running down her hands and face from whatever it was she must have just killed.

Sirius had not been her first. He would not be her last.

“Are you deaf as well as foolish?” She spat, face closing in on Harry’s own, and it was only then Harry truly saw how the shadow’s painted on her eyelids almost perfectly matched the ones below.

“No, ma’am.” Harry answered.

“Then why,” she said, coming closer and closer, “do you think it is appropriate to steal from your employers? Your masters?”

She snapped her teeth right in front of his face.

He was rather unsure if she was about to start hysterically laughing or throwing curses in his direction. Knowing her kind, it was likely both.

Not for the first time that day, all of Harry’s hair stood on end.

“I have stolen nothing!” Harry replied, trying his best to keep the indignance out of his voice.

“You dare? You dare say that?” She jabbed her wand towards the small, wrapped up butter left on the tray. “I saw you! Do you think me blind? Or are yours too mudblooded to see straight out?” Her wand pointed directly at his cheek.

He forced himself to remain calm, to not let anything show on his face.

“I am removing this from the table because it sustained damage. You are more than welcome to check if that would appease you.”

“And why should I believe you?” Her voice was the perfect interpretation of a sneer, and yet she rasped, as if she had not drunk enough in quite some time.

“I would rather take punishment to myself, than serve anything that was sup-par quality to my Lord and Lady.” To Harry’s own amazement, his voice came out soft and smooth, a perfect imitation of a man whose knees were not shaking, and hands did not want to clench to punch.

And just like that, all the fight seemed to fall right out of her.

She sank into one of the far chairs, head leaning back against the wall. Her curls ran down the back of her chair, and Harry could already see how tangled and messy they appeared.

Harry moved around her quickly, mind having gone blank.

But, the next thing he knew, he had carried over a teacup and saucer, and was offering two different teapots.

“Earl grey or Ironwort?” He managed.

She waved her hand dismissively, her nails chipped and bitten down.

Harry poured her a cup of ironwort – or mountain tea, as Mispy had called it earlier – listening to the soothing sound of the drink hitting the china inside, and the warm smell as it met his nostrils, calming the last of the anger than threatened to escape.  

It seemed to do the same for her as she inhaled deeply when the steam met her face, shoulders relaxing down, and head falling the rest of the way back.

And for a moment they both just stood there, breathing in the sugary scent of warm lemongrass and sage, both relaxing under the fumes.

And then, she seemed to find herself again, snapping her head up and barking at him again.

“Well then, what are you still doing here, boy? Out!”

Harry didn’t have to be told twice, grabbing the tray and making his best attempt at a fast exist. Looking back once over his shoulder, before the door closed, he watched as she relaxed back again and pulled the cup up for a long sip.

Then the door slammed behind him, completely on it’s own.

He hurried down the corridor, wishing he could have placed at least a few charms over the candles before anything else could happen, but only being glad that everything else had been moved away in time.

He didn’t think he would be able to get away with interrupting what was meant to be a private meal twice.

Harry wanted to just slump against the wall, fall into a slumber straight in the middle of the corridor, but he couldn’t.

Instead, he allowed himself to hurry back down towards the kitchens, only passing other people once on his way down.

As he squeezed passed all three Malfoys, he could only watch them. Lucius had his hand resting firmly over his son’s shoulder, squeezing harshly. Whether it was because he was afraid Malfoy would run off or pass out, Harry wasn’t entirely sure.

But Malfoy looked horrid.

If anything, he looked worse than his aunt before him.

Alike what he had seen in the meeting, Draco’s face was gaunt, all the blood seeming to have left his features and culminated in his eyes, which were puffy as if he had been crying. His under eye circles seemed to have left permanent dents within his skin, more resembling a few punches than anything the body could have done to itself.

And even Harry’s nose wrinkled as he moved passed then, the stench of sweat and stress and acidic blood was overwhelming for his nostrils, and he wondered when it was the last time any of them were able to take a bath.

And then they had disappeared around the corner, leaving Harry to his thoughts, as his pace slowed.

What kind of bath scents would such people even use? Would they have taps like the prefects bathroom?

Lavender? Rose? Vanilla?

Draco liked vanilla; Harry realised with something startling. He knew the blond boy had a habit of reaching out for the nearest slice of vanilla sponge at the Hogwarts evening feasts, when he thought nobody was paying that much attention to him.

Harry didn’t know he was paying that much attention, still left pondering his thoughts until he finally reached his destination.

“Mispy,” Harry called out into the kitchen, “do you have anything else to make, or can I take over for a while?”

The elf hopped down off her little stool and shook her head.

“Nothing at all is being left, sir’s. The kitchen is being all yours!”

And, just like that, the little elf was gone.

It didn’t take Harry long to find the small, leather bound recipe book and begin flicking through it. He only stopped on the first page for a moment when he saw it decorated with embossed red flowers on the stark white paper.

Some pages were more worn than others. Mipsy, or any of the other elves would have no reason to use their hands to touch the pages, but some pages seemed to almost have divots within them from where fingers had danced over one-to-many times.

It didn’t take him long to find what he needed, hoping to Merlin and Morgana that he would be able to pull it all off long before the end of the Malfoy’s dinner.

It only took him a few more moments of rummaging to find all the needed ingredients, and even less time to start preparing them together in a way that he hoped would work.

For the first time in his life, he couldn’t have been more grateful for the ability to cook things with magic.

Stuffing everything onto another tray he found in the back of one of the draws, he checked the map and made his way over to Malfoy’s rooms.

There were near the top of the house, leaving him to walk around in circles long enough that he started to doubt his own memory before he came across a door with a magical signature slightly more similar than the rest of the home.

He pushed down the doorhandle with his arm, making his way into the room enough until he almost dropped the tray onto Malfoy’s bed.

The room was large, a long, plush four poster bed taking up most of the space. Broomsticks attached to a stand on the wall on one end, and a bookcase took up the other, with a rolling ladder attached to the side.

Even from where he was, Harry could tell almost everything was covered in a layer of thick dust.

After placing the tray, Harry though for a moment, before just picking up the plate and laying it down on Malfoy’s bedside table.

Perhaps this would have to be something he left out on his report back to the Order. Ron would, certainly, not be pleased.

Hearing the words ‘consorting with the enemy’ running through his head, he moved straight to Malfoy’s ensuit bathroom, looking at the tub inside.

Just as he had suspected, the tub was sunken into the floor, just alike the prefects bathroom, even if it seemed only half the size – clearly meant for one person to paddle about in, rather than for several people to swim about in.

There were three bronze taps placed at each end of the tub, and stone steps than led down into it. At the top of it all, a large, metal wheel sat, built into the floor, much alike the kind Harry would expect to steer a muggle boat, as opposed to anything that should be found in a bathroom.

He walked over to it, realising as he did that there was a line of gold marked along the sleek brown metal, and across the floor around it were all sorts of patterns of different plants – most of which Harry didn’t recognise.

He grasped the wheel in two hands and, using his body weight, physically shifting on the floor to force the wheel around, until it reached one that he recognised. The first time it passed one of the little symbols on the floor, it clicked, and Harry could only relax to the sound of each little click until it landed on something Harry was almost certain was lavender.

Standing up, he went over to the taps, only hoping that he was right, and turned them on one by one, before moving to the other side and doing the same. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then the pipes made a loud groaning sound, and lavender-scented water rushed out in hot streams, in a light purple colour.

Harry could only be slightly disappointed when he realised that it didn’t have any bubbles.

He sat on the bath’s edge for a while, watching as the lapping water rose higher and higher beneath where he watched, inhaling in the scent, and fighting the urge to lay back on the tile behind him to let it sooth his aching back and shoulders, and lie forever in that scent.

But he knew he didn’t have time.

And falling asleep on their son’s bathroom floor was probably not the thing that would endear him to his employees in quite the way that he had hoped.

He slowly managed to get up to turn off the taps, practically leaning down to inhale the scent one last time before he had to go. The violet shade itself looked ethereal in the moonlight, glowing in much the same way that the curtains had earlier, gently rocking back and forth as if pushed by some invisible current.

Thinking about it, Harry cast a simple stasis charm over the water to keep it warm, before leaving the bathroom and making sure the door was propped open.

It would all be for nothing, if Malfoy didn’t even realise it was there.

And just like before, he decided to leave another note.

But this was no quickly hurried scratching of a quill.

This time, Harry spent the time folding it, until it stood up on it’s own, the emerald ink spilling clearly over the parchment, and standing out in the flickering candlelight.

Look after yourself,

A friend.

And then Harry left, taking only one look back at the plate of Vanilla sponge, and only hoping it was to the other boy’s tastes. He had decorated it himself, dusting the sugar over the top, and cut a rather generous piece.

He couldn’t help himself.

Fussing back around the plate, he readjusted the little, embossed silver fork and napkin he had bought alongside, casting another stasis charm to keep everything down to the little dusting of sugar over the top in place.

He turned his back on everything then, shutting the door behind him, manually this time, and walking back down the nearest staircase.

When he finally made it back to his room, he hardly even remembered his head hitting the pillow before he fell asleep.

His mind was already far, far away.

Chapter Text

Harry strolled the halls of Malfoy Manor, snake at his heels and snarl overtaking his features. Even under layers of robes, he could feel a shiver creep into his bones, the scents of such a place dancing out in bold colours, creeping webs of dark magic and uncleared rot.

“Nagini, we find our place here…corrupted.” He did not look down to his serpent companion to know how closely she followed.

“Corrupted, master?”

“Indeed.”

Harry did not extrapolate.  

When arriving at his room, the doors swung open, and he breathed in the warmth of the air surrounding him. The fire blazed heat that seemed to strike though him like some vicious curse.

He relaxed at the sensation.

But, then again, aside from the heat, a strange magical signature seemed to fill the place, distant, as if it had been left many hours ago. At the very least, it seemed that the Malfoy’s had finally got it into their skulls that Harry did not appreciate house elves running through his space.

And then, just before Harry was about to speak to Nagini again, he spotted a small pile of cloth, over by his desk.

It seemed, his mysterious benefactor had struck again.

Ensuring the door was closed behind him, Harry pulled out his wand with a clawed, pale hand, and watched as the fabric fell away to reveal a pile of roughly chopped Mandrake root.

How strange, how very strange indeed.

In the dark quiet of night, Harry sat himself in a nearby chair, and ponded about anyone he knew in the Manor with the letter ‘H’ as a first initial.

***

Not so far away, and not for the first time, Harry Potter briefly awoke in cold sweats.

Long hair stuck to the back of his neck, only allowing him to tilt his head very slightly to see Hedwig prepare to fly out into the night sky, before darkness overtook him once more, allowing him to fall back into slumber.

It seemed like so long ago that such dreams would keep him up all night.

***

Hadrian Evans awoke again hours later, to a banging sound that seemed to fill the Manor with it’s might.

He startled out of his bed in a second, frantically wrestling with the clothes he had thrown over a chair the previous evening. His shirt was creased, and his hair covered in grease, and yet, he managed to make his way out of the door, still tugging a shoe over one foot.

Rushing to the front door, casting spells over himself as he went, the floor seemed to vibrate under him with the strength of that knock.

When he reached the door, he took a deep breath, straightening his back and rolling back his shoulders.

Opening the door, without even looking at the person in front, he bowed low.

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor.”

And then, he looked up.

And up.

The man in front of him was less of a man, and more of what Harry would call a giant. He looked, Harry thought to himself, if Hagrid was about three feet taller, wider, dark skinned, and wore moss instead of regular human clothing.

“Honoured,” replied the giant, voice booming somehow louder, and yet, with a surprisingly polite and mannered tone.

Harry was careful not to stare.

“May I ask your business here, sir?” Harry said, straightening up more fully.

“My meeting,” said the (what Harry now suspected to be) half-giant, “with the dark Lord.”

“Of course,” Harry replied, “Welcome in.”

He could only hope that wards would have caught him out, if he wasn’t supposed to be there.

He opened the door wide, and watched as the tall man stopped low, and slide gracefully in beside him.

“Can you accompany me to the meeting room, I am afraid I do not know the way,” said the giant in his loud, posh voice.

“Of course, sir, do follow me.”

Harry turned sharply, feeling his coat tails whip out from behind him as he began to lead the man down the corridor, towards the nearest staircase. He himself, rather hoped that he would know the way back to the meeting room.

With every step the giant behind him took, Harry could feel the floor tremble under his feet. He had to fight the urge not to look back and start casting spells to fix whatever the cracks he had inevitably left in the wooden flooring. As they went forward, he started to cast spells with his wand just poking out of his sleeve, to try and prevent any further damage that he would have to clean up.

They made it to the stone, candlelit corridor, only going the wrong direction twice, both of which Harry managed to pass off and move them the correct way once more.

“This is the meeting room, just down here.” With a flourish and a bow, Harry pointed down the corridor, only to watch the giant man take a few more steps forward, and completely disappear into the shadows.

Eyes wide at the space where the hulking man had been, Harry only watched as the door at the other end creaked open, before slamming with some great force.

“Welcome,” came a high, cold, mocking voice from the inside.

Harry turned and walked away.

Certainly, more of a Maxime than the Grawp he appeared as.

Harry sighed, rubbing the tip of his nose with the tips of a few of his fingers. Now the noise was over, his eyes were heavy with sleep, hardly even able to open the lids. His skin was stretched and uncomfortable, his lips dry and chapped.

He could already feel a headache building behind his brow.

Looking down more fully, he winced at the way his tie was fastened, and just by the touch he could feel his hair had come out of his ponytail in clumps, probably due to the smoothing spell wearing off. He reapplied it, stretching out his back muscles before flipping up his collar and finding the now-familiar sensation of his bowtie.

Circe, how much of a mess could one butler be?

He hadn’t even bothered to get the strange giant’s name.

He hurried back down towards the kitchen’s, once he felt suitably cleansed of his morning mess, and throwing open the doors with the determination of a seeker who whose fingers were inches from the snitch.

Unlike the tray’s Mipsy would usually press into his hands, a small, silver cart was wheeled out, and together they lined it up with tray’s.

“To Lord and Lady Malfoy,” Mipsy pointed as she loaded, nodding towards Harry’s hand as he did the same, “Lady and Lord’s Lestrange, Master Malfoy.” Mipsy paused for a moment, pulling out a final tray, covered in black cloth. “Master’s, master.”

He didn’t need more clarification than that.

“How long do I have to get these out?”

Mipsy’s ears lowered.

“You is not having very long. Almost everyone be dining in their rooms this mornin’.”

In the name of not panicking about his job, Harry decided he didn’t need to know how long, ‘not long’ entailed.

Instead, taking another deep breath, and wishing deeply that he had a glass of water, he grabbed the cart and started walking as fast as he could.

To his surprise, the cart was no simple contraction. He had thought at first it was almost muggle in appearance, and yet, as soon as they reached the nearest staircase, it’s wheels and end tucked up and hovered just above the step above. The tray’s still tipped around, knocking the China-wear together, but he tried not to worry about it too much. At least nothing seemed to be falling off the sides.

He arrived at Malfoy’s room first, knocking on the door, and leaving the tray on a handy table outside.

Just as he had finished leaving the tray, he almost startled as the door swung open, and Malfoy himself peered out, peering out at Harry with bleary eyes.

“Breakfast, sir,” Harry muttered, giving a bow.

He stood up quickly, grabbing the handles of the cart, and starting to walk off.

“Thank you.” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, and yet somehow it still made Harry jump. And then, Harry turned and really looked at the boy, pale, thin and still in his pyjamas that emphasised both.

“Anytime, sir.” Harry nodded as he spoke, and walked away.

Bellatrix, her husband and brother’s room were all next to each other, and just a hallway down from Draco’s. He knocked quickly on each of those doors, his gloved hand touching the wood as quietly as he could get away with.

He should have bought the poison.

But even he, as a Gryffindor, was aware on how easily that would be traced back to him. And it’s not like he could pin the blame on anyone else.

Lord and Lady Malfoy were next, and as he knocked on the door, it swung open for him to come inside. They still lay in bed, utterly vulnerable, with the silken drapes open.

He moved to place a breakfast tray on each of their bedside tables, as they watched him through there half-open eyes.

“Good morning, sir, ma’am.”

Lady Malfoy pushed herself up on one hand and stared at him.

“Good morning Hadrian.”

Harry bowed low, forcing his body into a perfect ‘L’ shape, before turning sharply on his heels and closing the bedroom door behind him.

It would not be becoming of a Butler to linger.

Harry moved to the Dark Lord’s room’s with haste, safe in the knowledge that he wasn’t there.  

Small mercies. Very small mercies.

As always, once he had made his way up the many stairs, the Dark Lord’s door swung open on it’s own, and Harry scurried inside.

But this time, unlike any of the others, the room was far from empty.

There, on the Dark Lord’s bed was Nagini, covering almost the entire bedsheet with her body. Her head rested upon her coils, and, if he squinted hard enough, he could see that she had wrapped herself around a pillow.

Apart from her breathing, she was perfectly and completely still.

And yet, she made for quite the intimidating sight, looking somehow much larger than all the other times he had seen her.

He tiptoed around the room, almost jumping out of his skin when the tip of her tail twitched out of her coil and landing on the floor, right next to his leg.

His heart pulsed for a second.

And then, once more, he was calm.

He chose to put the tray on the desk, where he had left the mandrake roots the previous night, the ones he had seen in his dream.

From there he found he couldn’t help himself.

He flitted around the room, lighting the fire once more, and opening the door to Nagini’s rooms to spot clean, ensuring the door behind him was closed. He knew she probably had other ways in, but would be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel just a little bit safer.

Walking back into the main room, he allowed his eyes to linger around for just a moment.

It was already starting to feel pleasantly warm, and Harry could see that Nagini had lolled herself out on the bed further.

He had to bight back a snigger at the thought of the Dark Lord rolling around in his bed, and pulling out a single, loose scale that had been stabbing him. It almost made him sound too human in Harry’s mind.

Surveying the room one last time, after placing another careful stasis charm over the food (and didn’t it feel so good to have use of his magic?), he noticed the large window. He could hardly imagine that lord Voldemort would care much about looking out over the views.

Probably uses it to watch others do his bidding.

He chuckled to himself once more, before walking over to it, and popping his head under the curtains to look out.

It shows the front of the Manor, even though Harry was quite certain they should have been on completely the opposite end, the front door, all the way down to a large, iron gate and the woodlands beyond. It seemed they wrapped around the whole Manor, not just the back, leaving them the only property for miles.

A small flickering caught his eye.

He watched as the front door of Malfoy Manor creep open, and the shadows flicker around the entrance.

And then, everything was quiet.

Chapter Text

At first, when Harry had seen that shadow, he passed it off as the giant from before, the same one who slunk through the halls of Malfoy Manor as if he had done so many times.

But something about it pricked at his mind, as he stared out at the courtyard. The silence seemed to swallow the area, pulling his attention down to each little flicker of movement.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

And before Harry knew it, he had turned on his heels, and had started to sprint down the corridor. He cared no longer about waking the snake who slept behind him as he opened the doors one after another, after another. His feet hammered beneath, skidding down a few steps when he reached the stairs, and almost falling when the floor became smooth stone as apposed to thick, plush carpet.

But still, he ran. He knew not why, for if anyone was trying to sneak into the Manor, surely it would be someone who he knew, perhaps from the Order. But he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t leave it alone.

The image of Draco Malfoy came to mind, pale and sickly at the meeting. Of Narcissa with her eyebags and broken nails. And then, strangest of all, of Bellatrix, and how she collapsed into her chair.

He ran on.

Without really realising, his wand had made it’s way to his hand. Harry’s eyes were ablaze, his body shaking with adrenaline. Adrenaline for a battle he knew he would have to fight. And a side he didn’t know how to choose.

At one point he ran past Lucius and Narcissa, who stared at him in open shock, and horror when they saw the wand in his grip.

Out of the corner of Harry’s eye, he saw Lucius reach for his own wand, only for Narcissa to put a hand over his and halt the movement.

Harry skidded down the next corridor, and could see them no more.

But several doors down he could still hear what they thought must have been hushed whispers, ringing in his ears like a morning bell.

The words were lost to him.

He made it to the front entrance.

And only then did he hesitate.

Would the shadow still be outside? Through his burning lungs, it seemed an age ago that he had seen the flicker. Was it even something to be worried about?

The few seconds he took to force air into his lungs allowed him to think.

He braced his body against the side of the door, opening it just the smallest sliver and pushing outside, making sure the door slammed behind him.

Nothing going in, nobody else going out.

Harry pointed his wand around the nearby area.

“Who’s there?”

No words met his, but his eyes raked the grass around them, up the side of the Manor.

And then, he saw it again.

A small, flickering shadow, certainly too small to be the giant from before. In fact, it was distinctly human sized.

But more so than that, the shadow was disappearing around a nearby wall.

Harry walked quickly, through the wet grass.

When he made his way around the side of the building, wishing desperately that he had remembered to bring his cloak with him that morning, the shadow was gone again.

He rushed up and down, searching, searching for just a glimmer, the smallest of movements.

And he saw it.

Halfway up the Manor’s side, nearing the second floor window, reaching for the clasp.

“Stupefy!” The jet of red light flew out of Harry’s wand, right towards the shadow. Before it hit, Harry thought for a moment that he saw the shadow-creature turn what could be it’s head.

But it didn’t have the time.

The spell hit the shadow straight through the chest, and it fell off the side of the building, before floating softly to the ground.

And only then did the shadow’s begin to waver, and a man’s face became clear. The bottom of face, a nose…

And then, with a little popping sound, the ground next to Harry bust up in flames.

Harry yelped, jumping out of the way of the sudden heat.

He spun around, pointing his wand in every which way, trying to find the other assailant of the man who was clearly working as a team, and not individually as he had first assumed.

The only thing behind him were the thick trees of the woodland behind him.

Hoping he was making the right choice, he chased forward.

His legs were already wet from the damp grass, but soon damp leaves and branches were hitting into his face, almost poking him in the eye. But his eyes fixed ahead, focused more on instinct and the sound of distant footsteps than the ground directly in front of him.

Twice he almost fell, the ground seeming to fall underneath him. The first time he wobbled slightly before righting himself and pushing on. The second time he grasped onto the dark of a nearby tree, the wood cutting into his finger and leaving them sore.

But he didn’t have time to feel the pain.

His lungs were probably aching, but he couldn’t feel it.

Everything stretched out in the forest around them.

A bright white spell whistled past Harry’s ear, and he ducked.

Behind him, the light hit a tree stump, exploding it into hundreds of pieces.

Harry choked on the flying bits of bark, which flew into his eyes right behind his glasses.

He only just had enough sense to throw himself behind another tree before he blindly pointed his wand out into the woods and screaming another stunning spell.

The lack of a thump let him know that he had missed.

The footsteps approaching let him know that the other was near.

Harry threw himself to the ground, making his body as small as possible. If he couldn’t see, he couldn’t fight. He would just keep giving away his position.

The air around him seemed thick and heavy, and he forced a cough back into his throat.

Through his blurred vision, he only just saw the second white spell as it came. He ducked once more, tucking his hands over his head as the tree behind him exploded.

Harry rolled around behind some bushes, finally blinking some of the fog from his eyes.

Through blurry vision and shaky arms, Harry lifted his wand to point through the bush, right at the man himself.

“Stupefy.”

It was deflected with a single wave of a wand.

Almost instantly, red light flew back in Harry’s direction.

“Protego!”

The curse went right through his shield. It looked so alike the cruciatus curse at first that Harry braced for the pain, but still gasped when he felt it in his arm.

When he dared a glace down he saw a long, deep gash, blood almost completely obscuring the wound.

It wasn’t just meant to hit his arm. It was a cutting spell, made to cut him right in half.

Harry dropped to the ground, still blinking dust away from his eyes.

Through the thicket of the bush, Harry watched as the man seemed to relax, and begin walking in the other direction, ready to go and rescue his friend. Through his dust covered eyes, Harry still could not see his face, but he followed his feet through the foliage.

As the man moved, so did Harry, sliding around the side of the bush. For a moment, his hands caught on the leaves and the man froze still, waiting for another attack. When none came, he pressed forward.

Harry raised his wand.

He couldn’t say he learned nothing from dualling club.  

“Everte Statum,” he muttered, hoping with all hope that he remembered the spell correctly, that it would work the first time around.

The man went flying.

He careened backwards through the air until he crashed into a nearby tree so hard Harry could hear the creaking of the wood.

The man slid down the tree, almost in slow motion. The man’s head rolled, before he collapsed on the floor in a heap.

Harry stood up.

Blood ran down his arm, his shirt was ripped worse than it had been during his encounter with the devil’s snare. He panted for air, covered in leaves, mud and bits of bark.

Victory flooded through his veins.

Harry walked towards the man, finally feeling the throb in his arm as he looked down at the face.

He truly didn’t know whether to be relieved or not that he didn’t recognise him.

The man had longish brown hair, now slightly matted with blood from the impact. His face was thin, and a long scar ran down the side, cutting into his upper lip.

Harry pointed his wand directly at the man’s face, and levitated him.

When walking back to the Manor, he fight started to catch up with him. Hair dangled by his face, and his hands shook beneath the gloves. In fact, his entire body seemed to be shaking, as well as his arm which seemed to burn when touched by the wind.

The other man’s body was still just where he left it, right outside the Manor.

On a regular day, levitating them both behind him would have been no struggle at all.

This was no regular day.

And yet still, he managed.

It didn’t help that unlike the last, this face was considerably more familiar to him.

Harry had always assumed that Mundungus Fletcher would be the last person the Order would ever wish to send on any sort of stealth mission, but he supposed that the man did have a rather firm set of sticky fingers.

He stumbled his way back to the front of the Manor, shoving open the door with one hand.

“Hadrian?”

Narcissa Malfoy stood in the hallway, looking down at him in abject horror.

“Lady Malfoy,” Harry panted, gesturing towards the men levitated behind his back. “It seems that we had some uninvited visitors.”

***

It hadn’t taken Harry long to clean himself back up.

Once Narcissa had called her husband and the pair levitated the two men away, Harry had gone straight back to his rooms. He washed himself as best he could, relaxing into the water and sighing at the thought of one-day having a bathtub that looked anything like Draco Malfoy’s.

He dug out the medical kit he used before and, after bathing his arm in his bathwater for many painful minutes, and patting it dry with a now bloodied towel, he wrapped it tightly in some of the bandages he found.

His hair was re-done, smoothed back into a neat ponytail and tied with it’s ribbon.

His clothes were put through some quick repairing and cleansing charms.

He didn’t have a second set of those to wear.

Harry walked back up the halls, the bulge of the bandage still visible through his waistcoat, despite his very best efforts to the contrary.

Cleaning charms made clothes stiff and starchy, he tried not to care.

Trepidation filled his chest as he arrived back at the meeting hall, and he fingered the note Narcissa had sent him shortly after he arrived back at his room. Meeting hall. Come once cleaned up. Narcissa.

The penmanship was sloppy, and ink dotted around the note. It had clearly been written in a hurry.

Harry hoped that didn’t mean he had made a huge mistake.

He pushed the meeting room door half open, preparing to slip into the back.

But unlike before, he allowed his eyes to roam around the room.

Lord Voldemort sat at the head of the table, surrounded by the Malfoy family, Bellatrix, another dark haired man, and Snape.

On the table in front of them, laid the two still unconscious men. But they did not look the way Harry had left them.

Mundungus’s eyes were open, stretched white with horror, but they were glassy with unconsciousness. His skin starchy and pale.

It was only the up and down rising of his chest, however slight, that gave Harry the hope that he was not dead.

The other man was still, a pool of blood lying like a halo around his head, visible even in the flickering candlelight on the black table. Harry didn’t know if it was from the head wound he himself had given to the other man, or if something else had happened.

It almost felt strange that he just didn’t seem to care.

Even just a few days ago, he might have been horrified at the sight of the bodies on the table in front of him, especially of the man he knew. But, then again, what little word had reached Harry after Sirius’s death had not been positive.

