Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

4 January 2051

PROLOGUE

Before I begin, I must preface this manuscript with a warning: this is a story.

A fictitious, preposterous, offensive memoir that holds no truth, and should rightly be burned. I urge you, citizen of Britannia Magica (for I cannot fathom you could be anything else, what with holding this in your hands) destroy it now, before you turn the page and lose yourself into a deranged account of events that did not happen.

For I assure you, they did not.

The truth about the rise of the Dark Lord’s empire and the early years of the Luna Plena resides solely within the official Archives, approved by the Council of Shadows and preserved in the Grand Library of London. It is what you were taught at school. It is what your church preaches. 

The rest is lies. 

(You might be wondering: why, then? Why risk my once handsome head to write such scandalous, blasphemous nonsense? Understand me: I have served Brittania as an Archivist myself for forty-eight long, brutal years. I have spoken the Archivists’ truth a thousand times.

Now it is time for something else.)

This is a story. A false record. But I will recount it to you as if it were real. (Were I to claim it as the truth, after all, my execution would be swift. I possess no desire for such a fate.)

I warn you! This story slanders the Dark Lord and his First Followers. By having it in your possession your life is at risk.

BURN IT!

DESTROY IT!

…But if you don’t. If you insist on reading the lies I scribbled out of madness—then know that this is not a story of endings, nor of beginnings.

This is the story of what happened Before.

This is the story of the months leading up to the Apocalypse, and the horrors onto which the Luna Plena was built.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

It is also the story of Severus Snape, and his crimes.

The story of the Malfoys, and the unfortunate events that led to their tragic fate.

The story of a secret child, the story of a young man whose name is not Goliath, and the story of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

(The Archives, of course, insist that he did not live very long at all. You have been taught that Harry Potter succumbed to a relentless fever at the age of twenty-four. My anger, which cannot be contained any longer, seeks to convince you otherwise.)

There is no moral to this story. No conclusion and no absolution.

I will merely recount the events as my aging mind oftentimes imagines having experienced them, supplemented by fragments of gossip I have collected over the years from all who resided in Malfoy Manor at that time, humans, house-elves, and portraits alike.

If this story was true, I would admit that telling it has been the mission of a lifetime.

But worry not. It is not true. It is lies.

Dive in, if you must; but when at last you surface, sickened and forever altered, remember this: you had every opportunity to turn back. To leave this book on whatever table, steps, or carriage seat you found it on, and walk away.

Alas, you did not, and now you must bear the burden of what is to come.

Master Archivist Dominic Wimer

For the Glory of the Dark Lord—or not.

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Chapter Text

March 1998

“You must not hurt Harry Potter,” squeaked Dobby.

Bellatrix shrieked, “Kill him, Cissy!”

A loud crack echoed across the drawing room, and Narcissa’s wand flew out of her hand and landed behind the sofa.

“You dirty little monkey!” she bawled at the elf. “How dare you take a witch’s wand, how dare you defy your masters?”

“Dobby has no master! Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has come to save Harry Potter and his friends!”

Harry’s scar burned like fire. He knew they had minutes, seconds before Voldemort was with them.

“Ron—CATCH!” he yelled and threw a wand to his friend. His forehead pulsed like an open wound; his vision blurred, and he dropped to his knees just as the doors behind him burst open.

“GO!” He screamed with all his might, and gave Dobby a strong push on the back. “TAKE THEM OUT OF HERE!” The elf slid across the marble floor and crashed onto Ron, Hermione, Griphook and Luna.

“Finally,” said a high, clear voice behind Harry. A cold hand gripped him by the nape and the pain in his scar peaked. The last thing he saw before he fainted, was Dobby taking his friends away.

Harry awoke on the cold floor of a cell.

The stabbing pain on his forehead had subsided to a dull throb, but dried blood covered his cheek, and his glasses were gone.

Why wasn’t he dead? Voldemort had caught him… Finally, he’d said…

In total darkness, Harry crawled around his small prison in search of a door.

The door was locked.

He pulled himself up and traced the doorframe with his fingers. Carved, arched... He was still at the Manor.

“Hey!” He banged his fists on the door, then threw his weight at it and swore. There was no sign of movement on the other side.

“Voldemort! Fight me! FIGHT ME!”

At least his friends had escaped. At least they were safe. They had to be—Harry had seen them Disapparate.

Their safety was all that mattered.

He sat on the floor and waited.

“You have something of mine. Though I presume you're unaware of it.”

Harry gasped awake. Damp stones pressed against his back; iron cuffs bit into his wrists. Where had they come from? He tried to stand, but he couldn’t. Voldemort loomed over him and toyed idly with Harry’s wand.

“Voldemort...“ Harry’s lips were dry. He was thirsty, and dizzy, but he had to stand. He had to get up and fight. “Tom. Give me my wand—duel me—d-duel—what are you waiting for?”

Voldemort tilted his head. His lipless mouth curved into a smile. “I gave you a piece of myself when you were but an infant. It resides within you, still. You guard it with your life.”

A piece of Voldemort… within him…

Deep down, Harry had always known. Part of him had always understood.

Neither can live while the other survives…

It was clear, wasn’t it? It should've been obvious.

He is going to kill me, Harry thought. I am going to die now. He clutched his chains and kicked the ground. “FIGHT ME!”

“But I no longer wish to kill you... You are valuable to me. You must be protected from harm.” Voldemort's red eyes glinted sharply. “Tonight, I come to you with a different offer. Join me.”

“NEVER!”

Voldemort seemed unsurprised by that. In a quiet, thoughtful tone, he replied, “We shall see.”

Seven months passed in confinement; then Harry Potter accepted the Mark and was granted his own chambers upstairs.

The press and the Council fell into delirium. No one could explain why the Dark Lord had spared the boy’s life, or why Potter had surrendered.

Rumours spread like wildfire.

March 2003
(Five years sixty-one full moons later)

Lord Voldemort stepped onto the balcony of the Manor’s library and smiled.

There Harry was, leaning over the balustrade and gazing at the grounds below; Voldemort had been looking for him. Harry’s black cloak billowed in the springtime breeze. The Red Eye armband on his sleeve blinked upon Voldemort’s arrival. 

Nagini slithered after Voldemort as he moved to stand beside Harry, who stiffened at his presence but didn’t turn. “My Lord," he said quietly.

The line of carriages bearing supplies to Malfoy Manor had lengthened in recent weeks; despite the conflict with France, Britannia’s finances were stabilising again. Sacks of flour, potatoes, fertiliser for the greenhouses... The house-elves moved fast to carry it all inside, while the thestrals pulling the carriages dragged their tired hooves on the dirt.

Domesticated, as any beast should. Wings clipped to the bone. Horseshoes nailed on their soles.

Nagini wrapped herself around the baluster closest to Voldemort’s boots. Though unbeknownst to each other, both she and Harry were of the same essence; complementary pieces of the extraordinary puzzle that was Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort clasped his hands behind his back, pleased by how everything had come to be. “I have told you before, you are not permitted in the library.”

“I didn’t touch any books, my Lord. I just like the view here.”

Voldemort knew this. He didn’t fear Harry might cross him, not anymore. But still. “You shall not enter the library again.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Harry turned on his heel to leave.

Voldemort waited for him to reach the doors before he said, “I have spoken with Yaxley. He has agreed to Redeem you.”

The boy halted abruptly, hand clutching the curtain he had meant to push aside. His gaze dropped to the floor. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Predictable though it might be, Harry’s distress was delightful to watch.

“I expect you to re-read the texts thoroughly,” Voldemort continued. “The full moon is on the twenty-eighth, and I do not intend to waste another month. There will be no room for error. Do you understand?”

Predictable was his distress, but so was his anger; brow furrowed and knuckles white, muscles tensing on his jaw. “Yes, my Lord,” he muttered. “Why Yaxley?”

The scent of wildflowers drifted on the breeze; a faint smile curved Voldemort’s lips. “Do you question my judgement, Harry?”

“Just—curiosity.”

“Because he has earned it, and because he understands the importance of discretion. Rest assured,” Voldemort said, “he will perform his duties without fail.”

Harry lifted his eyes. Unlike you, he was thinking, Voldemort was certain. He waited for Harry to say it. He even counted on it, eager to see the panic on Harry’s face once he’d realise that the words had escaped him.

But Harry said nothing of the sort. “Have a good day, my Lord,” he offered with a small bow instead.

Voldemort was almost disappointed.

In the week that followed, Harry studied the texts in search of a way out.

He scoured through the pages for any inconspicuous detail that would somehow change the Dark Lord’s mind. Anything that would convince him to call this off, or delay it.

He found nothing.

Most of the pages were blacked out anyway.

On the night of the full moon, when the cuckoo clock in Harry’s chambers struck ten, Harry accepted that Yaxley was not coming.

No Death Eater would leave the Dark Lord waiting for hours without sending word, especially after weeks of discussing this and preparing.

Something had happened. Perhaps Yaxley was dead.

Relief; the Transference could not happen without a Redeemer. 

Unease; the Dark Lord was furious. He stood by the desk, flipping the pages of that damned book, red eyes darting between the incantation to be recited and the moonlight outside. His pale, hairless head floated over his neckless body; though it had been like that for years, the sight never ceased to make Harry wince.

Nagini slithered toward the desk, but the Dark Lord waved her away.

Yaxley had better be dead. The Dark Lord would shred him to pieces if their appointment had slipped his mind, never mind if he’d chickened out.

Harry chewed on his lip. He sat hunched on the couch, clutching his glass of whiskey, leg shaking. He stared at his black-leathered boots, and the hem of his robes, which had frayed where he kept stepping on it.

The Dark Lord swore in Parseltongue and threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth. As soon as a head appeared in the flames, he growled, “Where is Yaxley?”

“I haven’t seen him, my Lord,” replied the man in the fireplace. Harry did not recognise him; he probably was from the Council. Harry hardly knew any of them.

“You haven’t seen him?” The Dark Lord chuckled; it was a very specific sound that Harry had learned to associate with the Cruciatus. “Is he not in the Manor? Has he left? Where is he?”

“Last I saw him was in the morning, my Lord. Shall I send word that you’re looking for him?”

The Dark Lord paced before the fireplace. He glanced at the cuckoo, then at Harry. “Never mind! Fetch me Pryor, tell him it's urgent. He is expected in Potter’s chambers right away.”

A log popped in the hearth as the man muttered something inaudible. He then cleared his throat and said, “I’m afraid Pryor is unavailable, my Lord. He left for Camp 021 at sundown to receive reports from General Hayes.”

“Fenwick, then! Is Fenwick here?”

“Fenwick is in London, my Lord. I believe you sent him yourself, to oversee the issue with the Thames rebels? Perhaps I could be of assistance, if you are seeking adv—”

“Useless,” the Dark Lord muttered, slashing the flames and ending the fire-call. His eyes glinted; he rolled up his sleeve and pressed the tip of the Elder wand against the Dark Mark on his forearm. The serpent stirred, and creeped around the black skull.

