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Chapter Text

“The tree is pretty.”

“The lights aren’t actual fairies you can eat,” Harry says absently. He’s curled up with one of the books that Voldemort gave him for Christmas (and just thinking those words still causes part of his soul to scream). This one is about the history of Dark Arts and why certain spells got banned. It’s interesting, if gory in the description of the spells.

“I know they are not fairies.” Basilisk’s bond in Harry’s mind turns indignant mauve. “I would not try to eat them.”

“Then why are you lingering around the tree?” Harry asks, and rolls over on the couch to watch his snake.

Here, in Voldemort’s house (the house he bought for Harry, this is so weird), Basilisk isn’t wearing the Disillusionment Charm that keeps her invisible to everyone but Harry at school. So Harry can more easily see the fascinated way she sways back and forth in front of the tree, and roll his eyes at her.

“The lights feel like your magic.”

“I didn’t set them up, though.”

The bond grows dark and turgid, and Basilisk turns to slither back to the couch and him. Harry extends his arm for her to climb up, and wonders when it started to feel natural to do that. “I know that. I am not stupid. But they feel like your magic nevertheless.”

“I wonder why, then.” Harry frowns at the fairy lights and wonders if he could have created them. To be fair, he doesn’t even know if they’re illusions or conjured, and he doesn’t know the degree of complicated spellwork Voldemort might have had to use.

“They feel like your magic because your blood-master created them and his magic is your magic.”

Harry swallows. That’s something he didn’t consider. He wonders briefly if someone could figure out he’s Voldemort’s son even if they don’t know by the feel of his magic, and then dismisses the notion. It’s unlikely that anyone would have been around Voldemort and looking for that instead of running for their lives.

“Harry.”

The sound of his name in Parseltongue is almost as familiar as it is in English now. Harry rolls over and gives his father as calm and normal a smile as he can. From the way that Voldemort pauses with his head cocked, he doesn’t buy it.

“Harry is upset because your magic feels like his,” Basilisk says, and sways a little to greet Voldemort before she goes back to inspecting the tree.

“Why are you upset?”

Harry swallows. He almost wishes they could go back to meetings in dreams, even though he’s glad to be home (so weird) for the holiday. Those red eyes focused on him in real life are as intense as a forest fire.

“I didn’t know that mine was like yours. And I was wondering if someone who had felt both of ours would be able to tell that I was your son even without my telling them.”

“It is extremely unlikely.” Voldemort flows into a chair across from Harry and settles down. Nagini slithers into the room and hisses a greeting to Basilisk before coiling around Voldemort’s feet. “Because they would not have had time to feel mine.”

Harry nods. It’s the same reason he thought of, after all.

“I understand that you are to go spend time with Theodore and Isidore tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I rather enjoy it when you speak to me as a son speaks to a father, rather than as a cringing follower speaks to the Dark Lord.”

Harry hesitates. He could say he was just trying to be respectful, but he’s been calling Voldemort “Father,” mostly, since he got—home. “I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to take advantage of our relationship.”

Voldemort watches him with wide eyes for long enough that Harry thinks he’s mis-stepped and is going to get hit with Crucio at last. Then the Dark Lord throws his head back and roars with laughter.

Nagini rears up at the same time and sways back and forth as if looking for prey. Then she gives a hiss that Harry can only describe as disappointed and settles back around Voldemort’s feet. Harry watches her and thinks of something he wants to ask her later.

“I told him that of course your magic feels like each other’s. I told him clearly.”

“You are not at fault, little one,” Voldemort hisses at Basilisk, and looks at Harry with his eyes still shining with the edge of his laughter. “Harry, of course you will take advantage of our relationship. You will have advantages as my son that should have been yours since the day you were born. I wish you to take after me. I wish you to use me—as much as you can. There are uses I will push back against, of course.”

Harry stares at him, bewildered. “But—there must be a limit to your tolerance.”

“If you were to run around Gryffindor Tower telling everyone in sight that you are my son, you would find one very quickly. Or if you were to tell people about Horcruxes.”

Harry shivers at the edge of cold in those words, but it braces him like a winter wind. At least he knows he’s standing on solid ground.

“But you would not do such a thing,” Voldemort adds, and yanks the solid ground away. “I trust you.”

“Why?”

“Why would I not? You are my son. My heir. My Horcrux.”

“We were mortal enemies six months ago.”

“So much can change in six months,” Voldemort says, and he sounds like Basilisk does when she’s hissing Harry to sleep. “So much, my son. You have passed the tests that I thought you might not pass. You have begun to assemble your court. You have resisted Dumbledore’s temptations. Did you think there would be no reward?”

“I thought—no reward that I would accept.”

“I would not have forced you to torture or murder. If you ever wish to, of course, you shall tell me.”

Harry decides that the wistful tone to Voldemort’s Parseltongue is too much for him, and seeks to ease him back from the edge. “Okay. So you want me to call you Father and it’s fine to go over to Theo’s tomorrow.”

“Yes. Of course, you will take Basilisk with you and you will wear a Portkey. You will always wear a Portkey from now on.”

Harry nods. It’s kind of surprising that Voldemort let him go to Hogwarts without one. “Of course—Father.”

Voldemort gives a contented hiss and engages Harry in a conversation about Ancient Runes. Harry can admit that it’s pretty fascinating, and he sort of wishes he’d taken the class at Hogwarts. But he has enough classes. Enough to worry about.

When Voldemort leaves the sitting room, Nagini lingers behind. Maybe she can sense that he has something to ask her. Harry sees no reason to hesitate. “Do you ever dislike or resent me? You would have killed me in the graveyard where—Father was resurrected.”

Nagini gives him a look that seems far less expressive than Basilisk’s eyes do. Then again, Harry doesn’t have a bond with her. “You are my master’s son. I am here to think about you and protect you.”

Think about me? But Harry doesn’t ask that aloud. Instead, he says, “Yes, but that was only a few years ago. You would have killed me.”

“You are his son.”

Nagini slithers away before Harry can ask her anything else. Harry sighs despite himself. This is—well, he supposes that he ought not to have expected any different answer from a snake, but it’s still strange to him how they can just accept reality and not care about what happened a few months ago.

Everything is so strange.

“I told you that your magic was like the blood-master’s. I do not understand why you are so upset about it.”

“I’m not upset about it. I’m just—trying to understand.”

“You are his son.”

Harry gives up, and returns to his book.

*

Everything is the most delightful shade of red and yellow in Lord Voldemort’s mind. The world used to be black and purple, like a bruise, and things did bruise, but now they have healed, and now the world is wonderful and the most delightful shade of red and yellow.

There was the small unhealed mystery of who the Unspeakable he seduced had been, and now he knows. There is the danger of the Horcruxes being discovered, but now they are hidden in new places, and the most important of all is safe in ways that even he will never know of.

There is the marvelous chaos of his son’s mind, full of worries and moral qualms that Lord Voldemort shrugged past long ago, and that is the most delightful thing of all.

His son. His heir. His Horcrux. His Harry, who used to be his mortal enemy. There is no one else on Earth who could be all those things, and Lord Voldemort never even imagined the combination. It has been decades since he was surprised by something. Even his disembodiment and the length of time it took him to return to his body was only enraging, not surprising.

But now…

Harry is new. A new thing in the world.

He is not to be destroyed. He is not to be touched.

He is to be happy.

Lord Voldemort will happily destroy everyone else in the world on his son’s word. He waits on that word.

But in the meantime, he has changes at Hogwarts to make, while his mind is awash in delightful red and yellow.

*

Isidore stands back with his hands clasped behind him as Harry Gaunt comes through the fire. He wishes to observe his son’s interactions with the Dark Prince while they both focus on each other and do not notice him there.

The Prince’s snake does seem to notice him. She is visible, curled around his throat, and flickers her tongue at him. But Gaunt is busy sweeping soot from his clothes, until Theo steps forwards with a bow and a murmured word to do it for him.

Gaunt smiles at Theo. Theo smiles back.

Isidore restrains a sigh. He can remember being dazzled by the Dark Lord’s magic back when they were both students at Hogwarts, and it took him years to get over that level of—infatuation. For him, it was never sexual, although it was for some of the other Death Eaters. But Isidore remembers what it was like to be in love with his Lord’s magic.

He also knows that he is a better advisor and courtier to his Lord now that he is past that phase.

He only hopes that Theo, whose eyes shine more strongly with the light than Isidore knows his own ever did, will achieve the balance sooner rather than later. And that is for both Theo and Gaunt’s sakes.

*

“Your gift, my lord.”

Harry jumps like a dragon with a burned tail, which is so funny that Theo has to bite his lips to keep his amusement inside. He’s sure, though, that their bond is singing with it, and Harry gives him a half-hearted glare before turning to gape at the wrapped package again.

“But I didn’t get you anything.”

Harry’s voice is small. Theo blinks, and blinks again. “The lord doesn’t have to get gifts for his courtiers.”

“But it’s wrong. It’s unfair.”

Theo checks a sigh. This is one of those things that he didn’t even think about affecting Harry, because—why would he? But Harry is different from any other Lord that Theo might have served.

“My lord.” Theo leans forwards. They’re in the small sitting room in Nott House, the one that Father has granted Theo leave to turn into his private study, and only the flicker of the small fire in the marble hearth competes with his voice. “Listen to me. Our relationship is not equal—”

“You’re important!”

“It’s not equal,” Theo says, as patiently as he can. “You’re always going to matter in ways I do not and need things I do not. Likewise, I matter in ways you don’t and need things you don’t.” He notices that Harry is calming down when Theo says he doesn’t always matter, and checks a sigh. He sort of resents the Dark Lord for murdering those Muggles first. “One of those things I need is to take care of you.”

“But it’s not—fair.”

At least he hasn’t tried the word equal, Theo thinks, but the bond is so heavy and molten between them that he knows he has to say something. “I would be uncomfortable if you got me a gift, my lord. It would feel like obligation, since we weren’t friends before the Marking and didn’t know each other that well.”

“And this isn’t an obligation?”

“It is my honor.”

Harry gazes at him, quietly and steadily, for what seems a long time, while his bond grows quiet as well. His snake hisses something to him. Harry hisses back, and then takes a breath and nods.

“All right. Thank you, Theo.”

Theo feels dizzy and proud and happy all at once, and he knows from the way Harry’s face softens that their bond is reflecting that. “Thank you, my lord.”

I am so lucky, Theo reflects as Harry turns to the gift, which Theo chose sparkling golden paper for. Harry is unselfish enough to be a good lord, but also to recognize when it’s time to accept what someone’s done for him.

Harry rips into the paper in an impatient way that speaks of how few gifts he’s received in his life, and then pauses with a long breath. “Oh.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s beautiful, but I don’t know what it is.”

Theo smiles and leans forwards. “I suppose that to someone without a lot of knowledge, it would just look like a silver box,” he murmurs, but guides Harry’s hands to the hidden clasps on the sides that will flip the lid back. “You open it this way.”

Harry flips the lid up and stares into the darkness inside. Well, it looks like darkness to Theo. He knows that Harry will be seeing mechanisms and springs and what look like the slots in an ordinary Potions kit for ingredients. “What does it do?”

“This is called an external Occlumency vault, my lord. It will keep all your secrets.”

“What? How? Does it work like a Pensieve?”

Theo shakes his head. He can’t stop smiling. Harry’s puzzlement is a wonder all its own. “No. What happens is that you can think of any memory you wish to keep secret and place it in the box—that part of the procedure resembles a Pensieve, I admit, in that you must draw forth the memory from your head as if you were going to put it in one. But when you place the memory in the box, it returns to your head, guarded by the strongest Occlumency shields magic can produce. You can keep anything you want secret that way, even if you run into another Legilimens like Dumbledore or Snape. Or even,” Theo says, and lowers his voice, and watches closely, “from the Dark Lord.”

Harry jumps again. Theo smiles.

“But he would know,” Harry whispers. “He might know already. He has absolutely free access to my mind.”

Theo doesn’t understand everything about the link between the Dark Lord and Harry, but he knows what loyalty to his lord demands of him. He bows from his seated position. “No, my lord, or I think he would have made some kind of response to this. And once you shield these secrets, he will not be able to notice them. If an ordinary Occlumency shield is a wall, these are air, blending into the rest of your mind without being noticed.”

“But—surely he would suddenly notice if he can’t access certain of my memories?”

“My lord,” Theo whispers, and leans forwards. Harry unconsciously imitates him. “When these memories are shielded, he will forget that they exist. That he ever saw them.”

Harry stares at him with an open mouth. It is exactly the kind of reaction Theo was hoping for, and he revels in it while Harry tries and tries to get some kind of mental balance.

“I—Theo, are you sure that this box can affect someone of the Dark Lord’s power?”

“Yes,” Theo says, noting silently that Harry still calls him the Dark Lord and not Father. Well, maybe he is different when he’s in private with his sire. “Occlumency vaults are ancient, crafted to a set of spells that no one else can imitate unless they’re of that bloodline. And no one can pierce them if they’re not of the bloodline, either.”

“What bloodline is that?”

“Nott.”

Harry’s attention pours over him like water, and Theo bathes in it. Then Harry sighs and says, “This is something that you made yourself.”

“Yes, my lord. It’s the reason that I decided to stay with Arithmancy for a NEWT instead of giving it up. I needed equations to make the box.”

“And your father doesn’t know you made me one.”

Theo laughs a little at the thought of how furious his father would be if he knew. Theo loves him, but he will also keep his own secrets and have his own loyalties, now that he has his own lord. “No, my lord.”

“Won’t he get upset with you if he finds out?”

“He won’t find out.”

“But you said that someone of the Nott bloodline could pierce the spells, and he could remind the Dark Lord of the missing memories even if the box works—”

“My lord,” Theo murmurs, “do you think I would leave you so unprotected? I have changed the magic of the box so that not even one of the Nott bloodline can pierce the spells or see the memories. Anything you put in there will be safe from everyone. Even me.”

“I don’t need them to be safe from you, Theo.”

Theo catches his breath and sends a long push of gratitude and strength down the bond. Harry sits up a little straighter underneath it. “My thanks, my lord,” Theo whispers. “But still, I wish you to have it. To have privacy and security to call your own that not even the Dark Lord can take from you.”

Harry’s hand trembles a little where it rests on the box, and their bond is vibrating like the earth under a giant’s footsteps. “Thank you, then, Theo. This is a priceless gift.”

“So you know that it’s no use trying to repay me.”

Harry laughs and looks up. If his eyes are a little wet, both of them can pretend they aren’t. “No, I wouldn’t dare.”

Theo is more than content, more than happy, as he watches his lord examine and accept the gift. Theo is deeply joyful.

*

“It smells of magic.”

“Yes, powerful magic,” Harry murmurs. He didn’t think to ask if the box would keep his memories safe from Basilisk, but then, he couldn’t have when she was right there with him in Theo’s sitting room. But if it will work on Theo—and Draco, and Pansy, who he also has bonds to—he thinks it will work with her.

Before he gives himself time to think of it, he tells Basilisk, “You know there was a time when my Muggle relatives deprived me of food for almost two weeks? They gave me a little, just enough to keep me from starving, but I was dizzy and could hardly move because of the pain.”

Basilisk rears up, hissing, while their bond burns with sharp black spots. “I will kill them! Destroy them!”

“Father did it before you were hatched.”

“That is good. The blood-master understands what he is for.”

Harry laughs a little, and then closes his eyes, concentrating on the memory of that two weeks, how pathetically grateful he was to receive food again, and how Petunia sneered at him and said that he was weaker than Dudley for not being able to go without food that long.

Harry knows that’s not true now, but he can still feel the sharp blade of the shame cutting at him.

He draws the memory out as a long strand and drops it into the box. The box shivers, and a moment later, something like a wall forms in Harry’s head. He prods it, alarmed, and the blade of shame cuts him again. He relaxes, and the memory retreats and grows less potent.

Time to test.

“How long did my Muggle relatives starve me, Basilisk? Do you know? Was it ever more than a day?”

Basilisk hisses and coils around his neck in surprise. “I do not know. You have not told me.”

Harry feels the sweetness of the triumph cut through him, and he nods. “Don’t worry. I find that I don’t want to discuss those memories very much.”

He knows he needs to protect the memory of the box next, right away.

And, barely lurking in the back of his mind, a thought he will protect as soon as he has a memory to attach it to…

He doesn’t need to worry any longer about what will happen if he feels the need to stand against Voldemort.

Chapter Text

“I call this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix to begin.”

Hermione bites her lip as she takes her place at the table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Ron casts her a glance and reaches out to hold her hand. Hermione grabs his hard enough that Ron winces a little and squeezes back.

In front of them sits Professor Dumbledore, as haggard as if he’s been through a battle. Maybe he has, Hermione thinks. He had to run from Hogwarts and go into hiding, and maybe he’s fought with a few Death Eaters on the way.

She still can’t believe that Professor Dumbledore has been driven from the school, and that Professor Snape died trying to kill Harry.

(She still can’t believe that Harry is Voldemort’s son).

“Some of you have heard the information that I have to impart,” Dumbledore says, and for a second, his eyes rest heavy on Hermione and Ron. Hermione gives a little involuntary nod. “Others have not. I am sorry to say that I bring news of the gravest sort. Harry Potter is, in truth, the son of Lily Evans and Voldemort.”

There is crying. Screaming. Gasping. Denials. Hermione sits through it with closed eyes. She’s remembering the way Harry looked during their last argument. Not evil, but as if he already withdrew from the rest of them.

And he disappeared into a carriage with the Slytherins he Marked instead of staying with the people who were confused and mourning Professor Snape as he lay dead.

(Not that anyone much mourns Professor Snape for himself, as Hermione well knows, but he’d always been there, and then he wasn’t. And Harry was mixed up in the cause of that).

Dumbledore’s speech is winding down. Mrs. Weasley is speaking now, her voice thick and strong. “I don’t want either of my children at Hogwarts near him, Albus. Who knows what he might take it into his mind to do to them?”

“I do not think Harry is evil, Molly, or the sort to torture someone. Merely weak.”

“Bollocks! Arthur and I have heard all about how he had an argument with our Ron and Hermione and pulled back from them, although we didn’t realize why. But now we know. It was that, wasn’t it, dears?”

Hermione opens her eyes. She’s horrified to find that she’s on the verge of crying. Ron squeezes her hand again, and she swallows and nods. “That, and we—we found him Marking a Slytherin, Pansy Parkinson, who wanted to follow him.”

More gasps sound. Dumbledore leans forwards across the table. “You’re certain, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione can feel herself blinking at him, but as if someone else is doing it. “You—you didn’t know?”

Dumbledore slumps back in his seat, his eyes closed. “Say rather,” he whispers, “that I preferred not to see.”

Hermione nods. She can understand how that feels. She knew Harry was lying to them about where he spent the summer, but she really did believe that he’d been asked not to tell, and she respected that he wanted to keep his secrets.

But this. But this.

There’s no excuse for this. Harry can say all he likes about protecting people, but look what his attempts to do that did. Professor Snape is dead, Professor Dumbledore has been driven away from the school, and everyone at Hogwarts and in Britain is in so much more danger than they were before.

“We now have two tasks,” Professor Dumbledore says, and his voice is stern and ringing like a great bell. Hermione sits up, inspired before she even consciously thinks about what she’s listening to. “The first is to find a way to destroy the monster calling himself Lord Voldemort. I have a good lead on that, and I will begin on it immediately. Kingsley, Alastor, I would like you to help me.”

The two Aurors nod. Incredibly, Professor Dumbledore then turns to face Hermione and Ron. Hermione exchanges a glance with her best friend—her only friend, now—and sits up a little straighter.

“I must ask a difficult thing of you,” Dumbledore begins gravely.

“You can’t want them to return to Hogwarts, Albus!”

“I believe they will be in little to no danger. As I said, I don’t believe Harry to be evil, merely weak. He did not hurt them even after they found out his secret.” Dumbledore takes a deep breath. “I know they have spoken since Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley found out that secret, did you not, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want us to spy on Harry,” Ron blurts.

Dumbledore nods gravely. “I am so sorry to ask this of you, but we must know what Voldemort’s Heir is doing, and no one else knows the secret whom we can trust.”

Of course not. We can’t trust the Slytherins to do the right thing. They’re only concerned about their safety and the things their families could demand of them, not how the whole world will become less safe for everyone because of their choices.

The thought darts through Hermione’s mind and buries itself, because of course she never counted on Pansy Parkinson or Theodore Nott or bloody Draco Malfoy for safety and making the right decision. She counted on Harry for that.

Harry. The betrayal tears at her heart and lungs.

Mrs. Weasley is still objecting, but Hermione lifts her head. “We have to do it,” she says, in a tone that actually manages to silence Mrs. Weasley. Hermione didn’t know that was possible. “Harry is still a beloved icon to a lot of people. He could cause so much damage even if just stands aside and doesn’t do anything against his f-father.”

Dumbledore nods to her, his eyes sad and proud, perhaps bright with tears of his own. Hermione can’t be entirely sure. “Of course. That is true, Miss Granger, and I am so proud of you for doing what is right instead of what is easy.”

“She won’t be alone,” Ron says steadily, and turns to argue with his mother when she tries to object again to his going back to Hogwarts.

Hermione takes a deep breath and settles back in her chair. She’s never been more grateful that she’s an adult in the magical world, and that Ron was allowed to join the Order meeting despite not being an adult for a few more months.

She’ll need allies. She’ll need her friends—friend.

They have a job to do.

*

“Your Head of House is Headmistress.”

Harry jumps. He’s been packing all morning, including trying to make enough use of the enormous new trunk that Voldemort gave him—which shrinks down at the tap of a wand—to justify taking it with him. Then again, he’s received so many Christmas gifts that he’ll manage. “What?”

“Minerva is Headmistress,” Voldemort repeats, with that edge to his Parseltongue that sounds like a snake lazily swishing his tail.

Harry turns around. His—father stands in the doorway of Harry’s bedroom, giving a critical glance at the pile of books on the floor at his feet. After a moment, he nods and waves his yew wand, summoning more books. “I thought I had not given you enough on curses and countercurses. Here are more.”

“Er, thanks,” Harry says, who privately wonders how he’ll manage to read all the books Voldemort thinks he should while also doing NEWT classwork. He catches the books and sets them in the pile. “Do you know who’s taking over as Transfiguration professor?”

“An acquaintance of mine named Corban Yaxley. He quite fortunately offered himself, and Minerva has no reason to turn him away.”

“A Death Eater, you mean.”

“Your bodyguard, you mean.”

Harry swallows and decides to say something that might be taken as defiance just to see how his father will react. “I don’t want a bodyguard.”

“You have one.”

“But I don’t want one.”

Voldemort leans towards him, his tongue darting out. His eyes are bright with delight, and he looks as though he wants to clap his hands. “Are you going to duel me, Harry? Shall I have it out with you in this very room, and then show you what kind of furniture and books I would buy to replace the old ones?”

“They would be worse, I know.” This is at least something Harry understands, the threats from his guardians to take away what he has—

“They would be finer.”

Harry’s brain stumbles, the way it has a habit of doing around Voldemort. He just stares at his father. Voldemort stares back, his tongue darting in and out of his lipless mouth as he waits for Harry to say something.

“The blood-master is being generous.” Basilisk’s bond with him is bright and cool and blue and green, slow-moving like a summer river. “You should take advantage of that generosity.”

“Still advising him, little one?”

“He needs much advice, blood-master.”

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I don’t want to duel you,” he whispers. “But I don’t want a bodyguard, either. I have enough people gaping at me for something I’m not and trying to follow me around.”

“Ask Corban to take care of them.”

“But—that would make me even more different.”

“You are different. You are stronger than they are, more important, more compassionate, more powerful. You should be proud.” Voldemort pauses. “I am.”

Harry swallows. Merlin, he never expected temptation like this, simple words of the kind that a parent might speak—

He is my parent.

Maybe this is the moment that Harry fully accepts that, and everything it’ll mean. He takes a slow, calming breath. “All right. Thank you. But I do know that interfering too much with other people will just make them resent me the way it did in the past. So I’ll do what I can to make sure Corban doesn’t need to interfere.”

“Do not hesitate before calling upon him, because the alternative is me.”

Harry should have guessed that, really. He nods. “Thank you, Father. I won’t hesitate.”

Voldemort moves forwards in a sudden darting glide that makes Harry freeze, although Basilisk hisses softly and sends more blue and green waves down their bond. But Voldemort only slides a hand down the side of Harry’s face and flick his tongue out, probably to taste his scent.

“I could not be prouder.”

Then he turns and leaves the room, and Harry exhales as he sits down on the bed, shaky and confused.

“Why are you not proud as well? You are very strange.”

Harry turns his head to bury his face in Basilisk’s scales. “I can’t help it.”

“True. You are human.”

*

Draco steps into the train compartment where Harry and the others are sitting with his pulse beating so fast that he feels as if he’s going to faint. Harry looks up and smiles in welcome, then looks again. His smile fades.

Draco winces. He can’t imagine what his bond is telling his lord.

“Draco, are you okay?”

The gentle tone, more than the words, makes Draco blink once, and then again. And then he collapses into the seat across from Harry, his legs aching and his breath coming in whistling gasps.

He should have remembered that of course Harry is different from the Dark Lord. Different from anyone Draco has ever heard of who claimed the mantle of a Lord and Marked people. Different from his father.

Different from Draco’s father.

“Theo, Pansy, could you leave, please?”

Theo doesn’t want to. Draco knows that as well as he knows his own name, sees the protest forming in his fellow courtier’s eyes, but Harry just tilts his own head and narrows his eyes a bit. He must be using the bond.

Theo bows and leaves without a word. Pansy bites her lip, glancing at Draco. They’ve always been close.

“He’ll be fine,” Harry tells her softly. “I promise. We’ll take care of the problem.”

That’s enough for Pansy, who has so much faith in the goodness of the universe that she really should have been Sorted into Hufflepuff. She smiles at Harry and steps out of the compartment, sliding the door shut behind her.

“What’s happening?”

Draco shifts, clenches his fists on his knees, and clears his throat. “My father wants me to get close to you and become your most important courtier. The one who whispers advice in your ear and influences you to act the way my father wants.”

Even admitting it is terrifying. Draco doesn’t want to do what Father is telling him to do, but he doesn’t wand Father dead, either, the way he will be if Harry mentions this conversation to the Dark Lord.

“Well, you can’t. That’s Basilisk’s job.”

Draco is startled into laughing. Harry smiles at him, and Draco realizes how terrified he must have looked. He shifts and clears his throat. “I know, but Father wants progress reports. Of a—kind.”

“Write and tell him that our bond is strong and full and you’re introducing other Slytherins to me to bond with. You mentioned that before the holidays, anyway. And tell him that I value you and won’t mention this to the Dark Lord.”

Draco blinks. A stupid man might take that to mean that Harry is under his thumb, but Father has never been stupid. He’ll understand the subtle threat. “When did you become such a Slytherin?” he blurts.

“At birth, if you believe my father.”

Draco laughs again and then claps a hand guiltily over his mouth. Harry just shakes his head impatiently, though. “No, no, I much prefer you alive and moving to sitting there like a stuffed deer head. Will this plan work?”

“Yeah,” Draco says, while wondering if the Dark Lord has stuffed deer heads on the walls of the house he shares with Harry, and if so, why. One could at least have the heads of magical creatures if one must display taxidermy. “And—thank you for sparing my father’s life, Harry. I know what you could do if you exposed his plan to the Dark Lord. You have reason to hate him,” he adds quietly, remembering second year, which Father told him the truth of the previous summer.

“I would never do that to you, Draco.”

Draco stares into Harry’s eyes for a long moment, seeing the sincerity there, and more, the strength, which he would have thought of as weakness not long ago. He finds himself glancing away, blinking furious tears from his eyes. For a moment, the silence stretches between them.

“Thanks,” Draco breathes, and then hurries away and out of the compartment. He wants to find Crabbe and Goyle and have some simpler conversations for a bit, even if the conversations might also ultimately lead both of them to swear to Harry.

It’s overwhelming, being in the court of a Lord who cares.

*

“You should ignore them.”

“I’m trying.”

Honestly, Harry thinks he’s doing a good job. Ron and Hermione are sitting down the table from him in the Great Hall, both making it obvious that they’ve argued with him and that they’re staring at him and whispering. But Harry isn’t going up to snap at them and demand they stop or anything.

He’s strong. He’ll do this.

“Ignore them in truth.”

“Stop speaking in public, or someone could hear you.”

Basilisk flicks the side of his neck with her tail, but she does shut up. She used to ask for food at meals in the Great Hall, but gave up when she realized it was all dead already.

“Harry?”

He turns to Neville and tries to give a smile that’s as natural as possible. “Hi, Nev. Did you have a good Christmas holiday?”

“Yeah. It was sort of unexpected, actually.” Neville takes a deep breath. “I mean, one of the gifts was. Can I talk to you about it after dinner?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees warily, although he’s wondering as he does so what this means. Did Voldemort send Neville some kind of threat? But why would he? The only thing he would know is that Harry and Neville speak at meals sometimes and partner in classes a bit since the argument with Ron and Hermione. Basilisk could have reported that much.

Do I have to be careful about my father threatening someone I’m only casual friends with, too?

Harry closes his eyes and does a mini-meditation, mostly to calm down so that he doesn’t flood his bonds to Basilisk and his courtiers with negative emotions. He doesn’t know what else to do. The burdens can’t be put down.

Ron and Hermione whisper, eyes locked on him, and Neville is tense and cautious, and Corban Yaxley is dark-eyed and cautious at the professors’ table, and Harry has eyes on him from Slytherin, and he feels like he’s going to drown.

*

“Here should be good.”

“All right.” Harry is a little reassured by the fact that Neville just led him aside from the flood of Gryffindors going up to the Tower and into a side corridor that dead ends in what might an old Potions lab. He puts up a Privacy Charm, but nothing so extreme that it seems like this is going to be a huge serious talk.

“I have to know one thing first,” Neville began. “Did you heal anyone over the holidays?”

“Heal anyone?”

Harry has no idea what Neville is talking about, and maybe that comes through, because Neville’s shoulders slump a little and he takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. That helps, actually.”

“Neville, what are you talking about?”

“Only this,” Neville says, and swallows loudly. “The Healers at St. Mungo’s contacted us and said that my mum was awake.” Tears shine on his cheeks as he swallows again. “My dad is…more aware than he was. Not all the way awake. But getting there. They think he’ll be fully healed in a few weeks.”

Harry knows his mouth is hanging open. He swallows loudly himself and whispers, “And you thought I did it?”

“You’re the only one I know who might have enough power to do so.”

Harry closes his eyes. He does remember Voldemort saying that he had a special gift for Harry, one that he wanted to give Harry after he went back to Hogwarts, but—

And Voldemort is a skilled Legilimens, one who might have been able to get into the mind of someone suffering from insanity and lead them back to sanity, but—

What?

It takes Harry a moment to realize that the word isn’t in the voice of his thoughts. He sighs and focuses his mind inwards on the response coming from Voldemort. Did you heal Alice and Frank Longbottom, Father?

Pleasure and smugness cascades through his mind, coming through as red and gold for some reason. Do you not enjoy your gift?

Neville thought maybe I did it.

Voldemort laughs, and the laughter echoes through Harry’s body as if they stand in the same room. You will be able to do it someday, if you develop your power. I cannot recommend that you try right now..

But what should I tell him?

That a powerful friend of yours did it for you. It is more than true—except perhaps for the meaning of the word “friend,” but there are those who use it to refer to family members.

Voldemort cuts the connection off, and Harry blinks and gasps and opens his eyes. Neville is leaning forwards to stare at him. “Are you all right, Harry?”

“Yeah. I—I was thinking about whether I should tell you.” Harry swallows. “A powerful friend of mine healed them as a favor to me. Because I’m the Boy-Who-Lived and he—wanted to help me.”

“Who, Harry?”

“He would really rather than I not reveal the name.”

“Why not?” Neville takes a step forwards, almost vibrating with tension. “Harry, if someone can heal—if someone can heal this for my parents, then they could do it for other people. It could be revolutionary.”

“I could bite him.”

Harry pushes refusal down the bond with Basilisk and faces Neville. He has an idea that will hopefully rescue the situation his father has dropped him into. “He did it using Legilimency,” he murmurs, lowering his voice. “You know that Legilimency is restricted by the Ministry and people have to give informed consent for it most of the time. What he did is illegal. He wouldn’t want it getting out.”

“Oh. I…well, but surely most people would give consent? Or he could just go through the Ministry?”

“He’s a high-handed bastard who wouldn’t want to take the trouble.”

It feels good to speak the truth for once.

“Oh.” Neville shifts awkwardly back and forth. Harry feels bad making him feel like this, but he doesn’t have a choice. Neville would be in so much danger, so much trouble, especially if for some reason his parents go back to fighting against Voldemort when they wake up. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’ll at least tell him thank you for me?”

You would throw it in my face if you knew who he was. Harry puts on a bright smile so that he won’t vomit. “Of course. I know that at least he’ll like to be thanked. He likes gratitude.” From his son.

“Thanks, Harry,” Neville says, and then steps forwards and hugs him, having no clue how close he just came to getting his throat torn open by a highly venomous snake. “You’ll never know how much this means to me.”

Or how much it means to Voldemort, more likely.

“You’re welcome.” Harry clears his throat again, and watches Neville take down the Privacy Charm and walk up the corridor. Now that Harry is looking closely, he can see that Neville is walking awkwardly, as if he’s had a weight removed from his shoulders and doesn’t know how to function without it.

“Your blood-master did a good thing, but you are upset about it. You are strange.”