He knew for a fact, that Mundungus Fletcher had stolen a full box of Sirius’s mother’s jewellery, worth enough that it had made the Daily Prophet.

Not that Harry had received a letter about it.

Not like it was Harry’s own property being stolen.

Harry stopped staring and pressed himself into the back wall.

“-And passed every layer of our security, every single one of you thrown off by a simple cloaking spell? Every single element of your security system failed?” The Dark Lord glaring from face to face, whole body radiating with anger, his voice seeming to hiss the words instead of truly speak them.

Then, he looked up, past the end of the table and right towards the doorway.

Right towards the man that stood there, almost cloaked into the shadow’s himself.

Harry could only feel cold shock as the red eyes really met his for the first time, truly seeing Harry as he stood in front of him.

“Well, almost all your security.”

And then he looked away.

Harry let out a long breath.

He didn’t focus on the rest of the meeting, choosing instead to look down at his shoes. He caught the odd word about lies, about traitor’s, about liabilities.

More than once he heard hysterical screaming.

He didn’t look up to know who it was.

It was hardly noticed when two larger men came into the hall, each grabbing the arms of the two prisoners and dragging them out of the room.

Harry had just enough muscle memory to shut the doors behind them, guiding them out with a long bow.

“They knew we had a visitor, my Lord! They took advantage of us, they knew!”

That was Bellatrix.

The Dark Lord silenced her, voice so full of hissing that Harry didn’t know quite what he was saying. Not quite English, not quite parceltounge.

Everyone stood up shortly after that, Harry still hardly aware, only thinking enough once more to hold the door open.

Shoulder’s brushed past his, Snape sending him a particularly vicious glare for a reason Harry knew not.

He bowed each one out all the same, but just before he was about to turn and leave, a hand caught his shoulder, hesitantly.

“Hadrian,” came Narcissa’s voice, “You need to stay. Our Lord wishes to speak to you, privately.”

He only caught a glance at her pitying face before she herself scurried out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

And there it was again.

Harry Potter and the Dark Lord were alone.

And he could already feel red eyes prickling into the side of his skull.

Chapter Text

Harry shuffled on his feet, hearing his shoes creak on the floor beneath him. Merlin and Morgana, even if Snape had – somehow – been unable to recognise him, what were the chances of Voldemort?

Harry glanced up, unnerved by the silence that surrounded them.

By his side, a candle flickered and died.

“Tell me,” came the hiss from across the room, “have you ever seen something like this before?”

The voice was more serpentine than human, filled with anger, intensity, curiosity and a hundred other things that Harry couldn’t begin to name. The drew a frozen finger up his spine, and hair stood up on the back of his neck, pricking against his bowtie. It was the same voice that had haunted every dream for years, that had so brutally murdered Cedric in front of him. That had followed him to the Ministry, that had tortured Sirus in that dream and-

Harry looked up.

The Dark lord was reaching across the table, a pale, clawed handheld a small, dark stone. Harry squinted towards it, as it was deposited around the centre. The stone was a deep, dark purple with tiny fluctuations of light from inside.

“I have not,” Harry replied, words catching themselves in his throat. Why should he know? Did it have anything to do with him? A test? Something planted in his room? Some way to reveal secrets?

The silence drew on. Another candle, behind the Dark lord this time, flickered out.

“A giants relic,” came the Dark Lord’s voice, elongating each ‘s’, with only a slight flick of his forked tongue. “Stolen off our guest, just this morning. A guest you allowed to enter. Do you deny this?”

“I do not.” Who would? It was nonsensical. It wasn’t like by opening the door Harry had allowed someone else to steal the stone, rather, it was more that he had prevented the shadow-man from coming inside.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing at that time.”

It was true. Harry hadn’t seen anything, no matter how many times he went over and over the events in his head, closing his eyes to think back. There had been no rustling of the bushes, no eyes staring at the back of his head, just the giant, who wished to attend his meeting.

“And yet, you were the one who caught the threat in the end. Not my Death Eaters. Not my protection wards. You.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain.”

“I was caring for the Lady Nagini, and happened to…peer out of the window as I was cleaning the rest of the room. I saw the shadow….flicking around the side of the manor,” Harry fought with his mentor’s advice, taking a pause instead of stumbling over his words, or making an equally awkward sound. With his heart pounding so harshly his chest, no blood seemed to be meeting his brain, giving him a chance to just think. He knew his words were rushed, but he couldn’t help the nerves seeping through. “And then I neutralised the threat, to the best of my ability. I am, of course, naught but a simple Butler.”

He almost wanted to laugh at the irony of those words.

“I do not tolerate lies.”

Harry gulped.

“Lies, sir?” He hated the stumble in his words, hoping the Dark Lord would have missed it, and knowing deep down that he had not.

Voldemort let out a small chuckle, that turned in a set of cold, hissing laughter that filled the room with it’s ice.

It cut off abruptly, eyes meeting Harry’s.

“I assure you, mister Evans,” said the Dark Lord, sounding distinctly more human than it had before, “The Malfoy family has hired many a Butler in the short time I have been here. None of which have been willing to defend us against threat, let alone managing to drop of the correct order’s in my own personal rooms, before I even ask for them.”

“I am experienced. Reading people is part of my job, sir.”

“Most would not consider it so.”

“Then perhaps that’s where I differ from other people.”

The Dark Lord leaned forward in his chair, placing the palm of his hands on the table, eyes staring intensely in Harry’s own.

“Perhaps, you do.”

Harry wondered if now was the time to retreat, to bow, to promise to bring something for him next time, to do anything it took just to get out of that room.

“Upon asking Narcissa, she claimed you are from a family of purebloods. And yet the name matches not.”

“Sir?”

“Evans. It is not a pureblood name. Purebloods, have their customs, and would prefer no name at all, as opposed to one so plain and simple. So ordinary.”

He’s testing you. Testing your cover story.

If Harry was found out now, he was dead.

“Ordinary while it may be my family is foreign. Evans is something that I took on when I moved here in order to blend in, and I am sure it sounds very glamorous to them.”

“Foreign? Foreign from where?”

It was like the man was seeing right through him, poking every hole that could be found. Eyeing the needle in the haystack, and just waiting for the other man to spot it and pull it free.

Harry would give him no such satisfaction.

“France,” Harry settled on, trying to remember the brief lessons he had been given in Primary school. Perhaps he could even muster up a hello, or even a few colours.

“Your accent is far from French.”

“I did not live in France long, I was sent to live with my Grandmother in Yorkshire after the death of my parents. That alongside my Butler training created a unique combination of the above.” That, at least, Harry had some backing too.

The intensity of the man in front of him never wavered.

“A witch?”

“A potion maker by trade. With a different last name.”

After all these years, Harry wondered if lying should be more difficult coming from his lips. And yet, all he could focus on were those red eyes, that almost seemed to glow in the dim light. (That, and how he would need to write all of it down later, so he would not forget and contradict himself).

The Dark Lord stared at Harry, and Harry stared right back.

His scar began to burn on his forehead, a stirring of some strange emotion that Harry could not name.

His vision blurred from the pain and heat.

Harry planted his feet on the floor.

“I see,” replied the Dark lord, the scar finally ceasing it’s attempted to brand Harry’s forehead. “I have not met one like you before, Evans.”

“I may say the same for you, sir,” Harry replied after, breath catching as he wondered if that was perhaps just a step too far.

But the Dark Lord simply leaned forward.

“You may leave.”

Harry bowed deeply, closing his eyes tightly, crossing one arm over his chest in the ceremonial way he had practised.

But, before he could stand up further, the crystal on the table caught his eyes once more. And, for just a second before he blinked, the glowing seemed to intensify, showing a beautiful, red flower blooming within the centre.

It sent a finger of ice down Harry’s spine.

Then, he stood up straight, turned on his heels, and walked out of the Dungeon door, closing it behind him.

Harry pulled of his glasses, rubbing at his forehead and forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“Hadrian?”

Harry’s eyes shot open, only to see Narcissa stood before him, hands outstretched as if in worry. He could see the roots in her hair, overgrown and left undyed due to stress, and the grease building up within it, needing more than a few rounds of shampoo to remove.

Honestly, it rather reminded Harry of his own head after a few weeks locked in his room at the Dursley’s place.

He made a mental note to leave her something to help with that later. Perhaps a bath, as he had done for Draco would be much appreciated.

“Yes, my Lady? May I help you with something?”

Lady Malfoy blinked at him, seeming quite stunned.

“No,” she said finally, “no, I am quite alright. I merely wished to check on you.”

“I am perfectly fine, ma’am. A small headache is the most of my troubles.”

She raised her own – still broken – nail up to her lip.

“If you are…quite sure.”

“I assure you madam, everything is perfectly fine. Now, it must be almost lunchtime after all of this…mess. If you have no other need for me, I shall go and prepare it.”

Narcissa seemed to shake herself.

“Yes, yes indeed, I suppose that you should. Yes, you should.”

Harry bowed again, a small dip this time, unwilling to irritate his head further. He couldn’t blame her for the stress that seemed to radiate off her, wondering how many others she had met outside that room in such a state that would haunt her dreams for weeks on end.

He would not add to that. He would never add to that, if he could.

But just when he had begun to walk away, she spoke once more.

“Thank you.”

Harry stared at her.

“You are very welcome, ma’am.”

She nodded, steeling herself, before motioning him off.

Harry did not need more convincing than that.

***

As always in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, it was the noisiest place.

Harry and Mipsy were alone, with Deek occasionally popping his head around the door, as they rushed about to prepare a feast much grander than that of the previous day. Almost as if someone more important was dining with them than before.

Harry worked on his own, now designated, section of home baked bread, and pastries. Kneading the dough gave him time to think, thumbing it into the counter with all the force suppressed rage could give such a person.

“That bread is almost being done?” Called Mispy from across the room, hair wrapped in an additional tea towel and face red from the smoke.

“Almost,” Harry replied, lifting out the burning tray with another white towel he had grabbed from nearby. He cursed at the heat, almost burning his own hand. “Out!”

The grateful smile Mipsy sent in his direction made it worth it. A thousand times so.

He raced across the kitchen, moving back to putting the finishing touches on one of the pies, unwrapping and re-wrapping, casting the needed spells to ensure that it really was cooked through, and that the bottom hadn’t been burnt in all the chaos.

He knew he couldn’t look much better than Mispy. He face felt beat red to the touch, and almost certainly looked that way. He had stopped bothering to fix his hair, which now lay half-in and half-out of it’s typical ponytail.

“This looks good!” He called out, “Should I plate?”

Mispy sent a flick of her hand, which Harry had learned was a rather strange custom that could have been translated into a thumb’s up.

Using a nearby spatula, he slid the pie onto one of the larger decorative plates, a pleased feeling welling up his insides when he saw how perfectly it fit.

It just went on the tray with the rest.

He moved onto the tea next, another job he had now taken on in the Kitchen, but his mind could not stop wiring with thoughts, the fumes doing little to sate his imaginations.

The conversation he had just seemed so fuzzy in his head that if it wasn’t for the conversation he had with Narcissa afterwards (and the clear visual of the horrible red flower in that gem) that made him even sure the event happened in the first place.

When everything was plated, he grasped onto the tray, preparing the carry the first one up himself.

“Here, let me take it.” Mipsy pulled the tray out of his hands. “You is being need to rest.”

He couldn’t disagree with her warm smile, allowing the tray to fall into her capable hands.

Still, he needed to check.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind.”

“I is being taking it from here.”

“Thanks.”

Harry threw the towel over the nearest island, rolling his shoulders and wincing as it pulled on his wound. His muscles all tensed as he moved them.

A shower. That was what he needed, a long, warm shower.

As he walked to his room, He loosened his clothing, his tie from his shirt alongside the top two buttons, and pulled his hair free from its ponytail, soothing his headache instantly.

His hands were so tired, he struggled to wrap them around the key, pointlessly hitting it into wood of the door several times more than he would ever be willing to do in front of another person.

When the door finally clicked open with a frustrated shove and twist of the key, Hedwig was waiting for him, nudging at his fingers. He rubbed over her head, relaxing at the soft feeling of her white feathers.

“Hello lovely,” he muttered, allowing his own eyes to flutter closed.

She squawked at him.

“I know, I need a shower, don’t I?”

Although he had washed briefly earlier, he could still feel the days of work crawling under his skin, and after such a conversation it seemed to burn far, far hotter than before.

He gave Hedwig another pat before allowing her to fly back to her usual spot by the window, rolling his shoulders and heading back into the bathroom.

There was no bath, not like the Malfoy’s had in their own rooms, but the shower was a huge thing, multiple heads shooting off in several directions, encased fully in a wide crystal square, with a door that swung from the front.

He stripped his shirt off, swinging the huge door open to reach the faucet. It was a complicated thing, not unalike the Malfoy’s tub, a large wheel, but with fewer options of what could come out. Something the Malfoy’s would think would be what a standard lower class person would expect.

The more Harry thought of it, the more misguided and sweet it became in his mind.

He twisted the wheel until it clicked near one of the options, that appeared to just be simply rain with a fire symbol next to it. He hoped that it simply meant hot water, and not just larva or something ridiculous.

Somehow, even knowing everything he did, he suspected Malfoy would love to play such a prank on him. (But not this new sad, drawn-out version).

Stripping of the rest of his clothes and folding them neatly before subsequently throwing his underwear in a heap on the floor. Unwilling to take of the bandage, he simply cast a water-protection spell over it, feeling the unpleasant twitch over his skin as it settled.

As he had hoped, the water simply came out hot, with only a slight hint of orange in the colour, which turned out to simply be a nice, slightly orange-y smell.

The hot water rolled down him from all directions, almost like standing inside a full waterfall, drawn from a nearby hot spring.

He tilted his head back, allowing the hot water to drain over his hair, and he panted from the heat and sweat that crept up onto his skin.

His shoulder’s relaxed. He core untensing.

Perhaps, he thought almost ridiculously, if the Dark Lord did this, he would be less likely to try and take over the world every other week.

When he finally stepped out, wrapping himself in a nearby thin towel and scrubbing himself dry.

He dressed again quickly, having finally come up with a new idea of what to do next, now he had no lunch to deliver.

He threw his wet towel onto the back of his chair, and began rummaging through his belongings (he hadn’t truly bothered to unpack) he pulled out the letter from his mentor and the attached list of classes he could choose to take to receive his gold certification.

It seemed, he had another letter to write.

Dear Angus,

I must thank you again for all of the guidance you have given me over the last few weeks and months and wish to offer a short update of the current well-to-do of my latest job position. I have found myself thriving in the way of work, and yet my new Lord has high expectations I worry I will be unable to meet, even with all of your immaculate trainings.

I have selected some courses I believe should help me with this, but if you could write back suggesting more options, I would be ever so grateful for your assistance. I wish to learn more of the ways of catering to those who view themselves as better, and put myself at a valued position within the household, if such a thing should be possible.

I am also particularly interested in the ways of table decoration, event planning, and cooking for the upper-class, and so kindly request that we begin there as opposed to whatever your coursebook has planned. I have been led to believe that my Gold award allows me more free-reign of the choices that I can make.

Again, I must thank you for all you have done (and really must inquire about getting a wax seal of my own, and where you buy your parchment as it seems so much heavier than mine).

Your sincerely,

Hadrian Evans,

Your loyal student, level Silver.

Harry rolled up the parchment as neatly as he could, sealing it with some wax running down a nearby candle, and squashing it into something neat with the holder.

Legs feeling tired, and wounded arm still raw from the shower, Harry simply whistled for Hedwig, and passed the letter to her.

With a gust of wind in his face she was off, to deliver the letter to a location she only knew.

Harry sighed, long, wet hair falling back against the pillows and tickling the back of his neck.

He never knew that in a place like this, it was possible to feel, so suddenly, very, very alone.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up feeling just as lonely as he fell asleep as, perhaps even more so.

Like the day before, he could still feel the early morning breeze casting over his face (having left the window open for Hedwig) but his eyes were swollen and puffy, and his throat felt rough and sore.

His wounded arm throbbed.

He pushed himself back up onto his hands and did his best to stretch, before locating his glasses.

The first thing he noticed was that Hedwig was indeed back, sitting on the back of one chair towards the door of the room. She didn’t have a scroll in her beak, and Harry knew she was well trained enough to not just drop it somewhere else. It wasn’t unusual that his mentor wouldn’t write back straight away, but it still made his head throb and ache under the press of his fingers.

It was only then he noticed that there was, in fact, another note waiting for him.

This one was not a scroll, but simply a folder piece of parchment, awkwardly sealed with the Malfoy family seal.

Still rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses and very much in his pyjamas, Harry broke the seal and unfolded the letter. With his other hand he rubbed at Hedwig’s head, pleasantly warm and soft in the cold of the morning.

Hadrian,

Due to immediate directions from our Lord, we request that as opposed to performing your typical acts of duty today that you aid our resident potion master in his workings.

This job was requested of you personally. It should go without saying that this is a matter of strict privacy and should not be repeated to anybody else, aside from our Lord.

If all goes to plan, you may resume your typical job detailing tomorrow.

L Malfoy –

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

Harry sighed, letting the letter drop to the floor and his head roll backwards until it cracked. In a distant part of his mind, he remembered Snape’s face from the day before. And the Dark lords words, “Perhaps, you do.”

He, logically, should have known that the Dark Lord would have suspected something after the previous night’s conversation. Thought Harry as something to be watched.

He dressed silently, sucking on his upper lip and petting Hedwig when the nerves consumed him.

Hadn’t he been the one to say his grandmother was a potion master by trade?

He felt foolish. Of course, that would have been the element of everything that the Dark lord would have focused in on, such a clear, easily exploitable hole in his story.

Something that somebody like Snape would be able to pick out in a second, who Harry seriously doubted would want an assistant for the day in the first place, let alone while he was trying to privately brew.

Tying his hair back with a sigh, he scratched at Hedwig’s chin a final time.

“This isn’t going to go well, girl,” he sighed, “If I’m not back by later today, or if you hear people running to my rooms, I need you to fly, get out of here as fast as you possibly can, alright?”

Hedwig chirped, but Harry doubted she would actually do it.

His feet seemed to drag beneath him as he headed to where he vaguely remembered seeing the potions rooms on the map a few days before. Unlike to the Dark Lord’s room, it was not a long way to walk, only being two floors above, and to the right.

It seemed even Severus Snape held the decency of being a little further away from the dungeons.

The corridor was more normal than he expected. Unlike the dungeons there was a thin green carpet that contrasted with the dark walls. Of course, the candles on the walls were few and far between, with holders that more resembled a feral beast claw than an elegantly carved piece of wood.

The door at the end on the corridor was almost completely hidden. Painted the same colour as the wall, the pattern falling over.

If not for the doorknob, Harry would have missed it entirely.

The doorknob was low, so low that Harry needed to stoop to reach it.

The doorknob was silent as the door clicked open.

The potions lab inside was the epitome of neatness. Jars lined the walls all the way up to the ceiling in shelfs and cabinets. The middle of the room was filled with potion making stations all dedicated to various purposes, dips for pre-made flames with hooks above them – adjustable for cauldrons of various sizes. One station contained a built-in shelf covered in different mortar’s and pestles of all different materials. Another had a long line of knives held by thin black bands to the wall behind, featuring a thick board underneath and a measuring scale.

Snape sat in the middle of all of it, on the single (black) chair that the room contained, pulled up in front of one of the stations, where he seemed to be sorting through a few jars.

His head snapped around when he saw Harry enter, getting to his feet.

Snape strode across the room, once more grabbing Harry’s arm in the bruising grip.

“You are a fool.”

Harry sighed. He had known, deep down perhaps that this would happen again. Of all the people the Dark Lord could have asked to watch over him, to judge him, it had to be the one person who really was suspicious of him.

“I believe I was sent here to aid you in a potion.”

Harry’s breathing was harsh, even if just in his own ears. He squared his shoulders, trying to keep his expression blank as the grip on his arm turned bruising.

“I don’t know who you are, but you are playing a game your young mind could hardly dare to imagine. If need be, I can talk some sense into Dumbledore for you, as long as you promise to get out of here.” The last couple of sentences, Snape dropped down to a whisper, head darting this way and that as if expecting the Dark Lord to come in at any moment.

Harry repressed a deep sigh. He knew he needed to fix this, urgently. If Snape got it too far into his head that he was a traitor, he could tell Voldemort. Or Professor Dumbledore.

Or perhaps he was just trying to get an ordered confession out of him. From either side.

Harry would do anything to prevent that happening.

“I was informed before I came that you were one of the best potion masters in the world,” Harry began, face uncomfortably close to Snape’s.

“I suppose you would have been.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a ranting madman to me.” Harry couldn’t hold back any longer, the anger seemed to be licking up his spine in a way it hadn’t even with the Dark Lord.

He almost felt like he was baring his teeth, like an animal.

Snape shook his head, giving a similar expression to the one Harry imaged was on his own face.

A second later, the cold grip released from his arm.

Harry shook it, trying to ease the ache.

Did Snape do this to every single employee that the Manor took in? No wonder they had problems keeping staff.

Then again, he also doubted than most staff members would be as used to blood as Harry was.

“Whatever you are planning, it is beyond ridiculous.”

“You are beginning to sound like a traitor, Severus.” Saying his first name sounded strange in Harry’s mouth, even as glad as he was that he hadn’t stumbled and said something entirely too revealing.

Snape stared into his eyes for a long moment, glare seeming to emanate from every single inch of him.

“Today we are brewing a set of draughts for uncommon poisons,” Snape pulled out his wand with a flourish, directing Harry’s eyes to a little white bundle on one of Snape’s tables. It unwrapped itself, revealing the hastily cut mandrake root that Harry himself had thrown in what seemed like hours ago. “This will be our primary ingredient for our experiments. I do rather believe you collected it yourself.”

“I did.”

“You are, in fact, aware that these potions will be used by the Dark order? To aid them?”

Harry hesitated, trying to think of something to say to that. It was true, all of it was, and Snape had no idea what sort of pot he was stirring. But, then again, perhaps maybe he did.

Harry didn’t know which thought was worse, only the idea that Snape of all people was perhaps more persistent than he was.

“I ran a bath for young master Malfoy the evening before last.” Snape’s eyes narrowed at that. “It is my solum duty as a butler of this manor to protect and care for the people inside of it.”

“You are aware that is not the true job of a butler? The last few seemed to care little outside of polishing silver and being too afraid to walk the halls at night.”

“And that, perhaps, is why they hired me.”

“Perhaps indeed.”

“I do not take kindly to accusations of treachery, Severus, nor to being manhandled. I am quite happy to keep myself to myself, if you are willing to do the same.”

If Harry had only just met Snape, he would have missed the frustrated expression that overtook his face and shoulders.

“Set up one of the silver cauldrons.”

“Naturally, sir. I am pleased we could come to an understanding.”

“Very pleased, I am sure.”

Harry gave a half bow, forcing his expression into one of neutrality. What would Snape have told the Dark lord? Harry was no potions master, what more of his persona could fall to pieces at the slightest push?

He should have said his grandmother was a tailor.

Harry walked over to the other side of the room, lifting up one of the medium sized silver cauldrons and bringing it back over to where Snape sat, watching, waiting.

He wondered if his training course offered French lessons.

“Will this size do?”

Snape pretended to look up, as if he hadn’t been staring the entire time.

“That appears to be adequate.”

Harry brought it the rest of the way over, hooking it up on above where the flame would be.

Silence fell between them, Harry not knowing what to do, and Snape unwilling to give further instruction.

“You will finish dicing the rest of these roots, while I prepare everything else. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

Harry moved into the chair Snape had sat in just a few moments before reaching for one of the knives above him. He chose a small, sharp one that he knew he would have control over.

Harry had always been terrible at potions. But he could cook, and as such he could dice.

As Harry worked, Snape seemed unable to stand still for a single moment. He strode up and down his own potion’s lab, every now and then grabbing a jar, griding the ingredients down, and adding it to the cauldron, or simply to another jar.

After each action Harry felt burning eyes on the back of his head, making his own hands faulter, hesitate against the intensity of the man who had judged his technique in this field for as long as he could remember.

He didn’t dare look back at the man, despite the clinking of jars that seemed primed to drive him to distraction at the sound.

“Passable.” Snape finally said, reaching in front of Harry and scooping the roots up in his – now gloved - hands, moving them over to the cauldron.

Harry’s hand already ached from the dicing, but he suspected his work was far from over.

“Organise those jars for me, the labels need rewriting.” Snape gestures to a pile of jars in the corner of the room that Harry was quite sure had not been there when he first arrived in the room.

Harry sat down in front of the jars, and set to work peeling off individual labels, and rewriting them on fresh parchment, which he then stuck on with a sticking charm.

It was mindless work, despite the few seconds of concentration it took before he could actually read the scrawl of whatever ingredient was inside.

Harry still kept his back to Snape.

It made the hairs on his neck stand up whenever the Slytherin man’s robes swept across the floor.

It felt like hours, it could have been, before Snape said anything else.

“You may leave.”

Harry almost jumped, completely and utterly shocked. He had expected a full day of work at the least, or longer interrogation perhaps. What part of this important project was Snape pretending he could not do on his own?

“Are you certain you require no further assistance?”

“Leave.”

Harry decided he didn’t need to be told a third time.

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t bother trying to do anything else.

Over the last few days, interacting with Snape had left him feeling exhausted, the top of his arm still aching from the invisible bruise his fingers had inlayed in his skin. He could almost laugh looking back at the past at when encounters with the man would fire up his blood, high on the thrill of the conflict, the drama. The whispered words in the boy’s dormitories, and the harsher (and significantly louder ones) when a bottle of Fire-whiskey had been snuck in.

He could almost here the laughter ringing in his ears. The fire blazing in front of him. The smell of sweets wafting into his nose, sticky chocolate between his fingers.

But the corridor was silent, the trip back down to his room only brought to life by the tapping of his shoes, occasionally muffled by rugs which almost seemed to slip under him. Even the rugs seemed to try and make him leave this place.

But, for some reason, he thought as he opened the door to his rooms, he just couldn’t. Leaving would be so simple. A resignation letter on Malfoy’s desk, one in a long line of many Harry was sure that they had received. It wouldn’t be unexpected.

Narcissa had been expecting him to leave a few days ago. That it would all be too much. That it would all be over in the wave of a hand, and a few moments of panic.

Harry collapsed into one of his armchairs, hand reached up to where Hedwig had flown to land beside him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, girl,” Harry mumbled, scratching behind her head. “This is crazy. Why did I come here? Why did I stay?”

Harry didn’t really expect an answer, for all the time they had spent together, she was, at the end of the day, just an owl.

However, she simply nudged against his face in a loving gesture, before flying off.

Harry’s head lolled uncomfortably back on to the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. Reaching back, he undid his hair ribbon, allowing his long, red hair to fall around his shoulders and relax the building pain in his temples.

He eased of his shoes, pulling the laces free and stretched out his toes. He hadn’t even realised how much they ached.

The waist coat he kept on, still feeling the coldness of the potions rooms sticking with him, despite being so close to the kitchens himself.

A piece of parchment was prodded at his face with a determined beak.

When he grasped and unfolded it, Hedwig flew off.

It was his course options. He realised he still hadn’t selected the ones he wanted, let alone actually reserved his place on them for the upcoming learning season.

Laughing at the thought of his mentors rage at just the idea of Harry forgetting to turn his paperwork in, Harry began to scan the gorgeous black calligraphy, with bold, golden headlines outlining each section.

He almost laughed when he saw the third option down: Beginning Language Options ‘Conversational’: French, German or Italian.

Naturally, Harry scrambled for a nearby quill and ink, circled French and moved on.

He didn’t want to choose too much without his mentor’s opinion. But, still, Harry doubted the man would let him move on unless he had selected all of the sessions he would need.

Simply he circled a few more around table decoration, folding, and additional manners class, and so on so forth.