Harry felt his own Mark prickle too. “Perhaps next month, my Lord?”

“No. I am summoning Severus.”

Corban Yaxley, Harry thought, was unpleasant and violent. Master of Magical Law since the day of the Council’s assembly, he had made clear there’d be no mercy for those he considered beneath him. Pryor and Fenwick, Harry had never heard of. He could only imagine how vile they might be.

Still, he'd rather take either of them than do this with Snape.

His heart stuttered. He felt as if a brick had slid down his throat into his stomach. “No.”

“Be silent.”

“My Lord!“ Harry stood. The glass slipped from his fingers and thudded onto the rug. Whiskey splashed everywhere. “I can’t! I agreed to what you wanted, I said I'd do it, but you said Yaxley—”

“I told you to be silent!

Harry was falling; falling through the earth, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—“My Lord, please—I beg you—not him—wait—my Lord!”

Undisturbed, the Dark Lord rolled down his sleeve. He returned to the desk and bent again over the book.

Harry wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. “We should wait for Yaxley—he’s probably on his way—look, anyone but Snape—“

The Dark Lord slammed the book shut and turned to Harry. Harry sat down. Long gone was the need for threats or curses; a simple look was enough to remind him of his place.

“You begged similarly when I first presented you with Godelot’s theory. You whined and moaned and gave me an awful headache,” said the Dark Lord. “Who handles you is irrelevant. You will adapt.”

“His leg, my Lord! How—“

“You will assist him.”

“My Lord!”

“Enough, Harry!”

“He killed Dumbledore.” The words escaped Harry’s lips before he could stop them.

“Yes, quite the tragedy.” With a wave of the Dark Lord’s wand, the glass flew back to the table. “Drink more if you must. Do not compromise this.”

Nagini glided up onto the couch and arranged herself beside Harry. She flicked her tongue against his ear and hissed with relish, “Behave, little one. Master’s patience is growing thin.”

Jerking his head away, Harry drank.

There were five wings at Malfoy Manor, one of which had been sealed off entirely since 1999 due to a persistent infestation of particularly stubborn doxies. The tower wing was occupied by Bellatrix Lestrange, while the south wing housed over thirty members of the Council of Shadows and their apprentices. The central wing contained what any proper pure-blood manor must: a reception hall, a ballroom, a drawing room, a dining hall—and the abandoned conservatory Narcissa had claimed as her art studio last spring.

Her sudden interest in the arts deceived no one; it was an open secret that she simply hid from the intruders who’d overtaken her home.

Severus and the other low-ranking Death Eaters had been given the north wing, where the music room had been repurposed as a potions laboratory, and the hallway was used to store the paperwork the Council had no longer use of. More and more scrolls came Severus’ way each month—most of which found its proper place in the fire.

The Dark Lord had taken the east wing for himself, where the library, his private bedroom and study, and Potter’s chambers were located. His thestrals occupied the stables, the elves slept in the cellar, and the Malfoys had been tucked away to the servants’ quarters down in the dungeons.

All this was temporary, of course... A short-term, cramped arrangement until the Dark Lord’s coronation was held, and his palace was built.

...Or so the Dark Lord had been promising them.

It was to Harry Potter’s chamber that Severus’ summons led him tonight.

A mere rap of knuckles on the wood, and—

“Come in, Severus.”

Severus twisted the knob and entered. His cane clicked softly against the floor. “You summoned me, my Lord?”

“Yes, come.” The Dark Lord gestured impatiently for Severus to approach as he flipped through the pages of a leather tome on the desk.

The boy was there, slumped on the couch—head bowed, unruly locks hiding his face, a glass of something held loosely in his hands. Severus rarely saw him. The Dark Lord permitted Potter in the dining room on occasion, and at his side during their meetings, if the topics discussed were deemed relatively trivial. Beyond that, what the boy did with his endlessly free time around the Manor remained a mystery.

He’d been given a nice room; warm and spacious, unlike the narrow, mouldy bedroom the house-elves had assigned Severus.

“I require assistance with a certain experiment I wish to conduct,” said the Dark Lord. “Ideally, this task would fall to a member of the Council, but it appears that they are all occupied elsewhere when their Lord needs them.” The empty space where the Dark Lord’s neck should be shifted as he tilted his floating head. “This job was Corban’s. You will serve in his stead. Do not presume this means my confidence in you has been restored.”

Severus’ grip tightened on his cane. What could he say? The Hogwarts fiasco had been, after all, no one’s fault but his own, and had cost him everything: his position as Headmaster, a seat on the Council, and any involvement in the war overseas.

As Severus had intended.

“I saw Corban leave earlier, my Lord,” he said. “He appeared to be in a hurry. I believe he mentioned something about one of his Blades… Perhaps there was an emergency?”

“His only Blade is his son,” replied the Dark Lord. “And the only emergency his son is capable of, is drinking himself to death.”

An acceptable way to go, all things considered. Yaxley’s boy was soft. Never had it in him to be an assassin.

“Shall I send a house-elf to look for him—”

“Yaxley is not my concern at the moment, I will see to his punishment when he returns. We are running short of time, come, see—we must have finished by midnight. Are you familiar with Godelot’s work?”

“Briefly, my Lord.” Severus’ mother had had a passion for Dark Magic theorists; books of the sort had always been around.

“This is his grimoire.” The Dark Lord pointed at the book with a long, pale finger.

“Oh?”

“You will breathe no word of what I share with you, to anyone, until I deem it is time. Am I clear?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“Am I clear, Severus?”

“You have my word, my Lord.” He wondered how desperate the Dark Lord might be to turn to Severus for help tonight; he hadn’t trusted him with anything substantial in years.

Glass clinked behind them. Potter, who hadn’t lifted his head at all since Severus’ arrival, refilled his glass quietly with shaking hands.

“In his texts, Godelot proposes a theory,” said the Dark Lord. “The theory of Transference. A hypothetical, revolutionary method to extract magic from the unworthy and bestow it upon the deserving... based on the simple dream that magic might one day belong only to those who have earned it. Godelot envisioned an age of wizards with immeasurable power, unbound by wands, cleansed of mediocrity.”

Severus allowed the silence to stretch. "Indeed, my Lord." Most theorists were the same; radical idealists whose grand visions rarely survived contact with reality.

“Godelot did not stop at theory,” said the Dark Lord. “He experimented.”

Potter slammed his glass on the table and rubbed his face.

The Dark Lord pulled out the chair. “See for yourself, Severus.” His hand hovered over the text as Severus lowered himself into the seat and propped his cane against the desk.

The tome was thick, torn at the edges and covered in stains. The Dark Lord turned the pages for him and pointed at a passage:

Under the moon’s full watch, before the stroke of midnight, I have discovered that the act must commence for twelve turnings of the moon. I have found it so, flesh to flesh, the conduit opens and magick flows, drawn from the lesser vessel to the greater. One time shall the offering be blessed, and twelve it shall be made, and by the end, the weaker is emptied, the stronger filled with power anew. For he who takes the power redeems the lesser, stripping them of their wickedness. Let the faint-hearted cower; this is the rightful order. I have tasted the fruits of this knowledge myself: power bends to those with the will to grasp it. The flesh yields, and through its yielding, before the clock strikes twelve, magick is claimed.

The paragraph beneath it had been blacked out with ink.

The next page held with runes. The following two, an incantation.

“This is sex magic.” Severus glanced at Potter. No… No, he might have misunderstood. “Such a ritual has never been documented, my Lord.”

“It’s phenomenal, don’t you agree?” The Dark Lord flipped the pages to a drawing of a witch being burned at the stake. “The weak have always outnumbered the strong.” He pointed at the crowd of Muggles cheering around the witch. “This is who the blood traitors have sided with. This is how the undeserving dilute us. They possess powers they do not deserve, powers they cannot appreciate."

Severus stared at the book, half-mesmerised, half-horrified. Godelot couldn’t have conducted experiments; he was a theorist. The fantasies he obsessively wrote about could never come true. 

…But what Severus had before him was pages upon pages of instructions.

The Dark Lord moved to Potter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “If this experiment succeeds… If Godelot’s method works, it will allow Brittania to reclaim that which was wrongfully given. The blood traitors at the camps need not perish in vain, not before they return their stolen gifts.”

Severus read the incantation under his breath, first in Latin and then in English, searching for fallacies. Outside the window, the full moon slipped in and out of the moving clouds. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost eleven.

“What do you think, Severus?”

“I think Godelot had lost his mind,” replied Severus. “Magic transference… Redeeming the wicked… It’s fanciful nonsense, my Lord. A madman’s ramblings.” Yet the more he read, the more he feared it could work. It could happen.

It could change the world.

Setting both hands on his cane, Severus pushed himself up and turned to face the Dark Lord, who still gripped Potter’s shoulder. “Would you like me to look for a shaman who could research this further for you, my Lord?"

The Dark Lord grinned. “No need, Severus... What I require of you is far from scholarly in nature." The whiskey sloshed in Potter’s glass. "Harry Potter has volunteered himself for the cause. You are to serve as his Redeemer.”

Severus needed to flee. To find a way, an excuse, something to get out of there—“My Lord?”

“Fortune has smiled upon you tonight, Severus. I am offering you a gift far beyond your worth. I am offering you Harry Potter’s magic.”

The Dark Lord went on, something about Godelot and the great future, and having to hurry, speed this up—but Severus was not listening. He glanced at the door longingly, and then at Potter, who awaited his fate. A memory kicked Severus in the chest: Lily, sitting on a tree branch by the river, laughing at Severus’ impersonation of a particularly angry Petunia. It was quickly replaced by the memory of him wailing after her death.

Severus couldn’t hurt him.

He couldn’t hurt her boy.

“My Lord… with such a valuable offering, I would have thought you would wish to partake personally.”

“My power is already beyond measure, Severus. I have no need for collecting scraps.”

“My Lord, if you allowed me access to Godelot’s research I am certain I could find a better way. Let me borrow the book—“

“There is no other way. The instructions are precise. The boy has agreed to this willingly, for the greater good of our nation. Is that right, Harry?”

Potter nodded.

“And yet I find myself reluctant!” protested Severus. “An untested ritual with no evidence of success could cause irreparable harm to my person—not to mention that the mere idea of engaging in such an act with Harry Potter is deeply unpalatable to me—there must be another who could do it, one of your Shadows—“

“There is no time to summon another. We must begin now.”

“My Lord, let me study the grimoire—“

“The grimoire has been studied extensively by Master Necromancer Maelzel himself.”

“He might have missed something—“

“He has not.”