“He didn’t tell me that he was going to do it, and I had to lie, and I could have messed things up.”

“But you did not. You are a very good human.” Basilisk flicks her tail against his neck again. “Always giving me the best treats and the best bond.”

Harry utters a choked laugh and stands there for a long second before he follows Neville up to Gryffindor Tower.

Ron and Hermione are in the common room, whispering, eyeing him. Harry ignores them and goes up the stairs to the bedroom.

He would probably feel better right now if he can just drown his sorrows in sleep.

Chapter Text

Ron stands up with a deep breath when he sees Harry coming down the stairs. It’s uncanny, how much he still looks like himself. Ron has read stories of children who were taken from their real parents and concealed under illusions, and they always look really different when the illusion wears off.

But Harry just looks the way he always has, so like the pictures of James Potter in the album Hagrid made for him that Ron’s heart clenches.

Hagrid. He’s someone else who will suffer if Harry’s dad wins, someone Harry hasn’t thought about.

All of that gives Ron the courage to walk forwards and step in front of Harry. Harry pauses, his eyes flicking to Ron. That’s new, at least, Ron thinks bitterly, the caution and the fear that Harry probably thinks is just reasonable.

It wouldn’t have to be if he hadn’t decided Voldemort was his dad, instead of just the man who fathered him.

“Ron?”

“Hermione and I have been thinking,” Ron begins.

Harry’s face closes, and his hand twitches like he wants to raise it to the side of his neck, although Ron doesn’t know why. He shakes his head, though. “I don’t think that we need to have a conversation about anything you and Hermione have been discussing, Ron,” he says, his voice clipped and careful. “After all, we’ve made our relative positions clear.”

“But there are things you haven’t thought about, Harry.”

“What are those?”

Ron lowers his voice. “That there are all sorts of people who will suffer if your side wins. Hermione, sure, but Hagrid, too, and my family, and Dean, and Colin and Dennis, and lots of people in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.” He’s not sure about the Slytherins. He thinks it must be impossible for any House not to have some half-bloods and Muggleborns, but he doesn’t know of any there. “I know you want to protect the people who—follow you, but can you set their lives against the lives of everyone else?’

“I can’t condemn them to death.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t die. There’s no reason to think that V-Voldemort would kill Malfoy—”

“He would,” Harry says, sounding utterly certain and bewildering Ron still further. How can anyone choose this when they also believe that Voldemort is evil? “That’s the reason he gave them to me in the first place. So I would have people I would go along with him to save.”

“Gave you? Like they’re objects?”

“That’s the way he thinks of them.”

“But not the way you need to think of them.”

Harry’s eyebrows rise so slowly that they look like they’re going to drift right off his face. “What way would you have me think of them?”

Ron hesitates, because he didn’t really have an answer for this. He didn’t anticipate the conversation with Harry going in the direction of treating people as objects. But he forges ahead, because the people who will die if he doesn’t are more important than his own embarrassment. “People. No more important than anyone else.”

“But you think some people are more important than other people, too.”

“Only because good people are more important than evil ones!”

Harry watches him in such silence that Ron has no idea what he’s going to say next. Then he shakes his head and pushes past Ron to walk out of the common room.

Ron watches him go with his mouth open. He can’t believe that Harry is just—what, going to give up?

But apparently he is, and Ron shouldn’t be that surprised by it. A simple philosophical conversation, or even being confronted with the choices that he’s making, won’t be enough to change Harry’s mind when he’s so committed to this farce of acting as though Voldemort is acceptable. Evil, but acceptable, somehow.

Ron sighs and goes to consult with Hermione. Maybe she should be the one to talk to Harry next, and maybe they should do it in a public place like she wanted to anyway.

*

“He wanted you to abandon your courtiers?”

“Yes,” Harry says. He’s walking into the Great Hall, into the chatter and the speculation about how the school will be different with McGonagall as Headmistress, Yaxley as Transfiguration professor, and an Auror borrowed from the Ministry and known as Gawain Robards as Defense Professor. He doesn’t think anyone will notice him speaking to Basilisk. “They’re not more important than other people, but somehow the people Ron likes and thinks are good are more important than they are.”

“I want to bite them.”

“I already told you the problems that you’ll cause me if you do that, Basilisk.”

Basilisk doesn’t respond for a long moment, which is unlike her. Harry is able to reach the Gryffindor table and serve himself some toast and butter and marmalade before she says, “You are smelling unhappy, the way that you did last term.”

“Yes.” Harry waves at Neville and glances away from Ginny, who’s giving him a weird look. He’s starting to worry that Theo’s spell slipped or something, so that Ron and Hermione could tell other people about him being Voldemort’s son.

“But I killed one of the people who was making you unhappy, and another one is gone. Why are you not happier?”

Harry eats a little as he considers how to answer that. But Basilisk is beginning to sound upset when she hisses a wordless question at him, so he sighs and says, “I’m not just unhappy because of certain people being here or not. It’s—the secrets I’m carrying, and my father being who he is.”

“But he does things to make you happy.”

Harry smiles fleetingly. It’s always funny to him that “happy” translates in Parseltongue as sounding like “really warm.” “I know. But because of who he is, they don’t always make me happy.”

“I do not think that I can bite the blood-master.”

“You’re really the best snake, Basilisk. And you don’t need to bite him.”

“Good. I do not think Nagini would like it, and he might be immune to my venom anyway. We should make sure that you are immune to my venom.”

“Maybe eventually.”

Basilisk continues to make suggestions throughout breakfast for things she thinks would improve Harry’s life, and Harry responds with wordless little hisses, since no one is sitting near enough to him to hear them as Parseltongue. The bond he shares with Basilisk is flowing bright and lively and quick, flashing with blue and green and gold and white.

At least his bossy snake can be happy.

*

Theo is so annoyed with himself that it’s an effort not to crack his cauldron down on the table in Potions. Pansy and Draco stare at him. All three of them brew together regularly, and if they are the only ones who know why, that’s fine. They are the only ones—along with their lord—who need to know why.

“Theo?”

“I heard Weasley and Granger talking with Weasley’s sister,” Theo says, leaning close enough to lower his voice. “They were talking about your Marking, Pansy. They broke my spell.”

“But—I know that you always cast them perfectly.”

Pansy’s smile is small and sharp and fleeting, and so is Theo’s. She has reason to know that he casts spells like that perfectly, and because they are who they are, that experience made them friends rather than otherwise.

“I think that the only way they could have slipped free of it was with the help of someone more powerful than me. And I know Weasley and Granger aren’t. If they were around Dumbledore, though…” Theo closes his eyes. “I didn’t consider that.”

“But it still should have prevented them from speaking of it, right?”

“If he knew it already, or if he suspected, the pressure of his magic on the spell could have broken it.” Theo curls his fingers into a fist beside the cauldron. It’s something he didn’t think about, and his lord could suffer as a result.

“It’s all right, Theo.”

That’s his lord, walking into the classroom. Theo’s face burns with embarrassment. He didn’t even sense Harry coming, and he should have, from the bond that’s stretched between them if nothing else.

Harry considers him, obviously, for a long moment, and then sighs and drops into place beside Theo at the table. No one else seems to find that strange, but then, Slughorn has kept them working together since that morning in Potions last term when they first discussed Harry Marking Pansy.

And Weasley and Granger just busily whisper together on the other side of the room, instead of complaining about it.

They know, and they have a plan.

Theo hates them. They had the privilege of being close to Harry all these years, and all they did was waste it in arguing and jealous complaining and focus on each other instead. Well, and making Harry do things like leading a Defense study group. Knowing what he does about his lord now, Theo can guess that Harry reveled in the chance to help people and maybe in the chance to teach, but he would have never sought the attention that came with it.

Neither did he seek Weasley’s jealousy. He never put his name in the Goblet of Fire. Even in fourth year, Theo never believed that.

He should have been ours from the beginning.

“It really is all right, Theo.”

Theo nods and averts his gaze from Weasley and Granger. The more upset he gets, the more his lord will be forced to deal with it. Theo knows that, and it makes it a little easier to concentrate on chopping up daisy roots for the potion they’re making today.

Harry chats lightly with Pansy and Draco as they work. Theo is the one who can feel his distress, though, the way that his eyes stray in Weasley and Granger’s direction too often for it to be a coincidence. Pansy and Draco have their own bonds to Harry, but Pansy’s is new and Draco keeps his hold on the bond back out of wariness and respect and what he tells himself is still more respect.

Draco will probably never believe himself completely safe in his bond until his father is dead or incapacitated from interference.

Theo goes to the storage cupboard to fetch more snake fangs, since Pansy didn’t bring enough, and finds Granger there. He wants to glare, but it seems better to just move past her without speaking.

“Nott.”

Theo looks up. Granger is standing in front of him with her arms folded and an expression on her face that wouldn’t be out of place from someone about to face a maddened bull.

“We know you’re part of the reason that Harry abandoned us, but we’re going to get him back.”

“Strange that you think he abandoned you instead of the other way around,” Theo drawls. He can do this kind of argument in his sleep.

Granger’s face flames. “He’s confused.”

“Deeply confused that two people he thought of as friends would abandon him, yes.” Theo is actually glad that he’s keeping his calm tone and disagreeing with Granger in a normal way. It makes the devastation on her face so delicious.

“He’s not our friend if he would ally with his evil bastard of a father! Doesn’t he remember everything Voldemort has done?”

Ever since he got Marked, Theo has noticed a lesser tendency in himself to flinch from the Dark Lord’s name. It’s interesting, and a side-effect of the bond that he didn’t anticipate, but one he would defend with everything in him, just as he would every other part of his lord that other people don’t deserve to come in contact with.

He offers Granger a mocking smile instead of screaming and running away like she probably expected, and murmurs, “He remembers. And he also knows that he has no choice. He made the decisions he did partially to protect you.”

“I wouldn’t want to be protected at the expense of other people!”

“Then you want him to withdraw his protection?”

Granger hesitates for a long moment, and then gets that proud, furious look on her face again, the one that says she knows she’s facing an enemy too strong for her, but doesn’t actually intend to back down. “Yes. You can tell him so. I don’t want him to protect me at the expense of morals and other Muggleborns. At the expense of everything that’s good.”

Theo has an astonishing urge to shake his head in pity. The Dark Lord’s nature and behavior up until this point means that Granger and Weasley have been allowed to play in the shadow of good and evil, to divide everything in the world up that way. And now they don’t know how to cope with finding out the world is full of other shadows, all of them sharper-edged.

“Are you sure about that? Do you know what will happen?”

“I already told you, Nott! Go talk to your little lord you’re just corrupting further and further with the way you defer to him!”

Granger snatches the snake fangs that she evidently also came for and storms out of the storage cupboard before Theo can answer. Good enough, since someone else is also entering. Theo takes his own snake fangs and makes his way back to the table, his eyes dwelling on Granger’s back.

“Theo?”

“Yes, my lord?”

Harry looks a little disgruntled. “I’m going to ask you not to call me that in Potions class since someone could overhear.”

Theo hides his smile behind his cauldron. That’s a great improvement over the days when he thought that Harry might never accept the title at all. “Okay, Harry. Did you want to ask me a question?”

“Just what you talked with Hermione about.”

It’s also a great improvement that Harry has no hesitation in asking the question. Theo faces him and nods. “She believes that you’re confused and that you abandoned them instead of the other way around. She also thinks that she doesn’t want to be protected in such a way that other people aren’t protected, so you should withdraw your request for that to the Dark Lord.”

“But…”

Harry’s face is almost grey. Draco reaches out and lays a hand on his arm, which Theo doesn’t mind. He knows that he doesn’t work as well at comfort—well, not that kind. He’s much better at vicious gifts and defense.

“She’s making a choice,” Draco says quietly. “You can’t shield her, or them, from the consequences of their choices forever, Harry.” He lifts his hand from their lord’s arm and sits back.

“I can’t believe she knows the true consequences, though,” Harry says quietly. “Doesn’t realize what he would have already done to her if I wasn’t standing in between.”

Theo finds himself wondering when Harry will address the Dark Lord consistently as his father, then shrugs it off. That particular burden isn’t one that Theo or anyone can bear for Harry, and perhaps, considering what it might mean for Harry’s beliefs and allegiances, not one that Theo should want to urge him into. “She probably doesn’t. She looked scared but determined, and you know that a Gryffindor only charges ahead when they feel that way.”

Harry glares at him.

“You’re a sort of honorary Gryffindor,” Pansy tells him, all sparkling eyes and sweet smile. “Given what else we know about you.”

“Yeah, like the Hat wanting to Sort me into Slytherin,” Harry mutters, and tosses enough daisy roots into the cauldron that everyone has to duck out of the way.

Theo spends the rest of the class daydreaming about what it would have been like to have Harry in Slytherin. Perhaps it would have made things harder when he was discovered to be the Dark Lord’s son—and Theo has no doubt that would have happened. Or perhaps Harry would have changed and hardened in such a way that he would be a less generous and open-minded lord than he is now.

No, Theo finally decides, in the end it’s for the best that they have what they have. And if he sees Granger’s pale face and Weasley’s flushed one out of the corner of his eye as he and Harry walk past them, laughing, out of the classroom, and feels a bit of pity…

They are the ones who had a gift and threw it away.

*

Everything is bright, bright black.

Lord Voldemort dances quietly in his mind through the blackness, which consists of reports from Corban about Harry, and Harry’s own reluctance to acknowledge that his father did something good for him by healing the Longbottoms, and Lord Voldemort’s blossoming dreams of vengeance on the petty children who abandoned his son and called him the Heir of Slytherin as if it were an insult.

He is free. He is more powerful and clear-minded than he has ever been. He is a slithering serpent with connections to Nagini and the other Horcruxes blossoming in his mind.

It baffles him that it never occurred to him to keep the Horcruxes close, Of course, he would not leave them without warding and protection, and keeping them separate from himself is a way to ensure that not all of them could be captured and destroyed in one raid, but—

If he were that confident in his warding and protection abilities, why not keep a few of them with him and hide the others? Why not at least see whether the company of one or two would be congenial before scattering them to the ends of the earth?

They are the means of his immortality, which he has always acknowledged, but it seems to him now that he has never valued them enough, that he treated them like rubbish. That is certainly the opinion the cup voiced to him more than once.

He has not yet recovered the locket, and the diary is destroyed beyond recall. But the ring and the cup and the diadem and dearest Nagini are with him at all times, and now and then his heir and Horcrux, the most precious and intriguing of them all.

If he could have Harry with him at all times, he would. But Harry would be unhappy to be taken away from Hogwarts and his friends and courtiers, so Lord Voldemort has acceded to the necessary evil that removes his son from his presence.

But Harry will return with the summer, and then, Lord Voldemort fully intends to have a special ward to present to him, one that will keep him the safest he has ever been and ever will be. That any Horcrux ever will be.

Lord Voldemort’s bright and vicious mental dance has begun, in fact, to circle around another target. He has begun to think that warding, by itself, will never be enough to keep Harry safe. There will always be someone, Dumbledore or a member of the Order of the Phoenix or one of his self-righteous and foolish friends, determined to take Harry away from him. To destroy the Horcrux, if they know about it.

Lord Voldemort can envision only one thing that will keep Harry safe forever.

He must simply consider it.

*

“You know that you should practice, my lord.”

Harry takes a slow, deep breath, and finally nods. He knows that Theo is right, but—

It was hard enough to practice Dark Arts with Narcissa Malfoy. There, he did it mostly because he worried about who Voldemort would hurt if he didn’t, and thought that person might be Narcissa. Now, he wonders if he’ll hurt his courtiers by accident with a spell that he doesn’t have full control over.

“You would never hurt them. Sometimes I think you should. It would teach them a lesson.”

“You don’t need to give lessons to people, Basilisk.” Harry ignores the way that Draco and Pansy start when he hisses. They can’t see Basilisk, even though they know about her, but they seem to find his speaking Parseltongue surprising, even in the middle of the private dueling room they’ve created.

Theo just seems to become more focused, leaning his elbow on the wall and watching intently.

“I would do it better than you do,” she says tartly, and slithers off his neck to go sulk in the corner. The colors of their bond are blue and grey and green, slathered all over each other like the messes of food that Dudley used to make on the floor for Harry to clean up.

Harry shakes his head, because that’s not a good memory, and turns to face the shield on the wall. “You want me to try again?”

“If you will, my lord.”

Harry grimaces. He hates it when Pansy puts on that false simpering air. He draws his wand and holds it for a moment in a loose grip, concentrating, before he lashes forwards and casts the spell.

“Sanguis gelo!”

The shield on the wall rocks as the spell hits it. There’s a vial of blood there that Theo offered with glittering eyes and Harry knew better than to question. It shudders and shatters, and Harry watches as blood spills all over the shield and freezes.

“Well done!”

Harry flushes a little under the admiration in Pansy’s voice. “It still doesn’t look the way it did when Mrs. Malfoy performed the spell with me, though.”

“Of course not,” Pansy says as she steps up to take his place in front of the shield and her own turn at the spell. “She’s been casting that spell for a long time and she doesn’t mind hurting people. You do.”

“And…that’s something the lot of you think should change, right?”

Pansy’s back stiffens, but she doesn’t turn to look at him. Her bond with him, still thinner than the ones with Draco and Theo, shifts back and forth like a string in the wind. So Harry turns to look at Draco and Theo.

Draco ducks his head as if to avoid Harry’s gaze. But he says quietly, “I would prefer that you never become the kind of hardened killer that—your father is.”

“You know your father doesn’t want you to become one, either, Harry?”

“I don’t know that at all, Theo. I think he would be happy if I started cutting down enemies left and right.”

Theo shakes his head. Their bond is blue and transparent and calm, but Harry still doesn’t feel like he can read all the secrets behind his courtier’s eyes. “I think part of what he values in you is your difference from him, Harry. It shows in the Mark he let you design and the way that he lets you get away with defying him.”

Harry swallows. Basilisk has said similar things, but— “It doesn’t mean that I would get away with insulting him or really standing up against him. I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to threaten any of you if I tried.”

“You’re shaking in fear.”

Theo would know that, of course. Harry tries to stiffen his own spine the way Pansy did hers and keep his voice calm. “Of course I am. You don’t know how many fears I’ve had about one of you dying, or Basilisk.”

“The Dark Lord would kill her? When he gave her to you?”

Harry nods impatiently to Draco, wishing he had the mental fortitude at the moment to send soothing calm down their bond, but also knowing that he can’t hide not having it. “Of course he would. What matters to him is controlling me, not keeping her alive.”

“My lord.”

Theo’s voice is quiet. Harry glances at him, and shakes his head at the upraised eyebrow he gets. “Just say what’s on your mind, Theo.”

“More than control matters to him. He does love you—”

“He’s still the man who murdered and tortured a bunch of people to death for no other reason than blood purity politics!”

“And he isn’t sane, and that is what makes him dangerous. What he might do for love of you.” Theo leans a little forwards. “That’s the way you should think about him, my lord. It would be dangerous to ignore the possibility that he believes he is doing the right thing when it comes to you.”

Harry sucks in a breath and holds it, closing his eyes. Theo is right, damn it. Ignoring that Voldemort loves him is something Dumbledore would do, because he can’t believe Voldemort capable of love.

Harry knows that his father is, even if it’s mostly for the spark of himself in Harry. He has to think about it.

“Are you ready to talk like a clever person now?”

Harry blinks down at Basilisk, who has wriggled back to his feet. “Like a clever person?”

“Like a person who thinks that he has some chance of surviving the next few days,” Basilisk says.

Harry decides that he isn’t going to ask what she means, since the answer would probably depress him. “Yes,” he hisses back at her.

“Good. Then you should know that the blood-master would kill me if he had to, but he gave me to you to be a gift. Because your happiness is the thing that matters most to him about you.”

“You don’t say—the thing that matters most of all.”

“To be alive is the thing that matters most of all. The blood-master is no different.”

Harry jerks his head down in a little nod. He can see what she means. Voldemort’s love is conditional just like everyone else’s is. Ron and Hermione loved Harry as their friend because they thought he was a good person, and Snape swore a vow of protection because supposedly he was just Lily’s son, and Dumbledore cared for him because he thought Harry would do what he wanted.

Theo and Draco and Pansy trust Harry to protect them and lord it over them. Harry knows they would abandon him if that changed. He—doesn’t like that, but he doesn’t resent it.

“He would not hurt you unless you hurt him. He will do everything he can to protect you.” Basilisk flickers her tongue at him and flows up his body to coil around his neck. “You can be sure of that, and stop feeling as restless and unhappy and upset as you are.”

“I’m sorry. I know that it hurts the bond you have with me when I feel like that.”

“You are more concerned about me than about yourself.”

“Yes, of course I am?”

Basilisk flicks her tail against his neck again. “Well, stop it! You have the right to be concerned about yourself as well. I am concerned about you. I want you to stop feeling restless and unhappy, but not because it is hurting me. Because I hate to see you restless and unhappy.”

Harry takes a deep breath. It feels as though something has shifted and changed for him that is far more profound than just Basilisk’s bossy words. After all, he’s heard her say similar things many times before.

“My lord?”

Harry opens his eyes and finds them all watching him with concern, even Pansy turned away from what seems to have been a successful strike at the shield. He takes a deep breath. “I—Basilisk said something that really made sense to me, that’s all.”

“At least someone can,” Pansy mutters.

“You’re just jealous that you haven’t achieved it yet, Pansy.”

“Blaise will help me sneak into your dormitory if I want to set you on fire, Draco dearest.”

Theo is the one who keeps watching Harry as Draco and Pansy bicker. “Something important,” he says quietly, intensely, leaning forwards. “Something that you needed to hear or perhaps have heard and been ignoring.”

Harry bites his lip and nods. It is hard to pretend that people haven’t been trying to tell him this. The problem has been that…

What?

That he didn’t want to hear. That he didn’t dare hear. That he was afraid paying attention to himself would mean he neglected the safety of others.

But now…

Yes, he needs to stay safe and happy to keep Basilisk and the others safe. But also, he deserves to be safe and happy. Basilisk and his courtiers tell him that, and thanks to the bonds they have to him, they can’t lie.

Basilisk’s bond floods with the colors of a dancing sunrise, and so does Theo’s, the first time it’s ever done that. He might not know exactly what Harry and Basilisk have been discussing, but he knows Harry is happy and is relieved in that knowledge.

Harry clears his throat. “Yes. Something important.”

Chapter Text

“Harry, can I talk to you?”

I knew this was coming. Harry manages not to have too much of an expression of strained patience on his face—he thinks—as he turns around in the Gryffindor common room to meet Ginny’s eyes. “I’m actually on my way to a study session.”

“This will only take a minute.”

Ginny is already walking away, so Harry just rolls his eyes and follows her. Ginny turns around right outside the Fat Lady’s portrait with her arms folded and her own eyes drilling into him. Harry stares at her and waits.

“How could you?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“How could you accept that monster as your father?”

Harry takes a deep breath, astonished to feel the defensiveness rising inside him. Defensiveness. For Voldemort.

But then again, he supposes that Basilisk, and probably Theo and Draco and Pansy, would say that it makes sense for Harry to feel defensive of him even if no one else does, because Harry is the only one Voldemort is nice to.

“I didn’t really have a choice. He found out and he came and got me and killed my relatives to do it.”

“There’s always a choice! You could have fought!”

“So he would kill me?”

Ginny falters for the first time. Harry thinks she’s probably thinking of the chaos that would follow Harry Potter being dead. People losing hope, no one to stand up against Voldemort, Voldemort coming back and reigning over the whole magical world.

No one to come and rescue her, if she gets in another spot of trouble.

Harry feels a little bad for thinking like that, but not as bad as he would have felt three days ago.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

Ginny flushes. “Just—there’s always a choice! That’s all! That’s all I really meant!”

“Oh, is that what you meant,” Harry drawls, and then sees from the way she freezes and stares at him that he probably resembles the shade of Tom Riddle still haunting the inside of her head.

But Harry isn’t going to go through the rest of his life scrutinizing his every action and reaction and word and idea and plan for traces of a Voldemort who might or might not be there. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I understand if you can’t be around me because of this. But I’m not going to let people die just because it would make you feel better.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that some people are only alive because of my—father. He promised to leave Ron and Hermione alone if I cooperated with him.” And Harry’s courtiers, too, but he doesn’t know how much Ron and Hermione shared with Ginny, and he doesn’t intend to give her knowledge she might not have.

“And me?”

“I think he’s leaving Ron’s family in general alone.”

“You didn’t ask about me, specifically.”

“No,” Harry says slowly. “You didn’t come up, except in a general way when we talked about—the diary.”

“You told him about the Chamber of Secrets?”

“He already knew some things about it. Lucius Malfoy told him about the destruction of the diary before he killed my relatives. But we had a few conversations about it, yeah.”

Those are among the strangest conversations that Harry’s had with Voldemort, and honestly, he would prefer not to have another one again. Voldemort seemed to—to want some particular thing from Harry. An apology? He wouldn’t be getting one. Harry defended himself and Ginny against a giant snake and a mad Horcrux, and he isn’t going to apologize for that.

Besides, most of it was Lucius’s fault anyway. And Voldemort has kept Lucius in his court, so he can’t be too angry at him.

“Harry!”

Harry starts as he realizes that he’s drifted away into his own head, thinking about what Voldemort wanted him to say in regards to the diary. He shakes himself and focuses on Ginny again. “Sorry.”

“What did you tell him?”

“He saw some memories of the Chamber, and he asked what I felt about the destruction of the diary. He didn’t seem that pleased that I’d destroyed it, but also not—not as angry as I thought he would be.”

“What did you tell him about me?”

“That you were possessed by the diary? Almost drained to death? What else would I have told him?”

Ginny shuts her eyes. For a second, tears glint around the edges of them, and Harry internally panics. He really doesn’t know how to deal with a crying girl. And maybe that shouldn’t seem so big to him when he’s dealt with lots of other stuff, but it is. He’s got through that other stuff. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

“I thought I was more important to you than that,” Ginny whispers. “I thought—after the conversation we had last year about being possessed—after—I thought I mattered to you and we shared similar experiences.”

“This particular experience isn’t one I can share,” Harry says quietly.

And if he immediately thinks of the ways that isn’t true—the way that he shares things with his courtiers, for example—well, frankly that isn’t any of Ginny’s business.

“So you really don’t care about me.”

“Not the way that you want me to care.”

From the hurt breath Ginny draws in, that’s maybe too honest. But Ginny lowers her eyes a second later and nods. Then she turns and walks away as though she’s going to a funeral somewhere on the seventh floor.

Harry takes a deep breath and bends down to pick Basilisk off the floor. Basilisk flickers her tongue out. “You smell less pained than I thought you would.”

“She was a friend. Maybe she could have been something more. But there’s too much between us.”

“Something more?”

Harry would think she’s joking, but the bond is bright with the yellow of true confusion. “A mate.”

“You cannot mate with something like her. She is weak and would lay you weak eggs. Do you want the shells to shatter before your young come out?”

Harry can feel his face practically catch on fire. “I’m not looking for a mate, anyway.”

“You were the one who mentioned one.”

Harry gives up and goes to his study session. He can’t win either fight right now.

*

“I know you have something to do with this.”

Draco blinks and glances up. He has to admit, of all the people who could have approached him about this, he never thought Weasley’s sister would be one.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know you have something to do with Harry accepting a place as a Death Eater instead of fighting back.”

Draco could say many things to that, but he just ends up shrugging and saying, “Fine, I did. You can go away now.”

Weasley’s sister glares at him, her hands in fists. If they were anywhere other than the library, Draco thinks she would have started yelling at him by now. But even Gryffindors have a healthy fear of Madam Pince.

Weasley takes a step towards him, and a deep breath. “I’m watching you. If you set a toe out of line, I know what to do.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll curse you.”

Draco wants to snap something back, but something else occurs to him, more important, and he turns away as if he’s actually frightened of her threat, starting to scoop books and scrolls into his bag.

Weasley’s sister nods as if she thinks her ridiculous words scared him, and turns and stalks out of the library.

Draco leaves soon after in another direction, sending questions down the bond. By the time he reaches the ritual room where Harry Marked Pansy, his lord is already waiting for him, looking concerned.

“Are you all right, Draco?”

“I thought—I thought you should know—” Draco stops and swallows. His bond will reveal more confusion than fear, he knows, but he also knows that Harry will want to stop any fear he feels. Finally, Draco has come to trust that Harry will in truth, that this isn’t a trap with Harry running a long con to report back to the Dark Lord.

“Yes?”

“The female Weasel just came and threatened me in the library. Said she was watching me and she would curse me if I put a toe out of line, because I had something to do with making you become a Death Eater.”

Harry stares at him, his mouth dropping open a little. Then he says, “Have you ever even spoken to Ginny before?”

“We yelled a few things at each other in Quidditch matches, probably,” Draco says. His voice is hoarse and soft, and he doesn’t know why. He blinks and clears his throat. “I—I can’t remember ever speaking directly to her before today.”

Harry nods. His eyes are distant. “She came and talked to me, too, but I thought by the end of that conversation that she’d given up on—winning me back to Dumbledore’s side of the war, or whatever she was trying to do. She seemed to think I’m evil.”

“You’re the furthest thing from evil!”

Harry blinks at Draco, as if surprised by the ferocity of his defense. Draco is a little surprised himself. Harry clears his throat. “Well. Thank you, Draco.”

“You’re not. Some people would have used their position as the Dark Lord’s heir to punish everyone who had ever hurt them. And you not only didn’t hurt me, you accepted me. I don’t know anyone else with even an ounce of forgiveness.”

Draco is shaking by the time he’s done, but he knows that he means it. That’s the reason he feels the way he does. This intense relief that yes, he can trust Harry, and Harry hasn’t tricked him and won’t turn on him, and he can probably trust Harry more than he can his own father, who doesn’t care if Draco’s miserable as long as he’s in a position of trust close to the Dark Lord—

That Father doesn’t see how much happier Draco is with the Dark Lord’s son makes Draco feel as if someone has torn his eyes open and he’s seeing Lucius Malfoy for the first time.

Harry reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. Draco realizes he must have sent some of his own emotions down the bond openly enough to attract his lord’s attention, and blushes. But Harry just shakes Draco’s shoulder a little before he releases him.

“Thank you,” he repeats. “It’s good to know that you don’t feel forced to serve me.”

Draco doesn’t consider what he wants to do next; he just does it. He drops to his knees and gazes up at Harry, who looks horribly embarrassed. But this has to be said.

“It is the honor of my life to serve you,” he says softly.

Harry stands there so silent that Draco wonders if he made a mistake after all. But unlike some of the times that he’s wondered this in the past, he’s not panicked. Harry isn’t the Dark Lord. He would never torture Draco just because he made a mistake.

“Of course I wouldn’t do that!”

Draco blinks, and then feels his eyes widen. “My lord?”

“Of course I would never torture you for a mistake!” Harry’s eyes are wide, and his emotion in the bond is such a perfect mixture of anger and outrage that Draco isn’t sure which one is stronger. “Someone who would do that just—doesn’t deserve to have courtiers or followers or even friends at all!”

Draco can feel his mouth trembling a little, and he bows his head. “My lord, I didn’t say that aloud. You picked it up from the bond.”

“Is that a—bad thing?”

Draco suppresses the impulse to laugh hysterically. Harry is the only one who would ask a question like that, either. He shakes his head as he stands and reaches out to place his hands on Harry’s shoulders, the first time he’s touched his lord so since Harry became his lord. “It isn’t a bad thing. Only the closest bonds between lords and courtiers allow them to hear each other’s thoughts.”

“And you thought we would never get to that place.”

Draco isn’t sure whether Harry is picking that up from Draco’s bond or just thinking an (entirely true) thing. Draco nods without taking his eyes from Harry’s face. “Yes, my lord. I thought Theo would always be the closest one to you.”

Harry sighs. “It’s true that Theo is probably closer to me right now, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be, Draco.”

“Thank you,” Draco breathes. “And—Weasley’s sister?”

Harry hesitates, and Draco’s heart sinks a little. Maybe Harry is still close enough to Weasley and Granger that he would never do anything about Weasley’s sister threatening Draco, even though Draco burns with the need to avenge himself.

But then Harry looks up and meets Draco’s eyes, and Draco can’t help but bask in the protective urge that floods the bond.

“There’s something I can do,” Harry says quietly. “I would never do it under normal circumstances, because her just deciding that I’m evil and we were destined to be together but now we can’t be wouldn’t be enough.’

“What?”

“You know that I wouldn’t really want to hurt someone who’s related to Ron, Draco—”

“Not that. She thought you were destined to be together?”

Harry grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. “She had a crush on the Boy-Who-Lived, or the hero who came to save her in the Chamber of Secrets. Maybe both. Not really on me, though. And I destroyed her fantasies by—embracing my place as Voldemort’s son.”

Draco flinches at the name, but it’s an afterthought. Mostly, his thoughts are occupied with the extremely stupid thing that Harry just revealed to him. “I can’t believe that she thought she was ever worthy of you, even when she didn’t know that you were the Dark Lord’s heir.”

“Come off it, Draco. The Weasley aren’t bad people because they’re poor, or blood traitors, or whatever.”

Draco blinks, a little hurt that Harry thought that, but he can see why Harry would. He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. She wouldn’t be worthy of you even if you were plain Harry Potter and not the Dark Lord’s heir, and not if she were as wealthy as my family. She just—assumes things about you. Her crush is the crush of a fan on a hero.”

For a moment, Harry’s mouth trembles, and he stares down at his hands as though he thinks someone is going to hold them. Draco would offer, but the next second, Harry’s face is smoothing out, and he shakes his head. “Thank you, Draco.”

“For what?”