When he reached an option around book preservation that he was strongly considering, his quill nib broke, and ink stained the page.

Harry frantically scrubbed at the drips with his sleeve, before realising his mistake and using a spell to clean it before it was too late at stained.

Moving over his trunk, which he still had yet to unpack, he pulled out another quill (and pot of ink for extra protection) and circled the option around book preservation which, according to the description, apparently included working with glue, broken spines, and bringing the beauty back to old ink.

He decided he should probably stop there for the evening.

Harry laid the paper down next to him, abandoning the quill, just left with the room itself to look at though his hazy gaze.

His eyes caught the secondary chest of drawerers at the other end of his room. Distantly he realised he had never bothered to look inside it, let alone put anything in it.

He shoved himself to his feet and walked the rest of the way over, near collapsing on his knees as he bent down to look inside. Behind him, Hedwig chattered.

Harry dug through his drawerers, opening them one after another. How long had he been here, without investigating?

One contained parchment, another bottles and bottles of ink. When he picked one of them up to see if they were still usable, the glass glimmered in the thin line of sunlight coming through the curtains. And, just for a second, he could have sworn that he caught sight of a little flower imprinted on the bottom.

But, when he pulled the glass back to himself to check, he lost it all together. Even running a finger over it proved unsuccessful.

He sighed and put the vial back in the drawer where he’d found it. The flower almost seemed to be haunting him. Was it some secret version of the Malfoy family crest? Did the Butler before him just love flowers?

Harry slammed the ink drawer shut, wincing as he heard a vicious clinking of glass. He could only hope he hadn’t broken anything.

The next drawer he pulled open rattled. It was full of white candles, some thick and some thin, all just thrown around in the drawer. When he dug his hands into the mishmash of different shapes and sizes, he found a few different colours – one red, one black, and a couple of very pale blue ones.

Almost all of them had black wicks, as though they had been burned very recently. When he sniffed them, he confirmed it. Not only had they been lit, but recently as well.

He shut the drawer again, before pausing and immediately open the one beneath. True to his guess it held candle holders of all different sizes and shapes. It was as he thought. Ritual candles.

Just when he was about to shut the drawer again and go back to his armchair and see if he could sleep for a moment, maybe even call for some dinner, he spotted a candle holder made of glass. It was designed for a thicker candle to sit within it, and suddenly Harry remembered a similar one that Aunt Petunia burned in her own living room.

Harry remembered the warmth of the candle, the feeling of comfort such a simple thing could bring. When he was younger, fire was something he feared. Something Dudley threatened to push him into when he annoyed him, but candles were different.

Candles made the light flicker and dance. Mrs Weasley often lit candles in her home as well, never snuffing them out until the wax had created such a deep divert that the only choice was throw them out completely.

They could fill a room with a warm, nice smell. Smoke that weaved, like a potion cauldron you didn’t have to constantly keep an eye on.

Harry smiled and lifted it out. It was surprisingly heavy in his hands, causing him to almost drop it. Heavier than glass, perhaps crystal? Still very much wanting to use it, he decided to ignore that fact. Glass. Definitely glass.

Fumbling with the drawer above, he managed to find a wider light blue candle that seemed like it would fit. Hastily, he checked it over for any sigils and gave it a quick sniff to try and make sure it wasn’t coated in some kind of oil.

It smelled vaguely soapy, or what Aunt Petunia would have called ‘floral’, so Harry supposed it would be alright.

With a gentle burning charm to melt away some of the wider edges, the candle slotted in neatly. The dripped wax landed in the jar, sticking the candle to the bottom as it hardened.

He looked around cluelessly for a few moments, before awkwardly shuffling over and placing it on the little coffee table near his armchair.

He lit it with a flick of his wand, enjoying the little spark of flame coming to life.

The small spark of light seemed to warm his entire frame, allowing a pleased hoot from Hedwig, and a warm smile to cross his own face.

He shuffled his way back into his seat, eyes transfixed on the flame.

And, for the first time in days, his brain drifted to thoughts of himself.

When was the last time he had eaten? The thought almost came as a shock, followed by the immediate thought of breakfast, which he soon realised was wrong. He hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning, too much in a rush to go and see Snape.

Dinner the night before? He wasn’t sure he had that either.

His stomach rumbled, and Harry wondered how long it had been doing it before he finally realised.

He forced his way back to his feet, stretching his back and blinking his eyes. If he just had a moment, he could just drop straight off to sleep.

Harry shook his head and made his way out of his room and down the small three-doorway corridor. The candles outside had all been snuffed out. When had Mipsy had the time? Or perhaps Deek? He could only dream of a day where he could be as productive as they were.

Harry edged the door to the kitchen’s open, being only momentarily insecure about his loose hair and distinct lack of shoes, only to find the kitchen deserted.

The lights were still on, as was the cooking fires, but there wasn’t an elf in sight. Harry wondered for a moment if they had been given the afternoon of as well, before near rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. Malfoy had said (albeit through a note) they would be reassigning his chores for the day.

Harry rummaged through the kitchen, quickly grabbing some bread and butter, as well as a few random things from the fridge, and throwing together a sandwich.

It was only when he took the first bite (ham and cheese) that he realised how hungry he really was. How long it had been since he had really eaten. He finished it in just a few bites and immediately made himself another one.

He pulled a red apple out of the nearby fruit basket and ate that as well. He contemplated a banana as he picked some apple skin out of his teeth, before deciding they were still too green. He didn’t have the energy to look for more food.

Then, he reached for a nearby glass and quickly filled it with a quick spray of water from his wand.

Somehow, it was the best thing he had ever tasted. He drank another. And another, before he started to feel sick.

Finally, he felt sated, taking a few panting breaths. It was only the difference that made him realise how dry his throat had been before.

Still seeing no sign of the elves, he wiped up his own mess and made his way back to his room.

Hopefully, Mipsy had nothing planned for that ham.

Harry arrived back at his room, closing and locking the door behind him for good measure.

It took him only moments to make his way back to the chest of drawers, digging through them some more.

Another smaller half-drawer contained several sets of handkerchief, all neatly rolled up. He pulled them all out, near frantically, looking at the plain white. Despite being identically in every other way, not a single one had anything resembling a red flower in the corner.

And none of them had any of the energy he had come to associate with the other handkerchief. There wasn’t even a blank space where one would have been.

He threw them back in the drawer out of frustration.

Harry took a long deep breath.

He had a single afternoon to himself, and he wasn’t going to spend it being annoyed by a handkerchief that sat in another chest of drawers, at the other end of the room. How many chests of drawers did one Butler need?

The other half drawer also rattled. But it was the inside that made him freeze.

Inside the drawer there was a mesh of silver and gold chains, as well as shining jewels. Jewellery. Who did this belong to? Why would anyone leave it behind? How would anyone working for the Malfoy’s get hold of this much in the first place?

Harry shut the drawer and sat down on the floor.

His eyes closed, mind strangely blank. The jewels seemed to glimmer behind his eyes.

All was quiet, quiet and bright.

Then, a frantic hammering came from the door.

It broke Harry out of any sense of tranquillity he had before, almost startling him out of his skin. The candle nearby snuffed out.

He jumped to his feet, grabbing for his shoes and forcing them on his feet. The hammering continued.

The noise seemed to reverberate around the room and deep into Harry’s bones, to the point his fingers shook as he tried to do up the laces. The knots seemed impossible. Had something happened? Someone happened?

Without any thought to the rest of his appearance, he started up towards the sound, convinced that the sight greeting him would be full of unimaginable horrors. Narcissa Malfoy, blood gushing down her face, lips open in a begging scream-

The key shook in the lock.

Draco Malfoy pale and skinny, eyes dark and passing out on Harry’s floor-

He threw the door open.

For a moment, he thought nobody was behind it as he only stared back at the staircase in front of him.

Until, of course, he looked down to see Mipsy’s face. To his horror, he saw tear tracks down her cheeks. Her small chest panted up and down, shoulders rising and falling all the way up to her ears from her distress. Distantly, he noticed that the bottom of the tea-towel she wore as a dress had a small rip at the bottom.

He always thought if that happened, she would fix it immediately.

“Mispy? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Harry bent down to his knees, brushing his loose hair back behind his shoulders.

Inwardly he cursed the onset of another crisis, another tally on what he had assumed would be a summer job free from the dramatics of the wizarding world.

“I is being terribly sorry, mister, but mistress Malfoy is saying that we are needing to hold a small dinner party, and I is knowing it is your afternoon off but…” Mispy trailed off flapping her hands around anxiously.

Harry’s heart clenched at the sight.

“I don’t have the afternoon off,” Harry said awkwardly, not even entirely convinced he was telling the truth, “And I would be more than happy to help out.”

Harry brushed past Mispy, and she followed onwards, helpfully closing the door behind them both.

“Mistress Malfoy is being saying that we need to make and present a meal that is representing power.”

Harry blinked down at her, hand on the kitchen door.

“Do we have anything more?” What exactly did power in a meal mean? Did she want a meal that in and of itself was magic, or just some black and silver table settings with a matching cloth?

Mispy shook her head, short hair flying around.

“We is having several important guests, and Master and Mistress is wanting to insure we bring honour to the family name!” Mipsy said dramatically, as if presenting the arrival of royalty.

“Of course, of course,” Harry said, walking the rest of the way into the kitchen and wishing he had taken the time to tie his hair back up. He still wasn’t used to the new length, and the way it tickled the back of his neck. Then, reaching for the baking tray’s, he paused again. “Do we know who is coming? Or, at least, how many people?”

“Mipsy is not quite knowing how many,” she replied, “But Mipsy knows we is needing to get this correct.”

“Why is that, Mipsy?” Harry asked, having stopped trying to take things out the cupboards and instead turning to stare down at her. A dinner party should have been one of the easier things they had dealt with, sure the short notice was bad enough, but she had taken everything else in perfect stride.

“The magical minister and others are coming…and…” Mipsy hesitated, chewing on her lower lip in an anxious tick Harry hadn’t seen before.

“And who? Who else Mipsy?” He didn’t even want to think who might be bringing this side out in her, but, undoubtedly, he needed to know.

“The master Dark lord is being present.”

All the air fell out of Harry’s lungs. The very air around them seemed to tighten, but he pushed the feeling down.

“Well, then,” Harry said, pushing forward each word as pointedly as he could, “We need to make this the best it can be. We’ve cooked for him before.”

“Mipsy is being asked to present. Master’s Dark Lord is not liking me, or us. He is being cross at us.” Mipsy had started going up and down the kitchen, and for a striking moment she reminded Harry deeply of Dobby.

“I’ll do it, Mipsy,” Harry said before he realised he’d spoken.

“But it is being your afternoon-”

“And I am going to spend it presenting a meal that we are going to come up with.”

Harry saw Mipsy visibly take a breath of relief and nod her head.

“He is being liking you more than me. You will be doing well.” That turned Harry’s attention away from his own thoughts.

“What are you talking about?”

Mipsy smiled up at him, for a long, silent moment. He waited for her to say something, to explain exactly what she had meant. What she had even thought to have those words leave her lips.

Unsurprisingly, she didn’t. 

“Alright then,” Harry tried, hoping he sounded less awkward than he felt, “How long do we have?”

The last thing he needed was another surprise. And yet, he was almost positive that was exactly what he was about to receive.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was a mess.

Harry skidded around, hands running through his long, loose hair, in a desperate attempt to keep it out of his eyes.

Keeping it out of the food had been a larger problem, but he acquiesced. The last thing they had time for was for Harry to go back to his room and try to dig out a hair tie.  

The steam had obscured his glasses, making walking around even more difficult than it had been more.

“Mipsy the peppers!” He cried out, grabbing a large carving knife she was passing him. Every inch of the kitchen was covered in flour, paper packaging, or some odd meat off-cuts.

From behind him, he heard Mipsy reaching for the peppers, the smell of them, the feel of the steam on his back almost seemed to relax him.

His forehead sweated from the heat, but all he could do was pant through it. And swallow the occasional glass of water Mipsy slid into his hand.

“Done!” Harry cried out, lifting his hands upwards, away from the food. They didn’t have any spare time, not that night.

The elf gave a similar cry, lifting her own hands in the air as a mimic of Harry’s own gesture. Even through his foggy glasses, the sight made Harry’s lips slide into a happy smile.

Harry wiped his forehead with a nearby tea-towel, looking at his reflection in a nearby picture frame to try and see how he looked.

“I need to head down to the dining hall,” Harry said, looking downwards at a Mipsy that had quickly appeared by his feet.

“You is being knowing to look out for yourself. The very walls is having eyes,” Mipsy said simply as she reached him, raising her arms to straighten out Harry’s shirt. “And remember to snap!” Mispsy reminded him, almost pushing him out of the kitchen door, seeming to want to pretend herself that she hadn’t just given him a very dark warning.

Harry nodded, before pausing, reaching down, and drawing the small elf into a long hug. She smelled of the kitchen, warm like steam, her skin soft and gentle.

She, in some ways, reminded him of Mrs Weasley. In others, Luna.

“Thanks Mipsy, I will.” He said, finally letting her go and turning to walk up the stairs.

It was weird being able to head up to the dining hall without any of the food with him, but Harry trusted Mipsy. If she said this would work, that it was needed to impress, then he would do it. Without question.

There was still plenty to do without that.

The dining room was completely deserted when Harry arrived, leaving him to light all of the torches that covered the walls by himself. They were hardly the candles he and Mipsy had planned to use as the main source of light, but they were a good place to start.

The candles he found in one of the draws hidden in the back of the room. Someone had painted them over to blend in perfectly with the wallpaper, as well as mounting them in the actual wall. As it seemed, the Malfoy’s would go to any lengths to make it look like there space had no servants at all, everything good just appearing was the goal.

With no hard work put into it at all.

In the draw above, he also found a black cloth, which he threw over the table. He quickly removed it when he realised it was completely creased and messy.

He was just glad the table was hardwood. That would have to do.

Harry found all of the plates, tablemats, and wine glasses and began laying them out to the best of his ability. From his course, he had vague memories of how table settings were supposed to look, but without the guide in front of him, he felt lost.

The plates, the cutlery, the glasses, soon it became almost meditative in its repetition. It was almost better, in some ways, especially after lighting the candles. The clinking of the plates, while not the most pleasing sound by itself, was better than the silence.

Anything was better than silence.

Just as Harry laid the last plate in place and stepped back, the first member of the party came in.

Narcissa Malfoy found her seat easily, the same as in meetings. Her husband, son and sister followed behind, quiet chatter between them. Harry doubted he could make it out if he tried.

A few other members of the inner circle followed, in almost perfect silence apart from the occasional swish of a robe or padding of a shoe.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Snape enter the room.

The man walked forward; expression haughty before he froze. Harry had seen him do that a lot recently.

His eyes had caught the back of Harry’s head, and he seemed unable to look away.

Harry decided to just ignore him until he was in his seat.

When everyone had settled, Harry could only wait. The Dark Lord and the Minister of Magic, the last people to arrive. Two empty plates. Two empty chairs. Two people Harry really, really, didn’t want to see him like this.

The door swung open once more, and all eyes snapped upwards. Harry couldn’t help but look as well, even if he didn’t need too. There was only one person who could cause such a disruption.

All conversation had fallen to nothing, leaving each and every footstep to sound against the cold, stone floor.

The Dark Lord walked in, not sparing a look for Harry who stood by the door. As he passed, the air seemed to freeze around them, making Harry shiver despite the number of layers he wore.

The Dark Lord was so close that, even in the dim light, Harry could see the outline of each tiny, white scale that made up his head.

Shaking himself out of his own thoughts, Harry spotted Pius Thicknesse slinking in, looking determinedly at the ground. Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion at the sight. He hadn’t touched a single copy of the Prophet since he arrived at the Manor, but he could have sworn…

As the Dark Lord walked closer, the first candle Harry had lit on the table flicked. As did the second. The third went out altogether, only sparking to light again when the Dark Lord had taken his set at the end of the table. Thicknesse slid into the chair besides him, on his left. The chair that had been reserved so carefully for the minister.

Harry had to fight the urge to say something, something damning. He remembered the announcement in the Prophet, the newly elected Scrimgeour after Fudge had been fired for incompetence. Harry had read the entire speech, about cracking down on Voldemort sympathisers after the attack on the Ministry of magic. (A year too late, in Harry's opinion). And the unfortunate incident that had occurred there. Even a full month later, of perhaps longer, Harry really didn’t know anymore, it still made him want to clench his fists down in anger.

But the door still hadn’t closed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Voldemort pull out his wand and give it a flick.

It was only Mipsy’s dark reminder that kept him from gasping.

Through the open door, the body of Rufus Scrimgeour floated in, hair floating around his head like some sick halo. He still wore his ministerial robes.

The body floated over to the corner of the room before falling, crashing on the ground.

The door to the room slammed shut, the sound reverberating around the room like a church bell. From where he was, Harry heard the clicking of the doors mechanisms, locking all of them inside. Inside with Him.

All eyes were back on the Dark Lord, whose eyes were fixed on the Death Eaters around him.

“May I introduce,” The Dark Lord began, “The New Minister for magic.”

There was a tittering of stilted laugher from around the room, falling into quick silence. One of the wall torches above Scrimgeour crackled, and everyone looked down at their plates.

“The man so very determined that he would…” The Dark Lord paused, and Harry’s stomach shifted, his heart battering against his ribs so hard he would have thought the Dark Lord could hear it, “Stamp us all out within the year.”

Another few laughs came as the Dark Lord quoted the speech the Minister had given just a few weeks before.

Harry caught Draco’s eye who looked back down at the table, face pale.

“Silence!” The Dark Lord boomed out, causing Harry to almost jump out of his skin, nails biting into the palms of his hands. “My friends, victory assured, we must, of course, make our way to the meal I was promised.”

Just in that moment, Harry could have cried. Just to protect Mispy. Just to protect her.

He stepped forwards.

“Welcome, to our special evening,” Harry began, cursing himself further that he did not think to prepare something beforehand. It was hard to think of anything to say when all his attention was on making sure his voice did not waver, and his knees actually kept him standing. “On behalf of the kitchen, may I introduce our first course and starter of slow-roasted Pork and black and red bell-peppers.”

Harry snapped his fingers, as practised, and the food appeared neatly on the plates in front of everyone.

He closed his eyes for just a second, hoping all of Mipsy’s knowledge had stayed with him. When his eyes opened again, he stared at the wall in front, unwilling to see the look in anyone’s eyes.

“Pork,” he continued “is a common symbol for strength and the continuous motion of forward movement. The meat is rich and hearty symbolising wealth and progress. The bell peppers, although not typically used when talking about food symbolism, can magically be used for exorcism, and warding off those who are jealous. In the middle of the table, you shall find a side of white rice, to represent genuineness and good health. Enjoy.”

Harry stepped backwards, eyes scanning the room for people’s reactions. He and Mipsy had known it wasn’t and ideal dish, and they both would have preferred something fancier. And, when Harry thought about it, lighter as well. Pork was not something he typically would have chosen for a starter. But they dealt with what they had. There were onions in the dish as well, but Harry couldn’t for the life of his remember what they symbolised.

He could only hope that nobody had noticed.

By his mental count, there were still at least three spare dishes in the kitchen, having prepared for too many people.

The table seemed to be enjoying the food well enough, several already reaching for the rice that Harry had put in place. He couldn’t help but wonder how many were reaching for it out of desire for the food, or desire to prove their own genuineness in the strange way it was valued here.

The Dark Lord was staring down at his own plate, taking a forkful slowly into his mouth and chewing silently. Harry waited; breath frozen as he waited for a reaction. He wasn’t the only one. From where he was, he could see Narcissa and Lucius looking with just their eyes at the man.

The Dark Lord swallowed, but didn’t react.

Harry hoped that meant something good at the very least.

Bellatrix, as well as her husband and brother, had previously been ignoring their food, but on their Lord’s silent approval they dove for the food, shovelling it faster into their mouths than Harry had ever seen.

He wondered how long it had been since they had last, really, eaten.

Draco picked at his food, glancing at his mother instead of the Dark Lord, who gave a nod and a slight encouraging smile.

She dropped it and turned back to her meal. Both she and her husband only ate the pork, he mentally noted. Perhaps something to keep off the menu in future.

Snape hadn’t touched his food. In all fairness, Thickness hadn’t either, but he looked ready to be sick all over the table. Snape hadn’t even bothered to pick up his fork, gaze unbreaking and fixated forward.

Directly, towards Harry.

Their eyes met. Snape looked intense, in a way that Harry had only seen cross his face a few times before. The one time he, Ron and Hermione had met him during his first year. When he had been injured by Fluffy.

When Harry had seen his memories through the pensive.

Harry didn’t even try to keep the gaze, brushing his hair behind his ears to prevent it being caught in his glasses. Had it happened? Did Snape finally recognise him?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

The Dark Lord only had a few bites left of his meal, and Harry prepared to wait until he had just finished to call the next course.

But, before he could start to plan out his next words, a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. Away from the table.

Being careful not to move his head, his eyes glided over to the body of Scrimgeour, collapsed on the floor. He almost shook himself, because, for just a moment, he could have sworn that the man’s hand had flinched.

But he was dead, Harry bargained with himself. He couldn’t have-

And then the man breathed.

Harry snapped his gaze back towards the main table, to the guests sitting there. Had any of them realised the corpse in the corner was not a corpse at all? Did only he know?

His heart sped up once again, his pulse so loud in rang through his head distracting him so much that he hardly noticed that the Dark Lord had already finished his plate and was already looking up expectantly.

Harry, breathing harshly through his nose, stepped forward and snapped his fingers again, the first course disappearing.

“I do hope that was enjoyable to you,” Harry began, cursing that Scrimgeour had distracted him from the precious time he could have had to prepare something to say. He hoped his awkwardness was not as palpable as it seemed in his own head. “And that you have left room for our next course.”

That sounded like something Dumbledore would say, he winced.

He clicked his fingers again, watching with relief as the food once again appeared on the plates.

“May I introduce you to our main of Grilled Lobster tails with lemon and herb butter. Lobster, of course, represents those of high status, of luxury and wealth. The lemon represents fidelity, as well as bitterness, and purification throughout.” Harry took a long breath. “If you turn you attention towards the sides, you shall find a roasted acorn squash with pomegranate glaze. With the acorn squash and pomegranate representing life, growth and unlimited potential.”

Harry scanned the table to ensure he had forgotten nothing.

“And do feel free to enjoy it alongside our complimentary white wine. Thank you.” Harry had no idea what white wine represented, or why Mipsy had chosen it as a pairing, having never tasted it himself, but he trusted her judgment.

Once more, Harry, as did everyone else, waited for the Dark Lord to take a bite before continuing forward.

Harry watched as the man’s mouth clasped around the fork, forked tongue sliding around the prongs before he bought the lobster to his mouth.

Voldemort placed the fork down without taking another bite, instead reaching for his wine glass and swelling some around in his mouth.

Harry waited with bated breath. Should they have swapped the Lobster with the pork? Did the Dark lord have a secret hatred for lobster?

One clawed hand raised into the air, twisting and reaching upwards with a single beckoning finger.

Harry glanced around for just a moment, looking for whoever the Dark lord wished to speak to, before he realised he was the only one stood.

He was beckoning Harry.

He walked over as quickly as he could, heels of his shoes tapping on the floor as he made his approach.

Just as before, the air around the Dark Lord seemed to grow colder the closer Harry got. He certainly did not envy Malfoy or Thickness.

When Harry finally reached him, fighting against the shiver, he lent down to be closer to his face.

The rest of the table had still not touched their food, heads facing down, and eyes fixated on Harry.

“Who cooked this?” The Dark Lord demanded, red eyes baring into Harry’s own green ones.

“I did,” Harry answered, licking his lips nervously. “Sir,” he added on after a second’s thought.

The Dark Lord scanned Harry’s face, trailing over his glasses, and forehead. Had Harry’s makeup started to run due to the kitchen steam? Or his own sweat? Being magical makeup as opposed to muggle, he could leave it on for longer periods of time, only touching it up here and there.

It shouldn’t have run…but if a lightning bolt currently graced his forehead…

“As you were.” The Dark lord commanded, breaking Harry out of his panic. He was hardly aware as he walked back over to his place in the room, turning around just in time to see the Dark lord take another bite.

The rest of the table continued to eat in silence for a while, so long that Harry risked glancing back towards Scrimgeour, who seemed to have gone completely still once more.

That was, of course, until the man began to float up again.

Harry nearly started out of his skin once more, as the body began to rise upwards and back towards the table.

He just about had time to click his finger to remove the food from the table before he landed. Hard.

A wine glass rolled off the table and crashed on the floor.

“Renervate.” The rest of the people in the room seemed to have started to pay attention. Eyes fixed on what they must have believed, shock because they had thought…just as Harry had.

Scrimgeour blinked for a moment, eyes seeming to be pulled shut by some invisible force before he opened them.

When he did, the rest of his body still seemed frozen, eyes darting back and forth as though he would be able to attempt some valiant attempt at a fight.

“Welcome, Scrimgeour.” Voldemort said simply, “I hope you have enjoyed your stay thus far.” Voldemort’s voice was high and mocking.

Scrimgeour, seeming to grow some new control of his face scowled, and tried to open his lips to speak. Nothing came out.

“I am so very glad,” The Dark Lord replied, voice now smooth and silky. “But there is no point denying the inevitable, I certainly do not have the patience for it. We do have a meal to eat, after all.”

A shiver went right up Harry’s spine. Was he going to kill the man? Right here, on top of the dining room table?

Harry looked towards Draco, who himself looked like he was going to be sick all over the floor. He fought the urge to go over and walk him out the room.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to, he realised with a sick thought. The door was locked. If he wanted, the Dark Lord could turn around and kill every single one of them, and they wouldn’t even have a chance to run.

The next words out of his mouth were a shock.

“Imperio.”

If Harry expected the Dark Lord to compel Scrimgeour to humiliate himself, or do what Moody had done to make Neville dance around the classroom or something, he was wrong.

Instead, Voldemort just waited for Scrimgeour’s eyes to glaze over, before immediately waving his wand and knocking him out again. Then, he was floating back to collapse into his corner again, this time perfectly and completely still.

It a strange way, it was almost anticlimactic. Something so anticlimactic, Harry wondered why the Dark Lord had even bothered doing it in front of his followers in the first place. Then, he inwardly shook himself, this was the Minister of Magic, former head Auror, that he had just enchanted so very easily.

Another display of power, Harry thought before Voldemort was speaking again.

“And now, my friends, we may continue with our meal without any pressing distractions.”

It only took another moment for Harry to realise Voldemort was looking at him expectantly.

He snapped his fingers before stepping forwards.

“For our final course, dessert, we offer Black Forest gateau, a rich chocolate and cherry cake that simply oozes with luxury and provenance. Symbolising indulgence and bringing people together it is simply the perfect way to end such an…exhilarating evening. Enjoy.”

Without question in Harry’s mind, it was his worst introduction that evening. He was meant to be introducing the food, not trying to sell it to them.

But, nonetheless, the guests seemed to be enjoying it well enough. And that was enough for Harry.

The chocolate cake seemed to breathe life back into the group, and Harry watched as some colour appeared back in the Malfoy’s faces. It relaxed him in ways he didn’t know how to describe.

And then, the dinner was over.

It happened suddenly, the Dark Lord had finished first, as he usually did, and stood up. He did not wait for anyone else to finish their meal.

He stood up straight, ignoring those around him, as he started to walk towards the door.

Halfway there he paused, waving his hand and the door clicked and opened. By the looks some of the Death Eaters gave, they hadn’t even realised it had been locked.

He stopped again just before he reached the body on the floor.

“Leave him,” the Dark Lord looked towards Scrimgeour harshly. “He’ll see himself out when he wakes.” Those words send another have of shivers across Harry’s skin, but it was too late.

The Dark Lord had turned around and left the room, leaving all the other Death Eater to filter out slowly.