“With all respect my Lord, you’re not thinking clearly! Untested rituals could carry any sort of curses—you can’t truly believe a wizard’s magic can be transferred to another? These are just fantasies Goldelot entertained whilst dying from bubonic plague—”

“Severus,” the Dark Lord interrupted softly, “I have chosen you for this task despite your many missteps in the last years, to honour you with another chance. Do not make me question your loyalty again.”

And there it was—the familiar noose tightening around Severus’ throat: Do what you’re told, or else.

What choice did he have?

This was Dumbledore’s fault. Dumbledore and his exquisite plans—the boy must die, Severus—the only problem being that the boy had chosen to live and join the dark side instead.

How victorious. How hilarious.

When the boy first took the Mark, Severus had hoped it’d been part of a plan. That Potter had joined the Dark Lord as a means to an end—a secret scheme, some objective, something Severus was unaware of—but five years had passed since and nothing had happened.

Potter was compliant. He had given up.

There wasn’t much else one could do in Brittania Magica.

Severus bowed his head. "As you command, my Lord."

"Good. Then let us begin.”

The room fell into silence.

Severus’ feet refused to move. (Lily, his mind screamed. Lily when she wrote her name with a sharpie on the wall over his bed. When she borrowed his quill and never returned it. When she braided dandelions into her hair.)

The Dark Lord pulled Potter up from the sofa. The boy swayed on his feet, then set his glass on the table—nearly dropped it—and muttered something to the Dark Lord in the language of snakes. The Dark Lord replied with a long, silk-sounding hiss, to which Potter nodded. The Dark Lord appeared satisfied with that; he gestured at Severus to approach.

For a moment, Severus thought he might not. That he might simply stay where he stood, frozen, until he was punished or killed. He considered begging.

It would not change a thing.

Severus stepped forward.

The boy lifted his gaze.

Green eyes, dark and steady, met his own. The hatred in them was staggering; raw, violent, so intense that Severus feared he’d burn. His knees nearly buckled, and he gripped his cane tighter. Part of him wanted to drop to the floor and apologise, pray for forgiveness, cry…

Part of him wanted to strike Potter across the face.

It wasn’t too late, not yet; Severus could leave if he truly wanted to. Come up with an illness, or feign a terrible, sudden pain on his leg, then make a run for the gates and Disapparate into the unknown.

Potter placed his open palm on Severus’ chest. Startled, Severus stepped back.

“Place your right hand on his heart too, Severus.”

But I’ll burn, he thought. I’ll burn to the ground if I touch him. Like the witch on the stake, I’ll scream myself to death surrounded by scorching flames.

Severus moved his cane to his other hand and pressed his palm to Potter’s chest. The boy’s heart raced; his sweater was damp.

(May God forgive me, Severus thought, but God had forsaken them, as you well know. The Luna Plena was but a zygote at the time; the world had entered a transition between old gods and new. Those who still harboured faith were in for a surprise. Those who believed in no godly power at all, were in for a surprise too.)

“My Lord, that grimoire could be fake,” Severus blurted out. “It could be the work of your enemies to trick you into—“

“It's not. Be silent.”

“Great men have died because they meddled with magic they knew nothing of!”

The Dark Lord smirked. “Fear not, Severus… You are not a great man. Now, for the blessing…” He summoned the grimoire and opened it on a page that appeared to be entirely covered in black ink. Despite this, his eyes moved smoothly across it as if the text was crystal-clear to him. He began to chant. The incantation was long and lyrical, and the language was nothing Severus knew. The boy's heart thundered under his palm. Faint golden light flickered across Potter's chest, then sank into it, right where Severus's hand pressed against his heart. Potter shivered.

“Harry, your selfless offering has been blessed.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” replied Potter, looking at Severus.

“And for the conduit…” The Dark Lord turned to a new page and pressed his wand to Potter's hand where it lay against Severus's chest. “Incipiamus!”

The air crackled; a second incantation began. A single strand of golden light burst from Severus's chest, then another emerged from Potter’s. Slithering like water-snakes, the strands twisted through the air and sought each other blindly. They collided in the space between them, and merged into a sphere of light that hung suspended in mid-air.

The Dark Lord chanted, and the sphere spun; Severus’s leg began to hurt. The muscles on his thigh twitched. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.

Like a cell doubling, the sphere split into two smaller orbs, which travelled downwards and sank into their chests. Warmth spread inside Severus and made his skin tingle.

“The link has been established,” said the Dark Lord. “The conduit is open. You may proceed.”

No one moved.

The wood splinted in the fireplace; Severus’ heart drummed in his ears. He expected the boy to protest. To fight, to shout, to do something—but Potter dropped his hand from Severus’ chest and walked to the bed. He yanked at the clasp of his cloak, almost tearing it; the cloak slid to the floor. Potter sat. Leather boots were unlaced, kicked off. Round glasses tossed onto the bedside table. He stared at the wall, breathing hard. He bit his lip. His fingers shook as they found his belt buckle; the metal clicked sharply in the room’s silence. Trousers and boxers were shoved down.

He didn’t look at Severus. He didn’t look at the Dark Lord. He muttered something in Parseltongue.

The Dark Lord chuckled. With a flick of his wand, the chamber sank into darkness, but for a few candles that came to float around the bed. “Get on with it, Severus, let us not waste any more time,” he sighed as he settled into an armchair positioned beside by the bed. His snake slithered to him and coiled herself around his feet.

Severus moved to the bed.

The Dark Lord’s neckless head was obscured by the shadows; his serpentine smile, barely visible at all. Severus gripped the bedpost. What a hero, he thought, staring down at the boy. The Chosen One, the Boy who Lived. 

Such crap. He was a child, even at twenty-three.

A stupid, wretched, shamefully daft, monumentally unlucky child.

“Lie down,” Severus told him.

Potter lay flat on his stomach, eyes fixed on the wall.

Severus couldn’t bear the sight. He glanced at the Dark Lord, who tapped his fingers on the armrest.

“Must you be present for this, my Lord?”

“Proceed, Severus.”

Severus hooked his cane on the footboard and climbed onto the bed. He shifted forward, between Potter’s thighs, and, with hesitation, placed a hand on the small of his back.

Part of Severus found, despite it all, the prospect of hurting him appealing. The boy would deserve the pain. From that cursed day that Lily birthed him, Harry Potter had brought nothing but misery to Severus's life.

He softly pushed up the boy’s sweater until his arse was exposed. Round, smooth cheeks; milk-white and warm when Severus cupped one and squeezed. Potter's breath hitched, but he stayed still. He clutched the pillow with both hands, pressed his face into it, then seemed to change his mind and buried his head under the pillow entirely.

Severus withdrew his hand.

What now?

Was he supposed to just…?

“First drawer,” said the Dark Lord.

On the first drawer of the bedside table, Severus found a half-empty jar of lubricant. The substance was slimy and white and carried a sweet, fruity scent that made his stomach churn.

“My Lord—”

“I said proceed!”

“Potter.” Severus squeezed the boy’s shoulder. "Look at me."

For a moment, Potter did not move; his shoulder was stiff, taut in Severus’ grip. Then he rolled over. His eyes locked onto Severus’.

“Her son lives,” Dumbledore said. “He has her eyes, precisely her eyes.“ But Severus was slumped forward on a chair, crying, his breathing shallow, his vision blurred, and he couldn’t talk, couldn’t listen, couldn’t think, and Dumbledore said, he said, he told Severus, “Help me protect Lily’s son.”

He pushed Potter onto his front again and palmed between his own legs.

He could do it.

He could do it now, then go to Pip later and fix it. He’d make up for it. It'd be fine. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his cock; wrapped steady fingers around it and jerked himself in harsh, determined strokes.

He hadn’t showered today. Had he, yesterday? The day before? He couldn’t recall. His hair felt greasy against his neck. He’d been busy with the potions for the battlefront.

The boy remained limp like a doll. He used to call him Professor. Sit in Severus’ classroom, write essays for him to grade, brew and yawn and whisper and pass notes to his friends. Talk back like the cheeky little shit he was.

Now Severus wanked over him, getting ready to bugger him.

His body was Severus’ to take. So was his magic, if Godelot’s nonsense was to be entertained. What a waste of time. Mad wizards had toyed with the idea of magic transference for centuries. It ended badly, always.

Severus groped Potter’s arse, pressed between his cheeks—

His leg cramped; pain shot from his thigh down his foot. Severus bit back a grunt as he shifted his weight and leaned forward on one hand. His eyes fixed on the wallpaper behind the headboard.

Leopard, tree, leopard, tree. The pattern repeated diagonally. Severus focused on one particular leopard whose tail had been scratched off by the headboard’s edge, and glared at it until he began to sweat.

He moved his hand faster, faster—

But his body remained unresponsive.

From under him, Potter suddenly hissed something in Parseltongue.

Voldemort snorted. 

Severus gritted his teeth. He let go of his cock, trying to catch his breath. The forceful friction had began to hurt. Perhaps the lube… He slicked the tip of his cock and tried again. He closed his eyes, thought of men, women, anyone willing…

His arm ached. He gave his cock one final tug before he rasped, “My Lord, I am very sorry, but—"

His words were cut short by Potter, who abruptly sprang up and shoved Severus back onto the pillows. Severus thought he might get punched; then Potter straddled his thighs and plunged two fingers into the jar.

"Relax," sneered the boy, reaching between them to grip Severus’ cock and coating it with the fruity paste. It was quite preposterous, to have Potter on him like this, but then Potter’s hand started to move, and so Severus let it happen.

Potter spoke in Parseltongue; disgust was etched on his face.

The Dark Lord said nothing.

A soft groan escaped Severus; Potter’s hand was rough on him, and borderline painful, but still, it was a hand that wasn’t his own, and so Severus’ cock began to stir. His hips bucked as Potter stroked him; as he twisted his wrist just so at the head.

Dimly, behind half-closed eyelids, Severus glimpsed a life where this could have been desire. If everything was different; if they had just met, at a café, or the park, strangers about to learn each other’s names.

Pointless thoughts—for cafés were no more, and Brittania Magica’s flag, the Red Eye, was flown at full mast at the centre of every park: A white snake devouring its tail, forming a circle around a wide-open red eye. The same Red Eye which now blinked rapidly on Severus’ armband, betraying his distress.

Severus felt helpless.

Helpless and rock-hard.

Potter positioned himself to ride him, one hand braced on Severus’ chest. He lined Severus’ cock with his hole, shifted forward, and lowered himself to sit on it. As soon as the tip pressed against him, pain twisted his features and he threw his head back.

He tried again. More lube, more force—

“Let me,“ Severus murmured. He gripped Potter’s waist and rolled them over.

There, now—

Potter under him, and Severus’ cock throbbed, and he felt—

He felt—

("How did it feel?" I asked Severus Snape nearly a decade later, during my visit at Hogwarts, which from this point forward I shall refer to as the Interview. 