“For explaining something I didn’t understand myself. I’ll speak to Ginny.”

Harry starts to walk away, and Draco scrambles up and follows him. “You’re all right?” he asks cautiously. “I don’t need to ask Theo to come with you?”

“Why would you?”

“Theo is the best of us at balancing you when you’re in a stormy mood.” Not something Draco necessarily wanted to admit, given that he’s also Harry’s courtier, but he’s served Harry well in at least one way now.

Harry blinks at him and seems to pause for a long moment. Then he snorts a little and shakes his head. “I don’t need to be balanced, Draco. I have my Ancient Runes tutoring with Pansy right now. I’ll take some time to think about it and not just run off and blurt something out at Ginny.”

“She might know that I’m the reason you’re speaking to her.”

“She might. But don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

Draco might have found those words condescending months ago, but now, all he can feel is bone-deep relief. He still walks alongside his lord until they get to the old Ancient Runes classroom, which Pansy chose because it’s set up the best for the carving and practicing Harry will need to do. Pansy stands when they get there and curtsies, but then pauses, her eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Draco.

“Is something wrong?”

“Something I need to think about,” Harry says quietly. “But nothing that needs to affect you or delay our tutoring, Pansy, I promise.” He flashes a smile at her.

Pansy glances at Draco, but Draco doesn’t have a bond with her the way he does with Harry. Maybe he will someday if they get married the way they’ve sometimes discussed, but he doesn’t now.

Whatever Pansy finds in Draco’s face without the bond must be reassuring, however, because she turns back to Harry with a small smile. “Then let’s begin your tutoring.”

“Let’s.”

Draco lingers for a moment to make sure that his lord doesn’t need him for anything else, and then he turns and leaves, thinking as he does so that he sought Harry out for reassurance about Weasley, but didn’t expect to be able to give him his own reassurance.

I’m not useless as a courtier just because I can’t do everything that Theo can. I need to remember that.

*

“You do not want to do this.”

Harry strokes Basilisk’s side. They’re alone in the dorm for once, but then, everyone else is likely at dinner. “I don’t. But she’ll keep going if I don’t. I thought Ginny just hated me, and I could put up with that, but she threatened my courtier.”

“If she has given up on you and thinks you’re evil, why is she threatening anyone else? Humans do not make sense.”

Harry has to laugh. He hears a lot of chattering and laughter from below, in the direction of the common room, and he stands up and takes a deep breath. “A lot of times, we don’t. But now I need to manipulate someone, and make sure it works.”

“Let me know if I need to bite them.”

She writhes herself into place around Harry’s neck, a comforting knot of scales and warmth. Harry leans his cheek on her and takes comfort in her presence for long moments before he turns and goes down to the stairs.

A few people look up at him, but not many. Most of the Gryffindors seem to have decided that Harry’s fight with Ron and Hermione is old gossip and not interesting anymore. And they don’t know about his confrontation with Ginny.

That’s about to change.

“Ginny.”

Harry’s voice rings out over the swearing and joking and quiet murmurs of study in the common room. So many people turn to stare at him that he blinks. He thought he would mostly only attract attention after he started his “conversation” with Ginny.

Maybe I’ve learned more than I thought about how to command people.

Harry buries that thought, too, because it won’t serve him right now. Ginny is standing up slowly from a couch where she was discussing something with a fifth-year girl Harry doesn’t know. She’s biting her lip.

“Harry?”

“The next time that you hear someone doesn’t want to date you,” Harry says coolly, “you need to accept that refusal gracefully, instead of going around threatening people who had nothing to do with the situation.”

Ginny breaks out in red splotches of anger. The voices that died down now come back with a vengeance.

“What are you talking about?”

Oh, is this the way she wants to play it? Harry takes a long step forwards. “Malfoy told me that you threatened him. Why him? Do you really think that I would ever date him? But that was right after you were upset when I told you that I didn’t return your crush, so what else could it be connected to?”

Ginny opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. A few people start snickering, but most are still looking back and forth between Harry and Ginny as though hoping for some more entertainment.

“I—I didn’t threaten Malfoy because of that!”

“But you do admit to threatening him? I admit, at first I thought he was telling a stupid story, but I see he was right.”

“That’s not—that’s not right!”

“Then why did you threaten him?”

Ginny stares around the common room as if only really seeing their audience for the first time. Then she visibly chooses to fall over the cliff. “You—because he’s corrupting you. He’s trying to bring you to V-Voldemort’s side.”

Well, better than announcing he’s Voldemort’s son. Harry just lets his mouth drop open. “What?”

“You know that you’re evil!”

Harry turns around and looks at people. A lot of them are obviously uncomfortable now. Whatever they might have believed about him last year, joining Voldemort’s side wasn’t part of it. They thought there was no Voldemort. And now a lot of them know better, because of the reports on the Department of Mysteries battle in the Prophet, but that just makes them even less inclined to think Harry would ever turn evil.

“Are you hearing this?” Harry asks the rest of the common room.

“It’s true.”

That’s Ron getting to his feet. Harry turns to face his best friend—his former best friend—with his heart panging in his chest. He knew that he would lose a lot once they found out that he’s Voldemort’s son, but he didn’t know how much.

But he has to live with what he has. He’s Voldemort’s son, and Voldemort would only kill more people if Harry denied him. He can’t come up with the mythical solution Ron and Hermione want whereby he stays on their side completely and yet no one gets hurt.

But he has friends. He has courtiers. He has a familiar. He has a father.

He is worth something. Ron and Hermione are worth respect and trust, sure, but that means he is, too.

“What proof do you have?” Harry asks Ron in the best condescending tone he can muster. “This is going a little far because you’re upset I won’t date your sister, don’t you think?”

Ron opens his mouth, but Hermione is abruptly at his side, whispering into his ear. Harry is a little sorry for it. In a way, he’d like to have this out in the open, whether or not he’s confronting everyone.

But Ron looks around and visibly falters. Then he mumbles, “Well, you just are.”

“Harry is the best person I know.”

Harry can feel his face catch on fire. That’s Neville, who’s standing up from near the fireplace and wading into the fight. And even though Neville would blush and stammer most of the time because someone looked at him, he really has improved a lot in confidence since the D.A. meetings last year. He crosses his arms and stares at Ron and Hermione with no visible sign of discomfort.

“He’s stood up for you and me and everyone I know multiple times,” Neville continues. “He’s the one who made sure that we got a real Defense education last year, and taught us to cast a Patronus. And now he’s evil for not wanting to date Ginny?”

“That’s not why!”

“Then why are you saying it?”

Ron and Hermione and Ginny all glare at Harry as if he’s the one who set up this situation. Harry just shakes his head a little. They can glare if they want, but he’s not going to give them any excuse.

Then Ron swallows and says, “He’s Voldemort’s son.”

There’s an indrawn breath that runs all the way around the common room, and Harry feels as if he’s fallen off his broom. He even seems to hear the shrill whistle of the wind in his ears.

Then Neville bursts out laughing. And he doesn’t sound hysterical or like he’s trying to deny it. He just sounds incredulous when he says, “If you were going to come up with some stupid excuse as to why you’ve stopped talking to Harry, you could have managed a better one than that.”

“It’s true!”

Neville turns and studies Harry, who chokes a little at the way Basilisk has tightened around his throat. “Let’s see. No red eyes. No scales on his skin. He looks the same way he always did. Are you going to tell me that someone has been hiding him under the illusion of James Potter’s son all these years?”

“That’s just the way he looks! But You-Know-Who looks the same way!” Ginny blurts. They must have told her more than Harry thought at first. “And he has his mum’s eyes, everyone knows that, Lily Potter slept with You-Know-Who—”

“She’s mental,” someone loudly whispers to someone else.

“Sorry that your reserve Seeker is mental, Katie!” someone else yells at Katie Bell, who looks as if she would happily murder half the people in the room.

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “So that’s what you think of me,” he tells Ginny, and Ron, and Hermione. “Because I act a little differently than before and don’t want to tell you everything when you demand to know, you think I’m evil, and Voldemort’s son, and—I don’t even know what.”

“They’re the mental ones, not you,” Neville says loyally. Harry is starting to wish Neville had been his best friend all these years. “Of course you’re not his son.”

“He is! It’s true!”

Hermione has been furiously hissing into Ron’s ear, and now she clamps his arm and drags him off. Harry forces a light laugh and faces Ginny. “Are you going to say it again?”

Ginny seems to realize that she’s not going to get any support here. She tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns away instead of replying. Hoots and yelling and laughter follow her.

Neville claps Harry on the shoulder. “Are you all right, mate?”

“Yeah. I just—I can’t let her go around threatening other people over my supposed evilness, you know? Will you tell me if she threatens you?”

“Yeah, but hopefully she won’t. I can’t imagine that she thinks I had anything to do with your supposed evilness. Son of Voldemort.” Neville is laughing, and so is everyone else.

Harry manages a weak laugh, and trails up the stairs to the bedroom, dazed. He lies on the bed and lets Basilisk hiss and comfort him.

But nothing can change the fact that he is going to have to tell his father about this.

Chapter Text

“You are not usually so reluctant to come before me, my Horcrux.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know why sometimes Voldemort calls him by his name and sometimes Horcrux and sometimes heir and sometimes son. There’s probably a pattern to it, and one important enough that he should figure it out, but he has so little time these days for anything like that.

“Something terrible happened.”

Voldemort has appeared standing inside the dream library that Harry has seen before. It does resemble a few rooms in the house Harry stayed in over the holidays, but none of them exactly. Now he weaves forwards like a snake, covering the distance between them impossibly quickly. “Someone attacked you?”

“Not with spells.”

“An attack without spells is still an attack. Tell me.”

Harry takes a deep breath, because this was what he wanted to avoid with everything in him. He didn’t want to—

But fantasies of protecting his friends and Ginny have turned out to be just that. Harry tells the story of the confrontation in the Gryffindor common room in the shortest words he can, and takes care to mention that everyone thought the story of him being Voldemort’s son was absurd. Still, his father is very still when he finishes.

Then Voldemort says, “They will die. All of them.”

“I don’t want them to!”

Harry gives that cry instinctively, instead of the moral argument that he was prepared for. And somehow, it works. Voldemort stops and stares at him with eyes as large as moons.

He says, “Then they will not,” in English, which is as shocking as the statement itself and means Harry takes a longer moment to process it.

Harry murmurs, weakly, “What?”

“They will not die if you do not wish them to do so. I shall come up with some other method to punish them and keep their mouths shut. There is something Corban has been asking me to let him try. I shall do so.”

Harry sags back against a shelf that might exist or not. “That’s it?” he whispers. “All I had to do was ask.”

“All you ever had to do, my son, was ask.”

“You mean, since you discovered I was your Horcrux.”

“You will agree, I hope, that we stood in a very different relation before that.”

Harry nods, finally. That’s true, and arguing against it would just make him sound stupid. He drags himself all the way to his feet and moves away from the support of the bookcase behind him. “Thank you, Father,” he says, as clearly and earnestly as he can. “I won’t forget this mercy.”

“See that you do not.” There’s a flicker of a forked tongue around Voldemort’s lips. “I offer it because you ask for it, and because things are not yet disastrous, and perhaps killing them would lend credibility to their accusations or make people suspect you of the deed. But keep in mind that they will suffer, and they will suffer further if they try to hurt you again.”

Harry nods as earnestly as he can. “I don’t think talking to them would do any good, or I’d try. But thank you, Father, thank you.”

Voldemort looks pleased, an expression that sits strangely on his nonhuman features. He slides back into Parseltongue as the room begins to fade around Harry. “Your thanks is as pleasant to me as your screams once would have been. Do not forget that, Harry, even when you wake.”

Harry opens his eyes and turns over in his bed to see Basilisk beside him. She lifts her head, the bond surging with bright yellow curiosity. “It wasn’t as bad as you thought?”

“It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought,” Harry whispers, stroking her.

Basilisk’s smugness is bright, too. “What you ask for, you shall receive.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I reckon so.”

*

Corban Yaxley nearly rebelled against this assignment when the Dark Lord offered it to him. He is loyal, and he would go most anywhere else that his lord ordered him to, but he saw no reason to return to Hogwarts, the scene of some of his worst memories.

Not everyone Sorted into Slytherin has the kind of wealth and power that keeps them safe, no matter their pureblood last names.

But then the Dark Lord turned to him and said that he would make Corban one of his courtiers if Corban successfully protected his son.

Corban has aspired to his lord’s court for years. Of course he said yes.

He watches, now, as the Dark Prince sits down next to Neville Longbottom and says something that makes Longbottom snort. That’s not unusual now that Weasley and Granger have abandoned the Prince, but there is something else, an undercurrent of tension running between the Gryffindors at their pathetic table, that makes Corban pay close attention.

He still hasn’t decided for certain what it is when the Prince and Longbottom stand and leave the Great Hall, but he knows that something happened.

He makes a snap decision to arrange for practice duels in Transfiguration today. It should be most interesting to see if he can work out what’s going on.

And before the Prince’s courtiers, at that, who are sitting obliviously on the other side of the room. Corban shakes his head.

There is some merit in not being caught up in school students’ drama and preoccupations, after all.

*

“You will be dueling using Transfiguration today.”

Theo is on the alert the moment he hears Yaxley speak. Something has happened, or the Death Eater in the school (disguised Death Eater to most, Theo supposes, although he doesn’t know why others don’t realize it) wouldn’t be changing the curriculum that he announces at the beginning of each week and normally never varies from day to day.

Harry’s bond resonated with pain and fury last night, which Theo intended to ask him about, but Longbottom has been keeping close to Harry, and they don’t have Potions today, and there’s no viable excuse (that Longbottom knows about) for Theo to work with Harry. Hopefully this will be it.

“Nott and Potter, you’re together. Remember, you’re to use only Transfiguration spells.”

Theo half-nods to Yaxley, his eyes on Harry. Harry gives Theo a smile that at least isn’t as unhappy as it could be.

“Are you all right?” Theo takes the first opportunity of whispering as they step up to face each other and bow.

Harry looks relieved to only do a half-bow. He doesn’t like that particular dueling custom for reasons Theo doesn’t know, but will someday. “Yeah. I—well, I confronted Ginny in the Gryffindor common room last night about what she said to Draco, and Ron announced what he thinks about my background.”

Theo feels as if he’s falling.

“It’s all right,” Harry says intently, his eyes trained on Theo. “I handled it, and then I handled it. Currently, most of Gryffindor thinks he’s mental.”

“And your background?”

“It’s all right.”

Theo can just imagine how hard that conversation was for Harry to have with the Dark Lord. But his own lord’s bond pulses bright and steady, and he has to nod and back off. Too much care and concern will irritate Harry as much as too little.

My lord is a delicate lord.

Harry narrows his eyes in a way that seems to indicate he’s sensed that thought, and then he raises his wand and Transfigures the floor beneath Theo’s feet to sand.

It’s an unusual choice, Theo thinks as he leaps out of the way, since he would have chosen ice himself, and sand isn’t that difficult to move around in—

Then he sinks to his waist, and swears.

“Something wrong, Nott?” Harry asks, with such a sickly sweet smile on his face that Theo is delighted despite himself. He wishes he could have seen the way Harry convinced the whole of Gryffindor that he’s still James Potter’s son. It was probably delightful to watch.

“Not at all,” Theo says, and performs the ice Transfiguration he was thinking of beneath Harry’s feet while his wand is still above the quicksand.

Harry is already moving, though, probably sensing Theo’s intention through their bond, and Theo’s spell crashes against the stone wall he’s Transfigured out of something in front of him. Then Theo manages to haul himself out of the quicksand and turn it back into a piece of ordinary classroom floor, and he and Harry are dodging and dancing through a duel that’s a lot more complicated than most of the other students are managing.

They’re laughing at each other, and Theo smiles a little as he notices the pairs of wide eyes aimed in their direction. This isn’t exactly what he intended as an outcome of the duel, but he does think that—

Then the floor under him turns to ice, and he slips and falls. Harry Disarms him in the next moment.

“Yield, Nott!”

Theo looks up with a smile that he can’t help, catching and holding Harry’s eye. Harry falls silent, his own eyes widening.

“Oh,” Theo whispers, “I do.”

“You’re friends, Harry?”

That’s Lavender Brown, one of the biggest gossips in the school. Theo just turns his head and catches Brown’s eye, then turns away again, ducking his head as he scrambles to his feet. Let her make of that what she will.

But since the news about Harry’s true heritage is at least drifting as a possibility in some minds, Theo sees no reason to hide their connection. It will prepare others—as much as they can be prepared—for the day when it’s inevitable that Harry’s court emerges, as well.

“Yeah.”

Theo freezes. Because Harry is the one speaking that word, the one tossing Theo’s wand back to him with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Harry repeats. “After everything that’s happened? I think House divisions are pretty stupid.”

What are you doing? Theo asks, barely moving his lips.

What do you think I’m doing? Harry mouths back, and then turns to answer Brown’s eager questions about how they became friends. Theo has to admit that his lies have merit, sound natural, since they’re related to the summer that everyone knows Harry spent “elsewhere” and learning magic together. Truth in the shadow of truth.

Nearly unnoticed except for a few Gryffindors staring at him, Theo claims his wand and fades into the background. He’s thinking hard.

Yes, he intended to make people think about him and Harry in the same context, but he didn’t know that Harry would agree to that.

Confusion flows down their bond from Harry. Of course I would want to protect you, says that amalgamation of thoughts and emotions that forms in Theo’s mind. You’re mine.

Theo closes his eyes and half-turns away from Harry, because he has to shield his face at the moment, and he doesn’t know if anyone else would understand.

He is so glad that Harry was revealed as the Dark Lord’s son. So glad that he has the chance to serve a Lord worthy of the name.

*

Hermione doesn’t understand what’s happening.

There was that failed confrontation last night, when Harry was trying to make Ginny do something—she thinks—but didn’t succeed. But then Ron announced Harry as Voldemort’s son, and everyone laughed?

What’s happening? Hermione thinks, as she trails Ron to the edge of the grounds where they’ll meet someone who can Apparate them to Grimmauld Place. When did everyone become so stupid?

Or maybe it’s just Gryffindors?

Hermione shakes her head, and then comes back sharply to the present when Professor Dumbledore himself steps around one of the tree trunks. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. It’s not like she wants to shout with delight or surprise when they’re still this near the school.

But Ron does. “Sir!” he exclaims, loudly enough that Hermione feels the need to step on his foot. “You’re here!”

Professor Dumbledore gives them both a sad smile. “I could never abandon Hogwarts fully,” he says, and turns to gaze in the direction of the school with an expression that makes Hermione want to cry. “Not while people still loyal to me dwell here.”

“We’re always loyal to you, sir.”

Hermione nods fervently. As far as she can tell, Professor Dumbledore is the one person who’s doing something about Harry being Voldemort’s son, instead of treating it as a subject for laughter or gossip.

Or just not believing it.

“I believe we have an Order meeting to attend,” the professor says, and extends his hands to them with a cheerful smile.

Hermione doesn’t enjoy the experience of Apparition, but at least it’s not as bad when the Headmaster does it, maybe because of his magical power. And then they’re standing on the Muggle street across from Grimmauld Place, and rushing up to it quickly, and stepping inside.

They did replace the Fidelius Charm, or protected it with more powerful wards, Hermione knows now. Professor Dumbledore sits down at the head of the table, and Mrs. Weasley comes in with biscuits and pie, and everything is as it should have been.

Except for a glaring absence of Hermione’s other best friend.

Hermione takes a long, difficult breath, and turns towards Professor Dumbledore as he clears his throat.

“There are some matters that all of you should know,” he says, his eyes darting around the table. The adults murmur and nod. “The first is that I have come to believe it will be impossible to gain back Harry’s allegiance.”

Hermione shuts her eyes tight.

“But don’t we need him?” asks Hestia Jones, who has a slightly nasal voice. “We can’t defeat You-Know-Who without him, can we?”

“I am working on that,” Professor Dumbledore says, with the iron determination that Hermione thinks probably made a lot of people follow him in battle once. “For now, I will ask that you leave it to me.”

“Why do you think it’s impossible to win Potter back?” Mad-Eye Moody barks, thumping his wooden leg on the floor.

“He has chosen his side, and it is not ours.” Dumbledore sounds old and weary and terribly sad. “He has put protecting a few people above defending the rest of the country.”

Like Nott, Hermione thinks, the scene in Transfiguration returning to her. Harry and Nott dueled like—old friends.

They are friends, of course, Hermione’s seen them together, but she thought that their friendship was recent. Not old.

How long has Harry been lying to us?

“What do you want us to do about it, then?” Mrs. Weasley speaks in a subdued voice, her head bowed. Hermione wonders if she’s as upset about Harry’s desertion as the rest of them are.

“I will ask you to provide support as I define our plans.” Then Dumbledore turns and looks directly at Ron and Hermione. “Except the people who are in school with Harry at the moment. They will have to take a more active role.”

“I told them that he’s Voldemort’s son,” Ron says, his voice trembling. Hermione wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone in the common room. And they all thought I was mental. Or lying.”

“Such disgust is often the fate of those who tell the truth,” Professor Dumbledore says, and nods a little as if to comfort Ron. Hermione wishes someone could. She’s not succeeding. “But I honor you for trying.”

“Is there nothing that can make him come back to us?” Hermione asks. She doesn’t want to use Harry as a weapon against Voldemort the way she thinks Jones was talking about, but— “Really nothing?”

Professor Dumbledore hesitates.

“Please tell us, Albus,” Mrs. Weasley says. “Please.”

Professor Dumbledore takes a deep breath and folds his hands on the table. “There is one option,” he said. “It is one of the things I am working on. But it is so desperate that I do not want to define it.”

“Because you think it might not work?”

“Indeed, Miss Granger.” The Headmaster gives her a weary smile. “I would hate to make it a source of hope and then disappoint people.”

“But you’re Dumbledore,” says Ron, in a mumble, while his ears turn red, as if he’s afraid of voicing the sentiment. “You can do anything.”

“Alas, if only that were true.” The professor hesitates, then shakes his head. “It is best that that plan remain unspoken for now. Trust me, you will be among the very first people to know that it worked if it works.”

With that, Hermione has to be content. She bites her lip and listens to the reports of the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. They’re full of what would normally be good news, the lack of raids and torture on ordinary witches and wizards, but right now it’s all bad. Because Hermione knows what that lack of raids and torture means.

He’s only doing this for Harry. He’s only doing this because he thinks Harry would be disappointed in him if he didn’t.

Part of Hermione wants to believe that’s good. If Voldemort cares what Harry thinks, at least it’s better than him only caring about himself.

But the rest of her is just convinced that it only means Harry and Voldemort are on the same side now. Sooner or later, Harry will say something careless or just decide that he only needs to care about the few people close to him, and everyone will start suffering again.

Or maybe…

Hermione can barely touch the conclusion even in her thoughts, because it’s so terrible. But the boy who looked at her in the common room last night is no longer her best friend, so she has to think it.

Or maybe he’ll become like Voldemort. Part of him. Like father, like son. Or just because a father that supposedly loves him would be too much to resist.

Hermione draws a shaky breath. She can see why that would be a temptation for Harry, but he has to resist it. So many people are counting on him.

And she doesn’t think most people would just accept, the way she can tell Professor Dumbledore has, that they will have to move on that from that dependence.

The Order turns to discussing other things, and Hermione leans her head on Ron’s shoulder. Now and then he squeezes her waist in reassurance.

At least I have one best friend left.

*

Corban sips his wine slowly, sitting back in his seat as he stares at the ceiling. He didn’t learn what he necessarily expected to from the Transfiguration duels he assigned, but he did learn something intriguing.

And that means that he must now make a decision.

Corban spins the wineglass in his fingers, stopping only when it would make liquid slop over the rim of the glass. He did not want to come here, but he must admit that the assignment hasn’t been all that bad. He has been able to stay away from the Slytherin dormitories and the dungeon corridors and other places that would have sparked his bad memories to life.

And in the meantime…

Corban smiles without humor. In the meantime, he has learned certain things.

Namely, that he would rather follow the son than the father.

Corban nods and sets down his glass, decision made. This will have to be handled delicately, not least because the son might simply report back to the father in panic that Corban is considering “deserting” his post.

But considering the way that the Dark Prince protected Nott when people tried to attack him with words alone?

Corban is fairly sure that he can take a place in the Prince’s court.

And have, in return, a devoted, protective lord, which is all he has ever wanted.

Chapter Text

“Why is Professor Yaxley staring at you?”

Harry blinks. He’s actually surprised that Hermione is speaking to him. In the last few days, she’s seemed to have developed a policy of “stare sadly from a distance and say nothing” when it comes to him.

“I didn’t know that he was,” he says, keeping his eyes down as he waves his wand over the intricate wooden puzzle in front of him. Yaxley assigned them all to work out a Transfiguration that would change the puzzle into a different one without losing any of the pieces, and Harry has to admit that he enjoys the challenge.

“Well, he is.”

“I don’t know.”

There’s a pause when Harry thinks Hermione might have given up. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the puzzle to see. When he manages to Transfigure part of it into a maze-like structure, he smiles, and Hermione speaks again.

“Maybe if you turn your head casually towards Neville’s desk, you can see him do it.”

Harry kind of doesn’t want to—what if Yaxley is really spying on him for Voldemort, what if his father doesn’t trust him?—but curiosity gets the better of him. He leans back in his seat and stretches like his neck hurts, rotating his head towards Neville’s desk.

Yaxley is standing over Neville and explaining something in that patient monotone voice he uses. And he turns his head, and their eyes meet.

Yaxley doesn’t do anything unusual, though. He gives a small, brief nod, then starts talking to Neville again.

“It looks as if he were just glancing over to make sure I was doing my work or something. Or maybe because I’m famous.”

“Or maybe because he’s a Death Eater?”

Harry doesn’t think Hermione knows that for sure; she’s probably guessing based on the last name. Still, he shrugs and sighs. “I have nothing to do with him. I don’t know what kind of mission he has here if he is a Death Eater.”

“You should find out.”

“Why?”

Hermione looks so puzzled for a moment that Harry feels a wave of fierce longing. He’s seen her look like that so many times, and he wishes they were still friends so he could see her look like that even more—

But the time for that is past.

“To keep people safe?” Hermione says, voice slipping and sliding over the words. “There was a time when you wouldn’t have let this rest. We didn’t let the mystery of Flamel rest in first year!”

“Yeah, but you’ve told me that because of my past, you don’t trust me anymore. Why are you encouraging me to do this?”

“I’m giving you a chance to prove that you’re still the boy I used to know. But I suppose you don’t need it, right?”

Harry just shakes his head and stands up to attract Yaxley’s attention. The man nods to him in what could be seen as a shallow bow by the suspicious, but Harry doesn’t turn around to face Hermione’s accusing eyes and see if she’s among them. Instead, he carries his Transfigured puzzle over to the professor.

“I wanted to know if this would pass the requirements of the assignment, sir.”

It will be interesting to see Yaxley’s response, Harry thinks, as the man bends over the puzzle and touches a corner of the wood that Harry changed into a maze. After a second, Yaxley shakes his head and steps back and away from Harry. “I wanted it to be Transfigured completely, Mr. Potter. This is not completely.”

“You’re right, sir. Sorry.”

“You chose to do this on purpose?’

Yaxley’s voice is mild, his eyes studying Harry as if he’s an interesting Potions ingredient and nothing else. Harry looks evenly back.

“I wanted to see what your style is, sir. Professor McGonagall taught the class very differently.”

“My style.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a moment, the smallest possible smile flickers across Yaxley’s face, and he inclines his head. “Two points to Gryffindor for fulfilling the precepts of your House, Mr. Potter. But you still need to sit down and Transfigure your puzzle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry goes back to his seat, noting that Hermione has moved over to the other side of the class to whisper with Ron, and Theo and Draco have both moved closer to him. He probably shouldn’t take as much pleasure as he does in hearing Yaxley remove one point from Gryffindor for his former friends talking, but, well. It’s the little things.

“Are you all right, my lord?”

No one is sitting near them, and Harry is pretty much resigned by now to Theo calling him “my lord.” He nods. “Hermione was just making a point that turned out not to be true.”

Although, when Professor Yaxley calls for him to stay after class, Harry wonders if Hermione might have had a point after all.

*

“Sir?”

The Dark Prince approaches Corban warily, his eyes trained on Corban’s wand hand and the side of his robe where he might take something out of a pocket. Corban is sorry for it, but he can’t think of a way that he could have reliably told the Prince exactly what he wanted in front of the other students.

Better, in fact, that they should think their Transfiguration professor has no real connection to the Prince or the Dark Lord.

“I wanted to speak to you about your past, as I believe you would put it.”

The Prince pauses, then tucks his hands behind his back. “You overheard my conversation with Hermione.”

“I did.”

“Why were you interested in it?”

The Prince has dropped the title “sir.” Corban feels an obscure relief. Of course he must keep up the charade of being a professor and nothing more to fool the watching eyes in the school, but it has started to grate on him to hear his future lord refer to Corban as someone with authority over him.

“Because I wanted to know if she was going to gain your friendship back or not.”

“Oh. No, there’s not much chance of that.”

Corban nods. It’s what his own observation has told him, but it’s nice to hear it confirmed. “Did your father tell you why he sent me here?”

“Not—really? Just that you would be here to watch over me and maybe send reports on the school.”

“That is true. And I am also here to undertake a few experimental spells that he might not have let me cast otherwise. It is the first thing I have to thank you for. I might never have got those experiments done if I had remained no more than an ordinary Death Eater.”

“The first?”

The Prince’s voice is spiraling up into a squeak. He doesn’t look much better when Corban drops to one knee. In fact, he looks as if he might faint.

So much for Corban’s suspicions that the Prince might be trying actively to recruit followers. Corban speaks quickly, before his future lord can actually faint or bolt out the door. “I am willing to pledge myself to you. The Dark Lord promised me a place in his court if I served him, but I do not think that he will grant it to me. Or that I would want it if I did.”

“I can’t—I can’t go against my father!”

“Who says that you would be going against him? If we spin this the right way, then he would be delighted that you are expanding your court.”

The Prince hesitates. Then he murmurs, “He was happy that I Marked Pansy when he didn’t think I would Mark anyone before the holidays.”

Corban nods and smiles in encouragement. “I would be the one willing to break the news to him, if you are afraid.”

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“He might hurt you!”

The Prince speaks with passion, his eyes flaring with a deep green light. Corban sighs and bows his head. He started down this road for the sake of a place in a court, but now he really knows that this is the man he wants to serve for the rest of his life. It does not matter how young the Prince is or whether he uses Dark Arts or not. His spirit shines through the skin.

“I believe that you would intercede for me.”

The Prince hesitates. Then he says, “He might say to my face that he wouldn’t hurt you, but then do it later.”

“If you ask him for something, my lord, he will grant it.”

Corban is speaking the truth as far as he knows it, not just because Lucius and Severus—before his death—complained about that when it came to the Dark Lord and his son, but because he has watched the way that the Prince interacts with his courtiers. They would do anything for him, even die for him, Corban believes. Even the Malfoy boy who apparently was at odds with the Prince for five years.

“I—don’t know that I trust him that much.”

“Will you ask for my sake?”

The Prince’s eyes flicker. Corban bows his head, knowing that he’s asked the right thing. The Prince might suffer in silence for years or rage at his father to make a point, but he will ask for someone else what he wouldn’t ask for himself.

“He still might not let you—serve me.”

The words sound as if the Prince is plucking a disgusting insect from a delicious dish. Corban hides a smile. Yes, this is the man he wants to serve.

“Ask for a lesser boon first, then. Ask that I be allowed to serve you for the rest of the term. Position yourself as if you are simply thinking about integrating more courtiers into your court. I believe he will like that.”

“He’s a Legilimens. He’ll know I’m lying.”

Corban has to confess himself intrigued by the notion that the Dark Lord can use Legilimency on his heir from miles away. But he says simply, “Then you must think for yourself and truly believe that you wish to have me in your court.”

“I would do it if the alternative is him hurting you,” the Prince mumbles. “But—I don’t know what else you’ve done. What else you would expect to do.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

The Prince flinches from the title, but that is all right. Corban has seen him grow used to the title from his courtiers and greet it with only eyerolls. “I’m not going to let you go around casting Dark Arts spells left and right. And I would forbid those experiments that you talked about, too, if I didn’t like them.”

Corban takes a deep breath. He anticipated this objection. And he didn’t come up with a good response in his own head. But now that the moment is here, he is only—

Thrilled.

Thrilled that the Prince cares enough in the first place to question Corban, take him to task, instead of issuing commands and expecting them to be obeyed.

“It is true that I have used Dark Arts in the past to kill my enemies on the battlefield. But I will swear any oath you like that I have not used them on innocents, or to torture in cold blood.”

“Any oath I like?”

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

Corban wonders the next moment if he should have said that, because the Prince’s eyes go narrow and his head tilts back as if Corban punched him in the throat. Then he nods and says, “I’ll tell you what I think about it later,” before striding out of the classroom.

With that, Corban has to be content. At the very least, he thinks the Prince will give his proposal some consideration.

And that is more than he has received from the Dark Lord.

*

“What did Yaxley want, my lord?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

Theo nods and follows Harry as he strides down the corridor in the direction of their meeting room, a secluded place deep in the dungeons that they’ve walled and warded to the point that someone coming within a corridor of it makes their teeth ache in their heads. Theo studies Harry as he strides along, and relaxes a little at what he sees.

Harry isn’t angry. He’s thinking, so deeply that he’s probably not aware of how he walks at a frantic pace, but Yaxley gave him no cause for rage.

It means that Theo probably won’t have to go after the man.