Unlike before, Harry did not wait for everyone else to leave, lest he get captured by Snape once more. Instead, his hand reached up to his forehead which had started to burn.

He raced down the corridors, pulling himself into an empty alcove before he allowed himself to collapse to the floor, panting for breath. Words whispered in the back of his mind, begging to be heard.

And so, he began to listen.

Scales. Anger. Cold.

The words were mis joined, leaping between different thoughts erratically, as if trying to communicate with a sick toddler. New to language, thoughts leaping around with so little cohesion as if they had a fever.

But this was no toddler.

It could have been said that it took seconds for Harry to make a decision, but, in truth, there was no decision to be made at all.

He stood up, legs still shaky. After listening to the blasting from his scar, the whispers had tampered down, as had the pain.

He could never know for sure, but he started to trek up to the Dark Lord’s room. If he expected to run into another person from the party, he was wrong. Instead the halls were silent, so silent they almost seemed to ring with it.

Distantly he hoped the elves had received the message that the dining room needed to be cleared.

Approaching the Dark Lord’s room, he was already shivering. The halls really were cold. He wondered for a moment if this was a weakness of the Dark Lord’s he could pass on to the Order. He dismissed the thought a second later.

He would need to prove it first. And think of a cover story for how he had found out…perhaps another dream?

When he finally reached the Dark Lord’s room, he was surprised to see the door already open. He approached it slowly, as if expecting a wild animal to jump out at him at any time.

But they did not. And the room was empty.

He took a step into the room, looking around for any sign of life whatsoever. Even Nagini, if she was in the room, seemed to be keeping herself to herself.

Harry’s eyes looked around the room, spotting another open door. One he had no entered before.

He walked towards it, being careful to keep his footsteps light in case The Dark Lord really was behind that door.

It somehow, still came as a shock when he found the room empty. And, more so than before, when he discovered that the room was, of all things, a bathroom.

It all seemed strange for the Dark lord to do such simple, human things.

There was a large window just above the spacious tub, some of the Malfoy’s patterned glass that reflected rainbows into the room. He immediately realised why, exactly, it was that this door was never open.

He couldn’t imagine the Dark Lord finding this place…enticing.

Harry reached across and drew the curtains. Perhaps, later, he could find a way to transfigure the view into something else, something more appealing than what currently existed.

But, for the moment, he had something far more pressing to accomplish. Something he had thought about only a few days before.

Harry began running the bath.

He tried his best not to think about it.

Scales.

Perhaps the water could ease them into comfort, Harry thought. He had read once that if a snake had a stuck shed, a warm water soak could remove some of the tension.

Cold.

Harry made sure to bring up the water to the highest temperature that he could, even applying layers of heating charms.

He would have to apply stasis charms soon. If there was anything being here had taught him, it was that cold would not do. He should have heated up the dining room before any of them had arrived.

It could have saved him a lot of trouble.

Anger.

Harry turned the taps off. He had decided to try and keep any scents, or textures out of it. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure what the Snake-man’s skin could handle before it started getting worse, and by the throbbing phantom pain he was feeling, he certainly didn’t want that.

Before he left, Harry went back into the main room and found more parchment and another quill.

As he had done before, he was going to leave another note. But remembering the confrontation between him and the Dark Lord, he knew he had to be careful.

I noticed you seemed cold during the dinner. My sincerest apologies. I hope this bath will be enough to ease you. Let me know if there is anything else you require, as I would be happy to provide it.

H. 

It was definitely better to keep it simple, Harry thought, casting a quick spell on the parchment so it didn’t become wet.

He left it propped up on the windowsill, in a hope it would not be missed.

That, he reflected while he left, would be a disaster.

Chapter Text

When Harry returned to his room that night, he was met with a burnt down candle, and a strong scent of burning in the air.

Blindly, he stumbled his way back over to the table and blew the candle out. Some distant part of his mind reminded him that you should never blow out ritual candles, and instead they should be snuffed, but his tired eyes couldn’t care less.

Outside, the sky was dark.

Harry walked across the room, leaning against the window to watch the outside.

Hedwig was flying about, swerving up to the sky and wings almost seeming to glow with the light of the full moon shining upon them. Harry smiled at her, his shoulder’s releasing all tension as he watched his familiar fly. He wondered, in that moment, about grabbing his broomstick, following her out to explore the stars alongside her.

He wondered how his own red hair would look in the moonlight. How freeing it might be to have it loose behind him as he flew.

But he knew he couldn’t. The next morning would be an early start, with plenty to do that had been so thoroughly ignored the previous afternoon.

Harry reached up to pull the thick curtains closed, when he eye caught a figure walking up besides the house.

His heart started hammering in his chest, and he swifty ducked to one knee to eye the threat more fully.

He shouldn’t have bothered.

Along the grass, parallel to the house, Lord Voldemort walked.

He wore a long, dark robe, that hung loosely open to reveal his white, scaled chest. Just like Hedwig, the moonlight brought his paleness to the forefront, scales almost seeming to glimmer from the lowest part of his chest to the top of his head.

Being even that close made Harry shudder.

He watched as Voldemort’s bare feet walked through the damp grass, cloak seeming to float around, never weighing him down, despite the dew.

The Dark Lord picked around the side of the Manor, looking out towards the trees, seemingly captured by something Harry could not see. But, his pure undivided attention almost, almost made him wish that he could.

A pale, clawed hand reached into his robes, almost brushing them completely off the pale shoulder nearest to Harry, pulling out his wand. It was the same one from the Graveyard, the one whose core matched Harry’s own.

The wand was a long, pale wood that almost blended into his fingertips, made even brighter in the moonlight.

Voldemort lifted the wand above his head, swishing it around in a dramatic circle to let out a ray of bright, blue light.

It surrounded the place, shooting out from him until the grass was blue, and the light filled everything and Harry couldn’t see from it…

It faded away.

The Dark Lord repeated the action again, and again. Harry sat transfixed, only in his mind enough to recognise an immensely powerful series of protection spells, surrounding the place. Keeping everyone out.

And all those there, in.

The Dark lord moved like some kind of animal, every tiny movement controlled and maintained. Sleeker and softer than a snake, his muscles never twitching, feet never shifting beneath him.

Harry couldn’t look away, his breath caught in his lungs.

It was only a moment too late, when Harry realised the Dark Lord had completely frozen.

Then, the Dark Lord span around, tight on his heels, eyes locked on the Manor.  On the window’s, eyes scanning each one. Like…like he knew someone else’s eyes were on him. Watching. Waiting.

Harry ducked down lower, so just his eyes peaked out over the window frame.

Only a second later, the red eyes caught his own window.

Harry thought he remembered the Dark Lord’s eyes. He had been looking into them only minutes before, but, in the moonlight, they seemed to glow, lighting the rest of his face in brilliant, scarlet light.

The fast spin had caused the shoulder of the robe to really come loose, revealing even more of the pale, scaled chest.

The scales really were everywhere, Harry thought dumbly, unable to look away. His chest was muscular, far more than Harry’s, with sharp shoulder’s, rippling with muscles.

A small light caught Harry’s eyes, a flicker of silver, away from the moon…

It took entirely too long for him to realise that his glasses were reflecting on the window.

And, that the Dark Lord had still not looked away.

Harry reached up a hand, pulling the curtains closed, and collapsed against the wall, breathing heavier than he remembered.

What was that?

Harry scrambled for his pyjamas, clawing his way into bed. Hedwig flew back inside a few minutes later, landing neatly on Harry’s bedside table. He reached up, scratching her head and staring blankly forward.

He had been seen.

He could only wait for the door to open, and the monster to walk in. To demand why he had been watching so intensely, for so very long.

But nobody did.

Narcissa Malfoy didn’t knock with a light hand, asking him to leave.

Bellatrix didn’t throw the door open, grabbing him by the hair and throwing him out with all her strength.

Lucius Malfoy didn’t come in with his cane, ready to push Harry out with it.

Nothing. Nobody. Not Draco. Not Voldemort. Not the new minister.

The corridor’s stayed quiet, the only sounds the occasional clatter from the kitchen (he really needed to talk to Mipsy, and the other elf’s about bedtimes) and the creaking of the old hallways, for his straining ears to hear.

Hedwig batted his hand.

He tried going back to stroking her more consistently, but she kept pushing on his hand.

“What is it girl?”

She shoved his hand, hopping down to the floor and pecking at one of the draws.

“Hey!” Harry complained sleepily, eyes still glancing towards the door.

He reached out to the draw, pulling it open to stare at whatever Hedwig was trying so very desperately to get at. Had a mouse somehow crawled inside and died? Or had Hedwig abandoned it there, Harry closing the draw without noticing?

Of course, it wasn’t a mouse at all.

In the draw sat the handkerchief.

It lay completely flat, little red flowers standing out in the dim light.

As soon as the draw had been opened, Hedwig flew off again, landing on the back of the armchair.

Harry stared at her for a moment, shaking his head, before reaching in to grab the handkerchief.

It was soft in his hands, the stitched florals textured against his fingers, catching in one of his rougher nails as he dragged his fingers across it.

The magic was not as strong as it had been nights before, but the magic seemed to thrum just under everything else, pulsing in his hands like a heartbeat and soothing layers into his skin.

He tightened his grip around it, pushing it into his fist until the white was no longer visible.

Eventually, he pulled himself down onto the pillows, pulling his duvet up to his neck.

Until he fell asleep, he couldn’t look away from the door.

The handkerchief never left his fist.

***

It didn’t get any better, when Harry woke up to a note by his bedside.

It was simply folded parchment, nothing written on the front, no wax sealing it closed. But still, Harry’s nerves ran. Was it his letter releasing him from his service? A call to be sent to the Dark Lord for some kind of horrific punishment, for being caught as a spy? Something from Snape, calling him by his name and demanding he go back to the Order?

He almost ripped the parchment when he unfolded it, almost sure of the horror’s that were going to grace his eyes. Could he take the elf’s with him? Protect them? What about Draco, he looked like he needed recusing…

The handkerchief had dropped to the floor at some point during the night, and he couldn’t be bothered to reach and pick it up.

Inside the letter, the writing was poor, the grammar made less sense. He could only sigh in relief when he saw the name at the bottom.

You is being needed to do a full cleaning of master’s master’s snake house today.

I is handling breakfast and lunch.

Mipsy.

Harry almost dropped the parchment in his shaking grip.

He, truthfully, didn’t know whether or not he had been spared. Whether it was relief or pure adrenaline that sored through his skin, making new pain flare through his skull and his jaw unclench.

The bed was warm, despite the coldness of the summer morning, but he forced himself out of bed anyway.

With a flick of his wand, the curtains threw themselves open and he reached for his glasses.

He couldn’t help but be glad that Mipsy had taken over breakfast, and lunch as well, because the sun was bright and bold. Far later in the morning than he should have woken to get everything done.

He cast a quick spell, for it only to be revealed it was almost ten in the morning.

Still, the sleep in his eyes stayed as he dressed himself, re-did his makeup, strongly considered whether or not to bother with the gloves in case it was too hot, and stumbled his way to the door of his room.

Harry stopped for another moment, hand inches from the doorknob, before he turned around.

The sleep cleared from his mind in an instant, snapping awake instantly. All his nerves were on edge, hair stood up straight.

He should have known he forgot something.

He raced back across his room, grabbing the handkerchief from where it had been scrunched up on the floor, smoothing it out back in the draw and shutting it.

When it was fully closed, he ran his wand over it to seal the sides.

And only then did the new voice silence in his head. The one he had never heard before that moment.

Protect. Protect. Protect.

***

Cleaning up after Nagini, really, fully cleaning up after her, took far longer than he was expecting. Before, all he had done was spot clean, occasionally right a few things when they had fallen over.

The summer heat wave had come back in full force, or, at least, it had for a few hours.

It was sweaty work. And bloody work.

Nagini’s room was heated, with no windows in which to tell Harry how long he had been pushing himself for.

He had learned quickly that she enjoyed the practise of wrapping her entire body around different plants and pulling them up with her tail and throwing her water bowl (more closely remembering a water trough) much the same. Or, at the very least, he assumed so. Either that, or she had started bringing back more rambunctious pray than before.

Upon cleaning some of the bloodstains in the corner, he couldn’t be quite sure. (The addition of the carcass – of another animal that, as hard as he tried he still couldn’t quite identify - that had been ripped to shreds in the corner also gave that impression. All he cared was that it smelled awful, and he wasn’t just allowed to throw it out the window.)

He’d been forced to remove his jacket shortly after he started, sweat beading up his arms and forehead so thick he had been almost worried that it would start to stain.

The gloves he had taken off too, after the white had been stained with mud one to many times. He only had the patience for so many cleaning charms, and the skin under was still sensitive from his scar.

But looking at the words that still emblazoned his hand, he decided to keep the gloves as close as possible.

Harry had spent so much time worried about the scar of his forehead, he had almost forgotten his other most identifying one. His hands were tanned, a darker colour than his face from all the years playing quidditch, and completely different than the shades of makeup he currently owned.

Deep down, he knew there would be no hiding it. Not really.

Harry dug down and straitened another one of the plants, digging at the soil around it with his fingertips.

Looking around, he rolled with shoulders until they cracked satisfyingly, feeling satisfied at everything he had achieved. The job was done.

Harry’s eyes darted back to the door.

Ever since he had arrived, he had been so completely tempted, so utterly drawn, almost unable to resist the temptation, held back only by the job he knew he had to do.

Harry pushed himself to his feet, cleaning the mud off his hands with a wave of his wand, and shoving his hands back into the gloves.

The door to the Dark Lord’s bathroom was open.

Harry blinked at it for a long moment, quite sure it hadn’t been when he had seen it earlier than morning (was it really that late? The evening sky outside told him so.) But, as he was equally as sure he hadn’t heard anyone come in when he was sorting things out, he walked in anyway.

It was, as he had assumed, empty.

But yet, so was the bath.

And, looking around, his note was missing as well.

He stepped out into the main bedroom again, quickly looking around to make sure it hadn’t just blown away or was sitting in ashes in the fireplace.

When he saw no sign of either he went back into the bathroom.

His hands almost seemed to move by themselves as he started fussing over the taps once more. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he was doing.

Drawing the bath in the first place had been a risk, and if the Dark Lord had found it displeasing all Harry was doing was risking his wrath. One mistake could be ignored, overzealous attention to his needs…but more than once?

Harry let the taps run.

He pulled the blinds down again, blinking happily when the rainbow reflections no longer burned through his eyes. Surely, at the very least, Voldemort would appreciate that. Harry should have stayed up later to see, he knew he should have done.

He looked around the rest of the room as the bath ran itself.

“Mipsy!” he called out, feeling remarkably foolish, wincing himself as she popped into appearance, looking horrified.

It was only then he remembered that she wasn’t supposed to come into the Dark Lord’s rooms. Harry snuck a covert look over his shoulder.

“Quickly Mipsy, I need a cup of good tea, the pot, and maybe some cake or something? Meet me in the corridor with it. You shouldn’t be in here longer than necessary.” Harry spoke quickly, hands gesturing around weakly at the bathroom.

She nodded, and disappeared again, still looking around.

Harry rushed out to the corridor, down the next hall, panting with the exertion after a day of hard labour.  

Mipsy came back soon after, tea tray in her hands, which shook weakly.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t think!” Harry said quickly, kneeling down to take the tray.

“You is not needing to worry about it.” Mipsy gave him a sweet smile, which was only slightly dented by the fact she looked about to fall over. Harry very nearly put the tray down to catch her, before she gave a little wave and disappeared.

He couldn’t resist the urge to rub at his forehead.

Standing up again a minute later, he lugged the tray the rest of the way back to the Dark lord’s rooms, realising vaguely that he had completely forgotten his jacket in His rooms.

Sickness pooled in his stomach, twisting like the tentacles of the great squid, scooping at his insides.

Nobody would have come back, surely, the rooms would still be empty.

The door’s were open.

But that could have been him. Easily. He had been in such a hurry to meet Mipsy…

Harry snuck in on the tips of his toes, relaxing minutely when he saw the bedroom deserted.

He walked the rest of the way to the bathroom, shouldering the door open.

Then, it was his turn to freeze.

In front of him, Voldemort stood, bent over the bath, testing the water with his hand.

It seemed a moment of shock on both of their parts.

Voldemort slowly turned around, eyes fixing tight on Harry’s own, before dropping to the tea tray.

“Set that on the table,” Voldemort finally said, pointing to the aforementioned table. Harry hurriedly nodded, and went to do as such, feeling horrendously exposed without his jacket to cover his arms and frame his bowtie.

But that really did mean nothing when he turned back around, to see the Dark Lord already removing his robes.

Harry’s feet felt like lead.

In the darkness of the bathroom, Voldemort looked no less muscular, each scale even more visible than when they had been brightened by the moonlight. He could see the curve and shape of each tiny one as they dotted across his skin.

“I don’t believe you are paid to stand and stare all day and night,” Voldemort’s voice cut through him like ice, eyes snapping to meet each other’s again.

But Harry’s eyes next caught his hands.

Hands that were gesturing down at himself, and the robe he had already half removed.

Harry inwardly gulped, staring back up at the expectant face. In his nervousness, he licked at his lips, wetting them down from where they had dried out from the heat of Nagini’s enclosure.

Then, he took a step forward.

Chapter Text

Harry’s hands reached up slowly, grabbing a fistful of the black robe that near hung of the shoulder of the Dark Lord. The fabric was soft, cold and thin in Harry’s hand, as he felt around the top for the fastening.

Harry was standing incredibly close to the Dark Lord now. He made a mental note to not move his feet, lest he step on the other man’s.

The Dark Lord was taller than him, much, much taller. Harry had to almost stand on his tiptoes to even hold the robe.

He tried not to look into the man’s eyes.

But, when he dared to look up through his eyelashes, he found the Dark Lord staring out back into the main room, to the door Harry had still not closed. If Harry were anyone else, he would have been lost staring at the expression of the man, not quite human, and not quite snake.

In his fumbling, Harry’s left hand brushed against the scales and for just a moment was startled at the rough texture, as if they were all pushing and shoving against each other for room on skin that didn’t belong. And then, his scar had started to burn.

It wasn’t the red-hot fire it used to be, consuming his whole reality by the burning heat. Instead, it prickled, like a light flame lit just behind his forehead. Annoyance flared alongside it, and he knew it was not his own.

When he came back to himself, he dragged his hands quickly down the side of the robe, forcibly ignoring the way the rough scales cut against his hand, in order to find the buttons.

He found them.

The buttons were small, and black as well. They were fiddly, especially wearing the gloves in the steam-filled room that made Harry’s head spin.

Which each button popping open, the robe on the Dark Lord fell further and further across his shoulder, until it fell off completely.

The Dark Lord seemed deeply unbothered, staring instead towards the blinds that still covered the window.

“You covered it.”

Harry tried not to jump at the hissed words, both at the surprise of being spoken to in the first place, and the distraction from the crushing silence.

Another button. Another. Who designed the robe? Why so many? It must be a nightmare to get it on in the morning, what with the claws that graced the Dark Lord’s hands.

“Yes,” Harry replied. Another button.

“Why did you do as such?” If Harry had expected the Dark Lord to sound accusing, he was wrong. Instead, he almost sounded vaguely curious, and absentminded.

The last button was trapped within the fabric.

“I noticed the bright light caused an unpleasant…coloured effect across the tiles. I thought the view might not be to your tastes, or the idea of others looking in when you bathe.”

“You would be correct. It is not to my tastes. And, yet, somehow, you already knew that.” Even without looking up, Harry could tell that Voldemort had turned down to look at him.

With one last tug, the button came open.

The robes themselves fell open, and Harry moved to lift them off his shoulder’s, unsurprised when the Dark Lord made no move to help him. Instead, he stood completely still, arms to his sides as the weight of the robe was finally fully removed.

Unwilling to risk what he might see otherwise, Harry spun around quickly on his heels with the robe in hand. So quickly, he almost stood on the robe and fell.

Then, back muscles almost tensed from the stress Harry dared to peak over his shoulder. The Dark Lord was completely still, not looking back, and eyes still remained fixed forward, away from Harry.

He hadn’t seen it.

Harry hung up the robe, brushing it loose for any creases.

“Do you practise empathy magic?” Harry hadn’t expected such a question, turning around to face the back of the Dark Lord fully. Just alike his torso, his back was pulled tight with lithe muscle that seemed to ripple and stretch in the dim light, all the way up to his neck.

Another flicker of thought passed through Harry’s scar, and he reached out with his hand, palm up.

The Dark Lord moved, for the first time in some time, and took it.

It was just for a second, as Harry shifted to aid him into the tub – being as careful as he could to look upwards – but even the smaller scales that covered his hands and fingers seemed to cut, and burn into his skin, without saying anything about the curved claws that came out of his fingers. No human should have nails like that.

The Dark Lord stepped in the water, and a waft of steam seemed to hit Harry straight in the face.

When the hand released his, he nearly stumbled, shocked at the distance he now felt.

“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”

Harry took a deep breath.

“I’ve been told I’m rather perspective.”

A non-answer. The Dark Lord wouldn’t like that, but it was all he could do. He had heard of empathy magic a few times in his life, of witches and wizards that could pick up on other’s moods and needs, feeling obliged to make them happen, no matter the cost to themselves.

It would make sense for the Dark Lord to think that.

Harry hated it.

All he’d ever heard about empathy wizards were how they completely broke down, due to being so open to other people’s desires, getting themselves into the worst possible situations.

The last thing the Dark Lord needed to think of him was that he was weak. And that he could potentially Harry Potter, but that was neither here nor there.

“You do not deny it.”

“Nor do I confirm it either.”

The Dark Lord made a sound, an odd mixture between a hiss and a painted groan. On another man, any other man, Harry would have called it a laugh.

“Would you care for some tea?” Harry asked, already walking over to the tray he had placed on the table earlier.

The Dark Lord inclined his head.

Grabbing the teapot, Harry poured the splash of tea into the cup, and was delighted when he smelled the mint, which seemed to cleanse his senses and sooth the tension in his face.

Grasping the teacup with his fingers, and placing a hand underneath to hold the cup in place, he walked it back over to the bath, being careful to step around any splashes of water that may have made there way on the ground.

The Dark Lord reached out a hand for the cup when Harry came back, pressing it into his hands.

The claws nicked him, and he hissed in discomfort, careful to keep it behind his clenched teeth.

The Dark Lord lifted the cup up towards the slits where his nose should have been and held it there for just a moment. For the first time, Harry realised how much he really did care about people who were normal. How much he relied on it. The Dark Lord must have smelled it, from the way he reacted, but he had no nostrils to contract and neither did his chest rise. It made Harry feel small. Weak, more conscious of his pulse throbbing in his neck, and the blood rushing through his veins.

But more than anything else, it made him feel so desperately human.

“Your scales,” the words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could pull them back with the force that they deserved.

“What about them?” The Dark Lord’s voice was cutting and cold, eyes no longer gazing into the distance, but instead burning into Harry’s, expression held taught as a bow. The Dark Lord’s eyes trailed around towards his robe, clawed hand reaching out across the room towards where Harry knew his wand must be. Every muscle seemed to ripple in that one, terrible arm. “I was not aware that the job of the staff was to judge appearances. Weak. I have, and will, kill people for less.”

“Would you like me to help? They look damaged,” Harry hastened to quality, his skin breaking out in a deeper sweat in the heat of the room, legs shaking beneath him.

“You presume to know better than myself when I am injured. Lord Voldemort does not become injured.” His voice was loud, but his hand stopped reaching out, instead falling back into the bath with a little splash.

“Of course not. As you said yourself, I feel other’s pain.” His in particular, Harry thought to himself, wincing as the rage went through his head. “And, as a butler, I am in a unique position to know the difficulties of those I work for, kept under complete discretion, of course. I was merely prompting that you would not want another to find out about your woes.” Harry prayed his answer, unable to pull back the initial statement, to take it all back, would ease the rage a little further.

“And what, exactly, would you be suggesting?” If it were anyone else, Harry would have said his voice had softened. As it was, the hissing had died down, falling to a quieter tone, less accusatory at the least. The Dark Lord’s shoulder’s had relaxed, head starting to loll back on the side of the bath.

“I could heat some of the areas with a warm cloth and attempt to smooth them out. Of course, it’s completely your decision in the end.”

“Of course it would be my decision. Nothing happens to Lord Voldemort without his prior approval.” This time, Harry could tell there was no true bite in the words.

Harry turned around back towards the tea tray, lifting up the small tub that Mipsy had placed over the cake he’d requested. He hadn’t even told her a type, not that he particularly knew what the Dark Lord would want either, but was pleasantly surprised when he lifted the lid to discover a slice of chocolate cake that he himself had made when trying to decide which type would be best served with dinner service.

Simple chocolate, with a thick layer of chocolate buttercream icing and chocolate flakes, which Harry was pleased to find Mipsy had cut around perfectly. Not that he had truly expected anything else from her.

Anybody working for the Malfoy’s that long would develop some level of perfection in everything they did. Had Mipsy ever considered doing more tableside performance service? She would be amazing at it.

Harry picked up the plate with the tips of his gloved fingers, and presented the cake by the side of the bath.

“What’s this?”

“Some simple chocolate cake I prepared. I thought you might enjoy something to eat before anything else.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes slid over to him with a disbelieving look, seeming to completely freeze.

Then, the clawed hand reached out, placing the cup on the edge of the bath, and grabbing hold of the plate. Just like Harry, Voldemort used the very tips of his fingers, as if trying to keep as far away from Harry as possible.

The Dark Lord stared at him for a long moment, before Harry flushed, turned around, and grabbed the fork of the tray, which he also passed into Voldemort’s waiting hands.

The Dark Lord had settled the plate against his chest, grabbing the fork – just as he had the plate – with the tips of two of his fingers. Despite his lax grip, his control over the tiny cake fork was immense, filled with grace that no man eating cake should ever be able to have.

Let alone a monster, a tiny voice in Harry’s mind provided. Within the next few moment’s it had been squashed to silence as the Dark Lord levered a mouthful to his lips.

Harry’s breath halted as he stared on, watching the jaw move slowly up and down, and the Adam’s apple on his throat bob – the scales shifting around and contracting – as he swallowed.

A long, deep hiss filled the room. Harry waited for words to come along with it, but it was in vain. The Dark Lord took another bite, expression lifeless and dull, like a waxed doll.

If it wasn’t for the pleasure washing through Harry’s scar, he would be forgiven for thinking that Voldemort was indulging him like one might a small child, telling them how amazing their drawing looked when presented with something one might refer to as ‘fingerpainting’.

When the plate was almost empty, Voldemort pushing the fork around to catch the last few crumbs, Harry took it away, placing it back next to the teapot. His lips quirked at the thought that, perhaps on his own, Voldemort might have licked the plate with his long, forked tongue to catch every last part of the cake he clearly loved so much.  

A splash startled Harry, and he spun around only to see that Voldemort had dunked his head completely under the water. Harry waited a long moment for him to emerge, which he did, but only halfway, water droplets dripping down the back of his scaled head and seeming to flow around the scales like an odd kind of jigsaw puzzle.

He promised the Dark Lord he would help out his scales.

He had promised.

And it was time to act.

Harry grabbed one of the white, fluffy towels off a nearby rack, and started casting warming charms over it under his breath. He was aware enough to tell that the Dark Lord had titled his head very slightly, no doubt listening in to every spell Harry cast.

He didn’t mind.

If he was going to attempt something sneaky, there would be no doubt in his mind that he could do far, far better than that. (Like running into a mission blind, only plan at hand to fight his way through with a wand and a group of teenagers behind him…Not his best ideas, he concurred.)

But Harry knew it couldn’t happen. The last thing he needed was Voldemort thinking he was a traitor, before Snape even bothered to tip him off.

“Aguamenti,” Harry finished, holding the hot towel over the sink to dampen it all over. Next time he would soak the towels beforehand, marinade them in oils.

Next time? His brain demanded, there should be no ‘next time’.