And how I pitied him—how my chest tightened—when, accompanied by the nervous stirring of his drink, he offered me a half-hearted snort. And when he spoke, oh, when he spoke—God help me, I abhorred him too— he said merely this: 

“I was numb. I wasn’t there. I told myself I was elsewhere.”

Did I believe him? Did I question whether during that first Transference, Severus felt, despite his horror, also lust? I cannot say. I presume the Dark Lord’s watchful presence would have strangled any feeling other than dread. Yet if you press for my thoughts: he wanted Harry, even then.)

Severus lined his cock into place, held himself steady and pushed.

It took a moment for the muscle to give in.

Potter made a choked sound; he yanked the pillow from under his head and pressed it against his face. His breaths were shallow; his thighs compressed Severus’ sides as if to stop him.

The tightness around Severus was dazing. His leg throbbed, but he ignored it. He shifted his weight and pushed deeper. The boy jerked like he'd been stabbed.

Balls deep, in her boy.

The Dark Lord watched.

Severus began to thrust.

"Slower," Potter ground out, but Severus couldn’t—he wanted this over with. Potter tossed the pillow aside. His hand shot out to grip Severus’ hip. “Don’t—“

“Ah!” Severus's leg spasmed. He fell forward, crushing Potter beneath him. The boy kept still.

Severus needed Pip. He needed Pip now. That was all he thought of, as he pressed his face onto the mattress beside Potter’s head, and resumed thrusting. As he blocked out the pain in his leg, and the Dark Lord, and Potter under him, and rolled his hips with his only objective being to go back to his room and commit a debauch of laudanum unlike any he’d attempted before.

Potter tried to push him off.

"Almost done," snapped Severus through gritted teeth. A deep, final thrust, and he exhaled sharply into the mattress.

It was over. It was over.

Potter shoved him away.

Eyes on the ceiling, Severus breathed hard. The room spun around him; Potter jostled up and reached for his trousers.

Heat exploded in Severus’ chest. Potter’s sternum glowed, and he plopped back down, as if he’d suddenly gotten lightheaded.

Severus sat up.

A small, glowing sphere exited Potter’s heart, but remained connected to him by a golden thread. Potter watched it expressionlessly as it tried to get away from him, pulling and pulling, until the golden thread finally snapped. The sphere turned white like the full moon outside; then, as if pulled by gravity, it floated toward Severus and sank into his heart.

The warmth inside Severus spread. It reached his fingertips and toes, then it faded.

Potter glared at Severus’ chest darkly.

"Well done, Severus," said the Dark Lord, rising from his chair. The snake followed him. “We shall continue in a month.”

SEVERUS SNAPE’S INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT [03.07.2012] - PART 1

Interviewer: Dominic Wimer

Subject: Severus T. Snape

Location: Hogwarts School of Pureblood Excellence and the Dark Arts

Recording Devices: Tape Recorder & Dictation Quill

Length: 7h20m

SNAPE: [agitated, speaking fast] When you said you have questions I thought you meant to seek my advice on something regarding Potions or the Dark Arts, not interrogate me about that—

WIMER: The Transference is a Dark Art.

SNAPE: Stop recording. I have nothing to tell you. You should be ashamed, coming here and demanding that I share with you secrets you know I’d rather take to my grave—I will not be subjected to this—this—who told you? No one knew of my involvement, how can you possibly—you don’t know—you’re guessing—no one gives you the right to presume that I—

WIMER: I have spoken to witnesses.

SNAPE: There were no witnesses.

WIMER: You are mistaken.

SNAPE: [chortles] There were no witnesses!

WIMER: You must tell me everything.

SNAPE: And why would I do that? It’s been years, forget about it, what’s done is done—

(It was then that I reached into my pocket and handed Severus the envelope into which a forged ID and my middleman’s instructions were sealed.

It was, as you may imagine, the only opportunity he would ever be given: should he refuse, I would call off the interview, depart, and he would never again be visited by another soul for the remainder of his days. Should he accept, he would be forced to face what he had done.)

SNAPE: What is this? No. No. I’m not interested. [huffs] Are you insane? Why would I want this? ARE YOU INSANE? [snorts] How dare you toy like that with a man who hasn’t seen the sky in eight years—my sole company since 2004 has been the elves—

WIMER: You can see the sky again.

SNAPE: No. [sound of liquid being poured] [gulping sounds] NO, I don’t want this. As if they’d allow a wizard to enter Russia—do you have any idea what they’d do to me—you’re mad—WHAT DO YOU WANT?

WIMER: Information.

Draco Malfoy was a wimp.

An idiot, too. A soft, useless tosser—or so people said.

Especially Father. Father said it a lot, though he dressed it up in refined, careful remarks that loosely resembled concern.

“I’m disappointed, Draco.”

No surprises there; when had Draco’s family not been disappointed in him? Draco tossed his quill onto the massive oak desk and folded his arms. “All I said was that’s not what happened.”

Father raised an eyebrow. He glanced at Master Turton, who stood by the desk with his usual grimace. They were in the Manor's library; not that Draco and Turton spent much time anywhere else these days.

From morning to noon Draco was trapped here, looking at Turton’s perfect square of a face, and his sparse hair combed flat over his greasy scalp.

Some mentor.

Rather than wear it on his arm, the Red Eye was stitched on Turton’s grey robes right above his heart, and he pointed at it with a long-nailed finger every time Draco’s attention drifted off.

One day, you will wear these robes, he’d say. One day you will take the vow.

Hooray. What an honour.

In truth, Turton hated him.

The feeling was mutual.

“I thought the point was to document history,” protested Draco. “For the future generations and all that—”

Turton’s eyes hardened. “That, we do, Mr Malfoy.“

“Father, it’s lies! It’s all—look.” He turned the pages of False Peace—the most recent history book he was given to copy. “It says here that Albus Dumbledore had a secret, self-serving pact with John Major to keep wizards subjugated! That the Dark Lord defeated him to liberate the wizarding—“

“It is what happened, Draco,” said Father calmly.

“But it’s not!”

“Evidence has been discovered—“

“It’s propaganda!”

Both Father and Turton gave him the look. The look that meant: Wimp. Idiot. Useless tosser.

“Do you not wish to pursue this path anymore?” asked Father. “I was under the impression that you were quite passionate about joining the Council.”

Draco suppressed a scowl. He’d never cared for the Council. The only reason Father had forced him to pursue this path was to save him from joining the army at a time of war. No better way to keep Draco occupied in the Manor while everyone else got bombed in France.

A wimp, right?

“We are ensuring the future, Mr Malfoy,” growled Turton. “The stability of the regime relies on our work.”

“But all of this is factually incorrect!”

“These accounts are verified by the Council of Shadows. You must trust in our discernment.”

Draco stared down at the parchment. He read, “After years of indoctrination by Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter publicly renounced the heretic teachings forced upon him and aligned with the Dark Lord and swore to always fight for the future of wizardkind.” He looked up at Father and Turton. Both of them seemed unimpressed. Draco huffed. “Are we going to pretend this is true? The truth—“

“The truth is what the Council decides!” Turton roared.

“You are young, Draco, and still learning,” said Father. “You must understand that the Council would never endorse anything that isn’t the absolute truth.”

The absolute truth. Naturally. Draco knew better than to argue any further. Master Archivist Turton was not a man to be trifled with. And Father was already disappointed.

“Fine. Fine!” Draco dipped his quill into the ink and began to copy the lies word for word.

“You wouldn’t believe the rubbish they made me do today,” he told Potter later that afternoon as he plopped down beside him on the stone bench in the centre of the rose maze.

He pulled out of his cloak a pack of Marlboros and tossed it onto Potter’s lap. Potter nodded his head in a silent thank you. He never said it out loud, the arrogant little sod. A small flame from the tip of Draco’s wand, and their cigarettes were lit.

They smoked in silence; Draco glared at a frog sat on the rim of the dry, cracked fountain across from them. How embarrassing. How trashy. Even the vermin must have noticed the downfall of this place.

A rose maze without roses.

A dodder maze, rather.

A nothing maze.

All exists but one had been choked by weeds.

In secret, Draco preferred it that way. It made the maze the last place in the Manor that was still his own.

“Turdon is quite possibly the most insufferable bastard I’ve ever met,” he said abruptly. “He’s practically trembling with excitement every time I make a mistake. He lives for my failures. He salivates over them. And Father admires him—been banging on all bloody morning about the glorious future and my sacred duty—as if he cares! Not even Turdon believes him anymore. Everyone knows—everyone knows I’m dropping out when the war is over. Father would sooner kiss Muggle arse than let his only heir vow celibacy and join the Archivists. What a joke.” He exhaled the smoke and flicked his cigarette. “Mother said she’ll talk to him. I don’t think she will. She’s gotten worse. Every day, she’s worse. Her mind’s gone.” Draco was about to snap at Potter for not paying attention when he noticed him rubbing his scar. “What’s the matter with you?”

Potter took a drag of his own and shook his head. “Just tired.”

Draco leaned forward to see past Potter's fringe. “You look like shit.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. Alright, then! It wasn’t as if Potter owed him anything—least of all access to his precious secrets—but it was still insulting to be told nothing, especially after he’d condescended to ask. He wouldn’t have shown a hint of interest had he known Potter would pull a just tired on him.

Draco leaned back, cigarette dangling from his lips, and gazed up at the clouds. “Did you hear what happened last night?”

Potter turned abruptly. “What?”

“With Edric. You didn’t hear?”

Potter shook his head.

“Remember that whore he’s been seeing? Rosie, or whatever?”

“Yeah.”

“He got her a ring.”

Potter gave no reaction.

“He went down to Corsham to propose and ended up hexing some bloke’s face off. Probably caught her with another client. Yaxley had to go and clean up his mess in the middle of the night. He might disown him.”

Potter looked away. He snorted, but it sounded forced, and Draco had no idea what to do with that. There was nothing worse than having a bad audience when telling a fun story.

"Can you imagine?” he pressed. “A Blade-to-be, crying over a whore. His father had him scrub the floors of the south wing all morning.”

Fine—the floor scrubbing bit did not happen, but Draco needed a reaction. He wasn’t one to be ignored when he talked.

Potter stared at him blankly. His lip curled. “He got her a ring?”

Now, that was better. Draco took another drag to hide his smile. For a moment there, he’d felt alone. "Father would have me dead if I'd shamed him like that.” On second thought—“They’d have us dead for this too, I reckon,” he said and lifted up his fag.

Potter blowed out the smoke and shook his head. “They wouldn’t kill me. I’m not expendable. They’d kill you, though.”

“Bugger off, Potter.”

“You first.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“You’re the one with the stash anyway,” Potter continued. “I’m just a victim of circumstance.”