Draco and Pansy are waiting for them when they come into the place that Theo is beginning to think of as Harry’s throne room, although the only furniture in it is conjured and Transfigured chairs. Theo eyes his fellow courtiers, wondering if Harry summoned them silently.

Neither Draco nor Pansy looks back at him. Both are focused on Harry, who paces with his hands linked together behind his back.

A sharp hiss breaks out from near his neck. Harry takes down the Disillusioned Basilisk and speaks to her, face so close that Theo can’t help but think how courageous his lord is. Theo would have a bit of trouble being that close to a venomous snake.

Of course, Basilisk is Harry’s bonded familiar and would have no reason to lunge and bite him, but still.

“Basilisk says that Yaxley has been watching me for weeks,” Harry finally says. “Not in the way that a Death Eater would watch someone they’re bodyguarding.”

“And what did he ask you now?” Theo asks, because Draco and Pansy both seem to be hesitating. Idiots. They should know by now that Harry won’t snap at them for asking a question.

Harry halts and turns to face him. “To become part of my court.”

“What?” Pansy gives a little shriek, which Theo is ashamed to admit he’d like to do himself. But since she did it, he doesn’t have to.

“Yeah.” Harry takes a deep breath. “I—I don’t know what to say about it, honestly. He said that he would be willing to swear an oath not to cast Dark Arts spells, and that he’s only used them in battle, not to torture people. But.” He bites his lip.

“You don’t trust him, my lord?” Draco asks.

“I’m not even sure it’s that, if he were to swear an oath,” Harry says slowly. “It’s that I don’t want to shelter and protect someone who’s done those kinds of things in the same way that I wanted to shelter and protect you, who might have been forced to do them.”

Theo stands quietly, the fireworks about what Yaxley wants going off in his head. Harry turns towards him with a little frown. “Theo? Do you have anything to say?”

“Much, my lord, but I don’t know that you’ll want to hear it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, and their bond bounces like a branch in a high wind. “Say it, Theo.”

“I wonder if you have considered how the Dark Lord will react to having you claim a Death Eater as part of your court. And alter his Mark.”

“Wait, what?”

“The Dark Mark binds faithful Death Eaters to act in the best interests of their lord,” Theo says patiently, but he does hide a smile when he feels Draco and Pansy both glaring at him for a point they were too careless to bring up. “You would have to replace his Mark with your own for his loyalty to be to you.”

“I—didn’t think of that. And he didn’t say anything about it, either!”

“He might not have thought about it,” Theo says, and shrugs delicately, although he enjoys the way that Yaxley seems to have fallen in Harry’s regard. “It’s very rare that someone already Marked by one lord would seek to give their allegiance to someone else, after all.”

“What does it mean that Yaxley is doing it?”

“My lord?”

Harry squints at Theo, and their bond squirms and hardens. “That’s the tone you use when you’re trying to avoid answering the question, Theo.”

“I just really don’t understand what you mean.” Theo is vaguely aware that Draco and Pansy are watching him and Harry the way they might watch a Quidditch game. He pushes the awareness away. He needs all his concentration right now to serve his lord.

“Doesn’t the Dark Mark compel loyalty to the Dark Lord?”

Theo snorts before he can help himself. “Of course not, Harry, or he never would have been betrayed.”

“Well—but if someone doesn’t want to betray him, they just want to…”

“You don’t think seeking the allegiance and service of another lord would be a betrayal, my lord? I would see it as one. Which is why I would kill Yaxley if he swore to you and it turned out to be a sham.”

“You don’t have to kill people for things like that, Theo.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

Theo smiles and tells the truth as he understands it, although he doesn’t know if Harry is really ready to hear it. “Because you might need someone to do things that you shy away from, my lord. And it doesn’t really matter why you shy away. I am ready to be your hand in this and kill those who need killing, so that your own hands need not be stained.”

Harry stares at him with huge eyes. Draco and Pansy seem like they wish for Quidditch stands to sit in.

Harry’s bond with Theo trembles and jerks and bounces. Theo waits it out. He’s sure that Harry will never turn on him, no matter what commands he might issue.

Then Harry takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Thank you, but I don’t think it’ll be needed here.”

“Are you sure, my lord?”

“Yes,” Harry says, and his voice grows from a thread into a hard stretch of stone that invades his bond with Theo. “I’ll ask my father. It might be that he won’t want to lose Yaxley at all, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Then you won’t stand against your father for Yaxley?”

“I barely know him at all, and it seems to me that he might want to swear to me mostly because he thinks that he’ll be able to talk me around and let him torture people after all. But I’ll speak with my father.”

Theo bows, well-satisfied. He wishes Harry could see himself as others see him, as the shining paragon of harshness and justice, power and mercy, that he is. Theo can’t even blame Yaxley for wanting to be part of Harry’s court. Maybe he knows that he’ll never be part of the Dark Lord’s.

But at the same time, Theo’s duty to his lord comes first. Unless he can question a prospective courtier extensively, the way he and Draco did with Pansy, he won’t be comfortable allowing just anyone in proximity to Harry.

And now…who knows? A lot will depend on the outcome of Harry’s conversation with the Dark Lord. Whom he now calls father.

Harry is changing, but it’s for the better. And Theo will be there to gently guide the change, as his other courtiers will be.

*

Lord Voldemort’s mind is full of golds and reds and blues and blacks, light like obsidian, soft like terror, sliding through his thoughts and coiling back around as he stares at his son, his Horcrux, his heir, his Harry.

Harry bites his lip and leans back on the shelf behind him, which itself is part of Lord Voldemort’s conjuring for the dream. He looks uncomfortable, but not terrified (soft) the way he would have been when they first discussed who he has always been. He asked for something, and he is waiting to see how Lord Voldemort will respond.

“You want me to give Corban to you.”

“He wants to be my courtier.”

“It is the same thing, my son, my heir.”

Harry hesitates, then shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Do not say maybe. If you wish him to be yours, then claim him. Call him by what name he will bear if he is part of your court.”

For a moment, Harry blinks as if he does not understand, and Lord Voldemort despairs. Has he not done his best to raise and teach the boy form the moment he understood that he has a boy? Did he not kill the Muggles to lay Harry’s old ghosts to rest?

It is disappointing to see the ghosts still coiling in his eyes.

Then Harry raises his chin and says with the arrogance he has the right to have inherited, “He will be Corban Yaxley, my courtier.”

“Perfect, my son.”

Harry gapes at him for a moment, but restores himself before Lord Voldemort can be disappointed in him. He says slowly, “You wished to have me take him as a courtier?”

“No. That is not why I sent him to Hogwarts. But how can I be anything but pleased when someone else understands how powerful and magical my son is? Corban is not seeking service with another lord unconnected with me, or defecting to Dumbledore’s side. He will remain connected to my magic.”

Harry seems unconvinced by that, which Lord Voldemort thinks unfair. Has he not changed his whole way of life, his goals and his methods, for this boy? Has he not accepted that this Horcrux is the best of them? The best of him?

“All right,” Harry finally says in English. “Then I’ll tell him he can serve me.”

“You may.”

“And the Dark Mark? I have your permission to replace it with my chimera?”

The mere thought would have filled Lord Voldemort with blinding rage not long ago. But he has learned better now. He has begun to think and dream and make plans that he will not share with others until he is ready, but there is no harm in showing this much off to Harry.

“You do, my son.”

Harry swallows and stares at him as if he’s the only person who has ever existed in the universe. Lord Voldemort basks in the feeling, the connection, but it doesn’t take long for his son to turn his head away and mumble, “I should go,” and then vanish from the dream room as if he himself has never existed.

Lord Voldemort stays where he is, even when the visionary bookshelves and the like decay around him and he floats in nothing more than a mindscape. He comes back to his body only when Nagini hisses and rests her head on his foot.

“You were gone a long time.”

“I was speaking with my son,” Lord Voldemort says, and bends down to touch the head of the Horcrux who best understands him. Until recently he would also have called her the best and his favorite, but things have changed.

“Does he still refuse to accept that you will do anything for him?”

“He may be getting closer to learning that. He dared to bring up something he would not have dared to bring up previously.”

Nagini curls herself into a ball in response. She has little interest in Harry except as his actions concern Lord Voldemort, or when he is physically present. She is not jealous, but then, she is a snake, and snakes rarely are.

Lord Voldemort allows his dangling bare foot to move, stroking her scales, as he stares into the fire. He ponders, and ponders, and ponders, and still can see no better plan than the one he has been thinking of.

Of course, it will take him a long time to explain it to Harry. It would take him much longer to explain to anyone else.

But he need not explain himself to anyone else. He is Lord Voldemort.

And his plans are the mixture of black and blue and gold and green that is the best.

*

Albus closes his eyes as he stands at the threshold of the room holding the artifact he has sought out. Even now, he wonders if it is too late to turn back and simply find another way to combat Harry and Voldemort.

But even as he thinks that, he knows it is. Of course it is. Harry has fully embraced being Voldemort’s son and turned his back on the friends he once loved and valued. And Albus can think of only one way to make him turn back and care about the war again.

He opens the door and strides into the room.

Whispers filter around his ears at once, brushing teasingly past him, leaving little cold tendrils on his face. Albus manages to ignore that as he stares at the Veil of Death blowing softly at the top of the dais it sits on.

He would never try this if not for all the circumstances. There is no magic that can compel the dead to return as they were.

But Sirius Black may not be quite dead, falling through the Veil as he did.

And Albus carries the Elder Wand.

Albus takes a deep breath, holds it.

And strides into the Veil after Harry’s fallen godfather.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe how twisted everything’s got.”

Ron nods in silent misery. It seems that the Gryffindors who laughed at them for claiming Harry was Voldemort’s son have turned to openly making fun of them. A fourth-year just darted up to Ginny and asked if she was open to dating Grindelwald’s grandson, then turned around and ran away giggling.

Ginny is siting miserably with her face between her hands. Ron sort of wishes they hadn’t told her about Harry’s true heritage at all, but she deserved to know that the boy she had a crush on was just a mirage.

“What are we going to do?” Ginny whispers.

“I think I have a plan.”

Ron turns towards Hermione in both hope and wariness. On the one hand, he knows Hermione is clever. On the other, he also thinks that there’s precious little that will change the impression other Gryffindors have of them now as deluded.

Hermione sees his look and sighs through her nose. “Honestly, Ron, do you think that there’s much that will make them decide we’re worse liars?”

Ron shakes his head. However, he still wonders if things can get worse for them in Gryffindor. Maybe someone will actually hex them instead of taunt them. Or maybe Harry will set his followers on them for doing things like trying to talk to their actual friend.

Someone who was their friend, maybe. No more.

“What’s your plan?” Ron asks, to distract himself from the sight of Harry holding court by the fire with Neville and Colin Creevey and a few other people laughing around him. Ron wonders darkly which of them he’ll Mark next.

“We show Harry that his father is still a murderous wanker.”

“How can we do that, though?” Ginny looks up from studying her hands. “If he isn’t staging any raids and won’t do anything that makes Harry think that—”

“We make sure he commits one.”

Ron stares at Hermione. Her jaw is set and her eyes are sparkling in a way that makes him want to back off. “What are you thinking, Hermione?”

“We do something he can’t ignore. We set him off. And we make Harry see that just because the bastard is nice to him doesn’t mean that he’ll ever be less than a murderous Dark Lord.”

Her voice is rising, and Ron gestures sharply at her. Hermione frowns at him, but nods and lowers her tone to a whisper level. “Harry will have to see that he made the wrong choice and come back to our side then.”

“I don’t—we can’t justify putting innocent people in danger like that,” Ginny says, voicing what Ron is thinking. “No matter what Harry’s done.”

“We aren’t going to do that.” The light in Hermione’s eyes is like the long, bloody trail of a sunset on the water, Ron thinks uneasily. “We’ll position ourselves as the victims.”

*

“My father will permit me to take you as my courtier.”

Corban feels such a soaring joy in his heart that it catches him by surprise. He realizes then that he didn’t think the Dark Lord would grant the Prince this favor, despite his own attempts to reason himself into it.

And now—

Now it seems that there is nothing that cannot be done.

Corban drops to one knee in front of the Prince, despite the young man’s grimace of discomfort. It is just something that he will have to do for now, until he can explore the boundaries of his relationship with his new Lord and learn what is permitted and what is not. “Thank you, my lord,” he whispers, bowing his head. “When do you think you can Mark me?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

That is actually sooner than Corban thought it would happen, but he decides to push a bit anyway, as he never would have dared to do with the Dark Lord. “Why not today?”

The Prince tilts his head, his eyes such a piercing green that Corban thinks the Dark Lord gave his son the force of his gaze. Surely Lily Potter did not look like that. “I want you to truly think about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the oaths I’m going to make you swear aren’t ones you can go back from. I’m going to make you swear not to torture people or cast Dark Arts. Are you sure you want that? Take the day to reflect on it.”

The breath leaves Corban’s body. He thought the Prince more open to compromise. “I cannot cast Dark Arts even in self-defense?”

“How many times have you needed them in self-defense?”

“Many times, especially when fighting Aurors or Order of the Phoenix members—”

The Prince leans forwards. Corban shuts up. The force of the man’s presence isn’t something he would have expected, given what he has seen from the Dark Lord’s son so far. But here it is.

“No,” the Prince says quietly. “You wanted to curse and maim them, kill them maybe, at least make them regret coming after you. You never just wanted to get away, did you? Or not often, not when using those curses.”

Corban swallows. It’s—true that he most often struck back when someone started the curses with a cruel spell they wouldn’t know how to counter. When he was truly frightened and wanted to get out of a situation, he would Apparate if it were possible, use his most powerful shields and defensive spells if it weren’t. He doesn’t enjoy dueling for its own sake, as some kind of flashy contest. He enjoys causing pain.

The Prince nods, as if he’s got a glimpse into Corban’s thoughts, although Corban didn’t feel the brush of Legilimency. “I suggest you think about it,” he says, in a voice as soft as night, and turns and walks out of the classroom.

Corban blinks at the Prince’s back.

Then he stands up and goes to do as instructed, his thoughts running in circles.

*

The Veil is a deep, dim, shifting greyness, nothing like he thought it would be when he stepped through. Albus keeps walking down a path of black and grey stones that appear momentarily out of the mist and then fade back into it. His pace is steady, his head lifted high. His breathing is calm.

Now and then voices call out to one side of the path or another. Ariana’s, Father’s, Mother’s, Gellert’s. Albus started when he first heard them, but he knows them for the tricks they are, now. Gellert is not even dead. He keeps his eyes aimed forwards.

He comes to a black stone wall and traces the Elder Wand slowly over it. He calls silently in his head, to the power of the wand, to Death, to the powers that linger here.

To Sirius Black.

The stone wall shudders. Albus steps back, guided by instinct, and barely manages to avoid the boulder that falls off a cliff. Albus smiles a little and shakes his head. “You won’t catch me that way,” he whispers, although he’s not sure who he’s speaking to.

Someone.

The boulder rolls and settles on the ground, and then abruptly unfolds itself into a black dog. No, Albus thinks, caught somewhere in the forced calm that he used to make himself walk through the Veil, not a mortal dog, and not Sirius Black’s Animagus form. A Grim.

“I am here for you,” Albus tells the Grim.

It snarls and lunges forwards. Albus stands still. The jaws snap together an inch from his calf.

“You fell through the Veil,” Albus says, keeping his voice soothing. This is utterly important, but he manages to force his own impatience and worry down until he’s speaking in a calm tone, thinking only that what is in front of him now is the most important. “You were in the middle of a battle in the Department of Mysteries, with Harry. Remember? Harry Potter, your godson.”

Part of him aches in his breast, knowing that he will have to distress Sirius by revealing Harry’s real parentage. But it will all be worth it in the end. Harry can become a Potter again, by his own choice.

It is our choices that make us who we truly are.

The Grim pauses and stares. Then it sits down and looks at him with Sirius Black’s own grey eyes.

“Yes, that’s it.” Albus drops to one knee, although he winces as he does so. Old bones, old aches. He extends his hand. “Do you remember? Do you want to come back with me? The power of the wand should make it possible. Your form being a Grim should allow you to walk out of here if you wish.”

He could never coerce Sirius’s consent. That is one reason why all the magic to bring the dead back to life as they were will fail. They are dragging an unwilling spirit back into a body, or only animating the body, as in the creation of Inferi.

All normal magic, at least.

The Grim stares, and stares. Then it shudders, and melts into the form of Sirius Black.

“You don’t know what you have done,” he says, and his voice is ancient and wild. Even though he has a human body now, his eyes are still the Grim’s. “There will be a price to pay for your having come this far into the country of Death.”

“I am prepared to pay it,” Albus says steadily. He does keep a careful eye on Sirius. It’s not impossible, after all, that this isn’t really Sirius, but some being wearing his form. “What will it be?”

“The price won’t be extracted from you.”

Albus takes a sharp breath, prepared to protest, and then lets it die away unsaid. Honestly, he would pay with someone else’s life to defeat Tom for good and all. It isn’t a price he would like paying, but he would do it.

“So be it.”

Sirius continues watching him for a long moment. Then he inclines his head and turns to face the black stone cliff behind them. “Do you know why I was here?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, my dear boy.”

“Because I was a Grim, and I didn’t exactly die, and I wished to return to Harry. I made a bargain.” Sirius’s voice is low and echoing. “I made a promise that I would do everything I could to protect my godson, to make up for the way I abandoned him when he was a baby.”

“You didn’t abandon him, Sirius. You were betrayed.”

“It works out to the same thing.”

Albus shakes his head, but he’s too glad to hear Sirius’s vow to really worry about it. Sirius will protect Harry, and that’s all he needs to know.

“You’ll come back to life with me?” he asks. “Of your own free will?”

Sirius flashes his teeth like he’s still a Grim, but his voice is steady and human. “Yes. For Harry’s sake. To protect him.”

“That is all I wanted to hear,” Albus says, and turns to lead the way back down the stone path.

Sirius is silent on their journey, but it doesn’t matter. Albus is content to know that he’s not tormenting a dead spirit for the sake of the living, and that Sirius will help him make sure that Tom does not succeed.

As for the living one who will have to pay the price for Albus’s intrusion…

Albus puts it out of his mind. It is all he can do for now.

*

“I have something to ask you.”

Harry turns, blinking, at the unfamiliar voice, and blinks some more when he sees who’s standing there. Justin Finch-Fletchley, from Hufflepuff. They interacted just a little in the D.A. last year, but not much. Justin still seems cautious sometimes around Harry, as if he still thinks that Harry is the Heir of Slytherin or set the snake on him at the Dueling Club.

He would be right about the Heir of Slytherin thing now, Harry thinks, and has to control the urge to laugh hysterically.

“All right,” Harry says, leaning against the wall. He feels his bond with Basilisk, who is currently exploring a corridor a few meters away, tremble, and his one with Theo comes to light in a rustle of power. But he doesn’t need either of them right now, so he just gently pushes reassurance down the bonds. “What is it?”

“Not here.”

That makes Theo’s bond dance with even more suspicion, and makes Harry certain they can feel each other’s thoughts. But he just nods. Justin still isn’t a threat, even if he intends to be. Harry knows he’s the better duelist.

Be careful, my lord. Your life is precious to many.

Harry shoves irritation and fondness back down the bond to Theo, thinks, I know that, and I won’t take any risks, and turns around to stare at Justin once they’re in a little alcove hidden by the bend of the corridor. They’re not that far from the Room of Requirement, in fact, which is probably what made Justin come looking for him in the first place.

“Yes?”

Justin fidgets back and forth for a moment. Harry just waits. He was mostly wandering around to clear his head and let Basilisk explore, and he doesn’t have any place he needs to be for a few hours.

“There are people saying that you have—a certain heritage.”

“You heard those rumors in Gryffindor, huh?” Harry shakes his head, keeping his tone light. “Ron and Ginny are apparently really disappointed I won’t be dating her.”

“I believe them.”

Harry takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to hurt or Obliviate Justin, but he would do it in preference to something happening to one of his court.

“Right, because I’m a Parselmouth and the source of all evil—”

“No.”

Harry blinks and falls silent. Justin faces him, and his face is a sickly grey. But his hands are formed into fists. Harry considers drawing his wand.

“Because there were raids and there was war and now it’s stopped,” Justin whispers. “I couldn’t understand why. Why would You-Know-Who just stop like that? I thought there had to be some kind of threat to him, but then they would have announced it, wouldn’t they, to show they were winning? And now I understand. He knows that you wouldn’t like it, so he’s stopped.”

Justin is one hundred percent right, and he also sounds mental. Harry clings to that to stop himself from lashing out. There’s every chance that people will dismiss Justin as crazy the same way they’ve dismissed Ron and Hermione and Ginny.

“You realize what you sound like?”

“Some kind of crazy person? Yeah.” Justin smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “What I know is that if you’re the one who made him stop, then you’re not as corrupt as your former friends are trying to portray you as. And you haven’t just given in in exchange for some kind of favor, either. You’d never do that.”

Harry tries to put this together in his head, and ends up giving up. “I could be corrupt, but I could never be corrupt?” he can’t help asking.

Justin only shakes his head. He seems calm again. “I know that you’re the reason the raids stopped, whether you asked him to or he’s only doing it to indulge you,” he says. “And I want to make sure that you have a reason to keep protecting the rest of us.”

“Okay?”

Harry knows he sounds lost, because he doesn’t have a clue what Justin is talking about. Justin turns to him with dark eyes.

“There are people following you around and paying attention to you who never did it before. It’s obvious if you look. Maybe you could say Malfoy did pay attention to you, but Nott and Parkinson didn’t.” Justin takes another breath. “And maybe they give you good advice, but maybe they need a counterbalance sometimes. So I’m volunteering.”

“You don’t even know what you’re volunteering for!”

“Yes, I do.” Justin steps forwards and stares down at Harry’s left arm for a long moment, then lifts his gaze back to Harry’s face. “Because someone has to make sure that you don’t get an inflated head or only listen to the suggestions of people who might be the children of Death Eaters. I can be that person.”

“So could other people!”

“Sure, but do I see any of them volunteering? I do not.” Justin gives a jerky little shrug. “And I don’t pretend to know what happened between you and Weasley and Granger, but they aren’t in a position to advise you anymore.”

“Justin, this is madness.”

“So is you being You-Know-Who’s son. So is him changing all the methods he uses to commit murder and torture people for you. But he did it. You caused it. So I’m willing to help you keep causing it.”

Harry decides that he will just have to scare Justin off, and he can’t be too particular about how he does it. He takes a step forwards and says in a low voice, “You can’t stand me, and honestly, the feeling is mutual after second year.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What?”

“If it were, you never would have allowed me in the D. A. last year. You would have told me to go fuck myself when I showed up and started talking to you this way.”

“But you loathe me.”

“Is that really what you think? That I would be here volunteering to become—what do they call it, a low-level Death Eater for you if I hated you?”

“Sure. If you thought I needed a chain on my actions—”

“I never apologized for the Heir of Slytherin thing, did I?” Justin rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry. Even though I was right,” he adds. “But you aren’t someone evil trying to take over the school, you’re trying to save it, and I want to be part of that.”

“Justin—”

“Are you going to accept me as part of your—Death Eater thing, or do I have to go and tell everyone I believe Weasley and Granger?”

“You can’t blackmail me into accepting you!”

“Watch me.”

Justin just folds his arms and stands there. Harry reaches out incredulously down his bond to Theo, wondering why his courtier hasn’t appeared and offered to Memory Charm Justin himself.

He’s right, you know, Theo murmurs. You will need a group of people who aren’t just Slytherins, or purebloods. Yaxley coming in wouldn’t change that. I wouldn’t have chosen Finch-Fletchley myself, but he’ll offer us some balance.

Even though he’s trying to blackmail me?

You know very well that you could just leave him to be laughed at by the rest of the school if you wanted. Most people would assume that he was still angry about the Parselmouth thing and just pretending to believe the rumors to get back at you. The fact that you didn’t even consider that option tells me you want to accept him.

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It’s not that he wants his court to grow, exactly. It’s that—

It’s valuable to have someone who really does believe that I’m the Dark Lord’s son and would usually be poised to reject me, but he’s prepared to follow me instead. Even if it’s just to keep an eye on me.

Theo radiates dark satisfaction at him. Now you understand, my lord.

Harry shakes his head and refocuses on Justin. It feels like his conversation with Theo took a long time, but it was probably just a few seconds. “Say that I was willing to accept you. Are you willing to accept everything that comes with it?”

“Such as?”

“A Mark. Having to talk with people who might despise you, or might be acting like they don’t despise you just to please me. Having to meet Voldemort at some point.”

Justin pales at the name, but at least he doesn’t jump and flinch and scream like a child. He waits as though thinking to himself about the proposition Harry has made, and then he nods firmly. “Yes, my—lord. I am.”

Harry sighs. That seems to settle it, then. And he can see the value of having a Muggleborn in the group. Hopefully Justin would tell him if Harry somehow lost his head and decided to approve of murder and torture.

“Welcome to the court, then. I suppose.”

“Look a little more reluctant, why don’t you,” Justin retorts.

Harry only shrugs. He wonders if Justin’s sense of humor and willingness will last past the Marking. He’s starting to think that Corban Yaxley won’t even get there, given that he’s taken far longer than the day Harry gave him to ponder it.

*

“I’ll do it.”

The Prince whips around when Corban comes up behind him at the base of the stairs from Gryffindor Tower, his eyes gratifyingly wide. “What?”

Corban takes a deep breath and glances around. There’s no one nearby, not even portraits—not that he’s even sure the portraits answer to the new Headmistress the way they did to the old Headmaster, but still. Best to be efficient.

He drops to one knee and says softly, “Hurting people has always mattered to me.”

The Prince’s face turns cold, but Corban continues on, admitting things he has not admitted even to his former lord.

“I grew up helpless to prevent people with stronger magic, like my brother and parents, from hurting me. The same thing happened when I came to Slytherin and found myself a first-year with older years who wanted to go after me because of things my family had done. I promised myself when I learned enough curses to make them fear me that no one would ever hurt me again, that I would cause them pain. And I would cause pain to those who might have a desire to hurt me, to prove that they would never be able to.”

“Sorry, am I supposed to sympathize with this?”

“I am offering you, my lord, what mattered most to me. And what I have realized matters more than that.”

“Yes?”

“The chance to have someone who will sympathize with me. Who would not make fun of my motivations if he knew them, nor care that I was once a victim. Who would have the kindness to stand in front of me as a shield, so that I need no longer torture others to feel safe.”

Corban waits with his heart pounding. He has cut himself open and bled his spirit all over the stones. If the Prince rejects him now—

Corban is not sure what he will do.

The Prince stares at him for a long moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do, either. Then he sighs and reaches down to lift Corban to his feet.

“Of course I accept you,” he says. “You’ll still have to swear the oaths I demanded, but I accept you. I must be losing my mind,” he adds, not far enough under his breath to escape Corban’s notice.

It doesn’t matter. Corban takes a long, careful breath and nods to the Prince. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you.”

The world is changing, he thinks. For so long it was winter and nothing more, and now there is the prospect of a long, careful summer.

A summer that Corban, in turn, shall be careful to guard with his life.

Chapter Text

Corban’s Marking takes place in the same ritual room where Harry gave Pansy her Mark.

Of course, they’ve taken some precautions, after the way that Ron and Hermione managed to intrude last time. Harry has Theo on watch at the door, and Draco and Pansy standing at the corners of the ritual circle with their wands drawn. He doesn’t know what would happen if his friends came in and saw him doing this, and he doesn’t know what would happen if he were interrupted in the middle of a Marking.

But nothing happens other than Corban—he’ll still have to be Professor Yaxley in the classroom, but not outside it—kneeling and offering his arm. Harry takes a deep breath and carefully impresses the chimera over the Dark Mark.

For long moments, Harry believes it’s not going to work. The chimera and the snake of the Dark Mark seem to be fighting it out, roaring or hissing silently at one another. And Corban’s teeth are clenched, a long drop of sweat sliding down his face.

But then, abruptly, the snake fades and the chimera appears. Harry sighs a little and steps back to stare into Corban’s face.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly.

Corban kneels with his head bowed and his sides heaving like a bellows. Harry does have to wonder if he regrets it. But then Corban leans back on his heels and looks up at Harry with wonder.

“I didn’t even realize how much the Dark Mark hurt until it was gone,” he says hoarsely. “I had become accustomed to the pain.”

“Why would my father torture loyal followers?”

“I don’t think most of them think of it as torture,” Corban says slowly, eyebrows furrowed as he stares at Harry. “They become accustomed to the pain, too. They just—they think of it as the price for being close to the Dark Lord.”

Harry wants to be sick. But he’s in front of his courtiers, including his new one, and he doesn’t know if he can afford such a show of weakness.

You could, my lord. We would guard you with our lives and never speak of it.

That’s all right, Harry sends back to Theo, and focuses on Corban again. “You’ll let me know if you have any pain in the coming days, or if it—burns like my father’s Mark did?”

“Of course, my lord.” Corban is climbing to his feet, staring in awe down at the chimera and flexing his arm now and then as if it’s even a wonder to see it move. “I’ll let you know right away.” He gives Harry an unexpectedly sweet smile and slips out of the ritual room.

“That went well,” Pansy murmurs.

Harry nods, soft and inexpressible relief moving through him. He was sure that something would go badly wrong, but he Marked his first adult courtier, and he has a thick bond forming in the back of his mind where Corban stands now, and—

It was fine.

He starts to reply to Pansy, but his vision abruptly swims, and he falls to his knees as the sight of an imaginary room overlays the ritual chamber where he stands with his courtiers. He can hear their frantic questions, but he can’t respond to them. His head is pounding, and his eyes are full of the red glare of Voldemort’s eyes.

Harry pushes himself slowly back to his feet, wondering if his father, too late, is going to retract his permission to mark Corban.

But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, his father snaps in Parseltongue, “Did you know anything of their insane plans?”

“Whose insane plans?”

“Your friends. Your former friends. They are conducting a raid on the outside wards of Malfoy Manor as we speak.”

Harry feels his mouth fall open. He never thought he would really have anything to do with Ron, Hermione, or Ginny again. They’ve made their choice. “What—what would make them do something that mental?’

Father examines him for a long, intent moment with flaring eyes, and then inclines his head. “Good. You knew nothing. They seem, from what the wards have overheard of them, to think that is my headquarters.”

Well, it was during the summer. Harry wonders for a moment if he gave something about that away when he last talked to Ron and Hermione, and then buries the thought. It doesn’t matter. “Did they—did anyone get hurt?”

“I see where your priorities lie, my son. With them, not with my Death Eaters.”

Harry maintains a stubborn silence. Lucius isn’t his courtier, and neither is Mrs. Malfoy, although Harry would be sorry to hear that she got hurt. And he doesn’t know of any other Death Eaters staying with the Malfoys right now.

Voldemort finally gives a sound that’s as close to a snarl as a hiss can come, and says, “There was slight damage to the wards and the gates. Nothing else.”

Harry nods, weak with relief. “Do you have any idea why they attacked? I mean, they must have thought for a long time that it was a Death Eater headquarters. They could have gone after it last term. Or last year.”

This time, Voldemort’s frustration reflects in the Horcrux link between them, a hot shimmering anger. “I do not know. I was not able to get any spies close enough to them to overhear what they might have said.”

Harry doesn’t know what kind of spies Voldemort is talking about, and he doesn’t know that he needs to. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

“For what? You said you did not know of their plans.”

“And I didn’t. I just mean that I’m sorry they disrupted your—sleep, or whatever it was.”

Voldemort hisses with amusement this time. “I was not sleeping when Lucius summoned me. I do not sleep as you understand it except for a few hours at a time. It is more like waking meditation. But your apologies are accepted for the inconvenience.”

Harry swallows back nervousness. Not sleeping sounds terrible, even with the nightmares he has. He wonders if he will become more like Voldemort as he gets older, if that’s what being a Horcrux does to you, and then cuts that off, too.

“Have they spoken to you lately?”

It takes a moment for Harry to bring his thoughts away from Voldemort and Horcruxes in the direction of Ron and Hermione. And Ginny, he supposes. He shakes his head. “They stay at a distance and whisper about me.”

“What do they whisper?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I only think it’s about me because they’re always looking in my direction.”

“Of course it is about you, my son. They have nothing else of distinction in their pathetic lives.”

Harry swallows back laughter. He thinks he shouldn’t be so amused, but he is, and he can’t help it. “Maybe.”

“I am right. And I wish you to assign one of your courtiers to monitor them and make sure they will be no danger to you.”

Harry blinks. “Can it be someone I haven’t Marked yet?”

“Who is it?”

“Um, his name’s Justin Finch-Fletchley. A Muggleborn. He wants to become a courtier to see what the truth is, I think.” Telling Voldemort that Justin wants to keep Harry from going full insane Dark Lord, or that that’s part of his motivation, is probably not a recipe for a happy life for Justin. “But I insisted that he wait a few days and really think about whether he wanted my Mark or just wanted to be an advisor of sorts. It might be better if he doesn’t have the Mark if he’s going to get close to Ron and Hermione.”

Merlin, Harry hates thinking like this, hates treating his closest friends as the enemy. But Theo and Draco would probably say that it’s about time he did, since they’ve decided that Harry’s one.

Voldemort is eerily quiet, and Harry gives him a wary look. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of Harry having non-pureblood courtiers.

“Only the desperate among the Muggleborns came to me. Or the hate-filled.”

“What?”

“The ones who hated themselves and wanted to injure others of their own kind because of their hatred. Or the ones who thought I would keep them safe.” Voldemort makes a scoffing sound that Harry would die before admitting he agrees with. “They should have known my politics better.”