He ignored that as well.        

Harry looked over at the Dark Lord. What if it was too hot? What if he ended up burned? Harry ran his hands quickly over the towel, shooting glances over his shoulder to make sure the man was still relaxed in the bath behind him. Any second and he was sure that he would find glowing red eyes glaring into his own, reading to burn him alive for taking too long, wand pointed straight at him-

Damp gloves wouldn’t be pleasant on the skin either.

It was on that he made his decision.

Harry dropped the towel in the sink, reaching up to the top of his left glove, peeling it off his fingers and feeling the stretch of the damp fabric. Eventually, both gloves fell to the side of the sink.

I must not tell lies.

Harry smiled, running his thumb over the scar. Lies. Hadrian Evans only ever told lies.

Grabbing the towel, Harry was pleased to find it pleasantly warm, but not roasting to the touch, and hopefully not enough to burn the Dark Lord. Harry suspected he would enjoy the heat anyway, and the damp nature of the cloth would help.

“With your permission I will wrap this heated towel around your shoulder’s and neck,” Harry said, slowly walking the towel over.

To his immense surprise, Voldemort demanded no more, instead leaning up to give space for Harry to simply slot the towel.

He did so, wrapping it tightly around his shoulders, and settling it comfortably so it would not wrinkle across the skin when the Dark Lord leaned back. Inspired, and incredibly hopeful, Harry reached over to the towel that covered Voldemort’s shoulder, pulling him back against the bath. His scar stood out so plainly, on his pale hand, on the white towel against pure white skin. Red, angrier than normal, or at least it seemed that way.

Voldemort followed his hands down, shoulders looser and more relaxed than Harry had seen them before.

“Enjoy that for a moment. It should soon begin to help.”

He really, really hoped that it would. It had to, of course. Otherwise, it would have been a lie.

Without much else to do Harry moved back over to the sink, staring at himself – as thus, the Dark Lord behind him, in the mirror. It was a mark of how relaxed the Dark Lord probably was that he wasn’t demanding Harry keep his eyes to himself.

He waited, fiddling with his own fingers and longing and dreading for the moment the gloves could be back on his hands, hiding his second most recognisable scar from the world.

Eventually, the Dark Lord shifted, it was only very slightly – a small twitch of the shoulders – but Harry took his chance.

He walked back to the tub and slowly started to pull the towel off from where it had stuck to his back.

As he had hoped, even just taking off the towel had caused many tiny scales to fall off, some trapped in the towel itself, and others dotted around like tiny stars, gleaming in the light. He could wipe those of the sides of the bath at a later point.

“May I touch your skin?” Harry asked, bringing his voice down to a whisper, not daring to disrupt the quiet peace of the room.

The Dark Lord seemed unwilling to do the same, only nodding once, a soft motion with no power behind it.

Harry kneeled down, reaching up to the scaled back, running his fingers down his back and neck, finding them just a little less scratchy than the times before. Just the simple act of touching his shoulders had a few more scales fall into the tub behind the Dark Lord, showing just how ready to come off they had been.

Biting his tongue out of nerves, Harry made the first massage-like rub with his hands. He was shocked by the scales coming off just in his fingers.

The lack of negative reaction drove him further.

He ran his hands down the back of his neck, sweeping the scales straight off. Then, he ran his fingers up and down his spine, slowly unsticking and reorganising the scales that overlapped until they either righted themselves, or fell straight off with the rest. Harry couldn’t help but wonder how much it would hurt to have parts of you falling straight off. But the Dark Lord didn’t react, any more than if it were simply loose hairs coming off with a hairbrush.

At least hair was supposed to be there.

His fingers went over his lower back, dipping into the water, with warmth stinging against all the little cuts that had appeared on his fingers. If it was like that just touching them, he couldn’t even imagine the discomfort of having them on him.

“Enough.”

The sharp word startled Harry, although he made the best effort not to show it.

His glasses had completely fogged up in the steam. Had he done something he shouldn’t? Poked something too hard when he couldn’t see?

Instead, he stood up, offering a hand to the Dark Lord to help him out of the bath, and hoping it was in the right sort of place. Had he hurt him? Was it even possible to hurt a man who was not a man? Dumbledore had hit him with all kinds of things in the Ministry, and nothing had seemed to do any damage.

The Dark Lord clasped his outstretched hand, giving it a squeeze as he pulled himself out of the tub. Harry was unsure if it was one of anger, or gratefulness. It was impossible to tell.

After his hand was released, and Voldemort was standing on the bath mat, Harry rushed over to grab his wand, tapping around as subtly as he could. With a gentle flick he transformed one of the spare fluffy towels in the bathrobe – a simple enough spell, modified from one he had learned in his first year.

He gave a half bow, presenting the robe in it’s neatly folded state, and waited for the Dark Lord to grasp.

It was only when the weight lightened in his arms, and a swish of white danced across his blurred vision, that he realised his gift had been accepted.

Harry straightened up and wiped his glasses clean.

When he could finally put his glasses back on, now fully able to see, The Dark Lord was stood by the door.

“Empty the bath and clean up in here. I wish to retire to my chambers immediately.”

Harry nodded, already reaching forward to pull the plug from the drain, waiting in anticipation from when he could put his own gloves back on, when his scars could once again be hidden by the world.

“And Hadrian?” Harry stopped dead. Before that moment he hadn’t even been sure the Dark Lord had remembered his name, not really. “I appreciated that.”

And then, the Dark Lord was gone, the bathroom door slamming shut behind him, seemingly on it’s own.

Chapter Text

The last few weeks of the summer seemed to blend into one another in a sea of hot days, late nights, and dinner parties. It had all become routine, all of his hustling, bustlingly, charming the newest guest, in the way all strange new things did, and soon Harry was quite certain that nothing in the world could surprise or shock him, not at that point.

Without fail, every single morning and night, Harry would drop off a tea tray for the Dark Lord and pick it up later to find it half-cleared. He never bothered with lunch. As the summer days drew shorter and colder, Harry was needed more in stoking the fires high, lest his scar burn him once more.

The Malfoy’s certainly never complained about the heat. He rather suspected they appreciated it, in the house that seemed so full of the ghosts of their past finally flooded with warmth.

He didn’t see the Dark Lord again, not up close.

On some days, he would round a corner to see the flick of a long robe, or a brief shock of white, scaled flesh before it was gone. Harry thought some days that he was haunting him, following him around just out of reach like some dreaded dementor.

On other days, when guests appeared without warning, Harry would be the one to lead them to meet the Dark Lord. He was never in the rooms, leaving Harry to abandon the person there, to wait.

Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wait himself, standing behind the door or round the back of another wall. But the Dark Lord never came, not until he left. And only then could he hear the patting of feet across the floorboards which Harry had never worked out how to stop them creaking.

Another man might have thought the Dark Lord was avoiding him, and on some nights Harry thought so too.  He would be in the kitchen on his own, or perhaps his own room, and lean backwards against the nearest cupboard or back of his bed and wonder about the last time they spoke, that night in the bath.

Then he would wonder if that was in his contract to do so.

His mentor had assured him that, in the wizarding world at least (although Harry very much doubted that he could speak for muggles at all) what happened was not unusual. That, while not typical, aiding a master or mistress in cleansing themselves when injured or otherwise incapacitated was perfect acceptable and was in fact well practised amongst the elite, and Harry should not dwell on it.

And so, he didn’t.

Normalcy built into routine.

Nagini was cleaned out three times a week, the days themselves didn’t particularly matter. Time never seemed to matter in Malfoy Manor, the halls themselves seeming to eat time, to blend it. A walk could on one day take five minutes, and another take an hour. And looking back at the hallway, Harry could only be left wondering what had changed.

But even so, he changed her water every day. When it was too cold outside, he would bring her a rat or a mouse (unfortunately not Wormtail, although where that toad was, Harry had yet to sniff him out. He half suspected that he had run away. Or died of fright). To make up for it, he still took an additional mouse with him to give to Hedwig.

The Dark Lord’s room receiving a quick tidy and dust every day. It hadn’t taken Harry very long to realise that the best way not to have to do a big job was to do it all a little, to make sure there never ended up being a big job to do. In fact, while he saw the Dark Lord less, he certainly learned a lot more about him.

The first being that, as a rule, the Dark Lord liked to keep things clean. (Barring one occasion when Harry had come in early one morning and found the entire room in complete disarray, chairs ripped open, every piece of furniture toppled to the floor, paper’s and documents strewn everywhere – it had taken almost a full morning to clean it up, even with magic.)

And the second was the Dark Lord’s love of collecting things. It seemed like every other day Harry would find something new in the room, some odd curio or piece. Occasionally they would still be in boxes, piled up against some of the walls, at other times a cursed necklace or bag of crystals would be left all around the desk.

Harry would never forget the day that he walked in the room and found a felt doll on the Dark Lord’s desk. It had only taken one touch for Harry to snatch his hand away, hissing at the dark magic in the tiny thing. It’s felt mouth had been sewn shut, as had it’s eyes. He had been more than relieved when it vanished a few days later.

In an odd sense, it made the Dark Lord feel so, ever-pressingly human. Present. Even when Harry never seemed to see him.

But, despite all the odds, that Dark Lord was not the only thing that had changed at the Manor.

A few days after the bath, or so Harry thought, Narcissa had announced her plan for tea with her husband in the conservatory, and had asked Harry to serve, which he had done. It was far more relaxed than anything else, and he found himself truly enjoying hearing their conversation about various things and people, and people doing things. It wasn’t something he had to think that hard about, only pausing to refill a cup, or darting back to the kitchens for more cake and sandwiches.

It had continued like that for a full week, then two. For a full hour out of Harry’s day, three times a week, he would stand by the conservatory door and listen to various dramatic happenings in the worlds of the rich, and Slytherin.

It was through those hour’s that Harry saw the change. Narcissa seemed less drawn, the bags under her eyes so pale makeup could easily hide them – not that she needed it. Her fingernails were rounded, properly trimmed, and polished. Her hair was brushed out fully, roots re-dyed and cleaned.

Lucius as well seemed less drawn. While his posture was still firm, there seemed less tension in his shoulder’s, the furrow Harry had thought permanent on his brow gone, and he too had begun to have clean, well-trimmed nails. His hair was neat, well-brushed, and well-trimmed.

So perhaps it shouldn’t have come as such as surprise when the offer was made.

“Come and have a drink with us, Hadrian.” Narcissa had gently said one long afternoon, pouring another cup full herself. “We need to catch up.”

“As you wish, my Lady.”

Harry swiftly moved over to the nearest chair, sitting down. He grasped for the cup, making sure to hold the handle the way his mentor had instructed him. (And the way he himself had practised with a random mug one late evening at the Manor).

They seemed to talk about everything and nothing. When they had started it had all been about the Manor. Narcissa wanted to have some walls painted. Lucius wanted to introduce some new magical creatures to the forest, for the werewolves that occasionally came to visit – Harry had to bite his tongue at that one.

But soon they began to ask about himself. Not his family, or his friends, but what he liked doing, what led to him becoming a butler, if he enjoyed working for them. When it became very late, Narcissa whispered too him, a question on the Dark Lord’s preferences of tea, which he answered without really thinking that he would probably favour something simple this evening, as he often did this late. An earl grey perhaps.

And after that, he became a permanent member of their little tea parties.

He would typically have a free period after, which he could happily spend working on his Gold award, neatly filling in his worksheets, and sending letters back and forth with various questions. Once Lucius Malfoy had even walked past when he was checking the papers in the corridor and out loud answered one of the questions for him. It had been an easy one, practically transcribed from the information book, but Harry felt grateful all the same.

Malfoy Manor, really was, in many ways, a place where odd things happened. The Manor was perfectly not normal, thank-you-very-much, and Harry had quickly discovered, that despite all the odds, that was just the way he liked it.

No matter what the day had bought him, no matter how long the corridors stole him for, he always ended it the same.

“Everything in place for this evening, Mipsy?”

If he had to choose a favourite place in the Manor, the kitchen’s would be a strong contender.

“I is thinking we is being done for the night!” Mispy replied joyfully, giving him a full, happy smile and slinging a tea-towel over her shoulder.

Harry grinned back, before giving his stiff neck a role.

“Very good. I was thinking we should start breakfast earlier tomorrow, might give us a chance to make something nicer for Sunday. I think Lady Malfoy mentioned that she wanted a nice dinner for everyone in the evening as well, so we could get a head start on that, if we start early enough.”

Mipsy responded with a smile, and a nod.

“Great. Wonderful,” Harry clapped his hands awkwardly, not entirely sure what to do with them. “I should probably be heading off to bed then.”

“You is being needing to eat first,” Mipsy said in a firm voice. To Harry’s amazement she pulled a covered tray out of one of the nearby draws, and, standing on her tiptoes, put it on the island.

“Is this for me?” Harry asked dumbly, removing the covering. The plate was large, and warmed. On it was a selection of small sandwiches that they had made for the Malfoy’s lunch earlier. Cheese and tomato, cheese and onion, hummus and cucumber, ham. Light and airy foods that could be eaten each in just a few bites, and, if the one Harry had snuck earlier in the day said anything, filled you up far more than expected.

On the side of the plate, Mipsy had placed what appeared to be tomatoes, that had been carved and salted until they resembled large, open roses on his plate.

“Thank you so much,” he managed, already grasping at his gloves, before remembering he probably shouldn’t take them off in front of the elf.

“You is being taking them with you into your room and enjoying the evening. I is hearing master say that the stars are looking pleasant this evening, and you is being able to see them from yours window.”

And with that, she gave him another all-encompassing smile that seemed to warm his very insides, and darting out of the kitchen to Merlin knows where.

Harry, feeling also like spoiling himself as Mipsy suggested, plated his sandwiches on one of the extra trays, and poured himself a cup of peppermint tea, which he took alongside the saucer.

At the start of the summer, even carrying the tray might have caused strain on his arms, forced him to take small steps to ensure the tray would not fall and everything smash. He would have frozen at even the slightest clink of China.

But he made his way to his room with ease. He hardly even needed to think as he swiftly changed the tray from both to a single hand, opening the door and walking inside.

He decided to place the tray on top of the small table, vaguely thinking about moving the entire thing over to the window to do as Mispy suggested and look out at the stars.

That was, of course, until he really looked at the window.

There was a second owl in his room.

It was perched on his sill, tawny brown with sharp eyes that seemed to glare at him from across the room. It looked formal, posh even. The kind that the ministry would send to peck at people’s fingers until they answered. (Which he had learned during one particular evening sitting for tea with Narcissa when Lucius had yelped from across the room displaying a line of blood, trickling down his finger. He had then, naturally, began cursing the owl out – in his own posh way – and desperately grabbing for a nearby quill. Somehow Harry had managed it not to laugh and instead to come running with a napkin to clean the blood, and a spare quill that hadn’t been snapped in bird-induced rage. In an odd way, it was nice to see him express something other than stress).

But this owl was different. Not the one that would normally have been sent to the Manor. Especially not for him. Not in his room.

His pulse quickened, nerves dancing around his chest.

Even more so when he saw the letter the owl had dropped on his bedside table. Nobody from the outside had bothered to send him a letter.

Distantly he became aware that his heart was hammering, his hands shaking. For the last few weeks, the outside world had seemed almost…non-existent. As if the pillars of the universe simply stopped outside the Manor’s gates.

To Harry James Potter.

The Basement Bedroom.

Malfoy Manor,

England.

His hands shook harder.

Someone had written to him.

Someone who wasn’t his mentor, who he paid – but didn’t know his real name.

Someone who knew who he really was, who knew where he was. What was he doing. Possibilities darted through his mind. Had Snape finally worked it out? Had Dumbledore? Had Ron or Hermione?

Had Narcissa?

His heart dropped deep in his chest.

Sickness bubbled up in his throat, and he forcibly swallowed it.

The envelope was smooth in his fingers, rich old parchment, fancy even. Familiar. Later, he would kick himself for not recognising it immediately as he turned it over in his hands to see the wax seal along the front.

The Hogwarts crest was printed, in bright red wax on the back of the envelope.

Really it was shocking. He had planned around it from the start. Arranged his contract to fit around it so very perfectly.

But he had completely forgotten that, at seventeen, he still had another two years left at Hogwarts.

Although he looked at the book list, tried to scan over the titles, he couldn’t quite read it. He should have felt relieved. He knew as well as anyone that Hogwarts letters were not written by people, that nobody had figured him out – unless they thought specifically to check his letter in particular - which he doubted. People didn’t start paying attention to a letter after months of ignoring someone else.

After years of pretending that his first letter wasn’t addressed to the Cupboard under the stairs. If they hadn’t checked then, they would have no reason to check it that time around.

And yet, despite all of that, Harry’s legs seemed to collapse under him, and he landed sitting on the bed. His head fell back onto his pillow as an utter lack of nothingness seemed to consume him once more.

Just the thought of leaving the Manor, leaving all the stress, and the endless, dark corridors, and the bedroom that was not his own, filled with possessions of others that had come before - even to the place that he still called home – that was his home, left him feeling out of place, and cold.

Very, very cold.

The plate of sandwiches laid forgotten.

The tea had gone cold.

Chapter Text

It took Harry three days to work out what he wanted to do. It should have been so simple, the easiest thing in the world. He had arranged his entire contract around going back to Hogwarts.

And yet, every time he thought about the halls, the giant squid, walking down to Hagrid’s hut…it flet too distant to fathom. Like everything he had ever loved about it had washed away with the tides that had come with the summer. Tides of dark magical energy, and blood, and rage and power that filled the halls of Malfoy manor, taking everything with it in its tracks.

It made everything else, anywhere else, seem like a faded childhood memory. Just out of reach.

Still, nobody from the wizarding world had bothered to write to him.

While tidying the Dark Lord’s desk, Harry thought back to Ron and Hermione. He thought of their laughter; he thought of their running jokes. He thought of Hermione’s perpetual smell of parchment, and Ron’s terrible cologne that Mr Weasley had given him one year, promising it would bring in the ladies. Harry hadn’t had the heart to tell him that it smelled awful.

When he poured tea, he thought about the tea Mrs Weasley used to drink by the fire.

When he talked to the elves, he thought about the Hogwarts kitchens. He thought of Dobby.

When he ironed out the clothes that had been sent, he thought of long, flowing Hogwarts robes. Of doing a standard tie, as opposed to a bowtie every single day. He thought about having short hair again, just long enough to cover his scar at the front.

He kept the Hogwart’s letter in his pocket.

It was just the change; he would soon adapt. He told himself the same thing every single night, all three. He told is so much he almost found himself believing it. The Order would be thrilled with all the intel he had been able to gather.

He would just have to find different way he could have gained it. Something he could actually tell them.

Something they would respect.

All three nights, alone in his room with the door locked and without even Hedwig for company, he tried to talk. He tried to talk in a voice for no longer fell naturally from his lips. On the first night he choked and spluttered, feeling the need to down several glasses of water. On the second he managed the basic semblance of conversation, as close as one could get with the evening air as a partner. After his throat hurt. On the third, it still sounded strained, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was right or not. It was like he was grasping for running water. He no longer remembered what he sounded like.

He couldn’t help but remember that learning the other voice, transitioning over completely, had not been nearly so difficult.

As it was, on the morning of the fourth day that Harry found his way to Lucius Malfoy’s home office, Hogwarts letter still crushed down deep in his waistcoat pocket.

Lucius Malfoy’s office was one he had rarely had to enter – once to drop off a cup of tea, and another when he had to show in a visitor from the Ministry. He had soon learned that Lucius didn’t keep his office the same way Voldemort did.

Lucius was neat to a fault. The room was only ever cleaned by elves. Harry rather suspected it was because he viewed wizard’s to be better than manual labour, but he never asked. He had a feeling he really wouldn’t like the answer.

But who was he to talk about morals?

Harry quickly knocked on the door at let himself in. He knew full well Lord Malfoy had no visitors in that moment.

“Evans,” Lucius greeted him distantly, still shuffling through papers on his desk.

“Sir,” Harry replied, wetting his lips out of nerves.

Lucius set his paper’s down and looked up, seemingly realising that Harry had not come by to lead someone in or drop something off.

“Is something the matter?” Harry almost startled. He had seen many different sides of the Malfoy’s throughout the summer, but Lucius Malfoy had remained a constant in his mind. His long blond hair, long swishing robes, and expression that still unnerved Harry as much as it had when he was twelve.

He was not the kind of man who asked after your mental health.

“I need to make a request,” Harry found himself saying.

Lucius Malfoy nodded slowly, grey eyes baring into Harry’s own, as if looking for something hidden under his words.

“And that is?” The words were not cruel, but nor where they gentle. On edge, perhaps.

“In my contract I am stipulated a number of day’s off. Due to personal reasons I need to take one today.”

Lucius stared.

“Very well,” he eventually said, “I trust I don’t need to remind you to re-assign all your needed tasks for today to elves, or which you will simply have to postpone until tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And you will be back tomorrow, promptly in the morning?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Then, Lucius nodded, gesturing Harry dismissed with a wave of his hand. Harry stumbled out of the room, forcing his expression to remain neutral. He wasn’t doing anything yet. He hadn’t even left the Manor.

And yet, all he could focus on was the strange sinking feeling within his chest, like he was being submerged within deep, deep water.

The next few minutes were a blur.

Harry distantly realised he was making his way down to his room, grabbing some spare muggle clothes. He opened and closed the bathroom cabinet, staring at the reversal on his hair dye. He pulled his old glasses out of his suitcase before putting them back. He held a makeup wipe to his face, just over his scar, but his hand shook so much in his daze that he simply replaced it back in its packet.

Nobody would think it strange for Hadrian Evans to go shopping in Diagon Alley. It wasn’t like he needed new robes.

It would be easier than going as Harry Potter.   

And so it was that, Hogwarts supplies list in hand, Hadrian Evans left Malfoy Manor in his work trousers and shoes, and one of Harry Potter’s nicer blue jumpers pulled over the pressed white uniform shirt. His hair was also let loose from its green ribbon, hanging neatly over his shoulders, once he had given it a quick brush.

It was Hadrian Evans who used Harry Potter’s portkey out to the random muggle street, and Hadrian Evans who stuck out his wand arm for the Knight bus. The money for the Knight bus private booth, the complimentary snack, and the drink. Perhaps he was becoming a little too much like Moody, he couldn’t help but think as he shifted around the limp salad and threw out the water all together.

Who knows what might have been put in it?

Harry Potter in a hat, under the name Neville might be nobody. But Hadrian Evans was known, at least to some point, by anyone who had visited Malfoy Manor over the last few weeks.

Somehow, he felt so intrinsically watched, even in his private cabin. Like the whole world was staring down at him, paying attention to every little shift and stutter of his breath.

It was Hadrian Evans who stepped out of the Knight bus, head held high, and wand tucked into his sleeve. Completely unassuming.

It was only when he stumbled onto the cobblestone streets of Diagon when he realised that this was the last place he’d really been as anyone other than Hadrian Evans. Harry shook himself. It was all still him, at the end of the day.

Harry soon realised that he hadn’t even bothered reading the supplies list for the Hogwarts year, let alone bought anything for which he could actually carry his shopping around in. Harry Potter would have simply grabbed a random muggle plastic bag or perhaps bought another cheap cauldron to shove everything inside.

But, at that moment, from everyone else’s perspective, he wasn’t Harry Potter at all. And he could only imagine the look of horror on the Malfoy’s – let alone Voldemort’s – face if he was seen out and about with a muggle plastic bag.

One step at a time.

And so it was, after a particularly awkward interaction at Gringotts that had involved entirely too much hissed back and forth about who he was, and a few goblins that looked entirely too pleased, he was able to access his vault. When he had opened Hadrian’s account, he had only shoved in the ten galleons required to start it off, expecting it to be a small vault, only used to pay the course off. That had changed, considerably.

When the vault door had been opened golden galleons poured out in a great number, pooling at Harry’s feet. The vault itself was only a few square feet wide and deep, and not nearly big enough to hold someone who was under the Malfoy’s pay grade.

“It would be my recommendation for a larger account,” said the snide goblin who accompanied him. “Unless your greed expects to vanish over the next few weeks.”

Harry had a bite a retort back through his teeth, instead lightly agreeing to a larger account. He probably shouldn’t have. It’s not like he could simply resume his position after a year at Hogwarts.

If they paid that well, they should have no issues finding a replacement. Perhaps an Order spy that was actually qualified for the job.

Strangely enough, that thought also made his gut churn.

He left Gringotts with a heavy pile of gold in a little felt bag attached to his hip. After it had been given to him, he went to hide himself into the crowd of wizards to cast a protection spell over it, before he realised that he didn’t need to.

He was an adult.

He could cast magic wherever he pleased.

In his mind it still didn’t feel real.

The stinging hex he placed upon the little felt bag most certainly was.

His first stop, by necessity, was a little stand that sold wicker baskets, with undetectable extension charms placed upon them (for an additional price). It wasn’t the best, but it was all Harry could do with the little planning he thought to put forward before he left the Manor early that morning.

The haze of the day never left as he travelled around from shop to shop. He picked up books, paying for them quickly and ducking his head. He didn’t know what he was expecting to see.

Perhaps someone he knew. Someone who knew him better than Snape did, who would see him and scream.

The very thought was enough to keep him moving quickly through the various shops.

The shops weren’t quite how he remembered them. So many had been boarded up from the outside, and the entire alley was quiet. He couldn’t help but think about when he was just eleven and visiting the alley for the very first time. How bright and bustling the streets were, the amount of colour and magic that seemed to burst out of every conceivable corner.

The first years couldn’t get that experience anymore.

Harry shook himself.

More than a few times he came across various posters. One of Bellatrix’s mugshot, teeth gritted in a grin and thrusting herself at the camera, struggling against the arms that held her. Almost all of the Death Eaters seemed to have one or another somewhere in the Alley, laughing cruelly and lashing out against whoever dared take their photograph.

They all seemed gripped with a mania that Harry knew full well hardly seemed to exist, inside the Manor at least.

The last shop on his list was various potion ingredients, contained on an entirely separate piece of parchment, featuring more items than he was sure it had ever contained before.

The shop was quiet, much alike the rest of the alley, but with the welcoming dinginess and cold that the summer had yet to bring outside the Manor. He found himself relaxing over the sound of croaking frogs and a distant draft.

He had just finished purchasing various ingredients, and was debating with the shopkeeper on the right price for some owl treats, when something caught the corner of his eye out of the small, moulded window. Throughout the day, very few people had passed him in the street, let alone had a conversation that could be overheard.

And yet, two hooded figures hurried down the street, talking in loud, agitated voices.

The shopkeeper tried to gently pull his attention back, but he found himself holding up a hand.

“Just give me a moment.”

The shopkeeper fell into silence.

The voices were not just agitated, but loud. Argumentative. Familiar.

One of the men reached across, grabbing the shoulder of the other and pulling him to a harsh stop, as they continued to fight.

The other man shoved him off, pushing off, and walking on forward.

There footsteps hurried, and Harry darted over to the window, his neck straining as he watched the two men disappear down Knockturn alley.  

“Do you still want the owl treats, sir?” asked the shopkeep. Harry nodded frantically, pushing coins the man’s way and shoving the little paper bags in his wicker basket.

“Thank you!” He called out as he left, bursting through the door to the clash of the shop bell, and hurrying down the street towards Knockturn.

He had to know what Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy were doing there.

Harry turned into the dark alleyway just in time to see the two disappearing around a sharp corner, their argument seeming to have died off very slightly.

Harry moved to the shadows, hurrying down the alley after the two.

At each turn his heart hammered, thinking he would lose them. Several times he was left caught on a crossroads, only having his best guess on which way to go.

The few people he encountered seemed to ignore him, as opposed to preying on him as they had done when he was younger.

He wondered if it was because he was an adult now.

Or, perhaps, the Malfoy butler was better known than he thought. One pale-skinned woman who had been smoking out her open window shut it and drew the curtains as soon as he started to walk past.