“Of course. Poor, innocent Potter, dragged into my wicked ways.”

“I am trying to quit, but you won’t let me. I’m trapped.”

“Yes, funny.” Draco stretched his legs. “One day, they will find us out. And you’ll probably get a slap on the wrist while I’m strung up by my ankles.”

“And Turton will write an entire book on how I escaped your corrupting influence.”

“And my existence will be reduced to a footnote.”

“No way you’re getting a whole footnote on your person, Malfoy. Be real.”

Draco exhaled the smoke through his nose. “They’ll just mention me as some Death Eater. A nameless footnote in your dramatic rise.”

Potter nodded. A brief smile played on his lips; this time, it was genuine. “Glad you know your place. Wimp.”

Draco laughed.

On the third floor of the Manor, where the east wing ended in a gallery of dead, scowling Malfoys, Bellatrix Lestrange stood and waited.

She couldn’t quite breathe right. Her lungs had been compressed by the tightest corset she owned. Her ribs ached. They felt crushed. But her dress had been tailored for Him alone.

“Do stop fretting, Bella,” Cissy had told her the night they first met Him. “This Lord doesn’t require the formality you imagine. Any robes should suffice.”

But Cissy was naive. She was simple.

Every dress Bellatrix wore around Him had been picked for Him to notice.

Everything she said and did was meant for Him.

She was nineteen the first time He took her. A God, interested in her. (He’d made it easy for her to assume that she must be a goddess herself.)

“Who taught you magic?” He’d ask. “Who attended to you? Without a mentor, you must have been neglected.”

When she was with Him, she felt divine.

“You have a rare mind, Bella. You mustn’t let it go to waste.”

Everything with her Lord, everything for her Lord.

He must remember—He must have some kindness left for her, still.

This time He might listen.

Around her wrists, the sleeves of her dress were so tight they resembled chains. (Azkaban chains, heavy and rusted, thick and cold.)

And the dress itself was suffocating, and she loathed its textures, but was beautiful still. She was beautiful still. He would see it.

Only her beauty had ever bent His will.

Bellatrix waited.

Perhaps the sleeves were too much. And that clip on her head, pulling her curls back… She grimaced. Plastic, cheap, taken from a filthy Mudblood during the Cleansing of Sussex.

What could she say? It was pretty. Flower-shaped, black and silver. What use was it on the head of that dead cunt? The head would rot, and the hair would fall, and the clip would be buried in some mass grave and be gone.

It was pretty in Bellatrix’s curls.

She imagined His eyes on it. She imagined His lust.

The doors to His study remained closed. She stared, unblinking, waiting for the smallest sound.

She waited. And waited.

The door creaked open.

And there He stood—tall and beautiful, even now, as He had always been.

"Come in," He said.

“My Lord.” Bellatrix stumbled in her haste to storm inside. She bowed her head, dropped to one knee and kissed the hem of His robes, bent lower to kiss His boots—

“Rise,” He commanded, stepping away.

Face pressed to the carpet, Bellatrix nodded. She rose as abruptly as she’d knelt.

The Dark Lord had moved to stand by His desk, onto which Europe’s map and various scrolls were spread. “Debrief.”

“Sussex has been Cleansed as requested, my Lord. The blood-traitors have been taken to Camp 089 for processing. No Mudbloods survive except for the ringleaders, whom the Blades detained for questioning. A stash of passports and unauthorised Portkeys were found in their basement leading to Bordeaux, just like with York.”

The Dark Lord waved His wand over Sussex, and a red X appeared across it. “France sent their response,” He sighed. “They did not agree to my terms. They hope for a ceasefire between our nations but insist that any Muggle within their borders shall remain protected.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “The French are weak, my Lord. They delay the inevitable. With your blessing, I can bring them to reason—”

“Lord Voldemort himself has failed to persuade them, yet you think you can. How extraordinary you must be, Bella.”

He’d said it mockingly, but it was true. She was extraordinary. She was exceptional, and she could do it. “I can lead, my Lord. Overseas. I can do more than serve you here—”

“Oh? Is being Lord Voldemort’s right hand too trivial for you?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Yes, it’s trivial, it’s nothing. But she couldn’t. “It’s an honour to serve you, my Lord.”

“But it seems that you have objections. Go on, don’t hesitate now—”

“I can do more than chase smugglers around in Sussex, my Lord,” she snapped before she could help it. Was he not going to notice her dress? Was he not going to comment on the plastic thing on her head? “If you let me, my Lord, I could handle France myself, even Italy—”

“The Italians are to be broken from within. I’ve had Shadows infiltrate the Vatican months ago.”

Her nails bit into her palms. “You didn’t tell me, my Lord.”

“Because it didn’t concern you. The task was given to the Council.”

The mere mention of the Council made her seethe. “The Death Eaters whisper, my Lord. They question the pace of things. They question the Council too.”

“Let them whisper. They are nothing without me."

“You’d be nothing without them too, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord’s face hardened. He rounded the desk quickly. “What did you say?”

Bellatrix attempted to kneel, but He gripped her arm. “No, no, repeat yourself.”

“My Lord, forgive me—“

“Repeat it, Bella!”

“You have the Death Eaters, my Lord, you don’t need any Council telling you what to do!”

“Telling me what to do?”

“The Council of Shadows care for themselves, they don’t care about you—the Death Eaters have fought for you, we have bled for you—”

“What is the Council’s purpose, Bellatrix? What do my Shadows do?” He released her arm and reached for His wand. She didn’t flinch. She could take a curse like no one could.

“They distract you, my Lord,” she said bitterly. “They poison your mind—”

“They do? How?”

She didn’t know how. How could she? He never told her anything anymore.

“You come to your future King and accuse his royal Council of corruption and incompetence. Surely you must possess knowledge that escapes me. So tell me. What do my Shadows do?”

“The Death Eaters have given everything for you, my Lord, we love you—”

“My Governors protect my country. My Generals fight for my cause. My Archivists ensure that the rise of my reign is accurately documented and that no Muggle propaganda survives. My Scholars, Necromancers, Alchemists work restlessly day and night to advance our understanding of magic. That is what the Council does. What do the Death Eaters do?”

“My Lord, we believed in you when no one—”

“They kill. They cast the Avada Kedavra efficiently.” A rustle of fabric, and the Dark Lord returned to his desk. Wasn't she even significant enough to receive his curse? Was he not going to see her? “Your violence alone could not sustain my extraordinary vision. You’re soldiers. You, Bellatrix, are an expert in terror, but not of much interest otherwise.”

(She’d been nineteen. She’d been divine.)

“You’re right, my Lord,” she said. “Forgive me.”

“You will oversee the Leeds Cleansing personally. I expect a report by tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, my Lord. I will arrange it tonight, my Lord.”

He waved His hand to dismiss her, and now He was scribbling a letter to someone—already focused elsewhere, as if she wasn’t there at all.

But she was there. She was there, with her dress, and the clip—

“My Lord—if you could spare a few minutes to discuss another matter?”

“What matter?”

“Of personal significance, my Lord. I’ve been meaning to ask.” She waited for Him to set aside His letter, but as soon as He stamped it, He picked up another. “Since the Council is handling everything for you and you aren’t so occupied with the British campaign anymore,” she said scornfully, (and it was clearly the wrong thing to say, for he raised a hairless eyebrow at her with derision) “would you perhaps consider meeting her, my Lord? Just once?”

“Meet who?”

“The girl, my Lord.”

“What girl?”

“Delphini, my Lord.”

“Ah.” The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly as if she’d spoken in a language he didn’t quite understand. “What does she have to do with Leeds?”

“Nothing, my Lord, I have simply been thinking, if you would consider it. She’s almost six now—“

“I have no need for distractions.”

“She’s your blood, my Lord. Surely you could spare some time—”

“It is this obsession of yours with insignificant matters that keeps you from rising to the posts you desire, Bella! You’re too emotional. You would only cause me problems.”

“My Lord, I would never cause you—“

“Yet you waste my time with trivialities—”

“She’s your daughter, my Lord, do you not wish to see what you have created?”

The Dark Lord tapped the tip of His quill on the desk. “Rodolphus was still alive when you conceived.”

“Delphini is yours, my Lord. I am certain.”

“Then your bastard is an accident you purposely failed to deal with!”

Bellatrix clenched her fists at her sides. “All I ask is that you meet her just once—“

“Enough, Bellatrix. You are dismissed.”

The Dark Lord loved her. This, Bellatrix knew. In His own way, He loved her. And so she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand why suddenly she imagined clawing His face with her nails.

She felt ashamed.

She wanted to destroy something. She wanted to kill.

“I see,” she managed to say. “I understand. I apologise.”

The following night, Bellatrix guided her Death Eaters to Leeds. They burned it to the ground.

In the old conservatory at the back of the Manor, Narcissa Malfoy painted.

Wild greenery surrounded her; vines crept over ceramic pots, and ivy clung to cracked, smudged windowpanes.

She studied her canvas quietly. The blue had to be lighter. She mixed it with purple on her wooden palette, then added white.

Leaves rustled; mosquitoes buzzed here and there—she slapped her shoulder, thinking she’d gotten one, but missed it.

The blue still wasn’t right. She squeezed another tube onto the palette. Green, then. A bit of green, into the blue, and the smallest amount of grey—

There—

There, that was the blue she’d known.

And pale lines where the glasses should be, silver, thin, very thin—

“Enough!” Another mosquito. That one, she’d gotten. It lay squished on her palm, oozing blood. She wiped it on her dress and picked up another brush.

Broken bristles, encrusted in dried paint.

A careful wrinkle, under the eye. And another. And another.

She stepped back. Her eyes moved over the portrait, searching for mistakes.

The man on the canvas sat on a chair, hands clasped on his lap.

It was finished.

It was complete.

Narcissa set down the brush. She wiped the sweat off her upper lip, then tucked her hair behind her ear.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she placed her hand on the canvas.

“Wake up, Dumbledore. We need to talk.”

It must be apparent to you now, why I so passionately demanded that you burn this memoir before its lies could poison your thoughts. These pages aren’t merely filled with slander; they carry an agenda too.

I write not for your entertainment. Were you in need of amusement, after all, you would be practicing your curses on slaves and traitors rather than be burying your nose in texts of dubious origin.

My agenda is clear: I wish to anger you. I wish to convince you that my lies are true. I wish to give you a task. A job, crafted specifically for you.

But it is not in my best interest to speak of that job yet. You see, you wouldn’t accept it. Not yet.

First must come the anger.

Master Archivist Dominic Wimer

Chapter Text

There had been sightings even before the war, but the International Statute of Secrecy broke officially on Christmas Day 1998, with the public execution of Queen Elizabeth II.

England had fallen; the Muggle government had been dismantled. Within a night, the Council of Shadows replaced the Ministry of Magic, and the Dark Lord proclaimed himself Brittania’s new monarch.