“So you’re—happy that I managed to attract a Muggleborn who’s not like that?”

“You have done what I could never do.” Voldemort gives Harry a dazzling, terrible smile. “You are the best of me.”

Harry just stares at him with his mouth a little open. It seems so out of character for Voldemort to admit that someone is better than himself. Or is he just really admitting it about himself, still, since Harry is a Horcrux?

Voldemort gives a laugh as terrible as his smile. “I will release you from the vision now. Your courtiers must be worried.”

The vision does indeed fade, and Harry finds himself sprawled on the floor of the ritual room. His face is stinging. He reaches up to touch his cheek, thinking that maybe he bruised it when he fell, and then Pansy slaps him again.

“Ow,” Harry says.

“You weren’t responding to us!”

Basilisk slithers into the room before Harry can reply to Pansy, nothing more than a rippling blur of motion to his courtiers, and curls hard around his arm. “I could not feel you. You were gone beyond the reach of our bond. You are not to do that again.” The bond is dark and flowing with purple like a bruise. “I do not like it.”

“My father wanted to see me,” Harry explains as he strokes her scales and lets her curl into the warm hollow under his chin.

“I will explain to the blood-master that he is not to do that again.”

Harry snorts despite himself, and looks up to see Pansy standing with her hands on her hips. He sighs and starts to explain.

*

Lord Voldemort stands before the Christmas tree that he did not take down after Harry left and studies the fairy lights on it. Inside, his mind churns with gold and red and green. He understands.

He had doubts about his plan before, simply because of how much effort and sacrifice it would take, but now he understands. Harry has drawn a Muggleborn courtier to him, one who wants to serve and is not simply consumed by hatred, and that is not something that Lord Voldemort could ever do.

Harry has done things Lord Voldemort could never do.

Harry is the best of him.

Lord Voldemort nods. He understands the message that is being shouted at him. He never thought like this before, but then, he never had a son before.

Or he never knew he had a son before. Lily Potter knew, other must have suspected, and they took and kept his son from him and they deserve to be tortured to death, burned alive while bleeding from Nagini’s bite—

But Lord Voldemort restrains himself. He is truly not the best at all if he can think like this. Harry manages to exist in the same school with his former friends who thoroughly betrayed him, and he is largely indifferent to them.

Lord Voldemort must go on investigating ways to implement his plan, and making sure that there is no other plan that will work better.

But in the churning currents of obsidian and bronze and gold twining through his mind, he does not think there is.

*

“Are you all right, Ginny?”

“I’ll live.”

Hermione gives her friend a tense smile. Ginny is leaning against a couch in a version of the Room of Requirement that they made to be open to the three of them only. It’s otherwise pretty much a replica of the Gryffindor common room, with a quiet fire and squashy comfortable chairs in red and gold.

Hermione touches her wand to the burn on Ginny’s arm, given by the Malfoy wards, and speaks in a strong, confident voice for all that she wants to cry. “Episkey.”

That spell is generally for healing simple breaks and the like, but it’s the only one Hermione knows. And they can hardly go to Madam Pomfrey for this. There’s no story they can come up with that would explain why they have such extensive injuries, and ones that Madam Pomfrey could tell were caused by wards and enchantments instead of hexes.

Or maybe she couldn’t, but there’s still no way that they can take the chance.

Ginny flinches and hisses as the burn squirms like a snake and then vanishes. Hermione leans back against the chair she’s sitting on, exhausted. It turns out that her theory worked and putting enough power into the spell made it capable of healing a lot, but she doesn’t think she can stand for a while.

“Do you think it worked?”

Hermione turns towards Ron. He has an arm in a sling right now, because Hermione only managed to partially heal the broken bone that resulted from the Malfoy wards throwing him. She will try again in a little while when she’s not so exhausted. Hermione shakes her head. “Voldemort didn’t show up.”

Ron closes his eyes at the name, but doesn’t flinch all over the place the way that Hermione has got used to so many people (childishly) doing. “Okay. All right. Then we have to try again, right?”

“I don’t know if I can try again.”

Hermione glances at Ginny, concerned. Her voice is small and she huddles on her couch with her hair draping over her face. “Gin?” Hermione asks softly.

“It’s so—it’s so hopeless, Hermione!” Ginny sits back up, tossing her long hair, and her face is twisted into an ugly expression of complete despair. “We tried our best, and Voldemort still didn’t show up! Malfoy didn’t even come out of his Manor! And without Harry, we don’t have a hope of defeating them! How are we supposed to do this?”

“There’s still Professor Dumbledore’s plan. You know he said he couldn’t tell us much now, but he would do it.”

Ginny closes her eyes. “All right. But if it turns out that his plan doesn’t work, then I don’t know if I can do this again.”

Ron opens his mouth. Hermione catches his eye and shakes her head firmly. She understands why Ginny sounds so defeated. They thought this would be a lot easier than it was. Why wouldn’t Voldemort come roaring like a madman to his Death Eater’s aid?

Unless he’s just so selfish that he doesn’t care about even his Death Eaters, but that just makes it more unbelievable that Harry would think he’s a good person.

“It’ll get easier, Ginny,” Hermione says, as calm as deep water. “I promise. This was only our first time, and we only got minor injuries and we made it out well. Professor Dumbledore never failed the Order of the Phoenix during the first war, did he?”

“I don’t know, Hermione. A lot of them died.”

Hermione flinches, because that’s a point she never considered before. But she picks up the burden—since Professor Dumbledore isn’t here to do it for them—and soldiers on. “Then we’ll just have to ask him and question his plan and make sure it doesn’t fail.”

Ginny looks at her with haunted eyes. “You really think we have a chance?”

“Of course we do.” Hermione sits up. Maybe she doesn’t believe it in her heart of hearts, but she has to believe it for Ginny’s sake, and so she does. “Professor Dumbledore will tell us his plan. It’ll work. You’ll see.”

Ginny is silent for a few long moments. Then she nods. “I suppose I can at least wait and see what he says.”

Hermione gives her a smile. It occurs to her that if Ginny had given up on this fight against Voldemort, she wouldn’t have been the first person who had, and not the person whose defection would hurt them the worst, either.

But that has already happened.

Oh, Harry. I don’t understand you.

*

The bond that blossoms to life in the back of Harry’s mind the minute he finishes Marking Justin—who didn’t want to wait longer just to spy on Ron and Hermione—makes him stagger. It’s surprisingly strong. He doesn’t think it’s as strong as his bond with Theo was when he first placed the Mark, but it’s stronger than Draco’s was that evening.

“I—” Harry clears his throat and steps back to look at Justin, who is studying him with narrowed eyes. “You’re really serious about keeping an eye on me, aren’t you?”

“Did you think I wasn’t, Potter—or whatever you call yourself now? Of course I am.”

“You should call him my lord,” Theo smoothly interjects, although the bond linking him to Harry buzzes with both amusement and irritation.

Justin looks at Theo for a moment. Then he says, “No, thanks, don’t think I will.”

“Finch-Fletchley—”

Justin turns away from Draco and Pansy’s simultaneous warnings and fixes his eyes on Harry. “Are you the kind of person who’s going to demand a title?” he asks. “Because I’d be interested to know if you are.”

“You realize that you can’t rupture the bond of the Mark just because you don’t like it? I thought you understood that.”

“Answer my question, please.”

Harry rolls his eyes and does. “I’m not going to demand the title. But you’re going to cause friction with my other courtiers if you don’t use it.” At least with Draco, Pansy, and Theo, he thinks. Corban is here for this Marking, but he’s keeping his emotions tucked behind shields just like he’s keeping his hands tucked behind his back.

“Good.” Justin gives him a fierce, bright smile. “I don’t need a title to serve you.”

“Why did you agree to serve our lord at all if you balk at the simplest things, Mr. Finch-Fletchley?” Corban asks.

“I believe in giving a title because of respect, not because of being told to,” Justin says, and gives a bow to Harry. It’s more sarcastic than he ever knew a bow could be. “And our lord hasn’t ordered me.”

“Answer my question, please.”

Justin grins at Corban this time, and his bond with Harry surges with satisfaction. Harry wonders if it’s satisfaction about the question or because he correctly guessed Corban was Marked or something else. He doesn’t know Justin well enough to tell yet. “I don’t think a title is a simple thing. I think it’s something reflexive that you might give if you’ve been raised in that mindset, but I wasn’t. And I agreed to become Harry’s courtier to keep an eye on him.”

That gets him frowns from everyone, but Harry laughs. Draco and Pansy glance at him with sterner frowns, but Theo’s stance relaxes immediately. Good. Harry is glad to know that he isn’t the only one who approves of Justin.

Although maybe Theo only approves of Justin because he made Harry laugh, but still.

“Our lord doesn’t need an eye kept on him,” Pansy says stiffly.

“To make sure that he doesn’t act like a budding Dark Lord? He might. I know very well whose son he is.”

“We assumed you did, or why would you be here? But you should be more respectful to him.”

Justin stares at Draco for a moment as if wondering when he’ll actually start being intimidating, and then shakes his head and turns towards Harry. “Do you have any first instructions for me?”

“Would you even listen if I did?”

“I’d listen. And then I’d decide on my own if they were good instructions.”

Harry chuckles, which might be the only thing that’s keeping his other courtiers from drawing their wands. But honestly, it’s refreshing not to have bowing, scraping, caution, or whispering directed towards him from someone who knows who he is. “Yeah. If you could just watch Ron and Hermione like we discussed, and check in on people in your House, and Ravenclaw if you know anyone there, and see if the rumors about me being Voldemort’s son have spread and how many people believe them?”

“Of course I know people in Ravenclaw. Haven’t you paid attention to my socializing over the years?’

“Why would I have?”

Justin stares at him, then shakes his head. “Fair point,” he mutters. “Sometimes I forget how much power you wield and how many people would naturally concentrate on you.”

And that’s exactly the kind of thing Harry wants to hear. He nods, content. “Do you have any objection to the instructions?”

“No. They’re sensible.” Justin is studying him. “Maybe you won’t need as much supervision as I thought you did, after all.” He ignores the two wands now aimed at his back. “As long as you understand that I won’t be a leashed attack dog like this bunch.”

Harry snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.”

He watches Justin leave, and then turns and frowns at Draco and Pansy’s wands. “You need to put those away.”

“But my lord—”

“Do you see Theo or Corban getting upset?”

It’s Theo that Draco and Pansy turn towards, probably because they assume Corban would just hide any upset even if he felt any. Theo simply shrugs. “He’s good for our lord. We will all have different bonds with him, and Justin’s is different.”

“You’re going to call him by his first name?”

“We all serve the same lord, Draco.”

That seems to calm Draco down, at least, and he nods and departs. Pansy goes with him, although with a skeptical backwards glance. Theo and Corban turn towards Harry, and Harry sighs.

“I need someone like Justin in my court, too. You aren’t to hurt him.”

“Unless he hurts or betrays you, my lord?”

“Of course. But you know how little someone with the Dark Mark would be able to do that against Voldemort.” There’s still the case of Snape, but Harry doesn’t know everything about how the Dark Mark works. It’s possible that it’s less powerful than Voldemort and the Death Eaters think, or that Snape took it willingly at first and then turned against Voldemort. Either way, Harry isn’t about to betray his father in front of—

He isn’t?

Harry swallows to hold back that realization. He doesn’t think Corban notices anything, but Theo’s eyes narrow, and their bond sings with his suspicion. Harry continues in a slightly shaky voice. “The Mark will make it harder for him to betray me. And I think I would know if he was feeling strong anger or something like that from the bond.”

“The bond was immediate?” Corban asks.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

Corban’s face is wooden, but some emotion is leaking through their bond. Harry concentrates on it, and then snorts. “You really thought that Justin wouldn’t be able to create a strong bond with me because he’s Muggleborn? Really?”

Corban stares at him, shaken. “How did you know that, my lord?”

“That’s what your bond says.”

Corban closes his eyes in a blink, then opens them again with a slight shake of his head. “The Dark Lord could not do something like that.”

“My father holds a lot more bonds than I do,” Harry mumbles, aware that he doesn’t want to betray Voldemort, aware that it’s a stupid thing to be concerned about, aware that he’s not going to reveal any weakness in his father anyway. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Corban is staring at the floor. Harry turns to Theo and nods. “I’d like to walk back to Gryffindor Tower by myself.”

“You have Basilisk with you, my lord?”

“She’s waiting outside the door. She didn’t know if her presence would disrupt the ritual.”

After a long, tense moment when Harry thinks Theo is going to object that’s not enough, he nods and steps back. The door opens, and Harry strides out and bends down to pick up Basilisk, who’s hissing at him nonstop about how cold the floor is.

“I—was not aware that you had such a powerful familiar, my lord.”

“Her name is Basilisk. She’s not a basilisk herself. She’s the same kind of snake that my father has.”

Corban doesn’t say anything. Harry leaves with a quick pace and ignores the way that he can feel Theo keeping up with his steps a distance behind him, and a few tracking charms settling on his robes that will end when he gets into Gryffindor Tower. Theo is making the best compromise he can between letting Harry walk alone and what his bond demands of him.

It’s fine.

*

“Sirius Black has returned to us.”

Albus makes the announcement and anticipates questions, which of course happen. He answers them serenely by explaining that the way Sirius “died” was not true death, and he took the chance of investigating where he could be retrieved.

No need to mention the Elder Wand. Why would there be?

Sirius, meanwhile, has lost the intimidating edge that Albus saw in him when they were in the realm beyond the Veil. He answers the questions aimed at him with cheerful insouciance, if not with the kind of joy in misleading people that he would have before the fall. Of course, one must assume that that affected him, Albus thinks, content to be wise.

And content in the hope that has returned to the eyes of the Order members, including Remus—who cannot stop staring at Sirius—and the children. He heard about their failed raid on Malfoy Manor, and has scolded them gently. It was brave, but foolish of them to think that Tom would care about any one particular Death Eater.

He might value Lucius Malfoy’s money, but never the man.

And now that Sirius is here, he will prevent Harry from becoming the same kind of monster. It is love that tempts Harry? Here it is, ready for the taking.

Chapter Text

“They’re paying more attention to you, my lord.”

Harry sighs as he stares down at the half-complete Transfiguration in front of him, which right now is a furred stone. He and Theo have partnered in Transfiguration ever since the duel that Corban—Professor Yaxley—had them do. It’s only partially because Ron and Hermione have dropped any inclination they ever had to work with Harry.

“More attention than they ought to be paying you, if they are determined to abandon you for not living up to their expectations.”

Harry sighs a little more as he swirls his wand and the stone only grows harder. “I know, Theo.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

Harry looks up into Theo’s eyes with his own narrowed for a moment. “That sounds like you want me to do a specific thing. Haven’t I proven by now that if you have a specific suggestion, you should just tell me, because I’m not going to be able to guess it?”

Theo blinks for a long moment. Then he puts his own wand down on the table and spreads his hands, ignoring the speculative glances from people who are not Ron and Hermione. “Forgive me, my lord. I am—unsure if you thought I was implying disrespect. I am not.”

Harry takes a deep breath and nods. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know what I can do except ignore them. They would take any chance to turn Gryffindor against me if they could.”

“Do you think they’d succeed? I thought that no one in your House would believe their insane tales.”

“That might change if they could present some proof.”

From Theo’s eyes, he’s already planning to figure out who has the proof and “convince” them not to reveal it. Harry shifts in his seat and takes the chance to press down on Theo’s wrist. “I appreciate your dedication, but I don’t want you to do anything to anyone.”

“Why not? Is that not part of my vows?”

“I’m unaware of it. What vows?”

“You know. The ones that we made to each other.” Theo’s eyes flicker down towards the chimera on his arm, and then he withdraws his hand as Corban turns towards them. Harry is unsure why, unless Theo thinks that other people are watching them and might draw the wrong conclusion.

“Please leave my friends alone, Theo.”

“Friends?”

“Former friends.”

For a long moment, as Theo stares at him, Harry thinks he might need to argue with his most dedicated vassal about it. But then Theo rolls his head on his neck and sighs a little. “As you will, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

“I am not happy about it.”

“I’m not asking you to be,” Harry says, and Theo’s mouth quirks up at the corners.

At least they’re able to go back to working on Transfiguration in peace after that, and Corban—Professor Yaxley—even critiques Harry’s piece when they’re done. Harry is relieved. The last thing he wants is someone who was a Death Eater to try and replicate the relationship they had with Voldemort when it comes to Harry.

But from the way that Corban gives him a faint, severe frown, and looks back and forth between Harry and his former friends, he probably doesn’t need to worry about that.

*

“Doesn’t he deserve to know?”

“You know what Professor Dumbledore said.”

Hermione nods impatiently. Yes, she knows very well what Professor Dumbledore said. He wants to reveal Sirius’s survival to Harry at the most opportune time, when Sirius can appeal to Harry and pull him away from his monster of a “father.”

That doesn’t make it any easier to sit on the couch near the fire in Gryffindor Tower inside their Privacy Bubble and watch Harry laughing with Neville and sometimes working on his homework, his brow furrowed. Hermione’s heart hurts. Once he would have been laughing with them. Once he would have asked her for her help on homework.

Hermione still wants to tell him about Sirius. Maybe then he would see that whatever reasons he turned to Voldemort aren’t relevant anymore.

“Hermione.”

Hermione reluctantly tears her eyes away from Harry and looks at Ginny. Ginny is leaning forwards with a soft, exhausted expression on her face. Hermione bites her lip. She hates to see Ginny looking that way.

“Please let Professor Dumbledore’s plan work out the way he wants,” Ginny breathes. “It’s the only hope I have right now, that Sirius will bring him back to our side. And that might fail if Harry knows about Sirius beforehand. I know that you want Harry to have every chance, but—” She shakes her head. “This is every chance, for me.”

“All right,” Hermione says. She can’t deny that kind of direct appeal. Of course Ginny would feel differently about Sirius’s return and the possibility of Harry turning away from evil than Hermione does. Harry was Hermione’s best friend—one of them—but he was Ginny’s rescuer and the boy she’s had a crush on since before she met him.

“Thanks,” Ginny says with a weary smile, and then hauls out her Arithmancy book. “Can you help me with this equation? Vector says it should be simple, but I’ve worked on it and worked on it and I can’t get it.”

“Professor Vector,” Hermione mumbles, but her heart isn’t in it. She shoots one more glance in Harry and Neville’s direction before she bends over the book to help Ginny.

She thinks she sees Harry staring back, but shakes it off. The point, the point, is that they have a weapon that is going to bring Harry back to their side.

They just have to wait to use it.

*

“Why are Ron and Hermione and Ginny always whispering and staring at you?”

Harry has to shrug at Neville. “I don’t know. Maybe they regret blowing up our friendship in the stupid way they did.”

Neville’s face darkens. “I can’t believe that they expected all of us to just believe that ridiculous lie about you being Voldemort’s son.”

Harry blinks. It might be the first time Neville has actually said his father’s name. Or maybe he did it once before? Harry honestly can’t remember.

“I think it was a symptom of something else,” he has to say. “That I drifted away from them and started making new friends, maybe. They really didn’t like that I started spending more time with the Slytherins.”

“You know, I did want to ask. Why Malfoy, of all people? Parkinson just made a few remarks and Nott never interacted with you, but Malfoy?”

“It’s related to what happened during the summer. Sorry, Nev. I really can’t tell you.”

“Was that on Dumbledore’s orders?”

“Er. Well, at first. Kind of. But not now.”

Neville nodded. “I didn’t think so. Not when Snape tried to kill you, and we all know that he never took a breath without Dumbledore’s permission.”

Harry gapes at Neville. Then he says, without thinking about, “I hope not.”

“Why not?”

“Then it means that Dumbledore was fine with him bullying you in class and treating me the way he did. I hope that he wasn’t. I don’t think Dumbledore is the kind of fine upstanding person I used to anymore, but I want to believe he’s not a sadist.”

Neville blinks, and then gives a reluctant smile. “Maybe we should just say that Dumbledore didn’t care about that, then.”

“Yeah. Or thought it was an acceptable sacrifice.”

“Did he say things to you like that? The times that you visited his office?”

“Not always in those exact words,” Harry murmurs, thinking of his final conversations with Dumbledore before the man fled Hogwarts. “But close to it, yes. He seemed to think that I didn’t deserve any happiness until Voldemort was defeated.”

He’s using the name as a test, but the first time wasn’t a fluke. Neville doesn’t flinch, only studies Harry as if hoping that Harry will say he was joking about Dumbledore. Then Neville leans back with a shake of his head and a frown. “That’s messed up.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs and stares at the ceiling. “I suppose that he really did think I would turn traitor, the way that Ron and Hermione do.”

There’s enough silence that Harry thinks he should turn back to his homework. Voldemort is weirdly invested in his marks—weirdly, because Harry thinks they have much more important things to discuss, including whether Voldemort will keep his promises not to torture and kill people for any longer than the end of the term.

“Harry.”

Neville sounds serious enough that Harry puts down the Charms book and turns back to face him. Neville is leaning his fist on his leg and biting his lip.

“Did Dumbledore believe what they said? About—about Voldemort?”

Part of Harry freezes internally. How many times is he going to have to go through this? How many times will he have to lose friends?

But at least the loss of Ron and Hermione—and Ginny—has given him some practice. He can’t hesitate, even though they’re in the middle of the common room. His wand is tucked in his hand and Basilisk stirring around his neck as he says gently, “Why would you think that he believed them, Neville?”

“It would make sense,” Neville says. He doesn’t move, except to twitch his wand in a way that nearly make Harry react. However, the muffling of noise around them just proves that he cast a Privacy Charm. “Why he would order Snape to kill you. Why he would leave the school afterwards. If he thinks that Voldemort is going to take over, or that we have no hope because you’re on his side.”

“I’m not on his side!”

“But you are his son.”

Harry calls the incantation of the Memory Charm into the forefront of his brain and holds it there as he stares at Neville and says, as calmly as he can, “Yes.”

Neville just nods. Harry can’t really make anything out of the blank expression on his face. “When did you find out?”

“At the beginning of last summer.” Harry isn’t going to say anything about the Horcruxes no matter how much Neville pries. That’s the kind of thing that Voldemort really would kill Neville for knowing.

“And he was the one who cured my parents.”

“Arranged for it. Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s bloody crazy,” Harry snaps. Neville blinks in surprise. “He heard that we were friends last term, and he did it as a gift to you for being my friend. But he also threatens Ron and Hermione all the time. He’s mental.”

Neville is quiet for long enough that Harry hopes he can just cast the Memory Charm and get on with it. Basilisk is hissing suggestions from around his neck that Harry doesn’t intend to listen to, but Neville doesn’t give any indication he can hear her.

Then Neville glances at him and says, “It doesn’t sound like you’re completely on his side.”

“No.”

“So what did you do that made Dumbledore and Ron and Hermione and Ginny think you are?”

“It’s always my bloody fault, isn’t it? Not theirs. They can’t have leaped to conclusions or made stupid decisions. No, it’s always my fault.”

“Mate,” Neville says, sounding so like Ron that Harry darts him a miserable glance. “I didn’t say that they were right. I’m just trying to give you a chance to explain.”

Harry closes his eyes. He wants to give a calm, coherent explanation that will make Neville choose his side, as maybe the only friend Harry has left, but it doesn’t work out that way. The words just tumble out.

“Voldemort found out and he wasn’t going to let it go. He kidnapped me from my Muggle relatives’ house and killed them. Then he tortured Hagrid because Hagrid was the one who took me to the Dursleys’ house in the first place. He made me live in Malfoy Manor and take Dark Arts lessons and take on some people who would have been Marked as his Death Eaters otherwise. He gave me people to protect and he keeps threatening to take them away. He gives me these gifts he thinks I want and they’re always insane. He pretends that he loves me and acts like he does and Dumbledore was always telling me that I couldn’t fall for that and the fantasy of a loving family when I never had one. I ask him not to do things and he says all I have to do is ask, but he’s still insane and he could change his mind at any time. And now more people keep coming to me and asking for protection and what happens when I can’t protect them all and Voldemort changes his mind and I have to join him for real to protect them?”

Harry’s words finally run down. He sits there with his eyes closed and breathes, ignoring the tension in his bonds, the soft voice of Theo asking what’s wrong, Basilisk’s agitated hisses. He didn’t even realize how afraid he was of all that until he got the chance to voice it.

He waits. Waits for Neville to say something, laugh, act offended, reject him—something.

“And Ron and Hermione…”

Well, that’s not what Harry thought Neville would concentrate on, but he’ll take it. “Are upset that I Marked people and that I’m trying to protect some who might get Marked and turned over to Voldemort otherwise,” Harry says tiredly. “Upset that I didn’t tell them. Upset I killed Snape. Upset that I begged special sanctuary for them from Voldemort. Upset about everything, really. I think they just want to change things so that I’m not his son, but that’s not going to happen.”

Neville is silent again. Then he says, “That’s not your fault.”

Harry opens his eyes with a gasp, staring at Neville. It’s honestly the last thing he thought his friend would say. He’s already lost multiple friends, after all, and Neville’s parents fought with the Order of the Phoenix.

“You don’t know what this means, Neville,” Harry whispers. “If it’s about your parents, then he could change his mind and turn against them if they join the war again—”

“You think they would?”

“Of—course?” There was never really a doubt in Harry’s mind, even if Neville tried to persuade them otherwise. After all, he’s sure his own parents would immediately go back to fighting Voldemort if they were resurrected.

Well, James and his mum. That’s still weird to think about.

Neville shakes his head. His eyes are hard and bright, and Harry’s heard a few whispers comparing his own eye color to poison in fifth and fourth year, but Neville’s are the ones that look like that right now.

“They’re going to focus on healing,” Neville whispers. “They’re both awake and walking around now, and they can eat and get dressed on their own, but they’ve got—a long way to go. And don’t tell anyone this, but I go to the hospital wing and Floo home each weekend. They want to spend time with me to make up for the time they lost.”

“I’m so sorry, Nev.”

“It was—if it were Bellatrix Lestrange or Barty Crouch that did this, I might not be able to accept it.”

It takes Harry a moment, sorting through the guilt and the grief, to realize what Neville is saying. He stares at his friend.

“Do not be stupid,” Basilisk says impatiently. “He is offering to be your true friend. Take it.”

“You can forgive me?” Harry whispers.

“None of us can help who we’re related to. Maybe someday you’ll tell me more, and I’d like to hear it, but you don’t have to. My Great Uncle Algie is a pretty awful person, but—he’s family.” Neville closes his eyes. “And I know it’s more complicated than that when we’re talking about a bloody Dark Lord, but—that’s the way it is.”

Harry closes his eyes, too. The Privacy Charm won’t hide it if he stands up and throws his arms around Neville, and so he has to fight that impulse down.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“No problem, mate.”

*

“Absolutely no one believes them.”

Harry blinks and glances up at Justin, who has come to lean against Harry’s table in the library. He has a sneer on his face that reminds Harry of what Draco used to look like before he got some sense knocked into him by the Marking. Harry says, “I assume you mean Ron and Hermione, but who doesn’t believe them?”

“Anyone.” Justin sits down at the table, shifting his left arm so that his Mark stays under the sleeve. Harry really needs to ask Voldemort for the enchantment that will keep it hidden unless they’re alone or with other Marked people. “All the Ravenclaws I’ve talked to, all the Hufflepuffs, and the Slytherins think it’s a grand joke.”

“Do you think anyone is likely to start believing them?”

“No.” Justin pauses. “I don’t know if you realize this, but Granger and Weasley are pretty unpopular.”

“They—are?”

“No, you didn’t realize it. I see.” Justin shakes his head. “A lot of people still think of Granger as stuck-up, since she has a tendency to correct them. And Weasley insults people in other Houses all the time.”

“Um. So did I.”

“Yeah, but you were unpopular for other reasons.”

Harry has to acknowledge that with a reluctant nod. “All right. Thanks for looking into that for me, Justin.”

“What are sort-of-friends-who-are-survivelling-you-to-make-sure-you-don’t-go-mad for?” Justin says, and stands and wanders away towards a table with Ernie Macmillan sitting at it. Harry idly wonders if Ernie himself is at all popular outside his House, and then puts the speculation away.

It’s good to know that other people aren’t likely to start figuring out his real parentage, at least, or believing what Ron and Hermione spread around. It doesn’t tell Harry why Ron and Hermione are whispering and paying more attention to him lately, but.

One problem at a time.

*

“I do not understand what you have asked of me.”

“It is a simple thing, Nagini.”

“It is not simple. I do not understand what you mean by better.”

Lord Voldemort sighs and reaches out to run his fingers down his familiar’s chin. Nagini is not soothed by the gesture as she usually is, however. She turns her head away and coils down into a pile of scales and sulk.

They are seated in the room where the Christmas tree remains, and Lord Voldemort leans back and watches the fairy lights as he considers how to reword his request. He wanted Nagini to judge between the Horcruxes—the ones he has here, at least—and say who is the best among them, or if his soul feels stronger. He does not trust his own judgment.

But Nagini does not understand him even when he rephrases the question, and finally slithers out the door in a fine temper. Lord Voldemort places his chin in his palm and ponders.

He will have to rely on his own judgment, he decides at last. And that judgment says Harry is the best portion of him.

Well. Then he must begin the great work.

*

“Why are we here? It is cold. I wish to go back to sleep.”

Harry gently rubs Basilisk’s side as he paces along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He doesn’t know himself why they’re here, really. Only that he woke up and felt the tug of something powerful, something he assumed at first was Voldemort calling him, and then thought might be a distress call from one of his courtiers.

But it turned out to be neither. And Harry doesn’t feel fear or distress as he walks the edge of the Forest. Just a sense of anticipation.

“It is cold.”

“All right, we’ll go back to bed,” Harry mumbles, and turns around.

And his breath rushes out of him as he sees someone walk into the light of his lit wand.

“Hello, Harry,” Sirius says softly, and holds out his arms.

Harry can’t help his choked sob as he dashes into them, as he feels his godfather’s arms close around him, as Sirius whispers to him and rocks him over and over.

Chapter Text

Things used to be simple, Sirius thinks. There were the Marauders, his friends and brothers, and there were his family. And once he was out of school, Death Eaters largely took the place of his family, and the Order of the Phoenix arrived as his allies. But he never forgot his core loyalty being to the Marauders, how simple it all was.

Then Peter betrayed them, and Sirius had days and months and hours and years in Azkaban to think about how complicated everything suddenly became. And how complicated his own guilt was, for suggesting the Secret-Keeper switch to James in the first place.

His life was sort of simple then, at least on the outside, in a cell that he couldn’t escape and full of despair he couldn’t help feeling. But it was complicated emotionally.

Then he escaped, and it was simple again. He had to stop Peter and protect Harry. That was the way things were.

But things went wrong.

In death, on the other side, where he walked sometimes with two feet and sometimes with four, Sirius was forced to accept the complications.

He had set out with good intentions, but they went wrong. He had tried to remain loyal, but some people didn’t deserve his loyalty. He had put staying hidden and getting revenge on Peter ahead of Harry, and that was wrong.

So by the time Dumbledore came to get him, Sirius had made a pact with the darkness, the complexity, that surrounded him.

He would get to return to the world. Someone else would pay the price of a life. Sirius would know that person when he saw them.

And in the meantime, he would get to be with Harry. He would cherish him above all others for the sake of what he had done to him in the past.

Sirius leans forwards now and embraces Harry, glad that his theory was right and the death magic he assumed in the realm beyond would call out to his godson. Harry would probably have felt a sense of safety without knowing where it was coming from.

From now on, he’ll know where it’s coming from. I promise.

He loves Harry and he will never abandon him. Everyone else—Dumbledore, the Order, Remus, Harry’s friends, Voldemort, the Death Eaters—can go hang.

*

Hary slowly draws back with his eyes closed. This might be a wonderful dream, but if Sirius is going to vanish when he opens them, he doesn’t want to know it.

“Harry,” Sirius whispers.

It feels like Sirius. Warm and confident, and his breath on Harry’s cheek doesn’t smell like an Inferius’s breath. The book describing that was one of the less pleasant ones that Voldemort had Harry read.

Voldemort.

Harry takes a deep breath and steps back, ripping himself from Sirius’s hold. Just in time, too. Basilisk might have done her best to bite him.

“Harry,” Sirius says, and his voice is warm and soft and understanding in a way that makes Harry shudder a little, because he knows what he might have to give up. “I promise, I’m here.”

“But you don’t know the truth,” Harry says, and opens his eyes. “I’m Voldemort’s son, not James’s.”

Sirius stands still for long enough that Harry thinks he’s going to walk away. And then he just nods. “I saw some things from within the realm of Death, and others that I didn’t clearly understand. But even if I hadn’t understood them at the time, Dumbledore’s explanation for why he pulled me back made it very clear.”

Harry feels as though his heart has frozen. “Dumbledore—pulled you back?”

Sirius tilts his head and meets Harry’s eyes with a calm that he doesn’t think is typical. “Yes. I wasn’t exactly dead, since I fell through the Veil, but I wasn’t exactly alive, either. Dumbledore has the Elder Wand, a powerful artifact that once belonged to Death. It enabled him to walk through the Veil and get me.”

“Sirius, do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“But I am Sirius.”

Harry takes a quick, deep, joyful, wounded breath. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. But—don’t you have to serve Dumbledore or whatever, since he’s the one who brought you back? Aren’t you like an Inferius?”

Sirius laughs so abruptly that Harry starts. And then he leans forwards and gives Harry a canine grin so like the one he used when they were plotting for Harry to live with him during their last Christmas together that Harry’s whole body hurts.