He followed the two men right down to a small shop, slightly away from everything else, catching them just in time to see the door bang closed. The outside was dusty and ripped, the window’s tinted beyond repair, and almost impossible to see through. If Harry squinted, he could catch sight of what seemed to be a display cabinet, although he couldn’t for the life of him tell what was on it.

A sign over the door proudly proclaimed ‘Borgin and Burks’.

No light seemed to be on inside.

For a moment, Harry despaired. Peering out from his quiet corner of shadow, he stared at the door and waited for them to come back out again.

He didn’t have his invisibility cloak with him.

And there wasn’t a chance that Harry Potter would ever be welcomed within a shop in Knockturn alley.

Sighing, he leaned his head back against the cold stone of the building he had shoved himself up against.

Then, he startled, shooting upwards.

Because he wasn’t Harry Potter. Not at that moment.

Harry straightened out his jumper, smoothing his hands through his hair to make sure it was lying flat, and shoved the wicker basket far up his arm.

Hadrian Evans was a pureblood.

And so, once more, Hadrian Evans walked forward.

The door to Borgin and Burks did not have a bell, instead a wave of magical energy shot out as soon as the door opened.

The voices inside had been arguing once more, with an additional voice this time. Familiar, but not enough so that Harry could place it with any degree of certainty.

When his eyes adjusted to the new level of darkness within the shop, lit by only a few lamps dotted around, he saw a cramped curios shop, with an ancient man standing behind the counter.

Right in front of him, hoods off, was Snape and Malfoy, who had turned to stare at him in open horror.

Or, at least, as close to horror as Snape got.

“Evans,” Malfoy awkwardly tried, looking down at his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Snape said nothing, glaring at him for a long, lasting moment.

“I had a few things I wished to examine,” Harry managed, giving his fakest smile. “I must say, it was a surprise to see you here, young Sir.”

The man behind the counter looked between the three of them, with a deeply uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Is there something specific you are looking for? Quickly?” The ancient man said, making to move out from behind the desk to assist Harry.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy stretched out a hand to stop him, shaking his head and giving him a pleading look as if trying to convey something deeply important.

The old man stopped, taking an extra, rather dramatic step backwards for good measure.

“If you will excuse us,” Snape spoke next, and Harry expected him to lead Malfoy out and hurry away down the street.

Instead, Snape’s arm shot out, once more grabbing hold of Harry and physically dragging him out of the shop.

Snape walked quickly, quickly enough that Harry risked scuffing his shoes if he did not pick up his pace enough.

Snape dragged Harry down a smaller alley, leading to a dead end. It was enclosed, the outside air closed off by an old, flapping tarpaulin, and the only thing of note inside it being a rather large bin and a few random sigils scrawled into the brickwork to their left.

“Why did they send you?” Snape demand, letting go of Harry with such force that Harry stumbled backwards a few steps. “I was told to come. I was told to handle this.”

“Nobody told me to come anywhere. I simply had some items I wanted to collect.”

“Do not lie to me!”

Harry stayed silent, staring at the angry face that terrorised him as a child.

“I promised to take you out of here, to talk sense into the old man, and I haven’t changed my mind. You need to listen to me.”

“I do not know of the old man in which you speak-” Harry tried, before he was quickly cut off.

“Knockturn alley? It would be one thing to send you into an isolated location with plenty of controlled variables but into Knockturn alley alone? Has he truly lost it this time?”

“I have warned you before, and I will not again,” Harry said as loudly as he could, “You speak of treachery, to sides that I do not belong to. I am but a simple Butler, who recently began employment at Malfoy Manor, and yet since I arrived I have been continuously harassed by you. This is me making my request that you stop. My final request.”

“No Butler would ever speak to their master’s like that.”

Harry started at him, directly in the eyes.

“It is my day off. And you are not my master.”

Then Harry turned and out of the alley.

Snape made no move to stop him, although he could hear constant pacing behind his back all the way until he reached the opening of Diagon Alley. He wondered why it was that Snape had so willingly left Malfoy all alone, especially since he seemed so determined to accompany him before. He wondered if it even was Snape that followed so closely behind, where he could not see, and could not hide from them.

He did not look back, not even for a moment as he was silently followed out of Knockturn.

He didn’t make it back to Diagon, instead flicking his portkey in order to head back to the Manor.

His eyes drifted closed as the hook attached itself to his naval, and he was drawn deep into the compressing feeling of a portkey, the world fading away behind him.

As expected, he was deposited in front of the Manor, landing neatly on his heels.

It was heading into evening time, the sun starting to fade over the trees and leaving the sky coated in a deep, dark orange.

His day off still had a few more fleeting hours. He pondered reading, sorting out his new things, and even going to help out in the kitchens, perhaps begging a late-night snack off Mipsy if she happened to be in a particularly giving mood, which she always seemed to be when Harry was concerned.

But as he reached his rooms, he knew there was only one thing he was in the mood for that evening.

Sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry strolled down the hallway, robes billowing behind him.

“It is time,” he hissed to the snake by his feet, Nagini preening herself. “We have kept him waiting long enough, my pet.”

The dungeons were ahead of them, looming, gloomy darkness that seemed to swallow them. The men in cages that surrounded them went still, no banging on the bars, no howling for release.

Only one cell shared two men.

Mundungus Fletcher and a still unnamed assailant, from the Order. They had been put in one of the smallest cages, left until the Order tried to rescue them, or they had been able to gain some added information.

Harry had waited long enough.

And so, in turn, had they.

Harry stalked over to the cell, slowly raising his wand arm, asking one final question.

One of the men screamed an answer, but Harry was too distracted. By the bruises that dotted over the second man’s back, of the red headed wizard who had caused them.

***

Late in the night, Harry’s eyes drifted open, heart pounding, but unable to remember exactly why. Another nightmare? He assumed so.

He fell back asleep in just a few seconds, knowing instinctually that he would remember none of it in the morning. Not waking up, and certainly not the dream.

The next time he dreamed it was of something else entirely.

***

As soon as he woke up, Harry started to write a letter. His eyes were bleary as he reached for his quill, and he had the strangest thought that just perhaps it wasn’t all from sleep.

Dear Lord and Lady Malfoy.

I would like to conduct a meeting so we can discuss handover and sign away the end of my contract.

H. Evans.

He had planned for something much longer, but every dab of the quill in the ink pot seemed to pull and push at something deep inside. His contract was already about to end. It had only been for the summer.

Even if he wanted to stay, which he didn’t, he couldn’t. He had deliberately signed a temporary summer contract.

And Hogwarts was waiting for him, all his old friends, everyone he knew.

Harry handed the letter to Deek as he passed, giving a gentle introduction as to where to deliver it. “Just leave it on Lord Malfoy’s desk, tell him it’s from me,” he had said, still fixing his hair from that morning. When he had awoken, he had felt like a mess. His skin had felt rougher than it had in weeks, hair dry and eye full of sleep. He also had a newly developed bruise from where Snape had shoved him about.

Teach him for taking a day off.

The rest of the day did not get easier from there.

As soon as he reached the kitchens for that morning, he was met with pure chaos. Mipsy was running about, organizing everything and laying around different recipes. Harry, deeply regretting his single day off, cursed in his mind.

“There is an event on this evening, is there not, Mipsy?” he asked, hoping to Merlin that there wasn’t.

“There is being another dinner party this evening.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed.

One last time.

One last dinner party, and then he was done.

“I had completely forgotten, how many people will be coming?” Harry asked curiously, reaching in his mind for the distant memory of when he and Mipsy must have previously discussed it.

“There is not being many people. It is being the Lord and Lady Malfoy, young master Malfoy, Lady Bellatrix, Lord Rodolphus and…” Mipsy hesitated her count and Harry knew exactly who was left. “Master Dark Lord, sir.”

Harry nodded to himself.

“Well then,” he said finally, “I suppose we need to make this the best one yet.”

He didn’t wait for Mipsy’s answer, already reaching for the cookbook they both used for such occasions.

“Say Mipsy,” he said eventually, looking down at the small elf with a smile on his face, “What do you say about a five-course meal instead of the normal three?”

To his delight, Mipsy gave him a warm smile back.

“I is saying that we is having all day to be doing it.”

Harry dramatically raised his eyebrows at his friend, grin stretching fully over his face.

“Well, it seems to me like we have something to do.”

One last dinner party. Why not make it the best one?

Harry had never been one to do things by halves.

***

The last moment dinner party was expected. Harry had encountered more than a few of them, and whole day’s blessing would normally have been a stroke of luck, despite the lateness.

The cooking and preparation taking up most of Harry’s day was also expected, as he often had to distribute or delay his chores until it was all done.

Deek rushing into the kitchen, holding a note tightly gripped in his hand, was not.

“Mister Evans! Mister Evans! Master Malfoy is being sending this to you.”

Harry reached down, brushing flour off his hand onto a nearby tea towel, and took the letter. It wasn’t bound or sealed, very unlike how Lord Malfoy typically would, and instead just folded over itself, unevenly. Like it had been done in a hurry, to ensure nobody else could check it.

Harry opened the letter, trying his very best to tune out Mipsy’s cooking noise behind him. Whatever it was, he could only hope it would be short so he could get back to work.

Hadrian,

Come to my office immediately.

Lord Malfoy.

Harry’s heart dropped.

His mind span through a hundred different possibilities. Had they found out who he was? Had Snape? Was Voldemort waiting to kill him?

Had he messed something up? Was he going to be fired before he could even do the handover?

“Keep working on everything Mipsy, I should be back soon.” Harry said quickly, hoping the apology rang through his voice.

“I is being doing that,” she said.

Harry took that as his que and dashed to the staircase.

Throughout the rest of the Manor, all the way back to Lord Malfoy’s office, he speed-walked, stopping himself every time he went to break into a run. The last thing he needed was to be fired or exposed for some slight dripping with sweat and panting like a fool.

When he reached the door, he took a moment to settle himself, taking a long, deep breath. The air filled his lungs, soothing his heartbeat and drawing his attention back to earth.

He knocked on the door.

“Enter!”

The door swung open by itself.

Inside the office, much to Harry’s surprise, was not only Lucius, but also Narcissa. If he expected to see them sitting solemnly at the desk, he would have been disappointed, as instead they had moved to sit on one of the two sofas in the corner of the room, facing him.

“Take a seat,” Narcissa said, waving her hand towards the sofa in front of their own.

Harry did as instructed, careful to keep his back straight and not to lounge.

“Is there something you wished to discuss with me?” Harry found himself asking, fighting the urge to rub the back of his neck to sooth his nerves.

Lucius Malfoy reached forward placing some parchment in front of Harry. Just a quick look over it showed him that it was the letter he had sent earlier that morning. He looked at it again. He had used his handwriting that was different than Harry Potters, and thus unrecognisable. He hadn’t accidentally written something incredibly rude, or even signed it with the wrong name in his morning daze.

“Is there a problem?”

“As you know we’ve had some problems over the years keeping staff other than house elves. You are, by far, our longest running butler,” Narcissa began with a troubled look on her face, “we understand that it is a difficult environment at the very best of times. But I have to ask why you’ve decided to leave, and what we could possibly do to convince you to stay.”

Harry stared at her, utterly gobsmacked.

“Ma’am,” he started, tongue darting out over his lips, “I was hired only for the summer. My contract expires in a few days.”

Narcissa and Lucius looked at each other, seeming to have a private conversation in their minds.

“That was only precautionary,” Lucius said quickly, “We’ve had such problems with staff overturn…it can be easily extended. We would be more than happy to continue working alongside you.”

Harry’s insides burned.

Before, it had seemed so simple. So easy. His contract would end, and he would have to return to Hogwarts as before, as there was nothing else for him to do to help the Order. An easy, straightforward set of events that were as out of his control as such things normally were.

“I am terribly sorry,” he heard a distant voice say, only recognising it a moment later as his own, “but as I didn’t know of this, I’ve already arranged my next employment.”

The silence in the room was deafening, even once Harry came back to himself. He had already made his decision in Diagon Alley. Hogwarts was home. He couldn’t just not go back, even after everything that had happened over the course of the summer.

Lucius Malfoy stood up, walked to his desk, and came back with a fancy, leatherbound wizarding chequebook.

“How much are they offering you pay you?”

Narcissa passed her husband a quill from a wall-holder behind him.

“Sir, I don’t think-”

“We would be more than happy to match or exceed the salary where needed.”

“Sir, I-”

“Just name a price. We understand better than most how highly coveted your services must be. We have no intentions to shortchange you.”

“Sir, please-”

“Benefits!” Narcissa suddenly sprung in with, “we had almost nothing in your original contract apart from time off, but that is another thing we could match or exceed.”

“Tell us, what do you want? All expenses paid holidays? Larger rooms? Private healthcare? A personal elf? An assistant?” Lucius sprung in again. Although his voice was deeply sincere, Harry shook his head and almost laughed. It all sounded like a joke. What kind of butler received all expenses paid holidays throughout the year? Or any of the other insane things he was listing off?

They must have really been struggling to replace him.

“I can contact my mentor to see if he knows of anyone who could replace me, if you are struggling to find someone.”

Harry stared at the two, with their defeated expressions with a deep sense of confusion in his chest. Had they really been completely unable to find someone new? Or to keep staff for that long?

“Is there nothing we could do to convince you to stay?”

“I really am sorry, but I’ve already signed my new contract.”

“Our solicitors can-”

“I’ve made a commitment. I intend to follow it through. I am more than happy to create any handover documents needed.” It was the first time he had ever dared to interrupt his employers, but it seemed to finally get through to them the severity of what he was saying. That it was final. That he was leaving.

Lucius and Narcissa fell back into their subdued state.

“Very well then. You may leave.”

“See you at dinner this evening,” Harry said, pushing himself to his feet.

“Wait!” Narcissa suddenly spoke up, hand reached out as if to physically stop him. “Just…promise me that if anything happens with your new role, when your contract expires, you’ll contact us first. There’ll always be a position here open for you. Always. Any pay you desire. Any allowances. Anything.”

“Thank you kindly, madam,” Harry said, smiling at her kind, but likely shallow words.

“Promise me,” her words were shockingly desperate, as if she were about to jump on him, clinging to him until he did finally promise.  

“I promise.”

And then Hadrian left.

***

Even before it was run, Harry knew it would be his favourite dinner party of the lot.

He’d had himself and the house elves set everything up, not inside the primary dining room as was expected of such an event, but instead in the sitting room that he had been introduced to on his very first day at the Manor.

He had draped all of the curtains down to cover the windows and turned off the main lights. A few of the outside surfaces had been covered in flickering candles, as had the candle holder in the middle of the small table everyone would be eating off of.

It was the first time he had ever seen the Manor look anything that could be described as cozy.

As a momentary thought he also lit the fireplace, burning a small circle of light and heating the room so perhaps, just perhaps, everything would be warmer.

Feeling like taking risks, right at the very end of his employment, Harry had also pushed all of the sofa’s near each other, grouped around the small table, so everyone could sit together.

The doors were open.

And the guests were arriving.

To add onto the list of strange things that were happening during the day, it was not the Malfoy’s who entered first, of even the Lestrange’s as it so usually was.

Lord Voldemort came into the sitting room first, robes swishing around his feet. It was the first time Harry had seen him since the evening with the bath, fully, really seen him. Usually, the air around Voldemort seemed to cool, but not even that seemed to dampen the warmth and comfort of the room.

Voldemort stood, unmoving in the doorway, eyes affixed on Harry. Harry, in turn, scrunched his forehead.

“Please, do take a seat,” Harry said, gesturing towards the singular armchair he had pulled over from across the room just for that purpose. Partially because he couldn’t quite imagine Voldemort on the end of a coach, and also because he couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting to share the couch with him.

Voldemort sat, staring instead at the candles flickering in front of him.

“You moved the furniture,” he said, voice no colder than it normally was.

“Yes.”

“You do not attempt to apologize.”

“I do not. I will put it all back.”

The two fell silent.

The rest of the family started slowly coming in after that, Bellatrix and Rodolphus next. They also seemed a little startled to see the Dark Lord already there, sitting in an armchair, but quickly made there way to their own seats on one of the sofa’s. To Harry’s amazement, as he passed, Rodolphus patted him on the back.

The Malfoy’s were the last to arrive, coming all together as they always did. Draco was back to looking pale and drawn, as if Voldemort was about to start slaughtering the room at any moment.

Harry looked across to him, to where he was staring at the candles.

Perhaps, Malfoy wasn’t entirely wrong.

When everyone was sat, lit together by the gentle candlelight, Harry began to speak.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Usually I would go on more, but in fear of you getting tired of my voice before this meal is over, allow me to introduce the first course – our hors d'oeuvre of today.”

Harry clicked his fingers, filling the small table with plates.

“Cranberry Endive Appetizers,” he declared, “served with blue cheese, which is often associated with the mystical and unpredictable, dried cranberries as a symbol of abundance, wrapped in Belgian endives, and mixed with toasted pecans. Enjoy.”

Everyone reached forward almost immediately, piling some of the empty plates.

Perhaps the candlelight, the warm atmosphere had done some good. The hesitancy that so commonly existed in the dining room had gone, leaving only a warmth.

Perhaps there really was some family left in the Manor after all.

The hors d'oeuvre’s were eaten with a speed Harry didn’t even know was possible. He clicked his fingers to clean the plates.

He moved back from his corner that he had put himself in once they ate and went to speak.

“Have you eaten dinner?” It was Bellatrix that spoke, shocking everyone by breaking the silence. Harry blinked for a moment, quite sure he had seen everyone at the table eat, before she realised she was talking to him.

“I’m perfectly fine, Ma’am. Now for our-”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Harry gave her a smile.

“I will eat my meal later, now-”

“Join us.”

The words cut through the room with such intensity Harry was genuinely surprised that all the candles did not immediately snuff out.

“We insist,” Lucius stepped in, speaking for the rest of them.

Harry’s eyes darted to Voldemort’s, who seemed quite uninterested, deeply uncaring.

Very well then.

Harry was quite sure that it was deeply unprofessional, both on the side of the employer and himself to join them for dinner, but he couldn’t care less.

He only had a few days left. And Hadrian Evans deserved the fancy things Harry Potter would never get.

Bellatrix and her husband moved further up the couch to make room, and Harry found himself squeezing in between them. After a moment of thought, after all protocol had been truly and properly destroyed, her removed his formal jacket.

“For our appetizers this evening we have Ham-Spinach Crepe Cups served with swiss cheese as a centre, with additional cooked ham and spinach.”

He clicked his fingers.

The food appeared neatly in front of them, and Harry couldn’t help the delighted smile that reached his face when an empty plate was passed into his hands so he could load up on the food.

Even in the warm room, Bellatrix herself was strangely warm when he pressed up next to her. It was funny really, just a month earlier he would have had no second thoughts about killing her where she was, no matter who could see. You killed Sirius. How dare she? Even in that moment, with knives on the table in front of him, he just didn’t.

For the first few minutes, every bite they took, eating in silence, made him want to grab on the blades and stab straight though her side.

But the more they ate, silently together. The more he considered her invitation, he allowed the thoughts to drift from his mind. By the time they reached the salad course - Chicken Salad Caprese served with mozzarella cheese, artichoke hearts, grape tomatoes, Greek olives, garlic, and fresh basil, the thoughts were easy to brush aside.

When they reached the main, Creamy Pesto Shrimp pasta, they had almost disappeared.

As much as the moment was peaceful, all sitting together and eating, it also felt like a goodbye. Something final. From them all.

Even Lord Voldemort hadn’t protested letting the staff come and sit beside them for a meal designed by its very nature to be intimate.

“Our dessert this evening is something very special indeed.” Harry had dropped the performative voice some, instead speaking quietly so as not to disturb the stillness of the night. “A marmalade & earl grey frangipane tart served with flaked almonds. Enjoy.”

Click.

A pleased feeling crept across his mind, and he was glad his hunch of the Dark Lord fancying earl grey earlier that day had been correct.

Even Harry had to admit, although he had made the tart itself (finding it hidden in the back of one of the baking books, covered in a layer of dust) it was delicious.

Soon, the family were making there way out of the room, leaving a quietly as they had come in. The hour was late, and time was slowly pressing on towards the pink light of the morning skies.

Just as before, it still felt like a goodbye.

But not something final.

Like a see-you-later. Which would never happen.

But, when Voldemort met his eyes before he left, giving a firm nod before sweeping out the door leaving Harry to deal with the mess and the shifted furniture, a strange feeling came over in.

In any other situation, perhaps Harry would have called it hope.

Chapter Text

When Harry awoke on the last morning, he could do little more than stare at the ceiling in subdued silence. His room was warm, as it always was, and the morning light filled the room until everything was picked up in a white-gold sheen of the very earliest fragments of autumn.

His insides ached, as if he himself had been fighting to the death the day before, and his very organs had taken the battering. Why did it hurt so damn much?

He was going back to normal, to Hogwarts, to home. And yet he felt much as he did when leaving Hogwarts to go back to the Dursley’s every single summer. Cold, dark, and so very, very alone.

Without bothering to dress, Harry stood up stretching out his back. His muscles cracked and popped as he did so, realising just some of the tension he had gained in the previous few days and weeks.

He practically threw his school trunk on the bed, popping open the buckles and finding himself oddly surprised at how empty it was. It seemed, he had unpacked and moved himself in – as it where – more than he had thought. The items left scattered within it were few and far between. An extra bottle of hair dye that hadn’t made it into the bathroom. His interview outfit from the tailor.

And Sirius’s broken mirror.

Harry lifted the shard into his hand, staring at his own green eye reflected back through silver-rimmed glasses.

All this time, he had completely forgotten.

It wasn’t like he had just stopped thinking about Sirius completely, his reaction to sitting next to Bellatrix was more than enough for that to be borderline ridiculous, but for a while, for a whole year even, it had been like Sirius was all he could think of. He had slept by that mirror, hoping it would spontaneously come to life, and the familiar voice would just flow through.

He had sat by the Hogwarts fire, hoping for another risky floo call.

He had walked the grounds, sat under the Womping Willow, and cried himself to sleep night after night. Even at the start of the summer, his grief had seemed never-ending.

And, although his heart still ached when he saw just his own face staring back through the fragment, it wasn’t the raging inferno it once had been. A small ache. A small pinprick.

He slumped onto his bed, clutching the shard so tight in his hand it threatened to break his skin.

Why had it been this of all things that made him feel normal again? Like a functioning, sentient, human being.

It shouldn’t have been living, working for, Merlin helping his enemies. And yet it was. And after that evening, he would never be able to come back.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Harry shook himself.

He put the shard down on the bed beside him and shoved his face in his hands. Straining his imagination, he tried to picture sitting down in Dumbledore’s office, telling him everything he had learned. All of the documents on the Dark Lord’s desk. All of the meetings he had overheard. Every little moment that made him sick with horror and stress and surely would fuel his nightmares for years to come.

But, even in his mind, the words fell flat before he could say them. No mater how hard he tried, no matter how many times he pictured himself back on that uncomfortable chair, his throat just ached further, twisting inwardly as if trying to stop him.

All of it was so very, very wrong. All of it. The job. The Butlers that had come before. The flower. Nagini. Eating with Bellatrix.

The Circe-damned bath.

None of it should have ever, ever happened.

But then Harry’s shoulders slumped.

Because no matter how hard he tried to put everything into perspective. No matter how many times he thought back to helping Voldemort in that tub in a way that would have horrified him just a month before, left him feeling so, completely and utterly relaxed. Even the thought of the steam, the stilted conversation that said nothing and everything, made his shoulder’s sag and his breathing even out.

He didn’t have to be a Golden Boy at Malfoy Manor. Because the people at Malfoy Manor were the villains, no matter how stressed. They knew that. And there was never an expectation to be anything but that.

They were, they could be, bad people. And that was the end of it. That could be the end of it. They were stressed bad people, tormented bad people even. And maybe a younger Harry would have thought they deserved it.

He could probably rip someone’s head off, stuff it, and add it to the wall of house-elf heads and nobody would even bat an eye. Probably. He really could do anything, morality aside. And nobody would stop talking to him, nobody would accuse him of lying to try and get attention.

Morality wasn’t assigned to every little thing, and something about that relaxed a part of Harry that he didn’t even know existed.

Harry furiously scrubbed at his long hair.

He was being stupid, he knew he was. It was insane, ridiculous even. He thought back to all of the people with bags under their eyes, blood pouring down the side of teacups, and the shadows that seemed to jump out from every corner.

It was not a good thing to be. Not a good place to be.

One more day, and he would never have to think about it ever again.

Harry took a long swallow before starting to pack up the rest of his things. Hedwig’s stuff first, his books, his award certificates, his letters. As he did so he hummed an odd song that he vaguely recognised from Aunt Petunia’s radio form several years before, doing everything he could not to just sit in his own thoughts.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t folding the uniform in preparation to hand it back over to the Malfoy’s that broke him. It wasn’t opening the window to tell Hedwig to go to Hogwarts, before shrinking her cage down. It wasn’t even picking up his portkey and realising that it would be the last time it ever activated, just later that day. He kept it together throughout, even when his fingers white-knuckled the window, swallowing down his feelings.

It was his bathroom cabinet that made his heart feel ready to break out of his chest. There, on the very top shelf, was his bottles of hair dye and lengthening potion. The sob was out of him before he could stop it. His fingers clutched the side of the sink, as he sunk to his knees.

Some distant part of his mind wanted to grasp onto the counter and never let go, hugging the sink until all the magic in the world would be unable to pull him away.

The sobs rose further up his throat, until he let go of the sink all together and collapsed in front of it, chest heaving and throat burning.

He wasn’t aware of how long he cried, only that he didn’t know why, and that at some point his legs had drawn up so much his back was aching and his tailbone felt as though it had been stepped on by a giant.

It’s just something different. He needed to talk in a different voice. He’d be away from the stress.

It was relief.

It had to be relief.

Harry had never cried from relief before in his life, not after escaping from the Graveyard, nor the chamber. Not when his uncle decided to leave him alone, or when Dudley saw him in public and decided not to harass him for whatever reason.

And yet, it was like he couldn’t stop crying.

Who cried over leaving a hellhole anyway?

It must have been hours when Harry shoved himself to his feet, feeling thoroughly defeated.

In a blind haze, he grabbed the bottles and almost threw them into his trunk, uncaring of where they landed.

Something else. He needed to do something else before it destroyed him.

And his eyes landed on his bedside drawer, and the dancing dark magic that seemed to emanate from it.

He was at the drawer before he even really knew what he was doing, opening it up to stare down at the handkerchief within. The same as it always was, complete and perfect white, with little stitched red flowers in the corner.

Harry lifted it to his nose and sniffed it, growing suddenly dizzy as the waves of dark magic hit him hard.

He fisted it in his hand.

It couldn’t hurt. Surely, it couldn’t hurt to just take one thing with him.

As evidence.

He needed evidence.

Something to prove that the summer hadn’t been a fever dream. That it had all really happened.

That he had really done everything he thought he had.

The Dark magic burned into his fingertips as he shut the drawer, carrying it over to his still-open case. Somehow, just as the dark thoughts had earlier, it relaxed him. (And, deep down, so deep he couldn’t squash it, that thought alone made a little joy splash in his chest).

Without thinking any further, he grasped for the shard of mirror, staring as his eye reflected back. He quickly bound the shard of mirror in the handkerchief, hiding them both deep inside his case, in one of the smaller pockets.

Then, with one final sweep of the room, he heaved the case closed, buckling it tight. For one shaky moment, he thought he was about to cry again.

In the next few moments, he dressed himself in clothes he had laid out moments before. A white-pressed button down, black trousers, and shoes. He couldn’t help but feel underdressed, awkwardly pulling at his collar waiting to feel the tightness of his bowtie or breathing exaggeratedly to feel the pull of his waistcoat.

But then, he supposed. They weren’t his anymore.

He supposed, in a way, they never truly were.

For just a while, for a few precious moments, they had belonged to Hadrian Evans. Harry Potter should have never walked the halls of the Manor. Should have never slept in the bedroom.