In 2001, after months of failed negotiations, a war on France was declared.

In 2003, Italy and Belgium allied with France, merged their magical and Muggle forces, and deployed them along the French coastline.

All over Europe, unrest grew.

In the pages of a Muggle book that now only exists in Norilsk, I once encountered this passage: 

When in trouble or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout!¹

And how we screamed, reader! How we ran! Each in our own particular fashion.

Master Archivist Dominic Wimer

“France has suspended all Floo connections…” The Dark Lord skimmed through the reports on the table. “Their Ministry has issued a travel ban… Their fourth attempt at magically sealing their borders was, ah,” he flipped a parchment, “neutralised this morning.”

Severus gritted his teeth. He stifled a yawn. He needed tea. He needed coffee.

He suspected he needed sleep, too, but he’d given up on decent rest long before any of this happened. He was fine. He wasn’t falling apart just yet. He managed.

Across from him, Potter was deeply focused on a white stain on the table. Melted wax, which dripped from the chandelier hanging above them; the boy waited for each drop to dry, then scratched it off with his nail. His robes were new: black silk, with silver serpents embroidered around the cuffs and collar. The Red Eye on his armband blinked drowsily. Pretty Potter, Bellatrix called him; she said it mockingly, but Severus saw the point.

The few remaining Death Eaters still rotting at the Manor sat scattered along the table. Dolohov scratched his nape; Rockwood studied his fingernails; Jugson and Travers murmured to each other louder than they thought. Rowle, Goyle, and the rest, shifted restlessly on their seats.

At the far end of the table, unaccompanied by his wife and son, Lucius stared at the ceiling.

Bellatrix was likely the only one still paying attention.

Pointless. Gruelling. These gatherings had stopped serving a purpose years ago.

The Dark Lord had won. Brittania Magica was his. The thrill was gone.

Discussing the war had become a drag.

The real Death Eaters were overseas, fighting it in the flesh. Those who still sat at this table were leftovers. Unimportant. Used and discarded. Kept up to date through these gatherings merely out of politeness.

Something about France, something about Russia, the Council this, the press that… Severus forced himself to appear interested.

He couldn’t look at Potter. The look on the boy’s face twisted his stomach and filled his throat with ash. His mouth went sour whenever their eyes met.

Pretty Potter, sad as night.

Severus tried not to think of him.

He tried not to think of him at all.

It was pointless.

His scent lingered on Severus’ skin everywhere he went.

It was unrelenting.

In two weeks’s time, they’d repeat.

The boy’s grunts haunted him when he brewed, his shallow breaths filled Severus’ mind until he found himself bent over a cauldron, retching, knowing he’d be puking his guts out were his stomach not constantly empty.

He couldn’t eat. A slice of bread here, a spoonful of soup there, water once in a while.

Every morning, he woke up to find his blankets kicked off the bed, and his sheets drenched in sweat. It had never been this bad.

Not even when Lily died.

The wax came off; Potter glanced up at the chandelier, waiting for more to drip. Severus caught his eye. The boy lowered his gaze.

Pretty Potter, surrounded by wolves.

Fuck you for birthing him, thought Severus the nights he’d be past caring. Fuck you for buggering James. Fuck you for doing this to me. You could have simply wanted me back and none of this would have happened.

He didn’t hate the boy. Not exactly. It ran deeper than that. He wanted Potter dead.

Potter was supposed to die—that’d been the plan.

Plans went to shit more often than not, especially in Severus’ life, and so here they were.

Fuck Lily and fuck you too, Severus screamed at him in his mind. You did this. Brittania Magica in its entirety is built on your cowardice.

How he’d love to strangle him. Hands wrapped around his delicate throat, squeezing mercilessly—

“A band of blood traitors were captured in Leeds last week… The Mudbloods they had been hiding were eliminated on-site.”

Potter stiffened.

“Harry, are you pleased to hear of our newest victory?"

“Yes, my Lord.”

It was what Potter was expected to say, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough when it came to the Dark Lord humiliating his war trophy for entertainment. “And what do you suggest we do with the blood traitors, Harry?”

Potter glanced around the room as if seeking help, before remembering there was no help to be found here. Hopeless. Pathetic. But he’d done this to himself, hadn’t he? Play along, now, Severus thought. Be a good little Death Eater and make your dead parents proud. “I couldn’t say, my Lord.”

“No, I insist.”

“I don’t—“

“I insist, Harry. I have faith in your judgement. Let their fate be in your hands. What do you decide?”

The boy looked at his hands, trying to decide. He shut his eyes. “To the camps, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord smiled. “To the camps, then.” He moved to rise, and instantly every chair scraped back. “One more thing.”

Everyone sat back down.

“I understand that our stay in your home has far exceeded its welcome, Lucius,”—Lucius turned, mildly startled—“but poor hospitality puts shame on you, and insults your Lord. Alchemist Clement has voiced his displeasure regarding last winter's inadequate heating. Corban has commented on the cold as well, and he, I might add, is the sole Death Eater to have earned a seat on the Council, unlike you, who petitioned for it eight times and was rejected every one of them. You have the summer months ahead to address this. I expect improvements to the Manor’s facilities before next winter arrives.”

“Our funds are limited, my Lord,” replied Lucius.

“The Council’s comfort is worth the expense.”

“The Malfoy vaults have served you well, my Lo—”

“And they must continue—“

“They’re empty, my Lord.”

“Your wife’s vault is not empty yet. Use it. And tend to the garden, it’s disgraceful. You are dismissed.”

Severus nearly groaned. Finally.

The Dark Lord was the first to sweep out of the room, followed closely by Lucius, who undoubtedly intended to beg for mercy. The Death Eaters dispersed; Severus should be on his way too.

Potter remained at the table, staring at his hands.

He wasn’t Severus’ business. Not anymore. Gone were the days of protecting Potter, or trying to. Nothing could be done for him now.

“Potter,” called Severus on his way out.

The boy turned his head, just slightly, without really looking at him.

But Severus had nothing to say. “Have a good day,” he muttered, and spent the rest of his evening mortified for having spoken to the boy at all.

That night, Severus headed down to Corsham, first by carriage and then by foot. He was to meet Goliath at the crack of dawn; sobriety until then was essential.

And yet. It couldn’t wait any longer. He needed Pip.

His hood was up, and his mask on; the Red Eye armband tight on his sleeve as he leaned on his cane and limped down the streets of Wiltshire.

Upon noticing him, the passersby stepped aside, or briefly bowed their respects before quickening their pace. No one dared linger around him; no one dared attract a Death Eater's attention.

Where the dirt road to the old town centre met the unlit backstreets, Severus took a turn. He passed a nailed-shut butchery, a burnt down bookshop, and found the alehouse of Madame Bobette.

Citterns and flutes were heard from its open windows, accompanied by the laughter and whistles of men calling to the barmaids and the whores. Barely past childhood, most of them were; Muggles, no doubt, spared from death solely for their beauty, and sold to Bobette’s at a fancy price to entertain the drunks.

It was the door behind the establishment that Severus had come for.

A cluster of glowing seekerflies buzzed around the handle, trapped in their search for something they could sense but couldn't spot. The door was invisible to them; one needed to know where to find it for one to see it—one needed to have been told that it led to a narrow staircase of black stone steps.

Down, Severus went, and down, down; deep under Wiltshire, into the hidden tunnels of the subterranean, where the Dark Lord was irrelevant, and Brittania’s laws mattered not.

Few cared for powerful wands down there when pocketknives could be sharpened to perfection with the simplest whetstone. No coin to spare for lavish poison when cheap variations of arsenic did the same job just fine.

Underground railways, sewers, bomb shelters—all had been sewn together by collective magic, stretched and expanded, fused into a tangled network of depravities: black-market merchants, extortionists, fortune-tellers and drug dens, gun dealers and gambling corners.

Its most infamous destination, in this part of town, was the Arena.

To reach it, Severus elbowed his way through the throngs until he found the main underground square: an ancient catacomb, enlarged to fit an open market with a wooden stage in its middle, a makeshift ramp onto which motorcyclists pulled stunts, and a crooked, swaying three-floor inn.

Severus turned left at a row of murtlap & chips vendors and slipped into a passage hidden behind a hanging bedsheet. Droplets of water landed on him from the leaking pipes above; graffiti and posters covered the walls. Voldemort Sucks Hippogriff Cock! and Fuck the King, mixed with the occasional, Magic is Might, and Blood Traitors Die.

Neon signs buzzed, arcade machines flashed, and towers of stacked tellies played a rotation of decades-old Muggle news and pornographic clips. Among the screens, a copy of the Council’s '99 Energy Ban had been propped up in a plastic frame.

Severus needn’t read it. He knew it by heart.

Electricity disrupts the natural flow of magic and constitutes the gravest crime against wizardkind. Any citizen found in possession of electrical equipment shall be arrested.

For months and months it had been everywhere. Nailed onto doors, carriages, trees, discussed on the wireless, splashed across the papers. Then the Dark Lord had given a speech, and the Red Eye tower had been erected, and the seekerflies infested every town and every street.

A mime dressed in sparkling-pink Death Eater robes blocked Severus’ way. He bowed deep and honked his clown nose twice. With a dramatic motion, he pulled a drumstick from his pocket and flicked his wrist, as if challenging Severus to a duel. Street dancers cheered; a wrinkled, one-eyed witch clapped her hands and roared with laughter.

Death Eaters were powerless underground; an easy target for good-natured teasing. They’d obliterate him if they truly believed him to be a threat, but in return the Death Eaters would burn this place down.

To break the peace benefited no one.

Severus brushed past the mime with a subtle nod. Whistling and booing followed him until he turned at another tunnel. He shoved a hand into his pocket and counted his gold.

In the depths of a sewer which was now a private, highly selective club known as the Arena, one could enjoy cherry vodka and a fine cigar for only twenty-eight sickles a serving.

(Braised pheasant was offered at a premium to those brave enough to have meat underground. Beware the flavour of cat and dog but don’t complain, lest you find yourself short a tongue. Next Sunday, the Arena might be offering their single-serve special to a lucky winner: tender beef tongue, slow-cooked.)

The underground had little patience for the sanctimonious. The entertainment the Arena provided, after all, made up for all its flaws: Muggles pitted against Muggles, all bets welcome.

Severus snapped his fingers and his mask faded away. He entered the Arena by passing his membership card through the scanner at the entrance, and seated himself near the back. His drink arrived by itself; his cigar and a box of matches materialised next to the ashtray on his table. The flyers found around the tunnels promised that tonight’s performance would be unmatched. 

Mudbloods Fight, You Delight!

Bet on the Unmagical, the Show is Fantastical!