“No,” Sirius whispers. “I told him that I’d made an oath to protect you, and that was enough to satisfy him. He didn’t listen to all the undertones. He didn’t listen when I said that you came first for me. He just thought I would convince you to abandon your father and turn on him.”

“You’re—being remarkably accepting about my not being James’s son.”

“Maybe before I fell through the Veil, my only connection to you was your blood. But I had a lot of time to think, Harry. To realize that I’d failed you and that I needed to do better. And here I am as your godfather only.”

Harry’s eyes sting with tears. He’s waited his whole life to hear something like that, to hear someone put him first—

But it also makes him a little suspicious. He wipes his eyes and asks, “Why didn’t you come to me the minute Dumbledore pulled you out of the Veil, then?”

“I didn’t want him to know that I was on your side, instead of his.” Sirius smooths back Harry’s hair from his forehead, although he ignores the scar—or at least Harry has the feeling he does. Sirius looks into his eyes as if he’s seeing him, Harry, not a lord or Voldemort’s son or a false friend or a Gryffindor. “And I wanted to see if I could pick up any Order gossip that might make me more welcome.”

“I would have welcomed you regardless, Sirius, you have to know that—”

“I mean with your dad.”

Harry’s mouth closes with a click, and he stares at Sirius. Sirius tilts his head, and his eyes gleam like a Grim’s.

“What?”

“I don’t want to serve him. I’ll never want that. But I want to be on good terms with you, and that might mean being on good terms with him, right?”

“I—Sirius, what?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I’m here for you, kiddo, and not for anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and Sirius’s face crumples. “Because last time, you weren’t. Because last time, no one was.”

He didn’t know he was going to say that until now, but it’s the way he feels. Voldemort and Dumbledore and Remus and Professor McGonagall, they all want and wanted him to be certain things, even if Voldemort’s has changed pretty drastically. And Sirius—well, he cared more about hiding out and getting revenge on Pettigrew than he did about having Harry live with him, Harry thinks. Those plans they made during the one Christmas he got to spend with Sirius were just dreams.

Sirius reaches out and holds Harry’s shoulders, staring deeply into his eyes. His voice is soft, but has the impact of a shout. “I promise, I’m here this time. And I’ll always be on your side from now on.”

“What happens—when Death claims you again?”

“There’ll be a price for my resurrection, but it’s one that Dumbledore and his kind will pay.” Sirius’s mouth opens a little, and his resemblance to a dog increases even more. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if his tongue lolled. “I promise, Harry, you and I will never pay it. Not again.”

“Sirius, I don’t know if you can promise that—”

“I didn’t just bring my oath to you out of Death,” Sirius says, so fiercely that Harry falls silent and blinks. “I also brought some powers that I didn’t have before, and which Dumbledore doesn’t know about.”

“And you’d be willing to use them to serve Voldemort?”

“No. To save you, and you alone.”

Harry feels the tears sting his eyes again. He swallows. “Sirius, that’s—amazing, but I don’t know how to—what to say.”

“At least watch what I can do before you decide?”

Harry nods and backs off as Sirius transforms into a dog. He does look larger than he did before, Harry thinks, and there’s silver sparks to his hairs that look as if he’s standing in the middle of a miniature lightning storm.

Then Sirius throws his head back and howls. And thunder booms in the middle of the clear night sky.

Harry knows his mouth is hanging open, but before he can say or do anything, Sirius leaps up and opens his mouth. The air seems to flicker and split around him, and Harry feels like he does when he’s watching an Animagus transformation, like his mind skips over the moment when Sirius—

Grabs lightning, and crashes to the ground with it in his jaws.

Harry stares from the writhing, jerking bolt of silver light to Sirius’s face. Sirius wags his tail without releasing the bolt.

“But that’s impossible,” Harry whispers.

Sirius transforms back to his ordinary self. He’s holding the lightning cupped in his hands. He looks a little cautious about it, but he also looks smug and happy. Harry once thought he would never see that expression again.

Well, he thought he would never see Sirius do lots of things again, but thinking about that one was the one that broke his heart.

“Is that real lightning?” Harry asks.

Sirius turns and casually opens his hands. Harry has to shield his eyes as he watches the bolt crash into a tree and bring it down. Granted, it was a small tree and the fire that starts to smolder there goes out almost immediately afterwards when Sirius glances imperiously at the sky and rain starts to fall, but. Yes. Definitely real.

“Why did Death grant you that power?”

“I didn’t have a say in it.” Sirius turns and looks at Harry again, so much like himself now, earnest and strong, that even Basilisk’s hissed complaints, which Harry has been ignoring, turning into praise. “This is what Death gave me. Or what the realm beyond the Veil gave me. I’m not entirely sure they’re two different entities.” Sirius gives a rolling shrug. “But I have it, and I’ll use it exactly as you tell me to.”

“I—don’t want to be your lord, Sirius.”

“Lord?” Sirius stares at him. “All right, your courtiers have given you a big head. I’m not saying that I’d be your servant. I’m saying that I’m your godfather, and I’m here to protect you, and this power is for protecting you, so I’ll use it as you say.”

“This is a good person,” Basilisk says approvingly. “I was not sure at first, because he smells so strongly of dog, but he will be good for you.”

Harry lets out a choked little laugh, and Sirius tilts his head. He probably could hear Basilisk, but his travel beyond the Veil doesn’t seem to have given him the ability to understand Parseltongue.

“She approves of you,” Harry explains, and manages to cancel the Disillusionment Charm on Basilisk after a little concentration. Sirius stares at the snake, and then smiles as she hisses hard.

“What’s she saying?”

“He is a good person, and he may pet me if he likes.”

“Uh. She approves of you, and you can pet her if you like.”

Sirius gives a rasping, rumbling chuckle that Harry doesn’t remember from before he fell, but might have always been there for all he knew. He steps closer to Basilisk and raises his hand without fear. Basilisk turns her head towards him and darts out her tongue in his direction. Sirius touches her head and sighs a little.

“What?”

“Just that I can feel how deadly she is,” Sirius whispers. “That’s a power from Death that I had no choice about, either. But she has such strong venom, and she would give her life to protect you if she had to.”

Harry smiles a little uncertainly. That’s good, right? But he doesn’t even like to think about Basilisk dying, so he changes the subject. “I don’t think you can come back with me into the school, can you? Ron and Hermione would recognize your Animagus form.”

“Right. And they were at the Order meeting when Dumbledore revealed that he’d retrieved me, so I don’t want them knowing that I’m here.”

“What?”

Sirius hastily gathers him close, his chin resting on top of Harry’s head for a second. “Hey. It’s all right, Harry. I promise.”

“But they knew you were back, and they didn’t tell me? Why not?”

“They seem to think that you betrayed them by acknowledging the reality that Voldemort would never let you go,” Sirius murmurs, stroking his back. “And Dumbledore had some plan to reveal me at the ‘right time,’ whatever that means. So I reckon they were trying not to say that I was back to avoid spoiling that.”

Some shards of Harry’s heart fall away at that. Right. Well, he knows that he’s not going to trust Ron and Hermione in the future. He didn’t really think he could, but he did assume they could repair their friendship after the war.

Now, there’s no chance of that.

“Harry?”

“I’m just upset they didn’t, that’s all,” Harry whispers, and pulls back enough to smile at Sirius. Sirius doesn’t look like he believes it, but lets him go. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’ll go back to Grimmauld Place and throw a tantrum, let them think I’m sulking in my room.” Sirius smiles at him, and this time it’s almost purely sweet. “And then come back and be with you as often as I can.”

“Okay.” Harry swallows. “What—what pulled me out here today? Was it just that I felt the echo of the oaths that you swore to me?”

“Yes. The magic of Death is a powerful thing. And you survived certain death when you were an infant, and you carry death on your shoulder.” Sirius nods at Basilisk, his eyes shadowed. “You deserve all the love and care in the world, Harry, and I’m here to give it to you.”

Harry takes a quick breath. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this from Voldemort. He can read my mind in ways that—I don’t understand.” He also doesn’t know if he should reveal that he’s a Horcrux to his godfather, just because of the ways that Voldemort might try to punish them both.

From Sirius’s gentle gaze, he might know already. But he just nods and says, “You can go ahead and tell him.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Maybe you trust me too much,” Harry whispers.

Sirius reaches out and grabs his chin with a swift motion that makes Basilisk hiss in surprise. Sirius holds his gaze and says firmly, “No, Harry, I didn’t trust you enough. I should have asked you what you wanted instead of pretending that it mattered what Dumbledore wanted or the Ministry did. I should have fought harder for my freedom and my life so that I could protect you.”

“And now you’ll be here?” Harry hates the way his voice wavers, like a child’s, but it’s what he worries about.

“As long as you want me to be. If—there’s no purpose or point in fulfilling my oath anymore because you don’t want me around, then I’ll return to Death’s realm. Probably right away.”

“I can’t imagine giving you up again.”

Sirius flashes him a quick smile and says, “Well, I can’t pretend I want to miss your adulthood and the end of the war. And whatever friends or family you might make along the way. But I should probably get back to Grimmauld Place now. I’m stretching the definition of hiding away as it is.”

“All right,” Harry says, and can’t help but give his godfather one more hug for good luck.

Sirius looks as reluctant to step back from him as Harry is to let him go, but he waves and turns to walk further into the Forbidden Forest. Harry concentrates, and thinks that maybe he hears the crack of Sirius Apparating, but he’s not sure.

“I like him,” Basilisk says. “He is on your side, and you need someone to be.”

“Besides you?”

“I cannot bite everyone. And your courtiers depend on you in ways that do not always serve you. And the blood-master sometimes frightens you.” Basilisk writhes around until she’s curled about Harry’s neck and yawns in a gesture Harry thinks she probably adopted from him on purpose, showing her fangs. “But he does not frighten you, and he does not want to serve you. Except to protect you.”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, stroking her side for a second. “Yeah, that’s true.”

He gets back to bed before anyone misses him and curls up with Basilisk around his neck. He makes sure the curtains on his bed are spelled shut so there’s no way one of his roommates can overhear.

And then he let himself cry.

*

“Please stay after class, Mr. Potter.”

It hurts Corban’s mouth to speak the false name, and more to see the look of condescending concern on Granger’s face. She probably thinks that Corban’s lord is failing Transfiguration. But she and the two Weasleys have no claim to Harry’s time and attention now, and Corban simply stares until she turns and exits with the rest.

“Yes, Corban?” Harry asks, after Corban raises the anti-eavesdropping charms around the door.

“I felt a great agitation in your bond last night. Are you well?”

Harry hesitates for a long moment, and Corban feels all his muscles tighten. Is he not trusted? Even now?

“It was joy,” Harry says quietly. “Not sorrow or anger or fear. I think that as our bond grows deeper, you’ll learn to feel the difference.”

“I agree, my lord. But I would still like to know what happened.”

“I don’t know how much you know about the battle of the Department of Mysteries in June,” Harry says, and his words come slower. “If you were there, and wore your…other Mark at the time…”

“I was not,” Corban says, glad to say this. “But someone told me that Black fell through a certain Veil they keep in one of the rooms.”

Harry lowers his eyes and says nothing for a few seconds. Corban just waits. He can tell from the bond that this is difficult for his lord, and he’s willing to make all the concessions he can so Harry can tell the story.

“It was a Veil that led to Death’s realm, apparently,” Harry whispers. “And Dumbledore carries something called the Elder Wand that let him go through and retrieve Sirius.”

“The Elder Wand is a myth.”

The minute he says it, terror dashes through Corban like water in a snowmelt river. Contradicting his lord like that—never mind that it isn’t in a public place, it could have been, if he will say it carelessly in private he will say it carelessly in public—

Harry raises his head and stares at Corban for a second. Then he blinks and shrugs. “It’s a myth I’ve never heard of. But that’s what Sirius said.”

“You’ve spoken to Black?”

“Yeah. He said that he’s made oaths to me to protect me the way a godfather should, and that’s what I felt calling me outside last night.”

Corban can feel his head reeling. He has never heard of anything like that, and he wants to deny it. Wants to say that maybe Black was never dead in the first place and the Department of Mysteries rescued him, or that this is a stranger from the Order of the Phoenix wearing Black’s guise.

But he is aware of the magical power of oaths. And his role here is to temper Harry’s joy and warn him of the possibility of treachery, not impose it on him.

With that in mind, Corban manages to smile. “That’s wonderful, my lord.”

“Isn’t it?” And the radiant joy that Corban experienced last night pours through their bond again. He can recognize it better this time, having been told what it is. He never experienced anything like that through his bond with the Dark Lord, where the “best” emotion he felt was malignant glee. “I’ll be careful around him, I promise, but it’s really him.”

So perhaps the bond hasn’t entirely hidden Corban’s concern. He nods. “That is all I can ask for, my lord.”

Harry shoots him a sharp glance. “I’m pretty sure that you thought of asking for other things.”

Corban raises his hands. “I merely want to make sure that he is real, my lord, and not an enemy trying to trick you.” He hesitates, and then reminds himself that one of the reasons he became Harry’s courtier in the first place was to have the right to ask favors. “Could I come with you to your next meeting with him?”

“I’ll have to see. He might not want to meet with someone he’ll still consider a Death Eater. But I’ll ask.”

Corban closes his eyes when Harry has gone, moments before his next class comes in, to savor the reasonableness of that response.

And if Black is not real, if he is an impostor using Polyjuice or a glamour, he will discover what oaths Corban has sworn to Harry.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready to stop sulking now?”

Sirius stalks into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, his head bowed, and practically collapses into his chair at the table. “Yeah.”

“It is not so very, very bad, my boy,” Albus says, as gently as he can. “I understand that things have changed since you fell through the Veil, and that can be overwhelming, but some things are still the same.”

“Like the members of the Order.”

“Yes. Of course, with the addition of Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley—”

“I’d like to speak with them alone.”

Albus hesitates for a long moment, but he knows that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger did spend some time with Sirius when he was alive for the first time, and they might have insight into his mind that Albus does not. More to the point, he can see no way that the action could be a threat. “Very well. I shall have them Floo from my office.”

Sirius just nods, still staring at the kitchen table. Albus wishes that Sirius could evince a little more gratitude, but he goes to the Floo with all the graciousness he can.

One cannot have such high expectations of someone who has come back from death.

*

“Thank you for saying you wanted to speak with us, Sirius.”

Sirius gazes at Ron and Hermione—he can’t not think of them that way, not after so many years in Death and the way that he thinks of Harry—and tries to smile. Hermione is leaning forwards earnestly, her eyes wide, her hands gesturing. She looks as sincere as though she never abandoned Harry.

Ron looks much the same, although not gesturing as much.

Sirius forces back the temptation to accuse them of betrayal, and instead asks, “I think that you had something to tell me? Some perspective on Harry that the adults don’t?”

Hermione and Ron hesitate, exchanging glances. Sirius waits, just breathing a little. He has no reason to hurry them. The more they think that he’s on Harry’s side, the more reluctant they’ll be to engage with him, and being impatient will make them think that.

Hermione finally looks back at him, her expression tired. “You know that Harry discovered he was Voldemort’s son at the end of the last school year?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he—” Hermione hesitates again. Sirius waits. She finally breathes, “I think that going back to the Muggle world for the summer is the reason that he thought he had to accept the bastard as his father. He was isolated and alone and struggling. He thought he couldn’t tell anyone. He had to accept it, or not have anyone at all. Or burden them. If he had been in the magical world that summer, I think he would still be Harry.”

“Still be Harry?”

“I mean, he wouldn’t act like Voldemort is his father. Instead of just the one who slept with his mother.”

Sirius feels a moment’s intense grief. He has wondered since he learned the truth what Lily was thinking, why she did it, why she decided that the only way to be a part of the war was to become an Unspeakable and undertake such a dangerous mission.

But from Death, he could only see the present, not the past. And he never met Lily or James there.

He wrenches his mind back to the conversation in front of him. “Do you think that he could be brought back?’

“I really believe that if he can, you’re the only one who can do it.” Hermione closes her eyes for a second, and her eyelids quiver. Ron puts a hand on her shoulder with a quiet murmur. Hermione blinks, and blinks again, and manages to open them without crying. “He hates us now. He thinks that we’re traitors.”

“Why does he think that?”

Sirius knows exactly why Harry thinks that, of course, and he agrees with his godson’s interpretation. But he also wants to know if it’s possible to bring Hermione and Ron back to Harry instead of the other way around. Harry has his courtiers, of course, but he could use his first friends.

Sirius thinks he can evaluate that better than Harry or any of the children can, at the moment.

“Because he believes that we didn’t stand by him and didn’t accept him,” Hermione says dully.

Sirius has the impression that she would have said more, but Ron cuts in, his eyes flashing, full of temper. “How could we? How could anyone accept the son of Voldemort who’s fully taken up his position?’

“Albus said something about Harry doing that to save you. Or keep you safe?”

“We didn’t ask him to!”

Hermione is wiping away tears when Sirius looks at her, but she nods. “Yes. We didn’t ask to be treated better than other—well, Harry’s people would think of them as blood traitors. We didn’t ask to be treated better than others like us. Harry should be fighting to keep everyone safe, not to make an exception for us.”

“Do you think Voldemort would have agreed to that?” Strange how easy it is to speak the name now.

Ron still flinches a little, but Hermione seems to have fully got used to it. She looks at Sirius fearlessly. “Maybe not, but Harry should have tried.”

“Did he?”

“He didn’t tell us if he did! And he lied and kept the secret from us for so long. Like I said. If he’d talked to us during the summer, maybe we could have saved him.”

Sirius thinks of his godson, standing embattled on all sides, so afraid to trust someone new that he flinched back when Sirius first appeared, and then thinks of all the venomous things he could say.

But in the end, that wouldn’t help him do anything but alienate Ron and Hermione forever. So he softens his voice. “Would you have been better able to accept it if he’d told you the truth?”

“Of course we would have!”

I don’t know about that.

But Sirius has made his decision—Ron and Hermione won’t be good friends for Harry right now, maybe not ever again—and he doesn’t see any reason to keep talking to them. He smiles at them gently. “I hope that you’ll let me know if there’s anything I can tell Harry that you want him to know. Anything that might be better coming from me than from you,” he adds, because he can see Hermione’s mouth opening as if to argue.

“Oh. Just—tell him that we’re here when he’s ready?”

“That we still think of him as a friend,” Ron says firmly, his arm curling around Hermione’s shoulders. “Whenever he’s ready to think of us as friends. That might not be for a long time, but we’re here.”

“When he’s ready to denounce Voldemort as his father and think of you as his friends again.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it, exactly.”

Sirius nods. He doesn’t think Harry will be willing to denounce Voldemort as his father for a long time, if at all. He’s too committed to the protection of other people, even the ones who don’t really deserve it.

But Sirius blames the adults more than the kids, and the only thing he needs to do with Ron and Hermione is continue to lie to them, the same thing he will do to everyone except Harry. He stands up. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“You’re welcome, Sirius. Is there anything else we can do…?”

“No. I think Albus will want me to meet with Harry soon.”

“And you’ll tell us everything you say to him?”

“I’ll be reporting to the Order, and Albus did say that you were members of the Order now.”

Hermione’s smile is fragile, but real. “Yes.”

Sirius says a few more things, talks about reassurances and platitudes, that make them smile. They’re still smiling as they walk back to the Floo. Sirius watches them go, shaking his head a little.

They’re not terrible people. They probably never will be. They just haven’t gone through what Harry has gone through, and honestly, thank Death for that. But it does mean that they can’t understand Harry, and they live in a simpler world and operate by simpler methods and standards.

For them, it really is a good idea to just give in and do what one side wants, because they can’t imagine that there’s danger coming from Voldemort that their side won’t be able to stop.

Harry knows better. Sirius knows better. Albus probably knows better, but he still thinks it’s Harry’s duty to die to stop Voldemort, as if the sacrifice of one life can end a war if no one else is going to stand up and fight.

So, for now, Sirius will just lie to the Order, everyone involved in it, and tell the truth only to Harry. He’ll wield the power of lightning and storm for Harry, meet with his “courtiers,” and do everything he can to keep Harry safe.

The way he should have done the first time.

*

“You’re really sure that Black returned from death.”

“I really am.”

Theo studies his lord cautiously. Harry is smiling at him, calm and relaxed, his hand rising to stroke the head of what Theo knows is his invisible familiar. And there’s a humming undertone to their bond that Theo hasn’t felt before. He didn’t realize how much of Harry’s emotional mindscape is consumed with fear and desperation until he had a few hours without it.

Some of it has come back, but the joy remains. That must be what the humming undertone is, Theo thinks, the joy that woke him up out of a solid sleep two nights ago. He would have spoken to his lord about it earlier, but there was no way to make a long conversation look natural. He’s just glad that Harry made the time for one today in the room where they often practice dueling spells, in their free period before dinner.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Theo says at last.

“Well, I don’t think it could have been accomplished unless Dumbledore really did have the Elder Wand, the way Sirius says he did. And I know that Corban thinks it’s a myth, but my Cloak of Invisibility might be a myth, too.”

“What?”

“I read up more on the Tale of the Three Brothers. Some people believe that the treasures exist, and also—well, I looked at a genealogical book in the library that I never would have bothered with before, and it says that a Peverell woman married a Potter. So at least the Peverells really did exist.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About seven hundred years ago, I think? I was mostly looking at the names, not the dates.”

Theo nods slowly. Seven hundred years ago might be mythological for Muggles, but magical people kept fairly good records back then. Preservation Charms had been developed, and that means the book in the library Harry is talking about is, if not an original, probably a firsthand copy of the original genealogy.

“I would like to look at the book when you have a chance to bring it to me, my lord.”

“All right. I’ll have to go back to the library to get it.”

“That’s not a problem, my lord. Whenever you’re able to fetch it.”

Harry nods, his mind obviously turning elsewhere, and Theo accepts it. He does intend to keep a close eye on Harry, however, since there’s the chance that Black will either turn on Harry or attempt to drive other people out of Harry’s life.

There’s no way that Theo will give up the bond to his lord. He can live with Black and anyone else taking some of Harry’s time and attention, but he’s not going to stand back and smile as they try to direct all of Harry’s attention towards them.

Black will learn that I was here first.

*

“Welcome, my son.”

Harry sighs as he blinks his eyes open. He went to sleep in his regular bed, but he hasn’t spoken to Voldemort for a little while, so he supposes he should have known that he would wake up here instead. This is one of those all-white dream rooms that Voldemort seems to specialize in designing, with the usual bookshelves and the fireplace on one wall. The fire roars and spreads out what seems to be actual warmth, surprising Harry a little.

“You are learning to influence the dreams along with me. As you should, my son. You are as powerful as I am, as committed to preserving your power.”

There are lots of things Harry could say to that, but he also knows that he needs Voldemort to accept Sirius’s presence in his life. So he bows his head and murmurs, “I hope that you’ll teach me some of those things, Father.”

“Later. In the meantime, we should discuss the immense amount of joy you felt a few days back.”

Harry has decided that the best thing to do is say it all at once, and then answer the questions as Voldemort has them. He sits down on a white couch and says quickly, “My godfather came back from Death, and Dumbledore thinks that Sirius is going to serve him and lure me away from you, but Sirius is committed to supporting me instead.”

Voldemort freezes and stares at him. It’s so like a snake confronting prey that Harry tenses up in spite of himself.

Then Voldemort says, “Do begin at the beginning, my son,” and the warmth of the fire grows less.

Harry takes a deep breath and does.

As it turns out, Voldemort mostly has questions Harry can’t answer, such as how Dumbledore acquired the Elder Wand and how Sirius managed to survive when the Veil is supposed to kill people, not just act as a portal, and what the land of Death is like. But in the end, Voldemort seems to accept that Harry can’t tell him most of those things. He leans back on his own couch instead, stroking the white leather or velvet or whatever it is with slow fingers, and says, “What a remarkable life you lead, my son.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“It was not a compliment.”

Harry lifts his head. “You should know that Sirius is utterly committed to me. Even Basilisk thinks so. She would still be warning me against him and clamoring to bite him if she didn’t.”

“A snake may be fooled.”

“So you would destroy him just because Basilisk and I both agree that he supports me?”

Voldemort flows to his feet and comes towards Harry, his head tilting back and forth, again like a snake. Harry stands up to meet him, his hands clenched. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, but he knows he’ll accept it.

“I will not destroy him,” Voldemort murmurs. “I cannot believe that he is essential to your happiness, but I know you do. So I will want to meet him face-to-face, and probe his mind so that I can see for myself that his only loyalty is to you.”

Harry swallows. On the one hand, he doesn’t know if a face-to-face meeting will work out, given how hard it will be for Sirius to sneak away from the Order.

On the other, it’s so reasonable a demand that it takes his breath away, and makes him feel something he doesn’t understand until he’s struggled through his emotions for a moment.

It’s like a parent trying to protect their child from strangers.

Harry doesn’t know how to deal with the hot feeling of happiness and worry inside himself. Then again, he doesn’t think he has the time to analyze it. He does his best to accept it, the way that he’s had to do with so many other things Voldemort has thrown at him, and just nod. “I think he would be willing to meet you face-to-face. But why not meet him in the dream?”

“Parseltongue, Harry,” Voldemort says, but not as if he’s angry. He’s just studying Harry with that same mesmerizing snake-gaze. “Have you not noticed that neither Basilisk nor Nagini appear here? It is limited to the person I have the most profound connection in the world with. You.”

Harry swallows and grasps for a distraction. “I thought you had a pretty profound connection with your Death Eaters.”

“They are tools. Servants. Not what you are.”

“Your Horcrux, right.”

“And my son. The best part of myself. More precious than gold. More precious than magic.”

Harry lets out a slow, steady breath. He has to remind himself that just because Voldemort says that, it’s not necessarily something he’ll believe if Harry or Sirius do something to displease him. Voldemort could say that and then kill Sirius in a fit of rage. He’s still insane.

But that he would say it at all…

“I’m not the best part of you,” he mumbles, even though he feels weird denying it.

“You are. You are more self-contained and more cautious. You would never have spent thirteen years as a wraith if you had been the one in charge of my body the night I came to confront you.”

He’s the man who murdered your mother. How in the world can you feel comfortable with him?

But Harry is starting to think that asking questions like that is for people who don’t have to survive having that man for a father. They get to sit in comfortable homes and shake their heads and sip Firewhisky if they want, while Harry is the one actually out here talking to Voldemort and keeping him from killing people.

Harry meets Voldemort’s gaze with a fearlessness he didn’t know was in him and says, “So if I ask you to spare Sirius, will you?”

“Unless I judge him a danger to you.”

“If you attack him, I’ll defend him.”

Voldemort gives a long, soft hiss. Harry can’t tell what emotion he’s feeling just from that, but the connection between them pulses with something like dark amusement.

“Do you think you can stand in my way, little one?”

Harry swallows and gambles. “Yes, because you won’t want to harm me, and you know that losing Sirius so soon after I have him back would harm me.”

That makes Voldemort pause. He watches Harry, still, so still. Harry clenches his hands in front of him and strives not to react.

When Voldemort speaks again, it’s on an entirely unexpected tangent. “Then you do trust me,” he says in a tone of wonder.

“What?”

“You trust me not to hurt you, even though you are still acting as though you are one of my disposable servants and I will indeed try to dispose of you any moment.”

Harry swallows. It’s a gamble, he reminds himself. The gamble might fail. Voldemort could be lying. Even though it doesn’t feel like he’s lying through the bond that binds them, Harry isn’t the best at reading that. He could be wrong. Everything about this could be wrong.

But he says, “Yes, I trust you that much.”

Voldemort glides forwards. He rests one hand on Harry’s shoulder and one on his forehead, over the scar where Harry supposes he has to think of the Horcrux as lying. He pushes back nausea at the thought and stares up at Voldemort, doing his best to be still and placid and trusting.

“You do.”

Voldemort’s voice is so gentle that Harry can hardly hear it, hardly believe it’s coming from the same man. Voldemort lowers his face until his cheek is resting against Harry’s, and says again, “You do.”

It’s rather like having a massive wild animal walk up to him and demand to be petted instead of striking. Harry hesitantly rests a hand on his father’s shoulder. He thinks any other affectionate gesture is beyond him.

They remain like that for a long few moments, and then Voldemort draws away. He has a look of satisfaction on his face as though something far more significant has happened than Harry thinks has. “Very well. You have my word that I will not harm Sirius Black. And my word that I will think more deeply.”

“About what?”

“About the most important thing.”

And he vanishes before Harry can ask what that is, and the white room dissolves around him. Harry finds himself sitting up in his bed, panting a little.

Basilisk winds gently up his arm, their bond running blue and green and clear in sections. “The blood-master made you happy.”

“You could sense that?”

“Through the bond only. But it is also different from all the other times that you have returned from his dreams.”

Harry pets Basilisk and considers that. He doesn’t really know what to make of it. He knows that he fears Voldemort less now, that he trusts him more, but he also struggles to remember every day that Voldemort is insane and could change his mind at any time.

“You don’t really believe that.”

“What?”

“Whatever you are thinking now.”

Harry stares at her and swallows. “You can feel the smallest shade of emotion through the bond, then?”

“Of course I can.” Basilisk sounds impatient. “But you know that I will never turn on you and never hurt you. You might need to worry if you develop a stronger bond than this one with all your courtiers. But that is all.”

Harry leans back on his pillow and stares up at the canopy of his bed. It seems that he’s stumbled into a brand-new revelation, even though in most ways it’s just a continuation of the ones he’s had so far.

He doesn’t know exactly what will happen next, or how he’ll arrange a meeting in the real world between Sirius and Voldemort. But he does know one thing.

He’s suffering less than he used to. He doesn’t accept as much responsibility for things like keeping Ron and Hermione and random Muggleborns safe. He doesn’t still mourn the life he had before he learned Voldemort was his father.

It was easier in some ways. But harder in others. He was expected to take the lead role in a war, and kill or at least defeat a man so terrifying that years after the first war, people still tremble when speaking his name.

Harry isn’t free. He has his obligations to his courtiers and others, to his father, to his familiar, to Sirius, to people he probably doesn’t even know who might want to join his cause in the future or might need to be kept safe. But he’s calmer. Accepting of his role as Voldemort’s son and even his Horcrux.

Closer to happiness.

Chapter Text

“I am the best of you.”

Lord Voldemort sits back with his arms braced on the arms of the chair, watching in intellectual curiosity as the image of himself from when he was in his twenties boils out of the cup. Strange to think that he once coveted that cup so much he went about months of flirtation with Hepzibah Smith for it.

He does not value it so much now. It keeps him alive, but in and of itself, the nature of Hufflepuff’s Cup is no longer a source of fascination for him.

“Do tell.”

Lord Voldemort has learned the value of silence as he explored his son’s mind over the months and listened to him stumble through his words. The version of himself—of Tom Riddle, truly—in the cup never has. He immediately begins to spew and spin out the words.

“I was the one who was getting ready to go on the travels that would win you fame and knowledge. I was the one who came up with the plan of working in Borgin and Burke’s in the first place. And what did it earn us? The cup and the locket, both at once. No other version of yourself could say the same.”

“The locket might.”

The cup fragment sneers. “What is it? Just a fragment of mindless hunger. You put the worst of yourself into it.”

It amuses Lord Voldemort how much the cup hates the locket, given that the cup never even knew that the locket was successfully made into a Horcrux until Voldemort told it. But he has not yet retrieved the locket to say its side, so he now murmurs, “You’re not making a case for yourself, but rather against the locket. That’s not what I asked you to do.”

In a flash, the Horcrux is subservient again, looking at the floor with the false humility that once charmed Borgin’s customers. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Of course it will. I know myself, and I know that you are as proud and defiant as the rest of me.” Lord Voldemort shakes his head. This has been an amusing venture, but it has not provided him with the knowledge he was seeking. “You may return to the cup now.”

“Oh, may I?”

In a flash, the shade is lunging towards him, lifting hands on which it seems to have grown enormous sickle claws, its mouth open and full of fangs. Lord Voldemort remains seated, and simply flicks his hand in a negligent gesture.

The safeguards that he built into the Horcruxes long ago, without telling them, flare to life, dragging the shade back towards the cup. The Horcrux screams and struggles, but it is bound. It manages to hover for a moment above the golden metal of the cup, but ultimately is sucked back in.

Lord Voldemort looks at the cup serenely and speaks, on the off-chance that the Horcrux can still hear him. “I imagine that you would have liked to take over my body and turn me against my son. But I have no interest in that.”

He stands, shaking his head. In the end, this might have been even less than an amusing diversion. He was seeking a way to figure out which Horcrux holds the best of him, so that he might compare it to the way Harry acts and see if there is any way in which he is better than his son.

But any Horcrux could choose to attack, and if they got lucky enough, they might take Lord Voldemort from his son, one way or the other. They might manage to possess him. They might—

Lord Voldemort cuts the thought off. The idea of a Horcrux killing Harry is simply not to be borne.

He will have to try some other method to learn what he wishes to.

*

“We must arrange this carefully.”

Sirius nods, keeping the mock-solemn look on his face that Albus will expect. Albus believes that Sirius hasn’t been in contact with Harry since his return, and Sirius doesn’t intend on spoiling that deception now.

Even if part of him longs, rather desperately, to know what Voldemort said about Sirius’s return.

“If we do not, then there’s a chance that Harry will believe you’re a ghost or an Inferius or something of the kind.”

“Or simply someone under an illusion or Polyjuice meant to trick him,” Sirius adds, to show willing and because it’s a way to control his scoff at the idea that Harry would be fooled by an Inferius. How stupid does Albus think his godson is, exactly?

“That is true.”