He gave his long hair one last rake through with his fingers, feeling numb as he realised it was the last time he would ever have it so long. In that colour. That smooth. He would never have to put it into a ponytail again.

Blood seemed to keep swelling to his head.

Why? Why? WHY?

He had some goodbye’s to say.

Heaving up the case, he started making his way to the door of the room, last minute putting the uniform (which he had bagged) under his arm.

Soon it would be over. In some ways, perhaps it already was.

He almost made it out the door before he broke again.

Harry couldn’t help but stare back at the biggest, nicest room he had ever slept in. One that he didn’t have to share, that nobody else ever entered. So much had happened in that room.

He thought back to every letter, every time Mipsy frantically knocked begging for help, every time Hedwig cuddled into his side, flapping her wings and going out whenever she wanted. Having the window open on late summer evenings, watching the sunset go down.

Watching the Dark Lord walk around, and drinking up all that delicious, deep, dark power.

Harry slammed the door shut, fumbling with his keys without a free hand to lock it behind him.

Never again.

The kitchens were next, and for a moment, Harry almost thought of not going at all. He didn’t know if he could face Mipsy or the others. He couldn’t even remember if he had told them all when he was leaving.

For some reason, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

When he opened the door to see all three chatting happily in the kitchen, falling to silence when he entered, he had his answer.

It was Mispy’s eyes he caught first, knowing her best. He watched as her large eyes darted from his clothes to his face, to the case, to the bagged uniform.

Her eyes welled.

“You is being leaving then.”

“Yes. I – that is, I am. Yes.”

The other’s said nothing.

Harry looked away quickly, unable to meet Deek’s eyes either.

The third elf he didn’t know as well – Tufty – an deep voice whispered at the back of his mind.

The silence was pressing.

That was, of course, until all of his bags went clattering to the ground, and his arms were full of three elves holding him very tightly. Harry squeezed back, hardly worrying about how overbearing he was being.

“There is being nothing we is doing to convince you to stay?”

Harry let out a long, choked sigh.

His shoulder’s shook with the movement, jarring his aching back.

He held on to the hug longer.

***

In the end, Harry would never be quite sure how he had made it back to the Malfoy’s office in one piece.

He stood outside the threshold for a while, so long in fact that he started to pick up voices from inside.

It would be a shame to miss this one final opportunity.

He pressed his ear to the door. What was the worst they could do? Fire him?

Although, in the end, it didn’t really matter. The whispers were so faint that they were practically non-existent. He almost thought for a moment that he heard them talk about Hogsmead for a moment, before viciously deciding that it was him being fanciful.

He was leaving.

And it was deeply unlikely he would ever be near them again, except on the battlefield.

He knocked.

The voices fell silent as he entered, holding the uniform and keys out in front of him for the taking.

His throat seemed to have swollen completely closed, unable for even a tiny sound to escape.

To his shock, Narcissa stood up from the desk, grasping the clothes and keys from his hands and taking them. He had to bite down the sudden desire to beg for them back, to hold them for just a few more seconds, he needed them just a little bit longer.

He wasn’t ready to let go yet. He needed more time.

She pulled him into a hug too.

Unlike with the elves it was completely unexpected, and he found himself clutching to her, head falling across her chest. She smelled faintly of roses, and of skin cream that he knew she applied liberally. The slightly vanilla of her shampoo as well, which had arrived for the weekly shop and-

“It’s been lovely working with you, my dear.”

She had never called Harry that before.

“It’s been wonderful working with you too.”

She gave a light, tittering laugh, holding him closer.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had a member of staff say that before.”

Harry found himself choking on a laugh as well.

“Maybe I’m just special then.”

“You are,” she confirmed quietly, “I promise you, you are.”

She drew back, and Harry’s insides ached. Only for a moment though, as he was drawn into a second hug, by a much stiffer, firmer pair of arms.

“Do not loose contact. We always have a place open for you.”

They were bad people, he reminded himself.

Really, really great bad people.

***

Without question, on that day, it was the worst Porktkey of his life.

When he arrived at his destination, the random muggle side-street, he lost all the balance he had been gaining over the last few weeks and months.

So much so that his insides churned, and he threw up all over the side of the road. Just a bad trip, he reminded himself. Just a bad portkey.

But still…he tucked the bracelet into his pocket.

His arm thrust out, and the Knight bus almost smacked him in the face.

He coughed in the smoke, spluttering and choking as he made his way on, giving a hasty instruction for Diagon Alley, hoping he could stay there for the single night before he had to make the trip to King’s Cross station.

And so, he could change himself again. He tried his best not to think about that part.

He slumped in a booth he was familiar with and closed his eyes.

Just as his scar began to burn white hot, hissing voice bellowing in his head even from hundreds of miles away.

He curled into himself, welcoming the pain like an old friend.

Lemon tea, no milk. A silver spoon.

Harry Potter laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Until he cried.

Chapter Text

The Leaky Caldron was exactly as Harry had remembered it. Dingy, dark, and with the strongest smell of beer that made a person suspect that every available surface would be sticky with it.

He kept his hood pulled fully over his face.

He may have left it now, but Merlin knows what people would think if Hadrian Evans was in a dubious wizarding pub, when he was supposed to be well on his way to another placement with a Lord and Lady. It simply would not do.

“A room. Just for tonight,” he muttered to the man behind the bar, throwing a stack of coins across at him. Perhaps another version of Harry would have been outraged by his attitude, called him spoiled, that everyone deserved respect. And he wouldn’t have been wrong.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to care.

The man had reached behind the bar, pulling out a slightly grubby key and shoved it into Harry’s hand. The other mans were clammy, hot, and Harry had to fight against wincing. How long had it been since he’d touched another’s skin that wasn’t cold with dark magic flowing through.

“Room six. Remember to lock, mate.”

Harry gave a small incline of his head as a thanks, making his way towards the stairs.

“Will you want dinner?” The man called behind him.

“Please. Send it up soon,” Harry said after a moment, before grabbing hold of the wooden handrail.

Hopefully not too soon. Harry had something he needed to do that was much more pressing.

Just moments before, Harry had stumbled off the Knight bus towards the entrance, still wiping stray tears from his face, and trying to pull his cloak and hood out of his case at the same time.

It had very nearly ended with him dropping the case and breaking down on the side of the street. Instead, he had chosen the much more elegant option of ducking into an alleyway, dropping his case, and then crying.

Just a little bit.

Room six was small. Smaller than his bedroom at the Dursley’s, even. A small metal bed was pushed into one corner, with a chest of draws pressed right against it as a makeshift bedside table. The wooden chair awkwardly shoved in front of it told Harry that it was also used to substitute for a desk as well.

But he was relieved to see that, as he had hoped, another small door led out of the room, to an on-suite bathroom. It was small. Small, but comfortable. Clean, or, at least as clean as a place like that got.

Harry lifted his case on top of the chest of draws, pulling at his cloak with his other hand, which he threw over the back of the chair.

Once that was done he threw open his case (double checking that he had locked the door behind him) and started pulling things out.

He wasn’t going to cry. Not again.

Perhaps if he told it to himself enough times, it would become true.

Arms filled with bottles Harry made his way into the bathroom and locked that door as well.

Where to begin?

He looked at his reflection in the dusty mirror above the sink.

His hand was shaking as he reached for a wad of toilet paper. He pulled his glasses off his face. If he couldn’t see it, maybe it would be easier. Smoother transition.

He wetted the paper with some removing agent he had bought in a bottle, before wiping it all over his face. His skin tingled as the magical makeup was removed. This was normal. He had done this more than a few times at the Malfoy’s.

Why did this also make him want to break down? Cry on the floor?

He didn’t need his glasses when he rubbed the colour removing agent into his hair. Or the spell to reverse the smoothing nature of the original.

He ran his fingers through it, wincing as it caught on his wild curls. Never again would he just be able to run a brush through it.

Harry had never been taught how to cut hair with magic.

And so, it was with a pair of scissors he found in one of the drawers that he started hacking away at his long hair, watching through blurry vision as black clumps fell into the sink. He could neaten it up when his glasses were back on.

For that moment, he just needed it off. To get rid of the weight.

Even if he was sure the lightness would let him drift away into Merlin-knows-were. It was better than the alternative, at the very least.

When he thought it seemed good enough, he waved his wand to vanish the hair from the sink, and off the side of the scissors.

Another sob caught in his throat. He ignored it, as best as he could.

His hands fumbled around, finding his silver frames from where he had left them, just by his side. His fingers flexed over them, before dropping them harshly on the counter.

Instead, he rummaged between the bottles and pulled out his old, rounded, black glasses.

As he put them on, his eyes slid closed, expecting to feel a sense of familiarity.

Instead, the glasses pinched his nose, feeling cramped and small on his face. The middle dug in with a crevasse from where they had been broken so many times, and they pinched the sides of his head from where they had been the wrong side.

His eyes fell open in shock.

Then, he saw the mirror.

He hadn’t known quite what to expect. Perhaps some feeling of the familiar, something that he knew and understood. A face that spoke with his voice.

He didn’t get it.

A stranger seemed to stare back at him.

A stranger with uneven hair that really did look like Aunt Petunia had hacked away at it, hunched even at his small height in the tight space and looking all together out of place.

“You couldn’t have done any better with that haircut?” came the snide voice of the male mirror in front of him, speaking up for he first time.

Harry fell to his knees in front of the counter, unable to stop the tears from leaking through his eyelids.

Circe damned. What had he done?

Who was he, even?

He took a shaky breath.

So long, Malfoy Manor.

You, and whyever it made him hurt so damned much.

***

The next morning, Harry managed to make his way to King’s Cross. Years later he would never be able to say how he did it, through a mix of feeling nothing and everything and anxiety and misery.

But he did.

Distantly, looking back, he could remember taking the Knight Bus once more, having Stan Shunpike jokingly greet him as “Neville!” He didn’t think he had ever responded to that.

Perhaps he should have done.

Perhaps there were a lot of things he should have done.

Or not done, as the case was.

His case was heavy, he had noticed lugging it all over the place. It didn’t help that his back ached from a night spent on a bed that really hadn’t been anywhere close to what the Malfoy’s considered standard enough for even a servant to sleep in.

His stomach also churned uncomfortably. The dinner that had been delivered that night was a plate of grease. Or, more accurately, a proper Sunday dinner with Yorkshire’s, sausages and things just about green enough to pass as vegetables, once they had been covered in plenty of gravy.

Harry had been thrilled at the sight, or, at least, part of him was. The Malfoy’s would have never allowed such foods to be brought into the house, let alone eaten. Freedom, he pleaded with his mind, this was freedom. The fact even the sight turned his stomach after a month of fresh, home-cooked food was hardly worth mentioning.

Nor was the way he woke up to be viciously sick in the middle of the night. Freedom, he had thought bitterly sitting over the toilet bowl. So much for that.

But still, he made it to King’s Cross.

His legs were unsteady, his muscles had no strength, and he found himself leaning on his case, having to stop every few moments to catch his breath. What was wrong with him?

He was out of all the dark magic, away from the nightmares that had haunted him since he was a small child. So why was it then more than ever, that was filled with such an ever-pressing empty feeling?

He pushed that part of him down.

As he approached the barrier, some strange part of himself wondered about it stopping him again, just as it had done in second year.

A Malfoy elf hadn’t wanted him to leave that time either. Hadn’t wanted him to go to Hogwarts.

Perhaps it was foolish, but some part of him wanted Malfoy elves to stop him again.

He closed his eyes and leaned into the barrier.

He knew he was through before he even opened his eyes again, feeling the light buzz of the magic pass over him like a wave. The sounds of muggle King’s Cross left him, and when he opened his eyes he was greeted with the wizarding side. Children laughing, the steam train blowing smoke, and cats meowing.

It occurred to him that it was the first time he had ever passed through the barrier on his own. Without the Weasley’s. For a moment he looked around for them, but saw no sign of red hair. Where they coming separately? Already on the train?

He hadn’t sent a single letter all summer.

Not a note.

Not a patronus.

Not even a floo call.

Nothing.

And, over the time at the Malfoy’s, he had hardly even noticed. Not even really for a moment. In a weird way, it hadn’t really mattered. He wouldn’t have wanted to talk to them when he was like that anyway.

In another way, he almost still didn’t.

Harry started lugging his trunk over towards the express, and then he froze.

Because, what felt like the hundredths time, he heard a breathtakingly familiar set of voices from behind him. But it wasn’t the Weasley’s. It wasn’t Hermione’s family either.

Harry shoved his way behind one of the beams, peering out from the side.

“Remember Draco, you can always send a note,” Narcissa Malfoy walked with her son, hand on his shoulder, speaking encouragingly into his ear. It would have been almost impossible to know what she was staying if you weren’t as familiar with her quiet, firm tones as Harry was.

As it was, as it was Harry, the words washed over him like water, enveloping him in memories that were close enough to touch, and yet so very, very far from reach.

“And you too, you need to send me an owl if something happens. If…something happens. Please.”

Harry’s breath caught.

Even at the Manor he couldn’t remember Malfoy being quite so bold, even in a quiet, withheld way.

“There’s nothing you can do, Draco,” Narcissa whispered, running her hand through her son’s hair and pulling him in for a tight hug. Harry knew what those arms felt like. They had hugged him hours before.

“He could.”

Those words jolted Harry out of his longing thoughts, wincing at it pulled his neck which had been forced in an awkward position to peer around the pillar.

“He is not here.”

“But I can find him! I could look, send him a letter. I’m sure he would respond if he knew it was urgent enough..”

“Don’t be silly,” Narcissa hissed, pulling away to glare into her son’s eyes. “Don’t go looking for trouble. That’s the last thing we need at the moment.”

The train whistle blew.

Narcissa seemed to perk up immediately, as if she expected other people to be peering in, making sure she seemed suitably ready to give her son away.

So suddenly that perhaps another eye would have thought she seemed excited about her son leaving to begin with.

Most would dismiss that as trying to be happy for their child didn’t miss them so much.

As luck would have it, Harry was not one of those people.

“Hurry! Or you’ll miss the train!”

They drew each other back into a hug, and Draco grabbed his truck and started to run.

It was only after Narcissa apparated away that Harry realised she was right. He also grabbed his trunk and bolted.

It was only a few feet but he was panting, pulling on every bad muscle in his body, managing to wrench the door open just in time and hop in.

The train bustled with students, chatting and moving along, shoving each other about.

Harry joined the throng, looking around to find an empty compartment. To his great surprise he found one, shoved right at the carriage. He shimmied the door open, heaving his trunk onto one of the seats.

He still hadn’t seen Ron or Hermione, but perhaps they had already found one of their own. He would see them at Hogwarts, he was quite sure.

As it always was, it was just as he settled into those thoughts that the doors flew open with an impressive display of force.

“Harry!”

“Thank Merlin, he’s here!”

It was only then a vague memory came across Harry’s mind from the first Death Eater meeting he had stood in.

He had entirely forgotten that Harry Potter had supposedly gone missing.

Chapter Text

“I’m here,” Harry replied awkwardly, giving a shaky grin. He cursed his voice. Shaky as his smile. Like he was just begging them to ask him questions. To know that he had something to hide.

They both collapsed in the seats in front of him, the fabric creasing around them.

His hand twitched, supressing the urge and reach forward and flatten it out.

“Harry, mate, you’ve had everyone worried about you!”

“What were you thinking disappearing like that?”

“I was thinking that I am an adult and wanted to spend some time to myself after everything that happened,” Harry snapped back, regretting the words as soon as they crossed his tongue. They didn’t deserve that. Not really.

They seemed to realise that as well, faces softening.

“Sorry mate, that was harsh.”

“We were just so worried! Dumbledore sent another watcher to check on you – an odd woman really, not the sort he usually sends – and she came back on the Knight bus panicking that nobody had seen you and you weren’t at home!”

A visage flashed through Harry’s mind, of that first day leaving on the Knight bus and the pure-blooded woman in a hurry he had bumped into. Wouldn’t that be so very, very ironic?

“You could have just asked the Dursleys. I took a summer job, live in and everything.”

“Harry!” Hermione rebuked.

“What? It was muggle, perfectly and completely ordinary. I wanted to stay away from magic for a bit.” The lies were out of his mouth before he even realised he was saying them. A wave of shock passed through him as he realised just how easy it had been.

And then the guilt hit him, slightly.

He would have to get better at that. He couldn’t just keep lying to them when he didn’t want to give an answer.

Not like he had been doing for the previous few weeks.

“I suppose that makes sense. I get it Harry, I really, really do but you could of at least told someone.”

She didn’t get it. Not really. Harry shushed that voice inside his head. She was trying to be kind. She was worried. And, if she knew the truth, she would have every right to be.

“I told aunt Petunia, I thought she might pass the message on.”

That, at the very least, was certainly true.

Hermione’s face softened full, and she leaned across and embraced Harry. He held her back, feeling her warmth and kindness in every touch.

“We wanted to write, oh, Harry we did!”

“I know you did.”

They let go of each other, only for Harry to be pulled into another hug by Ron.

“Good to have you back, mate.”

“I never really left.”

Ignoring the fact he had. That Harry Potter hadn’t existed for more than a month.

“Are you sure you are okay though? You look pale.”

That’s what a month inside Malfoy Manor will do to you.

“Just tired, didn’t sleep well last night.”

“You can talk to us about anything, you know that right, Harry?”

“I know,” Harry said, giving his best attempt at a smile. He was sure he had failed, but also not entirely sure they had noticed either. Acting was a lot easier when someone was being an entirely separate person.

“Besides, there’s so much to catch you up on!” Ron leaned in conspiratorially, “Especially if you’ve been hanging with muggles.”

Harry leaned in as well, wondering if he really was going to hear anything new.

“Right, so, apparently Snape has spent the entire summer at Voldemort’s hide-out, digging information and all that.”

Hermione perked up, and also lent forward.

“Really?” He tried to push as much surprise into his voice as he could.

“Yeah. Anyway. He came back last night, last day before Hogwarts and all that. Either way, he pulled Dumbledore into one of the rooms in my parents house, and they put silencing charms on the door, so we went to go get the extendable ears, but before we even left the corridor, they started arguing! They, or well Snape I suppose, was yelling so loud it broke through the charm! We couldn’t actually hear much, something about spies, but Snape stormed out afterwards, and just apparated away outside! Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him so angry!”

Luckily, the way Harry’s eyes widened was seen as a suitable reaction to the story at hand.

“It was really loud,” Hermione agreed, “Molly was really upset about it. She said he was ruining dinner.”

“That sounds…intense.” Hermione gave him a weird look at that, but Ron took over speaking quickly.

“I mean, can’t really blame him myself. I think if I was around those monsters very long myself, I’d be going a bit loopy.”

Anger exploded in Harry’s chest, red hot and venomous. He longer to burst out that Ron simply didn’t understand. He didn’t know them. He didn’t know anything about them, and was being incredibly judgemental.

Then, he stopped.

What was wrong with him?

Just because he had spent a few weeks making them tea and he was ready to just allow them to kill off muggles as they saw fit? Commit mass genocide? Destroy wizarding society?

Ron was still talking but Harry couldn’t hear him over his own thoughts.

Why was he defending them? Why did he want to?

He ignored the whispering traitorous voice that maybe they had a reason. That maybe there was something he was missing. There hadn’t been one actual attack on muggles of any kind since Voldemort returned, despite how much Dumbledore seemed to have talked about it during their meetings.

In fact, he had been in the Manor all summer. He didn’t think he had heard the word ‘muggle’ once. Or even ‘mudblood’.

What was he missing? Why hadn’t he bothered to investigate at the time?

Because he hadn’t been thinking, the answer was obvious. He hadn’t even thought about everything Dumbledore had said about them.

But, perhaps he still could. Perhaps there was something he could do to find out. Something very, very easy.

“Harry?”

“Sorry, spaced out for a moment.”

“I did say you looked ill. Do you need to sleep some before we get to Hogwarts?”

Harry shook his head. Who knew what they would do when he was asleep?

Harry blinked. What an odd thought. But the very idea of sleeping with anyone nearby him was…horrifying, actually. Perhaps he had grown to used to the ways of having his own room, afterall. His own space nobody else could access without his saying so.

Luckly for him, that was when the door opened.

“Anything on the trolley, dears?”

Harry turned to give the woman a kind smile.

And then, he looked at the cart.

Every inch of it was covered in various sweets and chocolates, all in sickly bright packaging. Harry almost gagged.

But Ron was already up, fluttering around grabbing various things as quickly as he could.

“Want anything mate?”

“No, thank you.”

Another strange look, from both of them that time.

The trolly lady (Harry really needed to find out her name) left, and Ron threw all his food until it scattered all across the table. A mad mass of pre-packaged processed food.

To Harry’s inward horror, Ron ripped open the first package with his bare hand and stuffed a random handful of Birtie Bots flavoured beans into his mouth. He then started chewing, with his mouth open.

Despite knowing that he himself did much the same just a few weeks ago, Harry winced and looked instead to Hermione who also looked suitably disgusted.

“You really have no manners, Ron.”

“What?” Ron mumbled through a bite of something else, “Didn’t have time for breakfast. We left in a hurry.”

Weird. Harry could never imagine Molly Weasley leaving her children with nothing to eat before they left the house.

“We should probably get changed,” Harry finally interrupted with, unsure how much longer he could continue staring in transfixed horror as Ron dropped a handful of beans into this hand and thrust them into his mouth.

“Good idea,” Ron said through another mouthful.

***

The thestral carriages were exactly as Harry remembered them.

They were quiet, cramped together, and filled with melancholy.

Or, perhaps, that was just Harry.

He was distracted the entire ride.

He hardly bore it notice as he climbed the steps for Hogwarts, not feeling quite like himself, and yet not feeling like a different person either. Just…somewhere lost in the middle in the ground between human and far into his own thoughts, drifting lost along the way of the journey fate bade him take.

“Can’t wait to watch the sorting,” Harry finally found himself saying, “It’ll be nice to see all the new ones.”

“Yeah, I suppose it will be,” Ron mumbled, not really paying attention. “I’m more looking forward to seeing Snape to be honest. I wonder if he will have moved to be further away from Dumbledore. I know I would if I had yelled at him.”

“Maybe,” Harry managed, knowing perhaps he should be interested. As long as they didn’t know it was him. Gods, what if they had worked it out. Together it wouldn’t have been hard.

What if the Ministry officials were already at Hogwarts waiting for him?

His life would be over. That was certain.

For the first time in the trip, Harry’s heart started hammering with nerves the closer they were to the double doors, flooding into the main hall and towards their table.

But Harry’s eyes hardly even bothered to check where he was sitting, instead they were over by the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was already there, chatting to a few of his friends around the back.

He looked fine.

Despite the brief conversation he had with Narcissa, it just couldn’t have become so difficult over just a few hours, at the most.

Someone would have brought him that tea eventually, surely.

They would have worked it out.

He would have eventually given in and asked for it, surely.

That had to have happened.

But deep down Harry knew. Far away as he was the connection was a little more distant, not on the top of his mind, and yet he could still feel the simmering emotions hanging beneath it. And, while he didn’t want to dive in to deeply in the middle of the Great Hall, he could already tell that they were not positive.

It could be a coincidence.

Harry doubted it was a coincidence.

“Welcome back, boys and girls, for yet another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore’s speech began. Harry tuned him out, waiting impatiently for his food.

And, although he had previously expressed interest, he hardly paid any attention to the new first years. Their innocent, kind, nervous faces. He could remember how scared he had been, even before he really knew what fear was.

How it tasted in the back of his throat.

He cheered when he needed to, although perhaps not with the same amount of vigour he had the last few years. Even more so when each time a student was sorted into Gryffindor, their eyes immediately made their way to Harry. Or, even worse, when a student fixed their eyes on him as soon as they entered, only to be let down by being sent to a different house.

Harry’s heart ached with it, cheeks flushing. Embarrassment filled him at each set of new, hopeful eyes.

That was one thing he certainly had not missed.

To the point, he was relieved when dinner arrived. Still, so much grease. In the end, Harry landed on a plate of cauliflower cheese, peas, and some of the nicer looking Yorkshire puddings.

“Not hungry?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head, neatly chewing a bite of hot cheese.

She still looked at him strange. He had to keep suspicion off himself. If anyone found out, even one single person…He didn’t know if he would have a life left to be destroyed.

Neither side would take him.

A traitor to all.

A beginner Butler that nobody would hire, or a washed up chosen one.

Not exactly great options for a new life.

Harry took another bite, fighting against every instinct and clutching his knife with his full hand. Finally, Hermione looked away, and his chest lightened.

If all went well, nobody would ever find out. Harry would just move on with his life, and Hadrian Evans would disappear.

He still viciously pushed down the few floating thoughts that pushed his questions upwards. And his Gold level course. He couldn’t just abandon that half-way through, before he even had the certification.

He would just…tie up some loose ends first. Really make sure Hadrian would disappear.

It was on those thoughts that, full of food, the Golden trio began to make their ways towards the dorms.  

What a world it would be, if they could do that without anything stopping him.

“Mr Potter!” McGonagall appeared behind them, holding out a hand to stop them walking further. “The Headmaster expects you in his office immediately. He needs to speak to you.”

Ice filled Harry’s veins.

There it was.

There it always was.

Every single time, no matter what he did.

Chapter Text

Harry made his way up to Dumbledore’s office, with his head closest to being ‘held high’ as it could possibly be. Every single step seemed full of iron, weighing down his limbs and dragging his very organs to the bottom of his feet.

His brow drenched with sweat, heart heaving in his chest. Had it been worth it? Had any of it been worth it in the end?

He reached the two gargoyles.

“Butterscotch,” he mumbled, giving the password McGonagall had muttered at him just moments before. Or it could have been years, with the thrumming going through Harry’s head he was really struggling to tell the difference.

The Gargoyles parted, and he made his way up the steps, stopping every few moments to take a long breath out.

Time to face the world.

And so he did.

Professor Dumbledore sat behind his desk, fingertips pressed together to make a small triangular shape with his hands.

“My boy! Do come in!”

Harry did. A small vicious part of his mind wanted to bite back that he wasn’t a boy anymore. That, in many a ways, he never had been. And certainly not after the summer he had just had.

Dumbledore gestured to the chair in front of him, and Harry sat. Sat in the same seat he had done so many times before, sinking in the office of the Headmaster. Harry’s eyes darted around every inch of the room, searching for aurors coming to grab him out of the chair, snap cuffs on his hands, and drag him off to be surrendered to the dementors forever.

But no one came. The office was empty apart from them.

There eyes met, and a deep sigh went through Harry. He could still remember the first time he met him, how magical and wonderful and different he had seemed with his brightly coloured robes and his long, flowing, white beard.

Dumbledore put his other arm on the desk, and Harry’s eyes caught the creeping darkness that clung up his arm, wound into the very skin. His eyes widened as he saw how far up his sleeve it went.

“I thought it was just your hand,” Harry said, turning to look the professor in the eye.

“Ah, my dear boy, for a while it was. But, all curses do like to spread. It’s quite in their nature you see.”

Harry found himself nodding along, just as he had as a much younger man.

“Why did you ask to see me, professor?”

Dumbledore tucked his hands away again.

“Straight to business, I see, Harry.”

“Straight to business,” Harry replied, twiddling his thumbs subtly under the table.

Dumbledore nodded, then titled his head and looked closer.

“Are you quite alright, my boy? You seem ill.”

“Just a bug,” Harry muttered, “Or food poisoning, maybe. I ate some questionable things over the summer, I think.”

Dumbledore gave a warm nod.

“Ah, I suppose that must be the case.” As with so many other times, so many other conversations, Harry felt like he was being X-rayed by the man, having his very mind spied on. Recognising the sensation, Harry immediately ducked his head and broke eye contract. As he strained his ears, as he had grown so very used to doing over the summer, he heard the headmaster give a very light sigh.

Not frustration. Not annoyance. But tiredness, weariness. Exhaustion.