Just in time, the candles on the tables went out. Stage lights turned on and the wrestling ring lit up. The ringmaster, a short, blocky man who wore a number of Muggle trinkets he’d collected over the years (a top hat, a dozen watches, Mickey Mouse floaties, god forbid) came forward and bellowed:

"Ladies, gents, and everything in between—welcome back!”

Severus sneered at the obnoxious chatter coming from a nearby table. He sipped his drink and slammed his glass down with intention. It was this lack of etiquette that distinguished the first-timers from the regulars, every time.

Respect was essential.

Severus wanted no distractions.

He was here to see.

He was here to watch.

He drained his glass and tapped the table with his forefingers. The glass flew off, and a fresh one appeared in its place.

He intended to be thoroughly plastered by the time the show ended.

He was to meet Goliath.

Sobriety was essential.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stay sober a second longer.

Two women were thrown into the ring: a Muggle housewife from Sussex, the ringmaster announced, and a partially-toothless crackhead (the ringmaster giggled uncontrollably at the word) from Stratford.

They wore knickers, and heavy iron crowns which had been fixed onto their heads with gun glue. (The ringmaster held said gun up for the patrons to see.) Chunks of their hair had been ripped off by the glue; thick lines of dried blood stained their scalps.

The crackhead won. The housewife lay bleeding when a butter knife was thrown into the ring, and a patron prompted her to decapitate her opponent.

It took a while.

Severus watched.

Potter did this, he thought. Potter did all of this, every last bit.

Lily did, by falling for that piece of shit.

By the fourth drink, his approach had shifted. I did this, he’d decided.

He should have told the boy what Dumbledore had intended for him to know. He should have found a way.

Every decision. Every step. Joining Voldemort, relaying the Prophecy, getting Lily killed. Everything he’d ever done had led to this. And so he watched. He watched religiously. He’d built this world, he’d hoped for it when he was just sixteen. He’d dreamt of power and the Dark Mark, and of Muggles being nothing but livestock.

He had no right to even blink.

He watched.

The crackhead held the housewife’s head up in victory. Some clapped. Most merely chuckled.

Bravo, bravo!

She’d get to live for another week.

Once, Severus dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes. He’d begged, in his heart, to be seen. To be welcomed. He had offered his arm and rejoiced when the Dark Lord branded it. He’d felt special. He’d felt powerful. The world was changing, and Severus was getting to be part of it.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and squeezed, rubbing him softly. Severus closed his eyes and sighed. He tilted his head back and leaned into the touch.

“Hi, love,” the boy breathed into Severus’ ear. He placed a chaste kiss on Severus’ cheek and rounded him to sit on his lap. Severus jerked his knee instinctively. The boy sat on the chair beside him instead.

He’d changed. His fire-tinted hair was longer, and a deep scar cut across his freckled cheek. “What happened there?”

“Silly story. Got chased by a seekerfly for bloody ages.” He held up his wrist to show him a bright blue digital watch. “I hopped a fence and stacked it. Daft, really. How have you been?”

Severus glared. Any man with a modicum of intelligence would effortlessly guess how someone like Pip had gotten a cut on the face. But Severus couldn’t save him, so whatever. He couldn’t save anyone.

“Are you free, after?”

Pip checked his watch and clicked his tongue. “Sure thing. The usual?”

“Yes.”

“That bad?”

“I’m watching, Pip. Be silent.”

An old man and his bearded son were dragged into the ring. The son had been put into a tight red dress; the father wore only a plastic trash bag. Severus emptied another glass. Vomit shot up his throat but he swallowed it back down.

Don’t blink. You don’t get to blink.

He had prayed every night for the Dark Lord to start a war and win it. He had prayed for it until the night Lily Potter died, and then he’d prayed for her death to mean something.

He’d told himself to trust Dumbledore’s plans. His faith in those plans been imperative: Harry was her last remnant on earth. Severus would rather die than see him hurt.

Now he’d fucked her last remnant on earth, and his only remaining faith revolved around his liver surviving fruit-flavoured vodka cut with levels of methanol that’d make arsenic blush.

Watch.

This was your dream. Enjoy.

The father refused to fight. This excited the patrons, who urged the son to finish him slowly. They shouted and wheezed, “Break his arms! Break his legs!”

Even after committing murder—even then—Severus had dared to hope that some part of his soul might make it to the afterlife one day intact.

There was no soul left in him anymore.

Soon there'd be nothing left in her remnant either.

Severus was done for. He was hollow. He was dead inside.

The verdict insisted: I did this. I am the very instigator of hell’s rise itself.

He clenched his teeth and he drank. He drank. He drank.

The ringmaster handed the son a hammer.

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down! Whilst bloody treason flourished over us!²

You watch this and it’s over. One never goes back to whatever one was before this.

O piteous spectacle! O woful day!²

Severus watched.

His stomach grumbled, and his eyes burned, and he drank.

He did not touch the cigar. He did not move. (Did he breathe? At all? Did he?)

I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!

The father perished in unbearable pain. The son, broken, sobbed by his side.

And the show went on, and on.

Severus found Pip in his room at the back of the Arena, when he was so drunk he swayed with each step and could barely hold himself upright. His cane was slippery in his grip, and heavy; his leg hurt like a sleazy, motherfucking bitch.

Pip had been waiting. He seemed sad. He always seemed sad before they started.

Severus shut the door quietly. Red light tinted the room and accelerated his nausea; it made it hard and painful for his eyes to focus. Severus shrugged off his cloak, threw it on the bed, then unbuttoned his coat. He stopped mid-way, readjusted his grip on the cane, and took a breath.

He couldn’t be human—it didn’t feel right. He surely wasn’t, not anymore.

Innocents were being butchered while Severus still had his freshly ground coffee every morning at eight o’clock sharp.

He sneered at the thought of his own heart beating. He threw his shirt on the floor, stepped out of his trousers, pulled down his pants. He faced the wall, let go of his cane and knelt. The cane clattered down, and his knees hit the floor.

So weak he was, so selfish, even now, that he had the nerve to wince, to react to his pain as if it mattered. He pressed his open palms on the wall and closed his eyes.

Pip exhaled sharply. He didn’t like this; he was good at it nevertheless. A spell was whispered and the whip appeared in Pip’s hand. Severus felt it crash against his back almost immediately after.

It cut into his skin. It burned.

He pitied Pip and he pitied himself. “Harder,” he said calmly.

“Let me suck you first,” replied Pip in a soft tone. He brushed Severus’ hair, tucked it behind his ears. He ran a knuckle across his nape.

“No need. Don’t stop.”

Pip kneeled behind him. He wrapped his arm around Severus’ waist and gently stroked Severus’ flaccid cock. “How about you lie on the bed first… We can have fun in better ways.” He kissed Severus’ shoulder. “You’ve got a beautiful cock, you know—“

“No.” Severus pushed Pip’s hand off of him. “Continue.”

Pip continued. He brought down the whip, again and again, until Severus’ back was covered in blood and he was gasping for air. His heart was caught in his throat; his muscles, slashed open, screamed in pain. I did this, he reminded himself, and the whip sliced his flesh and shredded it and he felt alive.

On his way back home (or whatever passed for home these days) he stopped by his usual supplier and traded three hundred galleons for a single sachet of morphine, because fuck if he’d bother brewing conventional painkillers for his leg ever again. Then he limped his way under Potley Lane Bridge and leaned against the stone wall, baring his teeth in pain. His shirt clung to his bleeding back; blood seeped through his trousers down to his thighs.

His cloak hid it well enough. He knew how to mask the pain, even when gravely intoxicated.

When Goliath appeared, he did not suspect Severus’ state.

“You're late," Severus remarked as Goliath climbed down the slope. His trainers slipped on the loose pebbles and raised a cloud of dust. He was taller than Severus now, and twice as broad; a thick beard obscured his muscular neck.

“I ran into Death Eaters,” panted Goliath, brushing dirt from his jeans.

“What? Where? Were you seen?”

“Down in Dorset. Yesterday. No. Just had to lay low for a bit.”

Severus dug into his pockets and handed him the healing potions he had prepared. “How is she?”

“Still sick.” Goliath shoved the vials into his backpack. “The fever’s cleared up, though.”

“Tell her one sip of the blue one, three times daily.”

“We need painkillers, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Or at least aspirins or something.” Goliath rummaged through his backpack and handed Severus a passport. “This one came to us last week. Nineteen, expecting, looking to flee. Then she started bleeding and she’s been in bed since. No clue if the baby’s still alive. You’d better sort some potions fast ‘cause I’m not sending her off on a boat like that. Alright?”

Severus gritted his teeth. “You overestimate my freedom to steal rationed ingredients, Goliath. I do what I can—“

“It’s not enough, though.”

Of course not. It never was. “How far along is she?”

“Eight months gone.”

The blood dripping down his back distracted him. Focus, Severus. Concentrate.

“France is not safe to go to now,” he said. “The French have refused to surrender their Muggle population—the Dark Lord has ordered another seaside assault—“ he briefly shut his eyes to keep himself from fainting, “It’ll get ugly. Don’t be surprised if your contact goes silent. Keep the girl here. Burn this.” He gave him the passport back. “She’s safer with you for now.”

Goliath made a face of utter determination—as if he would personally knock the Dark Lord’s teeth out with his bare fists if he could. “When are they attacking?”

“Wednesday,” said Severus tightly. Fuck, how he longed for the morphine! He could hardly wait! He wouldn’t touch it, though, not tonight; not after Pip; that would defeat the purpose. “You will redirect your boats to Belgium and urge your guests to keep moving north. Belgium won’t be safe for long either. The Dark Lord believes they will surrender themselves out of fear once France has fallen.”

“I don’t have a man in Belgium—”

“You don’t need one. You will send a raven to scan the coastline and I’ll do the rest. Don’t send an owl, they’re not as good.”

“Where am I to find a raven, then? Do I just hocus-pocus one out of my hat?”

“I’ll send one your way with the potions.”

Goliath nodded. For a brief moment, he seemed to suspect something was off with Severus; he eyed him up and down and frowned, but said nothing. He swung his backpack onto his shoulder, pulled on his hood, and asked, “How’s Harry?”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Are you asking or is she asking?”

Goliath shrugged. “She always asks.”

“Tell her what I always say, then. He’s alive.”

And off Goliath went—and Severus was again alone. He doubled over with a strangled gasp, one hand braced against the wall as his legs threatened to buckle.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

For a passing moment, he almost weeped.

He did not heal himself at the Manor, nor did he apply soothing balm on his wounds. He made no effort to alleviate the pain by laying down on his front as he had done last time.

He thought of Pip—his beautiful, red hair, and his freckles. He thought of the scar down his cheek—the certainty that one day someone would beat that boy to death for no reason at all. Horny, frustrated clients, looking for anything to fuck and break.

When Severus finally succumbed to sleep, he dreamt of ginger hair becoming black.