Albus goes serenely on making his plans. Sirius sits at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place and nods now and then. He doesn’t voice his opinion except when it’s asked for, and then only in small, modest ways like the contribution he’s already offered.

Harry knows they have to playact for the Order members who will be watching their “first meeting.” Sirius might as well start the deception early.

Because no one is going to take him from his godson again. No one.

*

“Sirius.”

Harry’s voice is a convincingly broken thing, he thinks. He gapes at his godfather as if he’s never seen Sirius since he returned from the Veil. Sirius gives him a steely smile, appropriate to the role the Order wants him to play, Harry thinks, and also to the warning in his eyes.

“Harry. It’s good to see you.”

Harry makes himself step backwards, away from Sirius and the tree that he’s standing under. The Order sent him a letter, anonymously, asking him to meet “someone important” at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It’s not that far from where he and Sirius had their first, secret, real meeting. “You can’t really be him.”

“Do you want to bet?”

Harry is so glad that he saw Sirius before now. Otherwise, the roguish grin on his godfather’s face would probably make him give in and do everything the Order wanted.

But he can resist it, so he sticks his nose in the air and says, “Prove it.”

In a whirl of black, Sirius transforms into Padfoot. He wags his tail at Harry and barks. Then he transforms back into himself. “There. Do you think that anyone else could imitate that? Even someone who was an Animagus?”

“Oh, Sirius,” Harry breathes, and then he hurls himself forwards and into Sirius’s arms.

Sirius clasps him back tightly, and this part, at least, can be as real as they want it to be. Sirius bends close enough to breathe into Harry’s ear, “They might have Listening Charms up,” and then steps back and holds Harry at the full extent of his arms. Harry doesn’t think it’s bad that both their eyes are a little wet.

“Let me look at you,” Sirius says.

“I could say the same thing.” Harry lifts a hand to touch his godfather’s cheek. He doesn’t need to make it shake; it does that on its own. “How did you—how did you survive the Veil? I thought you were gone for good.”

“What I’m about to tell you is top secret,” Sirius whispers, leaning towards him. Harry reckons that the Order will still be able to hear them with their Listening Charms, though. “You can’t repeat it to anyone. Understood?’

“Understood, Sirius.” Harry’s voice is hoarse. He clears his throat.

“The Headmaster has a powerful weapon that was made for piercing the realm of Death,” Sirius breathes. “And the Veil is really a portal to that realm instead of an immediate death forever, the way everyone thinks. I was waiting there. The Headmaster came and found me and brought me back to life. For you.”

Harry bites his lip so hard that he thinks it might be bleeding, but that will just add to the reality they’re trying to present, as well. “Do you—do you think—”

“Yes, Harry? Anything you want. I’m listening.”

“Did—the Headmaster pull you back to life so that you could influence me?”

Sirius immediately takes a step away. Harry knows it’s necessary for the charade, but he can’t prevent himself from reaching out. Sirius takes his hands, but he’s giving Harry a stern look that Harry would find hilarious under other circumstances.

“Influence you? What do you mean by that, Harry?”

“I just—I didn’t know if he brought you back to life to get me away from Voldemort.”

Harry lowers his voice on the name, something Sirius suggested, and Sirius reels back with his hands up in the air. “You don’t want to get away from him?” he asks loudly, his eyes tracing Harry’s features as though he’s looking for some trace of James in him. Harry winces. “I don’t understand you, Harry. That’s what Albus said, but I thought you would have more common sense. It doesn’t matter whose son you are to me, but he still killed your mum!”

Harry takes a deep, difficult breath. Honestly, his mother is probably something he should have talked about with Voldemort before now. But it’s too late, and he stares steadily into Sirius’s eyes as he asks, “Do you have a plan for how to do that that wouldn’t immediately result in Voldemort trying to kill you?”

Sirius shifts his weight. “There must be something that could be done.”

“But do you have a plan?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“I just need to know that you have a solid plan. Sirius, everything I’ve done since I’ve found out that I was his son has been to protect people. Everything. If you have some way that I could get out of it without having to worry about the people left behind, I’d take that way in a heartbeat!”

The words emerge more sincerely than Harry likes, to the point that Sirius leans forwards and peers into his eyes. Harry glances down, embarrassed. It’s not that he wants to—he doesn’t want to be free of Voldemort in the same way he did, exactly, but he still doesn’t trust Voldemort not to hurt other people on a whim.

To not hurt him, yes. Probably not even to hurt Theo and Draco and maybe his other courtiers, although Justin is an open question. But Sirius and Ron and Hermione, yes, they’re still vulnerable to one of his rages.

If there was a way that Harry could shield them from that, even if it meant staying in Voldemort’s clutches himself for the rest of his life, he’d take it in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t know what he will say if Sirius proposes some Order plan that would remove Harry from Voldemort’s care.

No, I should be thinking something like clutches, right? Not care.

But that’s the way he thinks of it.

Harry shakes the idea off. The main problem is just that he’s so sick of people who think he should stand up to Voldemort coming over with their own insubstantial plans for him doing so, rather than real ones that would actually work.

“I don’t have a plan now,” Sirius says slowly, and Harry thinks it’s both for him and their Order audience. “But I could come up with one.”

“Can you tell me when you do?”

“Is it safe to communicate with you by owl?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Harry allows a touch of confusion into his voice.

“Because I thought your dad might intercept the letters. Or one of your courtiers might read your post.”

“I don’t assign them to do that!”

“But one of them might, if they thought that you were unsafe or something.” Sirius folds his arms. “I’m trying to keep this line of communication open, Harry, but it’s pretty hard knowing you’re Voldemort’s son.”

Harry flinches in spite of himself. Of course he knew that Sirius would say something like that, but it sounds so much like something real that Sirius would say if he were really following the Order’s agenda.

Sirius apologizes with his eyes, but shakes his head. “You’ll be the only one reading my letters?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Sirius lurches a step forwards, probably because Harry is painfully sincere and he can tell that. Then he takes a deep breath and backs away. “I just have to make sure that you know how serious this is, Harry,” he whispers, and manages not to smile over the worn joke that he could have made. “How much you really have to reevaluate your relationship to You-Know-Who and the Order.”

Harry nods rapidly. “I promise. I know.”

“Really? Because so far, it hasn’t seemed much like it. Albus tells me that you’ve gone fully into being his son.”

“He didn’t give me a choice!” Harry lets his voice soar. This is the kind of thing that he wanted to say to Dumbledore, and Ron, and Hermione, and he’ll never get to. At least this one time, he can be sure they’ll hear him. “He said that he would kill people if I didn’t yield and get in line!”

“And how many more people will die because you did?”

Harry flinches again.

Sirius sighs. “All right, that was unfair. But I hope it’s something you think about, Harry.”

Harry bites his lip and bites his lip and bites his lip. He hopes that he’s drawing blood, but at the moment, he can’t look down to check. “All right,” he whispers, and let his voice be broken. “I’ll think about it, I promise.”

“That’s all I ask, Harry.”

Sirius steps forwards for another hug, and Harry can’t help the way he clings to him. Sirius’s arms fold around him strongly, and in that moment, Harry can feel the way that Sirius wants to hold him safe, make him be safe, sweep him away from everyone who would hurt him.

Sirius would stand up to Voldemort if he had to. He would die, but he’d do it.

Harry nestles close, and clings to the memory of that feeling as Sirius steps away and gives him a little wave.

“I’ll see you soon,” Sirius promises, and Apparates.

Despite himself, and despite knowing how much of this was a charade, Harry can’t help but stand and stare at the space where Sirius was. Then he lowers his head and plods back to the school, a show that he hopes will fool the Order well enough.

It also works on someone else, as he finds when he gets back to Hogwarts.

*

“I think that went very well.”

Sirius smiles as broadly as he can when he wants to jump across the table and strangle Albus. “I do, too.”

“I’m glad, my boy.” Albus reaches out to pat his hand. “You must not be afraid that this will drive Harry further away from you. If anything, I think he will rush back to Voldemort and disclaim their connection.”

You have no idea what he’s really been through, none at all.

But Sirius just maintains the smile and nods. “I’ll be glad when I can stand at my godson’s side and be open about it.”

He’s been very careful to speak the literal truth around Albus, and now he’s rewarded by the way that Albus’s eyes shine. “Yes, I think that Harry will do the right thing,” he says, and stands. “Please excuse me.”

Sirius sneers at the table as Albus leaves. Then he looks up and blinks a little, because Ron and Hermione have piled through the door into the kitchen and sit down at the table across from him. Never mind that they’re probably supposed to be at school. “Hello?”

“Is that really the reason that Harry turned his back on all of us?’

“Is what really the reason?”

“He thought he was keeping us safe that way? And he really didn’t think about the other people who will be in danger if he goes along with the insane things that Voldemort wants him to do?” Hermione’s eyes are shining with something that isn’t quite tears, but right on the edge of it.

Sirius holds back his contempt. Honestly, these children are lucky that they’re still sheltered enough not to understand the kinds of impossible choices that Harry faces, or to think that they could still find a way out of it. “He really does think that,” Sirius settles for saying temperately. “He isn’t thinking about numbers, except in the sense of trying to keep everyone he knows safe instead of sacrificing one person for the others. It’s about who he cares about.”

“But it shouldn’t be!” Ron bangs his hand on the table. “I know that he needs to think about everyone, and it’s hard, but he has to!”

“I would find it really hard to sacrifice my parents for everyone else,” Hermione whispers. “Or you or Harry.”

Ron spins to face her with an appalled look. “Hermione!”

“I’m not saying that I wouldn’t do it,” Hermione adds hastily. “Or even that they wouldn’t understand. Just that it would be hard!”

Sirius refrains from rolling his eyes this time just because he’s controlling himself, and nods. “It’s harder than that for Harry, because he didn’t grow up with family who cared a whit for him. So of course he’s going to cling harder to the people he trusts and loves. I’m surprised that he didn’t try to keep me there when I suddenly reappeared from the dead, as he would have understood it.”

“You sound like you’re on his side.”

Careful. “I just see where he’s coming from. Before the war, I would have been the same way about sacrificing any of my friends.” Sirius sighs. “Or Harry, come to that. But I have to remember where my highest loyalty lies.”

The words waltz right past Ron and Hermione’s attention, as he suspected they would. They’re more interested in moral debate at the moment.

“So you could just sacrifice any member of your family without a qualm?” Hermione is demanding of Ron.

“I wouldn’t do that without a qualm,” Ron snaps. “And I can’t think of any situation where I would have to sacrifice a member of my family!”

“But you were talking about Harry doing it—”

“That bastard isn’t family to him, Hermione, don’t be ridiculous!”

Sirius manages to excuse himself, not that he thinks they really notice, and slip away from the table before they can return the argument to him. He goes up the stairs shaking his head.

Distant moral concerns and abstract ideas are a plague in people associated with the Order, it seems. Or maybe just the kind of thinking that plagues everyone, the conviction that they would act appropriately in the circumstances while also thinking that those circumstances will never happen to them.

I won’t let them happen for Harry. I can at least prevent that.

*

“My lord.”

The bond with Theo is as dark as sludge. Harry has noticed that since he returned to the castle, and he sent a gentle question through it to Theo earlier, but got no response. He assumed something happened that Theo wanted to deal with alone.

Maybe I was mistaken, Harry thinks, as he turns around to see the profoundly furious look on Theo’s face.

“Yes?” Harry asks quietly.

“Do you know what I saw when I felt your agitation and uncertainty this morning?”

Harry grimaces a little. He didn’t inform any of his courtiers about the plan to fool the Order with Sirius, because it was organized over letters and he didn’t think they had sufficient privacy over the last few days to tell them in person. And, well, he was afraid they would attack Sirius or try to prevent Harry himself from going if they knew about the Order watching.

“I know what it looks like, but it wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t your godfather betraying you and telling you to betray your father?” Theo’s lip rises a little at the corner, exposing a canine tooth and making him look as if he’s about to growl like a wolf. “Betray us?”

“No, it wasn’t,” Harry says, holding Theo’s eyes and feeding his steady conviction down their bond. “Sirius knew we’d have to put on a show for the Order and convince them he was still loyal to their cause. We thought the best way to do that was giving them exactly what they were looking for, with Sirius scolding me for supposedly turning my back on all the people that I’m meant to save.”

“And that, of course, explains why it hurt so much.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you and the others, Theo, honestly—”

“Why did you subject yourself to that?” Theo snaps, taking a step closer. “Honestly, why not just have Black defy Dumbledore and come to your side? What value is there in this charade that causes both of you pain?”

Harry takes a slow breath. He doesn’t know if he can explain everything that Sirius told him, mostly because he still doesn’t really understand the realm of Death and he doesn’t know if he should reveal the full extent of Sirius’s powers to anyone else. But he can say a little.

“Dumbledore is still a powerful wizard,” Harry murmurs. “He took Sirius from Death, and he might be able to banish him back there. Neither of us wants to chance that, for obvious reasons. And there’s the fact that Sirius can be a spy in the Order for us.”

“For your father.”

“No, for me.” Harry lifts his head and scowls at Theo, finally snapping out of the guilt that Theo has forced on him. “Sirius’s loyalty is first and foremost to me. He had a lot of time to think, and he knows where he went wrong, putting the Order and revenge above me. He won’t ever do anything to endanger me again.”

“Then tell him to leave the Order alone and come to you permanently.”

“I told you why that can’t happen yet.”

Theo nods, his eyes distant. He has closed their bond, so all Harry can feel is drifting ice and shadows. “All right. I see that. In the meantime, you should reassure Draco and Pansy, because they came with me to see what was happening and they won’t understand any better than I do.” He turns away.

“Theo?”

Theo glances over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“You still feel…upset.”

“My, my, what alerted you.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “I’m really not in any danger from Sirius, you know.”

“I know that,” Theo says. His bond is all ice now, cool serenity. “So I’m going to make sure that in the future, I don’t get upset about something like this. But it would help, my lord, if you’d warn us.”

He turns and marches away. Harry watches him go with a feeling of weary bewilderment. Yes, all right, he should have told them, but even though he’s not as stressed as he used to be now, the stress of wondering whether Sirius is going to be exposed to the Order any second and whether they would be able to pull off this acting was wearing on him.

Harry takes a deep breath and rubs his hand across his face. He’ll go and explain to Draco and Pansy and Corban—although doesn’t think Justin will need an explanation—and Basilisk, if she wants one. He’ll try to keep in mind that he can do that in the future.

And he’ll wait for Sirius’s next letter. His next visit.

The stress of wondering when and where he’ll see his godfather again is already starting.

He shakes his head and goes to collect Basilisk, who certainly would have bitten someone, even if not Sirius, if he’d brought her along today.

*

Theo’s mind shines like crystal as he pages slowly through the book in front of him. Father got it for him when Theo first came to Hogwarts, but warned him sternly to use it only when he most had need of it. The spells and potions in here are so terrible that laws were passed centuries ago allowing the Aurors to kill anyone who used them on sight. Those laws have never been removed from the books.

At least some of the Aurors in the Ministry now, Theo thinks, would kill a Nott the minute they saw him using one, even if they would spare someone else.

He spreads his hand out on the page he’s chosen, and nods. He might be more confident with a potion than a spell in this case, since the potion could be administered in such a way that people wouldn’t be sure who had done it, unlike the spell, which they’ll see him cast.

But he doesn’t know how he would get a potion to his victim in this case, so the spell it will have to be. That and a trap to lure him.

Theo smiles down at the spell that will kill Albus Dumbledore, and begins to study.

Chapter Text

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Well, you can’t be that surprised about why it’s happening.”

Harry grimaces as he walks beside Pansy out of the dungeon to breakfast, and decides not to say that she’s horrible at comforting people. She’ll only make some retort that resembles the one she already gave him.

But it does make him uncomfortable that Theo has closed his bond almost as thickly as Corban has. Harry knows that Corban does it because he doesn’t think he should “intrude” on his lord. Harry isn’t sure why Theo’s doing it, though, and it makes little prickles of uneasiness race up and down his spine.

I didn’t realize how much I’d come to depend on the bond.

Does it make him more of a Dark Lord if he does that? Did Voldemort ever fear that he might lose the Death Eaters’ bonds if they closed their minds with Occlumency?

Then Harry forces himself to consider what he knows of his father in reality, and he has to conceal a snort. No, he can’t bring himself to believe that Voldemort ever did.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking about how my father and I are different.”

Pansy gives him a narrow-eyed look. “I don’t know why you would find that funny. It’s a matter of life and death to a lot of people that you’re different.”

Sobering, Harry nods. They emerge into the entrance hall and head towards the Great Hall just as a group of Gryffindors comes down the stairs. Ron and Hermione lead them, and they both give him looks Harry can’t interpret. Harry decides to ignore them.

“You should sit with us this morning,” Pansy says suddenly.

“What? With the Slytherins?”

“No, the Hufflepuffs. Of course with the Slytherins.”

“Hey, I have a Hufflepuff in the court, too,” Harry says, lowering his voice even though he knows the chattering and clattering all around them will cover up his words. “I could just as easily accept an invitation over there.”

Pansy’s a master of the withering look, it seems, with at least two different varieties Harry’s seen this morning. “Are you going to just joke, or are you going to come over to where you can keep an eye on Theo?”

Harry has to admit that’s a temptation. He turns in the direction of the Slytherin table as they enter the Great Hall.

“Harry! Wait up.”

Harry blinks and glances over his shoulder, reaching out automatically to try to soothe Pansy’s unhappy tension. Neville’s hurrying towards them, waving one hand as if he thinks Harry’s going to overlook him somehow. He settles into place beside them and keeps walking towards the Slytherin table as if they do this every day.

“Er. Hi, Nev.”

“Hi, Harry. You were up early this morning.”

Pansy hisses like a scalded cat. Harry ignores her, but does feed some more gentle calming sensations through their bond. “Yeah, I was. It’s best to be out of the dorms before someone else tries to stage an intervention, don’t you think?”

Neville winces. “Yeah, sorry. I’d have interfered if I’d been up in time.”

“Not your fault.”

“What’s he talking about?” Pansy demanded, leaning around Harry to frown at Neville.

“Ron’s decided that I need a talking-to each morning about how I’m wasting my life or something.” Harry shakes his head. He’s had to put aside his grief at losing his friends and just tell himself to enjoy the sheer astonishment of what they’re doing instead. “It’s—weird. Like he thinks I’m going to turn my back on—everything and all of you because he says a few words to me about how I should.”

“What’s his reasoning?”

“That I’m wasting my life. I did say.”

Harry can’t let the chance to needle Pansy pass, and she bristles at him in response. “You don’t need to talk to me in that condescending tone, Potter,” she snaps. “I’m going to be sorry I invited you over here if you keep doing that.”

“Why did you invite him over here?”

That’s a Slytherin in the year above them whose name Harry thinks is Yaxley. He doesn’t really know, though. Just that this is a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy with a narrow nose who frowns at Harry in disgust.

“Because I wanted to,” Pansy says, sharp and flat, with her own eyes glittering. She sits down next to Draco and reaches for pumpkin juice.

“What are you staring at?” possibly-Yaxley snaps at Harry.

“An idiot,” Harry says, before he can think better of it.

More than one person sucks in their breath. Harry has the impression that Yaxley is respected in Slytherin if not exactly liked. And from the way that the seventh-year slowly crosses his arms, he thinks so, too.

“Do you want to repeat that?”

“Sure,” Harry says. His heart is beating light and hard, and it’s no effort to bring a smile to his face. Maybe it’s the trouble with Theo and Corban, maybe it’s his friends turning on him, maybe it’s the fact that he and Sirius still have to keep their true relationship secret, but he can do this. He can make himself respected in Slytherin House the way Father would probably want anyway. “An idiot.”

With a snarl, Yaxley draws his wand.

He doesn’t stand up, which is smart of him, considering that the professors would interfere. But that must mean he intends to cast from where he sits, and that’s not the best news for Harry, who prefers to fight by dodging and leaping about. So Harry does something else instead.

He looks straight at Yaxley and pictures Snape’s face, feeling the old familiar anger heating him from inside, the way that he never had a chance with the man who was determined to hate him before Harry knew magic existed—

Yaxley gasps and claws at his throat. A snake has appeared there, a long green viper with a red stripe running down her back. Harry barely pauses to acknowledge the fact that now he can tell facts like that about his conjured snakes. He leans forwards and concentrates.

The snake rears her head back. Yaxley, proving that he is smart when it counts, sits absolutely still.

“Did you want me to bite him, Speaker?” the snake asks.

“No.” Harry smiles at the way people around him stiffen and murmur. Pride is radiating down Pansy’s and Draco’s bonds with him, and Justin’s sending curiosity. Theo’s remains closed. “I want you to frighten him so that he might never seek to move against me and those who share my den instead.”

“That is a good plan.”

The viper proves herself a good actress, leaning closer and closer to the side of Yaxley’s throat until he gives a muffled scream. More than one person is laughing now. Harry can tell from the way that others are reacting that the professors will probably look this way soon, so he says to Yaxley, “You were saying?”

“I’m an idiot.”

“That’s good enough.”

Harry twists his will, and the snake vanishes. He picks up his bowl and reaches for the porridge, delight and satisfaction humming through him. Maybe he shouldn’t feel good about punishing someone else, but he does.

“My lord?”

Harry glances over and smiles at Theo. At least his friend will speak to him. “Yeah?”

“That was a manifestation of your—talent?”

Harry knows what Theo means. Slytherins by blood sometimes have the ability to conjure snakes out of thin air. But it’s not like they’ll reveal that to people who might not have even heard rumors about Harry being Voldemort’s son. Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“I see.” Theo turns away and starts studying the large book in front of him again without another word.

Harry sighs a little, but then Draco leans in to tell him that was wicked, and Harry laughs again.

Neville’s silent throughout breakfast, but he walks with Harry when they leave the Great Hall and head towards Charms. On the way, Neville asks somewhat randomly, “Did you use your wand for that?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. Wandless ability.”

“And if the professors ask?”

“Accidental magic, because I was upset about what Yaxley said about my friend.”

“I think his name is Fawley.”

Harry blinks, then shrugs. “Whatever.”

Neville gives him another thoughtful glance, but luckily they enter Flitwick’s classroom and need silence after that, which is perfectly fine with Harry.

*

Theo leans back with a long sigh and a shake of his head.

He’s studied the spell, and the background of the spell, and classes of magic like the spell, until he thinks that he could recite pages of the books in his sleep. And his head is stuffed with information, but he’s come to accept that nothing will change until he actually casts the spell.

It seems more and more likely that he’ll need to. Harry is steady now, from the pressure in their bond, but unhappy some of the time. There’s no joy the way there would be if Black had found a way to freedom and Harry just hadn’t thought to tell them yet.

Why doesn’t he trust his courtiers with everything?

But Theo dismisses the whiny little thought. He knows perfectly well why Harry doesn’t. It’s the way he grew up and whose son he thought he was.

He drums his fingers on the book in front of him, and then nods. He thought for a while about this decision, but it just make sense.

He needs to present this plan to Harry first before he enacts it. It might be a stupid impulse, when Harry could forbid him, but then again, Harry’s obviously worried by the distance between them. He deserves to understand why Theo’s been closing the bond with Occlumency.

And maybe when Harry really thinks about it…

He’ll see that it’s the best thing for all of us.

*

Albus sits up in bed, frowning. He thought that Fawkes was calling for him, but he can’t see his phoenix now. In fact, he can’t see anything. The grey walls of mist around him make him wonder for a second if he’s been tricked by a prank spell.

“Sirius?” he calls. “Did you do this? It’s very funny, but I would like to get back to sleep.”

No one answers him. The grey continues to drift around his bed, and, when Albus leans out and looks down, on the floor. He finds himself hesitant to get out of bed. What if his feet touch nothing solid and he simply sinks down, down, down?

Albus shivers. Then he tells himself not to be ridiculous, and fetches his dressing gown, the purple one covered with golden shooting stars that he rather likes.

When he puts one foot on the floor, he can feel a bit of hesitation, a bit of give, but the floor remains where it should be. It’s simply covered by the eddying mist.

“Sirius?” Albus calls again as he opens his door. He’s on the second floor of Grimmauld Place, in one of the guest rooms. He had to spend rather a lot of time cleaning it out before the bedcurtains would stop trying to strangle him, but that’s the kind of excitement he missed when he was Headmaster of Hogwarts.

A place I will occupy again. Albus knows that Minerva is undoubtedly doing the best she can, but the children need him.

“Sirius?”

Silence.

Albus walks slowly down the corridor. The mist covers everything ahead of him, withdrawing only when Albus comes close to a wall or a portrait. The portrait frames are all empty, which somewhat surprises him. He knows their inhabitants were here yesterday.

Then the simplest explanation occurs to him, and he sighs. Of course this is a dream.

He shakes his head and turns to walk back the way he came, chiding himself silently. He needs to stop jumping to conclusions before—

He jerks to a halt. In front of him is a gigantic black dog with fiery red eyes. It moves in absolute silence as it pads towards him, head lowered. It looks as if it should be growling, but there is no sound.

Albus’s theory of a prank returns. Perhaps he is awake and Sirius has cast spells on himself to change the color of his eyes and make his Animagus form appear larger.

“I understand that you’re cooped up here and perhaps need a little outlet, my dear boy,” Albus says, and his voice doesn’t shake because he wills it not to. “But I don’t think that confronting me like this will give you what you want.”

The dog snarls at him—at least, with its teeth. It continues to make no sound. By now, it’s no more than three feet from him. Albus, although he’s reluctant to do so if it means that he’ll hurt Sirius and damage his trust, draws the Elder Wand.

His holster is empty.

Albus’s heart jumps and begins to pound in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He stares wildly back and forth between his empty hand and the empty holster, and then he falls back in front of the dog, even though it’s also been years since he retreated from an enemy. The dog shows him all its teeth and crouches.

“Good boy,” Albus whispers. “Good dog.”

The dog makes a noise now, a full-throated bark like all the hounds of Albus’s sins catching up with him at once, and then lifts from the ground and flies towards him.

*

Sirius bounds down the corridor. He heard a noise that he disregarded at first, since he and Albus are the only people in Grimmauld Place right now and Albus doesn’t get up and wander about at night. But then there was a scream, and that means he has to investigate.

Investigating as a dog is both faster and lets him smell much better, but he’s reminded of the inconveniences when he crashes to a halt before Albus’s closed door. He barks, imperatively.

A spell comes flying at him, shredding the door.

Sirius twists in midair and rolls under the spell, then comes back to his feet, all his fur bristling. The urge to call lightning hasn’t been this strong since he returned from Death’s realm. But he can’t, he knows he can’t, and so he sits down and barks again to make it clear that he’s being good and Albus should get out here and explain himself right now.

There’s a long moment when Sirius thinks another curse might come his way instead. And then Albus steps out, trembling a little, but with a calm that Sirius has to admit is impeccable. “My apologies, my dear boy. I was having a nightmare, and I’m afraid that I translated it into reality before I could control myself.”

Sirius stares at him.

“Sirius? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Sirius shakes himself, literally and figuratively both, and transforms back into his human self. Albus stares at him. Sirius supposes he must have a strange expression on his face. He coughs. “No, I’m all right,” he mutters. “But what was that?”

“Well, if you must know, I had a vision of a black dog stalking me. Rather like you, but much larger and with red eyes.”

One of Death’s Hounds.

Sirius’s Animagus form is only a pale shadow of the Hounds, and so are the old stories of the Grim. But he just nods, keeping his face calm. “I see. Well, I have a few Anti-Nightmare and Dreamless Sleep Potions if you’d like one.”

“I wouldn’t say no to Dreamless Sleep.”

Sirius allows himself one blink before he nods and goes to get the potion, out of a cache that can only be opened by someone with the blood of the Black family. He didn’t think that Albus would choose that particular potion. It’s so strong that he would have trouble waking up if he got threatened.

As he might be.

But Sirius brings it back, and Albus takes it and goes into his bedroom, shutting his door firmly behind him. A Transfiguration has already repaired the wood damaged by the curse he cast in Sirius’s direction.

Sirius returns to his own bedroom and lies on his bed, staring up into the darkness. He’s not sure that he sleeps that much, anymore. He drifts in and out, and that’s what it feels like tonight.

But the cause of the drifting is something different this time than just having returned from Death.

Albus, when he stepped out of his bedroom, was encircled with a blazing grey aura that shone to Sirius’s canine eyes like a ring of polished granite.

He’s the one whose sacrifice will pay for Sirius’s return.

*

Harry listens closely to what Theo’s saying. He wants to make sure that he understands all of it, and the way the spell is supposed to work, and why Theo wanted to do it in the first place.

And then he takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t want you to do this.”

Theo blinks. Any surprise he might feel is still hidden by the Occlumency barrier standing in the way of their bond. Harry is starting to hate the thing, but he won’t tell Theo to lift it. That’s Theo’s decision. “May I ask why, my lord?”

“Yeah. If you drop that way of asking.”

“What way of asking, my lord?”

“As if you’ve sat down on a poker and you’re trying to expel it from your mouth to brain me with it,” Harry snaps.

Theo opens his mouth, then closes it. In the end, he settles back on the chair that he’s Transfigured from something else—Harry isn’t sure what, since Theo invited him to this classroom where he’s never been before to meet—and says, “Fine. I’ll talk a little more naturally. Why don’t you want me to kill the interfering old fool?”

“Because you might get caught. And hurt. I don’t want that.”

Theo pauses. His bond trembles for a second with something so quick and amorphous that Harry doesn’t catch it. Basilisk, around his neck, hisses sleepily and says, “He is surprised. I do not know why he is surprised.”

Neither does Harry. So he asks, “Why are you surprised I don’t want you to get hurt?”

“I’m not surprised about that,” Theo says. He’s perfect and polished and he’s recovered his manners, and he makes Harry want to punch him in the mouth just to shatter that perfect glass-like veneer. “I’m surprised that you would outright reject the idea without thinking about the advantages that could come from it.”

“What advantages?”

“Well, for one thing, your godfather would be free and no longer beholden to Dumbledore.”

“But there would be plenty of people in the Order who knew that Dumbledore brought him back from the grave. They would expect Sirius to keep playing the role.”

“He could slip away. Pretend to be hunting Dumbledore’s murderer, and instead show up at your side.”

Harry shakes his head a little. “I see what you’re saying, but what we want is complete and total freedom. For Sirius to not have any obligations to the Order and for him to stand freely at my side when he’s able to.”

Theo hesitates. Then he says slowly, “I really thought it was only Dumbledore that was keeping Black away from you.”

“So if you killed Dumbledore…”

“Yes. He’d be free. And you’d be happy enough not to go running off to pull scenes like you had to when the Order was watching.”

Oh, Theo. Harry keeps his voice gentle as he asks, “That really bothered you, didn’t it? That deception Sirius and I played in front of the Order, and the way I felt?”

“And the way that you didn’t warn us of what you were going to be doing. Yes, my lord.”

It’s too late for Theo to retreat into the kind of formality that’s been keeping him separate from Harry the past two weeks. Harry still takes care to be gentle as he says, “I think this is more about protecting yourself from feeling that way than it is about killing Dumbledore, Theo. And the truth is, I’m going to do my best to be cautious about your feelings in the future and explain myself before any of us end up in the same situation. But that doesn’t mean it could never happen. I’m human and not used to being a lord, and I’ll make mistakes. Killing Dumbledore won’t solve that problem.”

Theo opens his mouth, then closes it and lowers his eyes. At the same time, cold shame floods their bond, in direct contrast to the warmth that’s blazing in Theo’s cheeks.

“This one is unpleasant,” Basilisk announces.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Theo whispers. “I didn’t even—I didn’t understand my own motivations. How can you trust me to serve you in the future if I didn’t see something this obvious? If I really thought I could convince you to let me commit murder?”

Harry reaches out and clasps Theo’s shoulder. “The same way you learned to trust me when I knew nothing about the Mark and nothing about being a lord and nothing about being my father’s son. When I was actively unhappy all the time. I failed and you gave me advice and helped me pick myself back up. I’ll do the same for you. I know I’m the lord and you’re the courtier, but we’re also friends, Theo.”

Theo takes a long, slow breath. Then he closes his eyes and mutters something.

“What did you say?”

“Just—that I’m still not used to it. I still expect you to be more like the Dark Lord than like yourself. Which is stupid. I’m not sure you should trust me to serve you when I’m so stupid, either.”

Harry gives Theo’s shoulder a little shake, which is enough to make Theo stare at him in what seems to be the kind of shock a cat would feel after it falls in the bath. “There you go again, sliding back into the mindset of expecting me to treat you with disdain. No, Theo. That’s the point. That we both fail, and we both help each other up, and we make fewer mistakes because the other person is there.”

“It’s not at all like he told me.”

“Like who told you?”

“Like my father told me. He—he agreed with me that it would be different serving you than his service to the Dark Lord, but I didn’t realize how different.”

Harry doesn’t know that he wants to hear all the differences right now, and he doesn’t think he needs to. The important thing is making sure that Theo understands him. He says softly, “Does that mean you’ll stay my courtier?”

“Of course.”

“And my friend?”

Theo gives him a fleeting smile. “Yes. Of course.”

Chapter Text

Sirius sits with his eyes closed, sinking through the clouds in his mind that separate him from Death’s Realm.

The clouds hesitate long moments before they part. That doesn’t matter to Sirius. He sits and breathes, and in less time than it would take him to count those breaths, he’s standing in the middle of a storm-ridden dark plain.

He can’t talk about this place to anyone in the world beyond, although he would tell Harry if he could. This is where he spent some of his time walking as a Grim, and made some oaths and promises that he believes allowed him to return to life when Albus called for him.