Harry paused. How could he have possibly known that?

“I called this meeting for two reasons, Harry,” Dumbledore began again. “One conversation I suspect we will find far more enjoyable than the other, but I hope you will trust me enough to see the both of them through.”

“I’m an adult now,” Harry said, after a moment’s hesitation, “I can take a hard conversation without storming out or breaking half your office apart.”

That, at the very least, garnered him a light laugh.

“Yes, my dear boy. I suppose you can.” Another moment of silence, as Dumbledore seemed to reword his own thoughts, preparing to give them to Harry in a way he still deemed acceptable. “So, I suppose I must first ask you where you were this summer, and why we could not find you.”

“I took a muggle job, wanted a summer away from it all,” Harry mumbled, pushing thoughts of a random muggle couple and their house – which he had helped paint on the Dursley’s behest - to the front of his mind. Just in case.

“Harry with the world as it is-”

“I thought we had already agreed I was an adult. I am allowed to make my own decision and weight the risks for myself. Besides,” Harry finally raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore’s again, “I weighed the risks myself. Voldemort would never assume I would be living around with muggles. I was more or less safe. And,” Harry cut Dumbledore off before he could speak again, “the blood wards shattered on my birthday.”

“The Order had plans to come and collect you the following day. And the wards would not have shattered immediately, it would have been a few days afterwards, for them to fully fall.”

That would explain why he had felt nothing different the day after. In fact, he hadn’t even thought about the blood wards, not really.

“Well, you didn’t tell me that.”

“We did not, and I must apologize.”

At that Harry suddenly perked up more, leaning forward in interest. A wave of affection rushed over him, bringing a small smile to his face at the man who was the wonder of his childhood. Then, his eyes met the icy blue ones again, and the feeling wafted away, like smoke on a morning breeze.

The first cold prickles at his mind felt enough to submerge him in it. He forced the image of the muggle family closer to the top of his mind, and the pressure ceased, just very slightly.

He ignored the tiny voice in his mind that said Voldemort hadn’t tried to invade his mind like that. He had taken him at his word, more or less, and allowed him his privacy as long as he did his job.

Apparently, the light couldn’t afford such courtesy.

Internally, he smacked himself. Hard.

“And the second matter, Professor?”

Dumbledore gave another tiny, exhausted sigh and stood up from his desk, walking across the room to admire something within his cabinets.

“Do you remember Harry the memories I showed you last year? Of young Tom Riddle?”

Harry blinked. Perhaps to another man it might seem strange, but the year past, before the summer, everything seemed like a blur. Every meeting with the headmaster, The whole year had been an endless blur of thoughts of Sirius, of Snuffles, of the sight of Sirius’s body going into the veil again, and again, and again.

And how lonely he was.

How very, very alone, and haunted by the darkest of thoughts. He just…hadn’t had the space for a young dark lord to also floor into them, of the actions he took when he was Harry’s age. He had blanked out most of Dumbledore’s lessons completely, only the vague images of a young, aristocratic face coming back to him, if he thought hard enough. Something about a locket, perhaps? He hadn’t thought about it in such a long time.

He hadn’t thought about them over the last bit of the summer either.

But, then again, the summer hadn’t left him with much time to think about Sirius either.

“I remember.”

Dumbledore turned to smile at him.

“I am glad, for there is more you need to know. So very much more, and I fear…I fear if I do not tell you tonight, that I will be unable to.”

And with that, Dumbledore lifted his blackened arm again, the sleeve falling back to reveal that the entire arm, all the way up to the shoulder blade was black, twisted and broken. The flesh seemed scoured in, tight around the bone and so inherently broken on such a wise man.

“I wish I had more time to explain it to you Harry, but I truly do not know.”

Harry settled himself further into his seat.

“I’m not tired. And I don’t have lessons until tomorrow either.”

Dumbledore gave another warm smile, sleeve falling back down.

“Very well then Harry. I suppose, to begin with, I must ask you if you have ever heard of a creation known as a Horcrux?”

***

If Harry thought that his journey to the Headmaster’s office had filled his mind with thoughts, than the journey out of it had no such comparison.

Horcruxes.

A new piece of information, a piece of the puzzle, but it was not that which filled Harry’s mind.

No matter how hard he tried to picture the boy that Dumbledore showed him, every time the phase melded in his mind to the scaled, red-eyed creature that he was more intimately familiar with than any other human being alive could possibly say. Probably.

He had no real way of knowing which other Butlers had been allowed to bathe him in the past, but then again they didn’t have the mental connection that Harry and him shared, so perhaps that made him closer. Perhaps.

What was it Voldemort had said? Empathy magic? Harry had never heard of such a thing, not that he had really thought about it in the entire time Not closely. He had been entirely too bust with other thoughts occupying his mind.

Now he had time to think.

Entirely too much to think about, and not nearly enough time to do it in. Or the brainpower from which to do it with.

When he reached his dorms, everything was still and quiet. All of the other boys had already closed their curtains, and he could hear Ron’s quiet snoring. Not for the first time, a prickly of anxiety went up the back of his neck at the thought of sharing a sleeping space with so many other people. Especially after so long of having a private room, just for him. Only for him.

He heaved his trunk up on the bed, shifting it right to the end, up against the headboard. Harry was short enough; he could make it work. Then, he started cursing the curtains around him with everything his tired brain could think of. He would have to do better the next day, but he would have some time to get everything ready, at the very least.

Once he was sure they were decent, or as decent as his exhausted brain could manage, he closed them behind him and started to ruffle through his case, searching.

His fingers dipped into the bottom of the case, and he hissed as something stabbed into the side of his finger, and he drew it to his lips to suck on the blood. A wave of calm had washed through him, leaving him almost dizzy with the feeling.

His finger dropped from his lips and he reached to find out what had caused it. After a few moments of careful prodding, he pulled out the mirror shard wrapped in the handkerchief.

As soon as he had the soft fabric in his hand, relief washed over him. The aching in his muscles healed, and his mind cleared itself out.

What?

The mirror shard tumbled back into the case as Harry held the white fabric in his bleeding hand and brought it up to his nose to sniff.

It still smelled like the manor.

And even that alone was enough to calm him.

But more than that, holding it in his hands, right next to his bleeding wound, the dark magic throbbed under his touch, winding itself into his very skin, and taking away the pain he had felt on the days before.

Without thinking about it further, Harry stuffed it under his pillow, laying his head back, and finally feeling the relaxation fill his body.

His eyes started to drift closed, but he shook himself. Steadying his thoughts. He still had something else he needed to do.

Unwillingly he sat up, rustling about in his case to find some of his nicer parchment and ink. He balanced to pot dangerous on the bedding, grabbing the quill in his lazy grip.

He probably needed to practise Harry Potter’s proper handwriting again.

But this was not the time for it.

Quite the opposite in fact.

He took a moment to compose his thoughts.

Dear Lady Malfoy,

So sorry to be writing to you so quickly, and unfortunately, I do not bring the news that I will be returning, so feel free to dismiss or burn the rest of this letter if you see fit. You are busy enough I do not expect an answer.

I said at the start of my employment that I am not a man prone to asking questions, and I still like to think that true, but I must ask: What are the aims of your…organisation? Your end goal?

Again, feel fully free to not answer, or to forget this letter existed. I hope I did not offend you. Either way, please contact me if you ever need anything, including if you need me to send over any other handover materials for your new Butler.

I wish you the very best of luck, and a blessed day.

Yours faithfully,

Hadrian Evans.

Harry signed it off awkwardly, entirely forgetting if his persona had a middle initial, and not wanting to risk it if he had. Didn’t most pureblood families have a saying at the bottom of a letter? Well, he hadn’t put one on any of the others. Too late to start now.

Harry wrapped the small scroll up, and sealed it with some more precariously placed wax.

For a long moment he held it in his hand, weighing up his choices. He knew he probably shouldn’t sent it….but then again they couldn’t fire him now. And it wasn’t like he was planning on going back. Or even donning the disguise again, just in case they decided Hadrian Evans had become a threat to their security, or something along those lines.

Harry placed the scroll on his bedside table, hoping Hedwig would come by early in the morning as she so often did, and take it before any of the other boys woke up.

Harry gave the scroll one last look before pulling the curtains and letting his head hit the pillow.

That night, he dreamed peacefully, of waving black mist drifting around in his dreams, sometimes creating little shapes in the air. Flowers, a distant part of his mind thought.  Always the flowers.

Chapter Text

To Harry's complete delight, when he awoke the next morning it was to the smell of flowers in his nose, and a letter on his bedside table. He blinked for a moment, wondering if perhaps it was his own, but when he saw the envelope sealed with the Malfoy family crest, he grabbed it quickly, pulling it behind his curtains. He needn't have bothered, when he looked around a second time, all he saw were sleeping faces. 

Ron had half rolled off the side of his bed, droll dribbling down the side of his face, forcing his mouth open in a gawk. Harry couldn't help but wrinkle his nose. A look outside told him it was still late at night, or perhaps even early in the morning. She responded fast, faster than his mentor even. And she's usually asleep by now. I wonder what kept her up. 

He did everything he could to shake off those thoughts. He knew better than anyone how unhelpful they were. Especially if Dumbledore decided to go poking around. He would not be best pleased to find those in there.  

Harry went to do as he used to, rip the letter open. But he soon found that he couldn't. Instead, his fingers stroked the wax, and he found himself smiling at it. Almost without thinking, he pried it open gently with his fingernail, pulling the parchment inside out just as gently. He couldn't help but notice that the inside of the envelope had been pressed with a little red flower, just behind the opening on the flap. His old self would have destroyed it. His instincts told him to destroy it. 

He pulled it out, stroking the stiff petals within his fingers. So very soft, so very small and delicate. He placed it on his pillow, shocking red against crinkled white. So very, very beautiful. 

But, finally, the letter. Initialled on the outside. Part of him expected, like when Aunt Petunia sent mail, for it to give him a massive whiff of perfume, but he should have known better. Fresh, clear parchment. Hermione would have been thrilled. There was another piece of parchment behind it, but that one looked thicker. More official. A gulp ran up his throat, and it took everything in him to swallow it completely. If somehow they had worked it out, if they knew who he was, what he'd done. He was a dead man walking. More than that. 

He wouldn't even have much to walk for after that. 

With shaking hands, he unfolded it. The less official-looking one. Perhaps he never really was as brave as The Order always said he was. And they weren't wrong, he was the one who decided to ally himself against them without telling anyone. 

To spy. 

Of course. 

It only took him a moment to realise that he couldn't really...read it. He reached numbly for his glasses, shoving on his rounded ones. They pressed uncomfortably onto his nose, and his vision wasn't completely clear. Pulling his trunk to himself, and praying he hadn't woken up anyone else, he lifted the silver ones on. 

And, just like that, his vision cleared. 

Dearest Hadrian, 

I cannot even express how genuinely happy I am that you decided to write. I admit, only between the two of us, that I was rather hoping that this letter was to inform me that you intended to return to the Manor, effective immediately. I understand that is not the case, but would like to stringently promise that such a space will always and forever be open for you to use at the earliest possible convenience. I am unsure of how long your new contract lasts, but I would urge you to consider the open ended one we have for you. I have enclosed an additional copy of another - much more favourable - contract, which you can sign at any point. It is valid for a period of the next ten years. After that point, you may send another note to us for another one. 

Stunned, Harry scrambled for the other piece of paper, before skimming it over. It was, as she said, another contract, but not the one he expected. First of all, the ten years listed where not exactly what she said, he soon realised. This isn't a ten year contract, it's a contract that is magically signable for ten years. In fact, when he read the bottom of the page it seemed that the contract was....just a little more encompassing that that. This is intended as a permanent position. Harry forced his eyes away from that one, little line. 

He couldn't. He knew full well that he couldn't. 

The salary listed made his head spin, enough that he stuffed it back in the envelope. 

We were very serious in saying the position is always open to you. But that is almost besides the point as you had a few key questions - I am more than happy to answer. 

Harry's brow winkled at that. He had been very tired when writing it, but he was quite sure he had only written one question. Perhaps he had forgotten. That seemed like something he would do. Or, at the very least, something he would have done before summer. But it was all a blur either way...

He supposed it didn't matter much, in the end. 

Inside, you will find a third, enclosed document containing our messaging - and another message for yourself personally. I hope you find it well. 

At that, Harry's entire face contorted. He grabbed the envelope, pulling it open, ripping the inside's like he'd initially feared. 

It was empty. 

Had someone gotten it past Hedwig? Taken it from her - stolen it away? Who knew? What were they going to do with it?

Then his eyes fell onto the last sentence again. 

I hope you find it well.

That...wasn't like how Lady Malfoy talked. Or wrote. 

Harry grabbed his letter back up, and started waving his wand over it, muttering any invisible ink spells that he knew.  Nothing. 

Sighing, Harry grabbed for the letter again, prepared for disappointment. Sorry my Lady. Lady Malfoy, that was. 

He let his head fall back on the pillow, and through his blurry vision - a flash of red. He jumped immediately, blood, he thought at first. Should probably clean that up. But it wasn't blood. When his eyes finally readjusted after his shock - and annoyance of having to research bloodstain removal from perfectly white sheets - he realised what it was. The little red flower.

Harry picked it back up in his fingers, rolling the little scented thing between his fingers. That would be just like her, wouldn't it? 

Without really thinking about it, he grabbed his wand. 

"Reveal your secrets!"

The words were his own, but they echoed something from years ago. Another man's voice that sneered in his own ear. And physically dragged him around multiple places. In the delirium of an early morning, Harry found himself laughing. Perhaps a later him would think of it differently - especially if he accidentally woke the others boys in the dorm. 

 To his delight, the flower began to bloom in his fingers, from just a snatch of red, to a full, open bloom. He watched in astonishment as the flower petals stretched well beyond their means, glowing with a little silver sigil on each one. 

Then, the first petal fell. 

Harry gasped and tried to catch it. Then the second fell. And the third. 

And, before his very eyes, the stem was opening - splitting apart down the centre. 

All he could do was watch it shocked astonishment, especially when the last of the tiny stem fell away to reveal a tightly rolled scroll of parchment, tied together with something slim and green, that Harry would almost be tempted to say were the veins of the plant itself, but he truly had no way to be sure. Looking closer in the moonlight, he could see all the little criss-crossing patterns and veins. 

It almost made him want to never touch it again, to protect it with everything that he had. So small, so breakable. He unwrapped it carefully, and perhaps a few months ago he would have been careless or impatient enough that the fragile material would have just fallen to pieces under his quidditch-hardened hands, but now, not so much. His fingertips screamed of control, not even a muscle twitch. 

It was a strange kind of power he never knew he was missing, until it had already arrived. And he just couldn't help but want more. 

Finally, it was all removed, and he stored it safely inside his trunk. 

It was only after he was frantically un-scrolling the tightly rolled parchment that he recognised the pure desperation within his chest. 

The scroll was filled with sloping, neat characters. Ones that he recognised entirely too well. 

Hadrian. 

I thought it appropriate that after your long communication in notations that I should respond in kind. Narcissa has informed me that you have been requesting information about my order. It was also appropriate that I respond myself, after your above average service throughout the summer. I have been informed that you have been given an update contract. I strongly suggest that it's signed. 

Harry wrinkled his nose at that. But this time not at distaste. He never thought of all people....anyone who would ask him to return...the thought had hardly even been worth dwelling over....

But you asked about my aims, they are simple: to achieve control over wizarding Britain. You must understand, of someone of more than appropriate intelligence, that the society we are expected to live in is one driven by old conflicts, old fears and politicians who are neither intelligent, nor have strong moral quandaries. They are completely unwilling to allow space for traditions of old, pureblood traits that I'm sure you can personally appreciate. 

Harry realised belatedly that Voldemort was trying to...appeal to him. Or, at the very least, what he thought he knew about him. Because Harry had told them all he was pureblood, hadn't he? Perhaps that hadn't been such a good idea. 

For the very first time since reading, some trepidation reached his heart. Pureblood traditions. Harry very almost didn't want to know about that. He certainly hadn't noticed them doing anything...that strange all summer. Surely. He would have noticed. It couldn't be that bad. 

But it could. 

Some voice inside him was screaming, although he didn't know why. He rubbed frustratedly at his forehead. Perhaps he was coming down with something, maybe from the stress of the last few months. That hardly seemed unlikely, with everything that had happened. 

That was it. 

Certainly. 

Other than that, I believe it mostly to be of public notice. However, I understand better than most your reasoning, and I would hardly discourage it. As a matter of fact, I would feel pleasured to offer you-

Flames burst out of the parchment, and Harry yelped before he dropped it. To his horror, he saw the entire thing burn up, and fall to black ash. 

It took him another moment all together to realise that he had been the one to burn it, his wand clutched in his hand. 

He looked down at the long wood, staring in astonishment. Then, he looked back at his bedside where he remembered leaving it. Back to his hand. Back to his bedside. Very carefully, before he could do anymore damage, he carefully shut his wand in one of his bedside draws. The letter from the Dark Lord was officially destroyed, and there would be no getting it back. 

Why had he done that? How had he done that?

Why? Why?

Harry picked the other letter back up, distantly aware that his hands were shaking horribly, and his heart pounding. It was the fire. He was panicked by the fire he set. That was normal, it could have caught the bedsheets alight. 

It was normal. 

He found where he left off on Narcissa's letter. 

.....And I hope it provides all of the answers you are seeking, and I apologize I could not help you more on that front. Either way, I would be utterly delighted to continue a longer-term communication with you, if you have the mental capacity for it. However, much alike on our end, I understand completely if you are unable to, or unwilling. It means a lot that you even reached out. 

And please, Lucius has just reminded me, if there is anything you feel must change on the contract we sent, feel free to just strike those areas out with a quill, or handwrite additional things on there. The contract is transfigured to automatically accept the changes, and we have already signed it. There is no need to send the changes to us for approval. 

All the best wishes, 

Narcissa Malfoy

She signed the end of the letter with a long swirl of her name, and just a small version of the crest, which shifted and moved around. It was in the same ink as the rest, like she had taken the time to draw and animate it by hand. It made a small smile creep up on Harry's face, his heartbeat relaxing back into a gentle rhythm. 

He took a long deep breath. The letter and contract he tucked back in the envelope, and hid under his clothes. Gathering up the petals with their burning sigil, he did the same. 

He scooped up all the ashes, still warm in his hands. He put them in an old potion vial, swirling them around, knowing deep down that now he could only wonder what exactly the Dark Lord had been going to say. 

It really could have been anything. 

And now, he would never know. 

It was with that thought, and a closed trunk, that his eyes drifted closed. 

A pair of silver spectacles that he very much should not of had, glimmering in the moonlight, unmoved from his nose. 

Chapter Text

“I didn't know you'd bought some new glasses mate!”

Harry awoke with a jolt, eyes flying open. 

There - leaning over the top of him - was a flash of red hair, staring through the curtains with a big, toothy grin across his face. Behind him, lay an empty dormitory, the other boys clearly having already woken up and gone to do something else. Out of the corner of Harry's eye, he realised that the sun was fully in the sky, and the room was bathed with light. 

It took him a full moment to process what Ron had said. 

Then, his hand shot up to his face, feeling the small rims of the silver spectacles, and the ache blooming behind his ears and across the bridge of his nose. He removed them as fast as he could. 

“I didn't!”

Ron blinked at him dumbly, running his tongue between his lips. 

Harry could have shaken himself, in that moment. 

“Not like that,” he said quickly, tucking the glasses into his bedside table and picking up his typical round, black ones. “I just needed a new prescription.”

It wasn't the best excuse, and Harry could only brace for the impact of something much, much worse. 

But it never came. 

“Alright then,” Ron muttered, turning back to his bed, and straightening his tie. 

Harry could have jumped up, if he had the energy. Just like that? He believes it just like that? That easily?

He supposed so. 

Harry dressed himself quickly, cursing himself as the sunlight poured in from behind him. His fingers slid over the buttons, almost without thinking. It was only when he moved to tie the tie in his typical bow-shape that he realised he was about to make a mistake. His fingers slid over the now unfamiliar knot.

“You alright there mate?”

“Yeah, fine,” the words were thicker than honey in his mouth. “Just forgot how to tie a tie over the summer, apparently.”

Ron shrugged. 

“I'm the same. I always get mum to show me how to do it again. Or sometimes Fred or George, but they like to tie it around my head-”

“Breakfast must be nearly over,” Harry forced out, shoving his robes over his shoulders. He'd forgotten to iron them. Of course. His eyes seemed to find every wrinkle as they looked down. 

“Not even close!” Ron laughed from the other side, as Harry spun around. “It's only half seven!”

Harry's hand stuttered until they slowed down. 

He had been so sure...it had felt...

But he supposed that was what came after spending months getting up before the sun rose. 

“Never known you to be a morning person,” Ron said, finally putting his own robes on. 

Harry smiled to himself, unable to help it, even if it didn't come close to matching how he was feeling deep down. It was a funny feeling, knowing your face was finally out of your control again, expressing an emotion that mixed and blended like whatever Snape would put in his cauldrons before the first years were ordered to clean them out. 

“I guess my summer job did something good for me after all.”

***

Harry was not the last one in the breakfast hall. Ron had run up behind him, panting and out of breath. Despite being awake before him, he still came after. 

“Merlin's pants Harry, what was your summer job? Professional running?”

Harry raised his eyebrows in response, but didn't say anything. This time when a smirk crossed his lips, it came from a real place. Shaky, but real. 

Ron gave him a baffled look. 

The hall was decently full, and Harry couldn't help but stare at the morning ceiling, of the little clouds that drifted lackadaisically above, some still sparked with a tinge of pink. 

Hermione was waiting for them at the main table, waving him over, and both he and Ron rushed over. 

But, as he lowered himself onto the bench, he found he couldn't resit the urge, and peered up at the staff table. Dumbledore was missing, as per usual, but all the other staff sat in their usual places. He gave Hagrid a small smile, but it wasn't him who's eyes he searched for. 

Snape sat stiffy, fork still resting next to a plate dotted in various things, none of which he seemed particularly inclined to eat. He looked out at the students before him, eyes never really seeming to rest on any of them just...drifting. Distantly. Harry couldn't really blame him. 

Harry found his eyes directed back to the Headmasters chair. Horcruxes. 

And, just like fate itself decided to join in with an extra laugh, the man himself walked in. 

Dumbledore strode in through a back entrance to the hall that Harry couldn't quite make out with his prescription. The elderly man slid silently into his chair, immediately starting to load his plate with various foods that didn't quite belong with breakfast. Something small and yellow, Harry immediately saw, likely sherbet lemons. 

“Harry?”

“Yes?” Harry spun around to see that Hermione was talking to him, she repeated what she had said before, and he found himself nodding along, shovelling food into his mouth, careful to avoid many of the manners he had picked up in the previous few months. That would be almost too close, especially after the incident with the glasses. 

If Snape caught word, he would work it out straight away. If he didn't already know, that was. 

Harry would just have to distance himself as much as he possibly could. Every single thing about Hadrian Evans would have to change. Everything that Snape could possibly recognise. If anyone ever found out...

Something inside of Harry hardened, even as he found himself chatting with Ron and Hermione, only distantly aware of what he was saying. It was a nice change of pace, after spending weeks and weeks being so aware of every single syllable, never letting a word slip unintentionally. 

They wouldn't recognise anything, at the very least. Hopefully. Besides, a care to his words came naturally, after everything that had happened. 

It was then Dumbledore stood up, raising a glass, to hit his fork against. The sound went through Harry, and even he was surprised when he was able to supress his natural wince at the high pitched sound. Besides, before that moment the hall had been loud in and of itself. 

Harry had quite forgotten what it was like to be around so many people. He felt rather like he was being swallowed by the sheer sound of it. It certainly seemed that way. 

“Welcome back, students of Hogwarts!”

And, just on that note, Harry allowed his brain to fade out again, poking his fork into his breakfast, and steadfastly ignoring Hermione's annoyed glare. He didn't know why, but something about the entire thing made him want to do something else. Anything else. 

But, eventually, entirely without his own decision, his mind was drawn back. 

“The first Hogsmeade weekend has been moved earlier this year, to this first weekend, due to a small market going on in the centre, and Hogwarts students were personally invited. For those without permission slips...”

Harry fell back into his own thoughts. It felt like such a long time since he had been to Hogsmead. And, this time, he didn't need a permission slip. From anyone. 

If it still needed signing, he could do it himself. A goofy smile spread over his face, making his cheeks ache, even as his bottle rim glasses pressed into his cheeks, and pinched behind his ears, on the area that was already small. 

Hermione gave him an exasperated look, but he could only grin at her harder. She gave an impressive eyeroll in return. And that was a good feeling. Brilliant actually. He was close enough to saying he was home again. Close enough. 

Hogsmead. He was going to Hogsmead. And he was going to have a brilliant day. 

And then, just as he shoved another piece of warm toast into his mouth, enjoying the crunch, the background chat of quiet conversation, and the crisp taste of melted butter on his lips, when his blood froze in his veins. 

Hadn't he heard the Death Eaters mention Hogsmead? 

He shook his head harshly, forcing down another bite of toast to distract himself. That could be about something completely different. It must be. It seemed like so long ago, surely any plans they had would have already been executed by then, and everything went well, and everyone would be safe. And Hogwarts students weren't going to walk straight into a trap. 

His next thought was that he needed to tell someone. 

The one after that was panic. 

Because who could he tell, really? 

To tell the information would be to tell where he gained it, and nobody could know about that, not in a hundred years. That would be almost more of a disaster. But Snape would know. He would never let that happen to some of the students. Especially not the Slytherins. He just wouldn't. 

He would have told the Order. They probably already knew, and the incident was really, entirely separate. 

It was all over, and maybe Harry needed to remember that. Another mouthful of toast, and he almost bit his own fingers, and his tongue. 

Nothing was wrong. And, if there was, it would have already been dealt with, and wasn't his responsibility to deal with anymore. They had this handled, better than he ever could. 

“Are you going to pick up anything at Hogsmead?” Hermione asked him. Too close for comfort, but a welcome distraction none the less. He took another bite before he managed an answer. 

***

The days drifted by in a endless purgatory. Lessons became nothing but dust. 

Harry had always known he tended to obsess, Hermione had told him off for it enough times for him not to be, and it was all just common sense, really. It had to be. 

In potions class, he didn't say anything. He made a potion that was fine, despite it exploding at the end. Even if he had managed some decently diced roots over the summer. Even by Snape's standards. 

In transfiguration, he sat at the back, and did his work quietly. 

In charms, he couldn't help but show off - just a little bit. Especially during their single unit on easy cleaning spells. He had never seen Flitwick look so pleased with him before, and he glowed with it. Like a fire, knowing the ash was still entirely too close for comfort.

Care of Magical Creatures was...interesting as always. But Harry would be lying if he tried to claim that he didn't pick up the animals with a lot more confidence than he had in the past. (Everyone gave him odd looks when instead of running away from the fire crab Hagrid brought out, he walked over, tapped it on the back of the shell, and picked it up. Even Draco gaped at him when that happened.)

But, no matter how hard he worked, his mind couldn't help but wonder. It was like he was completely stuck, unable to move forward, unable to relax. Even when he slept, his mind wouldn't take him anywhere, just letting him sit in complete darkness. No red flowers. No smoke. 

Like everything was trying to clear out of his system, and completely unable to do so because he was still so focused on the little things. Or, rather, the big thing that was out of his control, and almost certainly not an issue at all. Snape must have been at that meeting. It might not have even been a real plan at all. 

It could have just been a simple...kidnapping, of some kind. Something involving less people. Something quiet. 

But it didn't stop Harry from sitting with the handkerchief in his hands every night. Something falling asleep with it on his chest. There was a new patch of colour on it, a little splat of red from his own blood, that had already soaked into the fabric to be difficult enough to remove, even if he wanted to try. 

Besides, it had his magical energy all over it. 

There was no way he would be able to return it.