A stormcloud turns and roils towards him, moving with purpose. Sirius kneels.

The cloud condenses in front of him into one of Death’s Hounds, perhaps the same one who marked Albus. Sirius bows his head. The wave of power from those red eyes is enough to strangle any funny words he might have spoken.

“Albus is marked.”

Death speaks through her Hounds. Sirius has never met the personification of Death, per se, except for a few meetings where he emerged with information and no actual memory of what had occurred. Hearing the voice that rolls like lightning and blazes like thunder, that’s absolutely fine with him.

“He is,” Sirius whispers. “But he wasn’t when I first saw him here. Can you please tell me why?”

“The decision hung in the balance. He might have turned in any number of directions that would not make him the sacrifice. But the path he has chosen means that he must die before he can interfere with your oaths.”

Sirius swallows. The next question he’s going to ask is a dangerous one. But he thinks he must ask it, less he someday end up endangering Harry because he lacks the answer.

“Can you please tell me why you—value me so much? Enough to mark a sacrifice and send a Hound to Albus? It can’t just be my Grim form.” Otherwise, Sirius is fairly sure, he has a few ancestors who would have had such a close connection with Death, and being the prideful bastards they were, they would have written about it in the diaries he was forced to read as a child.

The Hound strides forwards and opens its mouth. The red light of its eyes spills over him and—

And Sirius is on the other side, kneeling on the plain, while the cloud boils away from him, no trace of a dog shape to it. He just had another meeting with Death, he knows, but every memory is clipped cleanly from his brain, as usual.

What matters is that he has the information.

Death favors him because of his connection with Harry. Because she is angry at Voldemort for defying her, and believes that Harry must be aided so that he can send Voldemort’s tattered soul to her at last.

Sirius opens his eyes to his ordinary bedroom and flops on the bed, hands behind his neck, staring at the ceiling.

How is that going to happen when Harry loves Voldemort as a father?

The voice of a Hound whispers in his mind.

You must make it happen.

*

Voldemort enjoys the look of confusion on Lucius’s face. The man is valuable in his own way, but he also made the terrible mistake of endangering Harry by placing the diary Horcrux in his path. He is less valuable than he was before that.

“My lord?” Lucius asks very slowly.

“You heard what I said, Lucius.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lucius seems on the verge of rebelling. Voldemort leans back on his throne and idly strokes Nagini’s head. She gives a sleepy hiss and curls up again. The weather is still cold enough that she spends most of her time asleep unless heated by a Warming Charm. Lucius’s eyes lock on her, and he seems to stop breathing.

Honestly, Harry is the only one in Voldemort’s circle who has never shown fear of Nagini. Or perhaps it would be better to say that he shows wariness but still believes in his own ability to resist.

Harry is the best of them, as well as of me.

“And you will carry out my orders?” Voldemort asks, more softly now. More dangerous now, as any of his experienced Death Eaters know.

Lucius blanches, although his skin is so pale that Voldemort sometimes wonders how he can see it. “Yes, of course, my lord, right away! Your permission to go and put your plans into motion?”

Voldemort waves a lazy, gracious hand, and Lucius bows, gets to his feet, and bolts out of the room.

“I do not like that man.”

Voldemort bends down and hisses soft and low near Nagini’s head, so that she shifts to look up at him. “Nor do I, my beloved one, but we must make sure that he has enough loyalty to me to do as he’s told.”

“So I can’t eat him.”

“You know that you complained the last pureblood I gave you tasted bad.”

“Sooner or later I would find a good-tasting one.”

Voldemort laughs softly and lets her return to sleep. His mind is ranging outs ahead of him, spinning in green and gold strands around the plan that he has almost decided on.

In truth, there are still a few more decisions he must make. He must make sure that his court is prepared, for example. And he must test whether Death Eaters other than Corban, who has his own reasons, can switch their allegiance to his son.

Yes, there’s no reason to move hastily. He has all the time he needs.

*

“I’ve been thinking.”

Harry nods at Neville, but he’s more occupied with the chart of plant names in front of him. Herbology is turning out to be challenging in ways that would probably be much worse if he wasn’t friends with Neville.

“Not that one.”

“What?”

“Not that one.” Neville lets his finger rest on the name of a plant Harry was looking at a moment ago. “It’s this one. Not the nightshade. You pretty much never want to use nightshade in a potion that’s meant to heal.”

“But Mandrakes can be?” Harry asks, as he crosses out the name of the nightshade from his notes.

“They’re used to reverse Petrifaction. Not to heal someone. Not the same thing.”

Harry shakes his head and stretches as he puts down his book and quill. “I’ll never get used to the amount of information we have to memorize for these stupid tests.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Neville repeats, and this time, Harry can hear the undertone of steel in his voice.

Harry glances at Neville, and finds himself holding very still. Neville is leaning close to him with wide eyes and a hand on his wand. They’re near the fireplace in the common room, but no one else is glancing at them. Harry realizes that Neville has raised a silent Privacy Charm around them, something he didn’t even know his friend could do.

Harry resists the temptation to make up an imaginary stomachache, or headache, or anything else that would get him out of this conversation. He nods. “Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about becoming one of yours.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Neville, you don’t have to do that just because he healed your parents.”

“It’s not a debt,” Neville says, so sharply that Harry opens his eyes and focuses on his friend. Neville’s face is fierce and stern, and Harry wonders if this is what he’ll look like if he fights in the war. “It’s because you need someone who can help you carry the burden of standing between your—father and the rest of the world.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Harry did, and he thinks he knows what Neville means. But he still can’t see what good will come of letting Neville close to Voldemort. He shakes his head. “I know that you could do that, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“And you should?”

“With me, it’s not like I have a choice.”

“But some of the people who’ve gathered around you had one. And they chose you. I think I want to do the same thing.”

“Some of them did that because the alternative was Voldemort,” Harry says, concealing a sigh when Neville flinches. “And one did that because they don’t trust me and they want to keep an eye on me. None of those apply to you, Neville. Please, let me keep you out of this as much as possible.”

“You think I would be—what? Corrupted by an association with you?”

“I think that this could still all fall apart.” Harry keeps his voice down, of course, despite the Privacy Charm, but he can’t help the sharpness that creeps into it. “And then the people who followed me would be punished. Some of them would have been anyway, and the one who wouldn’t—well, I hope they’ll be clever enough to stand away if the worst happens. But people would hate you even more than they do me if this all collapses. They would—they would hurt you.”

“How likely do you think it is that the worst could happen?”

“Which worst?”

“The one you weren’t just discussing.”

Harry massages the back of his neck and closes his eyes, fighting back the temptation to laugh hysterically. He was thinking of Voldemort losing as the worst, when a year ago he would have given anything for it to happen.

But he’s not who he thought he was, and no one else is, either.

“I think it’s still very likely,” Harry whispers. “He’s insane, Neville. I’m trying to make sure that he doesn’t attack anyone, but I could fail any second. I could still make some move that would irritate him, and he’d wipe me out without thinking about it.”

“The blood-master would not do that.”

Harry continues without answering Basilisk. She would only frighten Neville instead of adding anything to this conversation. “And if the other worst happened and we lost and he was defeated and people learned about your Mark? Yeah. They’d hate you. Believe me.”

“It’s a Mark.”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“Is it a sexy Mark?”

Harry stares at Neville with his mouth open, and a second later, Neville laughs softly and shakes his head. “I was kidding, Harry. But I do want to know if it’s—fashionable, I suppose is the best word. If it can be hidden easily.”

“I can make sure that you can hide it at a moment’s notice the way the others do,” Harry says faintly. He still can’t believe he’s having this conversation. Then again, he couldn’t believe it when the conversations with Justin and Corban happened, either. “I think they keep theirs hidden most of the time except when we’re practicing spells in duels.”

“What does it look like?”

“A chimera.”

Neville arches his eyebrows. “Brilliant.”

Harry can’t even interpret all the undertones there, so he goes back to what most concerns him. “Are you sure? Even if we both decided that it was best for you to walk away, as soon as you’re Marked, then it won’t matter if we do. Voldemort is going to hold us to the terms of the oath, and he’d get angry if you tried to turn your back on it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Can you tell me more about why?”

“It’s not fair,” Neville says, “for you to have to face them all alone. Whether that’s the Order of the Phoenix or Voldemort or the people who would be disappointed in you if they knew whose son you were. It’s not just. And I can’t stand by and watch it any longer. I should have said something in second year when everyone was calling you the Heir of Slytherin, but too late now.” He gives an angry, jerky shrug. “At least I can stand up for you now.”

Harry lowers his eyes and swallows. It takes a long moment before he can force the words through his tightening throat. “Thanks, Nev.”

“What are friends for?”

Harry beams back at Neville and feels a soft happiness move through him. He has other people, of course, but their bonds to him are all different. It means a lot to know that someone has that kind of bond with him before the Mark and the oath, and that it just comes from a sense of doing what’s right.

*

So he can’t kill Dumbledore.

Theo’s decided, after seeing how far apart his and Harry’s worldviews are and not wanting to start disobeying his lord, that he needs advice. So he enters the Slytherin Floo late one night when no one else is in the common room, and walks up the corridor that leads to the sitting room where all Notts go when they need help.

Father is sitting there when he arrives. The wards would have woken him and told him where to go, if not exactly what Theo needs.

Theo takes a seat across from Father beside the fire. Father inclines his head and waits. Theo stares into the peaceful flames and composes his mind until he’s sure that he knows the words to say.

“What do you do when you need to serve your lord, but your lord doesn’t want you taking the fastest and most efficient way?” he asks quietly.

Part of him does wonder if Father can help. The Dark Lord never would have stood in the way of someone casting a spell like Theo wants to cast, and certainly not because of danger to his Death Eaters.

But Father nods thoughtfully, and then says, “I have faced that situation, son. When my lord wanted to eliminate a rival and I volunteered to do so, thinking it would make him happy, he lashed out at me. He said that he would do it himself, that he was the only one who could, and he would move as soon as it was convenient.”

“And he didn’t.”

“No. He had so many other matters to attend to that he moved on the rival several months later. And in some ways that was fine—he survived the duel and defeated the woman—but in the meantime, she had done damage to our cause.”

“So you accepted his edict and let him do as he wished?”

“With the Dark Lord, there’s no other choice.”

Theo sighs. So Father can’t help, but due to the nature of their lords more than the nature of the request.

“Your lord is different.”

Theo blinks. “What?”

“I said,” Father murmurs, stretching his words out in the way that annoyed Theo when he was a child, “your lord is different. You might ask him many things, and I believe he would not be offended. Only approving.”

“So—I should ask Harry how to serve him? Even though he forbade me from doing what would be most efficient?”

“What was that, son?”

“Killing Dumbledore.”

Father makes the leap, as Theo knew he would, to the book that he gave Theo long ago. He gives Theo such a stern look that Theo almost shrinks. But he’s borne up under Harry’s disappointment, and he does the same thing now, giving Father a calm stare.

“You do not need to risk such a foolish thing,” Father says quietly. His breath races for a moment as if he’s been running, and then he audibly cuts that off. “There are many paths forwards to serving your lord rather than killing Dumbledore.”

“Because the Dark Lord wants to kill him?”

“Because of the consequences to you, Theo.”

Theo clamps his mouth shut. All right, sometimes he forgets that his life still matters to Father, too. He’s felt like an adult for so long, and been trusted by Father with so many secrets about Dark Arts and the Dark Lord, that it does feel as though he’s outgrown Father’s concern.

“Of being caught with the book,” he whispers.

“And of casting some of the spells, too. I warned you against that book and not to use those spells unless you must for a reason, Theo. And what you have told me does not constitute a reason.”

Theo feels a flicker of resentment, but he does know what Father means. No, he wouldn’t have died if Dumbledore kept on surviving. He might have died if exiled from Harry’s courtiers, though. It does feel as though his life is bound there.

“You don’t have any other suggestions?”

“Ask your lord. And remember that the time may come when you can’t do that, but then your course should be clear to you.”

And with those cryptic words, Father stands and vanishes out of the room again. Theo leans back and sighs, deep and loud, his eyes on the flames for a long moment before he stands himself.

He doesn’t want to miss more sleep than he has. That’s partially a matter of looking alert in his classes and not attracting suspicious attention from his professors or his Housemates who aren’t part of Harry’s court.

But it’s also to remain as alert and healthy as he can, both so that he can better serve Harry and so as not to upset or worry him.

It is still the greatest wonder of Theo’s life that he has a lord who will worry about him.

*

“My lord?”

Draco bows a little as he catches Harry’s eye. It was a scramble to get out of bed and make sure he was in position to intercept Harry on the way to breakfast. And to make sure that neither Theo nor Pansy nor Finch-Fletchley would already be with him.

“Yes, Draco?”

“Can I speak to you?”

The Dark Lord would meet such a request with sarcasm, Draco knows. Instead, Harry’s face tightens with concern, and he walks rapidly towards Draco, studying him as he does so. “Of course. Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lord. I just—need to speak with you privately.”

Harry follows him with confusion and curiosity radiating down the bond. Draco’s getting better at telling the emotions apart now. He leads Harry into a small space off the staircase that’s really more a niche than a room, and turns around. “Has the Dark Lord told you anything at all about why he would summon my father?” he blurts.

And that’s not the way he meant to ask, either. Still, he thinks Harry will understand the urgency with which Draco needs to ask the question.

Harry stills, studying Draco with an intense gaze. Then he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t heard anything from my father about yours.”

Draco swallows. Then he says, “I’m worried. Father left the Manor on a mission for the Dark Lord, and he’s been gone for two days. He hasn’t contacted Mother. He didn’t contact me, either. She’s the one who sent me an owl saying the Dark Lord summoned him, and he left soon afterwards. I wondered—if you knew and the Dark Lord had ordered you to keep quiet.”

“Like I would have obeyed him,” Harry snaps, his eyes flashing. “You’re my friend, Draco.”

To Harry that means more than courtier, Draco knows. To him it means less, but he grasps and holds the certainty in Harry’s voice.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Harry nods and touches his shoulder hesitantly. “I don’t think the Dark Lord would have had him do anything too dangerous. I know he values his court.”

Not like you do, Draco wants to say, but the Dark Lord might read it out of Harry’s mind, and Draco doesn’t really want to cause any friction between father and son. He nods, smiles, and accompanies Harry to the Great Hall. Harry decides to eat at the Slytherin table again this morning, and Longbottom accompanies him.

Draco stares at Longbottom, but Harry raises an eyebrow, and he stops, pretending not to notice as Harry sneaks bits of food to his invisible snake.

At least he knows Harry didn’t betray him by keeping news of Father’s whereabouts from Draco.

But that leaves Draco’s major question unanswered.

Father, where are you?

Chapter Text

“My lord.”

Lord Voldemort sighs a little as Narcissa curtsies in front of him. He knows what she wants, and honestly, it’s boring. He won’t be able to give her the answer she desires, and then there will be whining.

Polite whining, disguised as wishes bordering on prayers. But whining.

“Yes, Narcissa?”

“May I inquire as to where Lucius is, my lord? I know that you assigned him a special mission, and he was excited and eager to fulfill it. But it’s been almost a week, and he hasn’t returned, and I—am worried about him.”

At least Narcissa whines at less length than some of the other members of his court. Lord Voldemort will give her that. “It is a mission so profoundly secret that I cannot tell you where he went, Narcissa.”

“But when he might return?”

“Not that, either.”

Lord Voldemort watches her hands grow white-knuckled on the edges of her robes. He thinks about summoning Nagini to chase her out of the room, but then he would have to endure more whining from Nagini on the subject of her never being permitted to hunt humans anymore.

“Please, my lord.” Narcissa dips until her nose is almost touching the floor, while Lord Voldemort wonders if his son ever has this problem with his courtiers whining non-stop to him. “I am—so worried. So is Draco. He writes to me every day inquiring where his father is and what he can do to find him, and—”

“It’s not Draco’s business.”

Narcissa is at least wise enough not to challenge Lord Voldemort when he uses that tone. She straightens up with a nod, keeping her eyes on the floor. “Of course, my lord. When—when Lucius returns, will you please send him to me as soon as you are done with him?”

“Of course, Narcissa. At once.”

Narcissa slips out of the room without raising her eyes from the floor. Lord Voldemort shakes his head. The whining acquired a particularly piercing tone at the end, which makes him wonder how anyone can miss Lucius Malfoy that much.

But he has other things to contemplate, such as what it means that Lucius hasn’t returned with the locket and whether the dead diary might have been the best part of him, and he forgets about her quickly.

*

“My lord.”

Harry hides a short sigh. He doesn’t want his courtiers or his friends to feel like they can’t approach him about things, but the way that Draco is nearly cringing with his eyes on the floor does make him irritated.

And worried, for that matter. He turns towards Draco with a slight shake of his head. “Not here.” They’re in the middle of Charms, and there’s too much chance that Ron and Hermione will overhear them, along with other people.

Draco draws back with a stiff nod and looks at the floor for a long instant before he goes back to partner with Pansy. Harry sighs again.

“Rough day?”

Harry glances at Neville, who’s taken to sitting beside him in every class he shares with Harry. “Not exactly. It’s just a problem that Draco wants me to handle, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

“Draco, huh.” Neville moves his wand in a short loop that doesn’t really do anything, his eyes intent on Harry.

“Yeah. And if you really want to do what you said you’re going to do, you’ll have to put up with him.” Then Harry realizes that he’s practically snapping at someone who’s been nothing but supportive, and he flushes. “Sorry. I—I didn’t really mean it like that.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been reading about Marks and Dark Lords, and it’s natural for someone who’s Marked other people to become more protective of them. Even if they had relationships with them before like you did with Malfoy.”

“Wait, it is?”

“Yes, of course.” Neville gives him an odd look. “Didn’t you have any access to books that talked about that before you Marked your first ones?”

“No. I pretty much just had to go ahead and do it. Partially because there was someone else who might have done it, and they didn’t want to be Marked like that.” Harry lowers his voice even though he knows Neville’s put up another Privacy Charm around them.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I’m amazed that it worked out, that you were able to build and maintain bonds with your courtiers, when all of that was going on.” Neville shakes his head and focuses on the flower in front of them that Flitwick wants them to make friendly for a second. “The books said that some Lords can drive their courtiers crazy if they don’t handle the Marks just right.”

“Great, another thing to worry about.”

“Hey.”

Harry blinks and looks up. Neville’s bending towards him, his face concerned, and Harry flushes more deeply as he realizes he said the last part aloud.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m going to be beside you, and I can help you stop something like that from happening. And you must have really done a great job if your courtiers are basically friends now and so comfortable approaching you. Even the ones that you had an antagonistic relationship with before.”

Harry wants to protest that that’s really Draco only, since he barely spoke with Pansy and Theo and Justin before this and never did with Corban. But it’s not worthwhile to contest Neville’s point. He ends up nodding. “Thanks, Nev.”

“Welcome.”

Hermione is staring at him longingly, as Harry can tell without looking. Even though he hasn’t spoken to her or Ron in weeks, he thinks he’s more sensitive to their looks than ever. But it won’t change things, so he goes on working on the challenge of how to make the flower in front of him friendly.

*

“My lord.”

As if he thinks that Harry might have forgotten, Draco is there again the minute Harry leaves class. Harry nods to him and turns away from Neville to follow Draco a short way down the corridor. He can feel Neville pause, but in the end, he walks away and leaves Harry to it.

Someone else doesn’t.

“Harry!”

Draco’s eyes are wide and desperate. Harry nods reassuringly to him, looks over his shoulder, and says, “Not now, Ron,” then keeps walking.

“We need to talk to you, mate. Now.”

“It’ll wait.”

“It can’t.”

Harry spins around on his heel and glares at Ron in a way that makes his former best friend shrink back. “No,” he says, and lets his voice ring the way he would have liked to make it ring last term when he was still cringing in front of Dumbledore. “I think that’s enough. I think you should consider the consequences of rejecting me, spreading rumors about me, and then expecting me to jump to your side when you command it.”

Harry’s aware of people lingering around them, watching them with breathless interest, but it’s been like that all his life in the magical world. And Ron doesn’t appear to know what to do. He’s already turning red with Harry’s refusal.

“Those rumors were true!”

“Real friends don’t spread rumors about friends,” Harry says, and turns around again. He ignores Ron’s spluttering and something that might be Hermione’s low voice, instead walking after Draco.

Draco remains silent until they’re a good distance from the main corridor, and then whispers, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What is this about?”

“I got this letter from my mother today,” Draco says, and holds out the actual letter towards Harry, startling him. He assumed Draco would summarize it for him or read only the parts that he wanted to read.

“It’s for you,” Draco said, jerking his head up a little as if to fend off Harry’s surprise.

Harry blinks and slowly takes the letter. He isn’t surprised when there’s no poison on the parchment, but then again, it feels like he should be. He unfolds it to read while Draco watches him intently.

Dear Mr. Gaunt,

Eight days ago, the Dark Lord sent my husband on a mission. Lucius was unable to reveal much about the nature of the mission to me, only that it was secret and urgent and it was an honor to be chosen. Since then, he has not returned or communicated with me.

This morning, I asked the Dark Lord if he could give me any news of Lucius. He was dismissive and didn’t seem to understand the questions I was asking. In fact, he quickly lapsed back into what I would almost call a torpor as I was leaving the room.

No Lord should treat his courtiers this way.

I am not Marked, and I can choose my allegiance where I please. They do not lie with a lord who would sacrifice my husband for a goal he won’t name and then wave off my concerns. I wish to swear to you as soon as possible.

I will do so, if you will swear to me that you’ll do your best to discover Lucius’s whereabouts and fate.

I remain, my lord, your hopeful courtier,
Narcissa Malfoy.

Harry stares at the letter and says faintly, “Fuck.”

“My lord?”

Right, he has a courtier-right-now in front of him to comfort, and Draco’s bond is radiating anxiety. It probably doesn’t help that Harry’s sure his own heart rate has leapt up as his mood plunged. He focuses on Draco and pushes gentleness down the bond until Draco’s face gets a little color and he looks less likely to faint.

“Your mother doesn’t know what happened to your father,” Harry says quietly, “only that he went on a mission for the Dark Lord. And—Father brushed off her concerns. She’s offering to swear to me if I can find out what happened to your dad.”

Draco closes his eyes. He looks weary and ill, but not surprised. “I wondered if that was it,” he whispers. “She wears an illusion of the Mark on her left arm and tells people she doesn’t trust that she has the real thing. Even the Dark Lord does, because he finds it amusing. But she’s not Marked in truth. I always wondered why she held back. I wonder if it’s because she’s like Theo and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t trust the Dark Lord to treat his courtiers correctly.” Draco swallows and opens his eyes. “My lord, this is the best bargain that you’ll ever find. My mother’s clever and cunning and vicious, and she will fight for people who protect her family. Please, accept her offer and find out what happened to Father.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You can.”

Draco’s eyes shine with a disconcerting faith that Harry wants to reject. But the plain truth of the matter is, this is one of the reasons that he became a “lord” in the first place. He needs to protect people, and once Draco became part of that circle, his parents became Harry’s concern, too.

Harry sighs. “Can you write back to your mother and tell her that I’ll search, but I won’t accept her oath until I find out, one way or the other?”

“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.”

Draco kneels down in front of him. Harry can feel his face flushing, and he promptly tugs Draco back to his feet. “Someone could see, and it’s harder to hide that than the Marks,” he explains softly when Draco looks at him with his head cocked.

“Right, right.”

Draco still looks at him as though Harry has created all the water he’s ever drunk. Harry hides his discomfort, keeps it from flooding down the bond, and pats Draco’s shoulder. “I promise I’ll find out,” he says. “But it might not be good news.”

“I don’t care,” Draco whispers, sounding fierce. “I just want to know what happened to him. And if the Dark Lord is responsible.”

Harry nods absently. The worst thing would be, he thinks, if Voldemort actually is responsible.

How would I handle that?

*

“Harry!”

Harry lifts his head and gives them a weary look. It’s not at all what Ron wants to see after he and Hermione have spent so much effort hunting him down.

They tried to catch him when he left his conversation with Malfoy—which, why would he want to have one?—but Harry vanished like a ghost going through a wall. And later that day, he was surrounded by the Slytherins and Neville, for some reason, and Ron and Hermione had to stay away. It’s now the next day, and they probably only have moments before Neville comes down the stairs to walk with Harry to breakfast.

“We have to talk to you,” Hermione says, in the deceptively calm voice she used last year when telling them to study for OWLS.

“Uh-huh.”

Harry sits down in a chair near the fire and stares at them expectantly. Hermione shoots Ron a narrow glance that makes Ron want to lift his hands—what did he do?—and then sits down across from Harry.

“We found out something about Sirius that you need to know.”

It’s not the way that Ron would have thought to begin the conversation, but it’s accurate enough. And it does catch Harry’s attention. He cocks his head and flicks his eyes back and forth between them.

“What’s that?”

“He came back from Death—”

“I know that.”

Ron can see Hermione flushing and on the verge of losing control. He reaches over and squeezes her shoulder as gently as he can. Hermione manages to bite her lip and calm down.

“And now he has to take a life in payment for that.”

Harry pauses for a long moment. Then he says quietly, “He has to kill someone? Hunt them down?”

“I don’t think he has to hunt them down, exactly,” Ron says, anxious to be of help. At least Harry’s listening. “But he has to sacrifice someone to Death. We were listening to Professor Dumbledore and Sirius talk. They didn’t know we were there.”

Harry looks as if he’s on the verge of rolling his eyes. “Sirius already told me about this. He said that someone always has to pay for another person coming back from death. It’s an unnatural thing, and the kind of spell most people can’t do at all. So I know.”

“But did you know that Sirius would be the one to take their life?”

“I think he did mention something about that.”

“But it’s wrong!” Hermione bursts out.

That’s the wrong thing to say, Ron thinks. And in fact, he can see the shutter descending behind Harry’s eyes like he’s a window in Gryffindor Tower.

“All right,” he says. “So it’s wrong. So Dumbledore shouldn’t have pulled Sirius back from death, is what you’re saying.”

“No, it’s wrong to kill someone!”

“Then Dumbledore is the one at fault, because he brought Sirius back, and Sirius will have to kill someone.”

“No, that’s not what I meant—”

“What did you mean, Hermione?” Harry’s leaned forwards now, balanced almost on the edge of his chair. His eyes are bright and feral, and Ron doesn’t like to look at them. “You’re still hoping for some wonderful, miraculous escape from the situation we’re in? You still think that I can deny Voldemort and not kill anyone, except him I suppose, and everything will be okay? And you think that somehow preventing Sirius from murdering someone should be my top priority?”

Ron watches Hermione’s tongue get tangled up behind her teeth. He knows that she’s good at argument and facts, but when she’s faced with someone who’s exactly as passionate as she is with an argument, she falters. She depends too much on being able to override them just because she’s smarter.

Which means it’s time for Ron to step in.

“We mean that there are ways out of this situation that aren’t murder,” Ron says, as quietly and firmly as he can. Harry’s eyes turn to him. “Ways that aren’t you cooperating with the madman, or having private conversations with Malfoy, or doing what they want you to do. Ways that involve you being true to yourself.”

“Which self?”

“What?”

“The self that was Harry Potter, the person who turned out to not really exist in the way anyone thought? Or Harry whatever-my-name-is, the son of the Dark Lord?”

“The real one,” Ron says fiercely. He can’t believe Harry doesn’t see it the way they do. He has to be able to do it. Which means that he’s ignoring reality just because he can. “How can finding out who your father is change your entire moral compass? How can you stop being the boy who fought for Muggleborns and house-elves and led a resistance against Umbridge last year? I don’t understand you.”

“I’ll tell you one more time, the way I did already. I stopped being that boy when Voldemort realized he could manipulate me by giving me people to protect and threatening to hurt them if I didn’t obey him.”

“But what do those people matter next to us?”

“They matter to me.”

Ron takes a deep breath. Harry’s face is shuttered and cold and frozen the way Ron feared it would be. He really did hope that telling him about Sirius and the way that he’ll have to kill someone would change Harry’s mind, bring Harry back to their side so that he could preserve Sirius’s innocence.

But it won’t work. So they need to step back and think about strategy.

“All right,” he says, and lets his voice tremble a little. “All right. If Malfoy matters to you so much, more than us or your godfather, then I suppose you’ll just have to stay with him.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Because you don’t care if the rest of us die!”

Hermione’s voice is a little loud, but she has a point. Harry just glances at her and says quietly, “No more than you care about Theo or Draco or the rest of them.”

He turns and walks towards the stairs, where Neville is coming down. Neville stares at both of them and shakes his head, which Ron thinks is unfair, then turns and walks away with Harry.

Hermione closes her eyes and sits there as if trying to meditate. Ron places a hand on her shoulder and holds it there until she takes a deep breath and opens her eyes again.

“All right,” she says. “All right. Then I think we need to do what we discussed before we came over to talk to him. The last-ditch plan.”

“Hermione—”

“I’m sorry, Ron. I don’t like it, either, but we don’t have a choice.” Hermione turns and presses his hand. “Whether it’s because he’s given in to Voldemort or because he just doesn’t think he can make any other decision, this is the end of our giving him chances. We’ll work with the Order or by ourselves from now on.”

Ron swallows. He agreed to the plan she thought up, but he wishes he could take back that agreement now. It’s going to be massively damaging, and he also doesn’t think it’s going to work.

But then he thinks about Harry’s clenched jaw and the way that his eyes shone before he walked over to Neville.

It’ll be more dangerous for the world if Harry doesn’t come back to our side. We have to do something.

*

“Father.”

Voldemort stands in front of Harry and smiles. Once, that smile was something out of Harry’s nightmares, and now, he can’t help the happiness that washes over him when he sees it. Or over part of him. It seems he’s always going to be conflicted.

“Son. I’m glad to see you. I have a question to ask you.”

“And I have one for you,” Harry says, turning and heading for the white chair that stands in front of the marble fireplace in the usual dream realm Voldemort has created. Harry’s back prickles the entire time, as he tries not to think about how much this looks like Malfoy Manor and the way that Voldemort might react to what Harry’s going to ask of him.

But they sit down without any unpleasantness, and Voldemort leans forwards intently. “What would you say about the diary that you destroyed in the Chamber?”

It isn’t at all what Harry thought Voldemort would ask, and for a moment, his brain flips over and stalls. Then he blinks and says, “Uh, it tried to kill me. Do you think that I should—I should pay now for killing it?”

Voldemort hisses at him, a forked tongue darting out in the way that Basilisk’s does when she’s upset about something. “Of course not. I’m merely interested in whether you think the diary was the best part of me or not.”

“Uh. No, of course not?”

“Why not?”

“It was murderous and utterly consumed with blood purity. You’re able to think beyond that. It never would have recognized me as your son. You did. You’re—you’re the best part of you that there is, I think.”

Part of Harry can’t believe he’s sitting here and saying these words. The other part of him is sure that this is real, even though it’s also a crazy thing he would have laughed at being able to say nine months ago.

Voldemort hisses in what seems to be real pleasure. “My son is generous and forgiving.”

“I sure am,” Harry says, and decides that he might as well ask his question while his father seems to be in a good mood. “So I had a question from a nervous, upset courtier whose father has gone missing—”

“I don’t know where Lucius is. He should have been back by now.”

“And you aren’t concerned about that? He’s your courtier.”

“He’s the one who allowed the diary to be destroyed. His loyalty to me has always been questionable; he has been more loyal to his family in the past, as well as the desire to accumulate money and fame and power all to himself.” Voldemort shrugs, a sinuous movement that runs from his shoulders all down his spine and on its way to his feet. “I set him a task that I thought would prove he was still valuable. He’s failed me.”

“What was the task? That’s all Draco wants to know.”

“I told him to retrieve a Horcrux of mine that was more closely guarded than the others. I gave him the information he would need to bypass the wards and the guardians. That he’s not returned is—not my problem.”

Harry swallows. Every time he thinks he’s arrived at a place where he can think about Voldemort as his father, something like this happens. The absolute callous disregard for anyone who isn’t Voldemort himself or a piece of him.

But Lucius is Voldemort’s courtier. Harry knows by now how important that is, how special a bond it is. Voldemort should have felt a bond to Lucius and wanted to protect him from harm in exchange for Lucius’s advice and maybe his money and the way that he could fight. Harry doesn’t really know what Lucius did in the Death Eaters, and he doesn’t want to know.

But instead—

“You are troubled, my heir.”

“I thought Lords were supposed to take better care of their courtiers. That’s all.”

“Of course we do. We shelter them. But I think your unusual situation, not growing up with the expectation of power, has warped your ideas. We are ultimately the ones who benefit from the bond, not them.”

Harry bows his head. He supposes he can see that.

“You are still troubled.”

“It’s not the way I think about things. That’s all.”

“You will learn better. Tell me, what is Corban like when teaching Transfiguration? How has he fared? Part of the reason he wished to return to Hogwarts was to confront bad memories of his time there.”

Harry wrenches his mind back to the conversation. He’ll have to stay here and speak some pretty words and listen to more. He doesn’t want to get Corban in trouble with Voldemort any more than he does the others.

But part of him is quiet and hurt.

I really thought he was different. I really did.

*

Lord Voldemort sits and looks into the fire of the imagined room for a long time after Harry has departed. Then he lets the room vanish from around himself and stares into the real fire.

He was right, he thinks. Harry is truly the best part of himself. Lord Voldemort might not really understand why his courtiers want a lord like Harry, but it seems they do. And Lord Voldemort can admire the ideals that Harry strives to fulfill even as he thinks they’re not worth a lord’s time or energy.

It is decided.

It is, Lord Voldemort thinks. He only needs to decide how to put his plan into motion.