Of a golden sky, with a bright hot sun, slowly filling with ravens.

A sanctum sanctorum of shamelessness, a shrine of wickedness for all to see! The subterranean was no resistance. Not exactly. It thrived on the crippling, obsessional, fantastic essence of human nature. It clung to sin like the starving newborn to its mother's breast.

A city of thieves! A monstrous hive!³

Despite my persistent questioning during the Interview, Severus Snape never disclosed to me the name of his rent boy. In transcribing his confessions, I took the liberty of naming him Pip, in tribute to a Charles Dickens novel I once helped erase from existence³.

Severus never admitted to placing bets at the Arena either. With stunning anger, he assured me he would never, ever do such a vile, ugly thing.  

The Arena's logs say otherwise. 

Kneeling before the gaudiest toilet bowl he’d ever had the displeasure to vomit in, Harry heaved. His stomach lurched; bile shot up his throat, and he spat it into the water. Spittle clung to his chin. Another violent spasm of his body, and his breakfast shot out of him like a torrent. His shirt was damp; he gripped the bowl tighter and pressed his forehead against it.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

Dreamless Sleep on an empty stomach had never fucked him up this bad before. He should ease off of it; he didn’t need it, anyway. His dreams were fine. They weren’t nightmares. In most of them he was in Surrey.

(Dudley playing Mega Man 7 on his Super Nintendo, and Uncle Vernon trying on his business ties. Aunt Petunia, cooking beef.)

There were no dreams of Snape. Harry crushed them with a bump of Mist directly after ingesting his nightly Dreamless.

His stomach hated that. He heaved again and spat more bile into the bowl. 

It's okay. It's fine. 

He rose to his feet and stumbled toward the sink. He washed his face and rinsed his mouth. God—his reflection—he looked like shit—he combed his hair and slicked it back and barely managed a few breaths before he was sick again all over the sink.

His ears buzzed; his bones ached; at the corners of his eyes had welled tears. “Minky,” he called hoarsely.

An elf popped up beside him and bowed deeply. “How may Minky be of—”

“Change the sheets.”

The elf’s ears drooped. “Minky changed them this morning, Master! Minky washes the sheets twice a week—Minky uses lavender water—”

“Change them again.”

Five times he'd changed them in the past week and they still reeked of Snape. (Sweet marigolds, leather and sweat, Snape's sweat, Snape's, the fucking stench of his armpits, the grease of his hair, filthy strands of it falling on Harry's face, his warm breath hitting Harry's neck, his veiny cock throbbing in Harry's fist, his yellow, crowded, disgusting teeth, his awkward thrusts—)

"Minky begs forgiveness, Master Harry! Minky cannot be washing sheets now!"

“Too bad,” sneered Harry, “because I need them changed now—”

“Ohh!” Minky lowered her gaze in shame. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from speaking, but even so she still squeaked, "Minky can’t, Master! Minky must stop something terrible from happening in the kitchens! Minky has no time!"

Harry frowned at the dirty sink. For a moment he felt disoriented; then, through the haze, his mood suddenly perked up. He turned to the elf. "Really?"

It's okay. It is. 

Harry was good at it. Good at faking that he was fine. At pretending his feelings didn't exist, that he didn't exist at all. He washed his face a second time, gulped down a gastric soother, and stormed out the rooms, almost tripping over the elf.

He ran down the spiral servant steps, two at a time, then skipped the last three altogether and landed on the lower ground floor with a thud. Ahead of him were the kitchens, but Harry turned left instead: past the scullery, and the pantry, and down the passage leading to the house-elf quarters, until he reached a narrow corridor which led to a single wooden door. 

Harry knocked on it twice. Something was thrown at the door from the other side (a shoe or a book, Harry guessed) which he had learned to take as permission to enter.

Malfoy's bedroom was always cold, and dark save for a single floating candelabra. An iron bed frame with a sagging mattress occupied most of the space; rather than a proper headboard, a countryside painting had been propped up against the wall, now pushed aside to reveal a peephole seeing into the kitchens.

Malfoy lay on his stomach, watching.

“Minky just told me," said Harry, out of breath. He climbed onto the bed and lied down beside him. “What did I miss?”

“You missed it all, Potter. Your timing is abysmal, as bloody usual. Rockwood raided the cellar and broke Father’s last bottle of Schletters—a 1847, mind you—then Tippy tried to stop him and he flogged her with a broomstick.”

“What a perv.”

“Don’t be gross, Potter.”

“I’m not the one getting kinky with your house-elves, Malfoy.”

“Look at her,” whined Malfoy, “she’s all battered—Father imported these elves from Provence the year I was born, they're expensive—" an ugly sneer twisted his face, but he took a calming breath. “He deserves what’s coming to him. He'll see. They poisoned his breakfast after he left, that's why they're punishing themselves."

In the kitchens, house-elves levitated stacked plates to the sinks and sent fresh trays up the stairs. Harry spotted Tippy in a corner, crying hysterically and banging her head on the oven. Beside her, Wispy and Poppy screamed whilst they stood into a bucket of steaming water. Harry shifted closer to the peephole and saw a blue packet on the table. "That what they spiked it with?"

"I reckon it's spider venom—"

"That's just Bowel Blast."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. I can tell by the packaging. Have you never pulled a Bowel Blast prank on anyone? Hello?"

Malfoy stared at him blankly.

Harry blinked in disbelief. "What did your lot do in the Common Room?"

"Study...?" replied Malfoy reluctantly.

Behind them, the door opened and closed. Edric Yaxley looked down at them with an arched eyebrow. “Gentlemen,” he drawled, “move your arses.”

He plopped down onto the mattress and squinted at the peephole. His robes were immaculately pressed, despite the fact that the rest of him looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“You stink of booze,” Harry told him, eyes on the elves.

“And you stink of condescension, Potter. Move.” Harry scooted to the left. "What's up today?"

“They’re murdering Rockwood,” Malfoy informed him.

Edric gasped. "How delightful! I do hope they get creative. Throat-slitting is so banal."

Harry rolled his eyes. “They’re just making him shit his pants.”

“He might still die,” said Malfoy hopefully.

“You can't die from shitting your pants, Malfoy."

“Bollocks you can't," argued Edric. "With the slope they serve here I nearly shit myself to death three times a week." 

The three of them watched with fascination as Tippy removed her pillowcase, stepped into the scalding water and shrieked.

“Why’s her bottom—“

“Rockwood flogged her,” said Harry.

“On her bottom? Like a perv? They’re perving on your elves, Draco!”

“Oh, bugger off.” Malfoy made a face. “Merlin, you do stink of booze. I thought you had quit.”

Edric shook his head. “I’ll have you know that it’s medicinal. Necessary for dealing with a broken heart.” He glared at Harry, who bared his teeth at the sight of Tippy's rapidly blistering feet. “Are you deaf, Potter? I said my heart is broken.”

“Yeah, Malfoy told me.”

“You did?”

“He asked,” said Malfoy.

“I really didn’t,” Harry muttered.

“It’s her loss, really. When she hears that she’s been replaced—"

"Edric I swear," said Harry flatly, "if I hear about Rosie one more time this month I'm going to dive into blistering water myself."

"Calm your tits, Potter. I've moved on."

Harry and Malfoy gave him a look of disbelief, which Edric seemed to enjoy immensely. 

The kitchen grew quieter; most of the elves had gone upstairs now, and those left behind were cleaning quietly, pointedly avoiding Tippy and her gang.

Malfoy moved the painting back into place. 

Harry grabbed an apple from a basket near the bed—unbelievable that this room was still used for storage—and idly polished it on his shirt.

“Rosie understood me,” Edric blurted out. It was probably the most genuine thing he had ever told them.

And it was met with a pillow thrown at his face. Harry took a bite of his apple and watched as Draco launched himself at Edric, wrapping arms and legs around him like an octopus and pinning him to the bed. “You’re the only one who understands me, Rosie! Take me into your arms and—”

“Shut up!” Edric laughed, trying to squirm free.

“Oh Rosie! Yes, Rosie, faster! Just like that, Rosie! Bounce on it!”

“You insufferable prick—”

They crashed onto Harry, who choked on his apple. “Oi! Get off!”

He attempted to stand, but his cloak got caught under someone's knee, and he was violently yanked back against Draco's chest.

“Draco.”

Their laughter instantly died. At the doorway stood Lucius Malfoy, whose grey eyes swept over the three of them sprawled across the mattress.

“Father.”

Harry shifted away from Draco. Edric smoothed down his robes.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lucius’ voice was light, almost casual.

“We were just talking, Father.”

“Talking,” Lucius glared at Harry. “And what interesting conversations you must be having..." His lips twitched. "There are better uses of your time, Draco. And Edric—I do believe you’ve embarrassed your father enough.”

Edric nodded. “Yes, sir."

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Mr. Potter?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Strange,” Lucius said. “You must have somewhere to be... that isn’t my son’s bed.”

“This is Wispy’s bed, Mr. Malfoy. Your son’s is on the second floor. I sleep in it every night.” Draco’s elbow caught him in the ribs. Edric made a strangled sound.

Lucius’ lips quivered in disgust. His hand hovered over his wand holster. “Get up—from my son’s—bed!” 

Go on, punish me, Harry thought, glaring back at Lucius daringly. You can’t. You’re powerless.

(This was the definite, plain truth: Harry Potter was the Dark Lord’s. No one touched him.)

A dull clicking of wood against the stones, and Harry's heart jumped. Severus Snape appeared at the door, cane in hand. His eyes settled on Harry, whose smile froze on his face.

"What is this?” asked Snape.

"An exercise in poor judgment," replied Lucius. “Up, then!”

Draco sprung up. “Yes, Father."

Edric stood too.

Harry couldn’t. Snape was blocking the door, and Harry was numb, he couldn’t look up, couldn’t move, get lost, he thought, go the fuck away—

A million razors dug into his flesh, his arms hurt, his legs hurt, his face felt hot and something invisible constricted his chest, thick rope wrapping tighter, tighter—

“I’ll see you upstairs,” Snape told Lucius, and departed swiftly.

Harry shut his eyes.

“Mr Potter,” said Lucius impatiently.

Harry bolted. He ran to the stairs where Snape was still limping up and sprinted past him, barely breathing until he'd put two floors between them.

He gasped for air, but the air was tainted.

(Leather and marigolds, on Harry's clothes, his skin, his soul.)

The boys shared a bond.

Something lived there, between them, during those desperately lonely days, and despite their differences, kept them alive. Do you see it, as I saw it?

Can you fathom how it felt?

They shared a bond.

It never ripened.

It never turned into a friendship.

The Dark Lord saw to that. Do you wish to know what he did to them? To their bond?

Shall I tell you?

Bellatrix Lestrange was, had been since girlhood, excellent.

An excellent daughter: her manners were of the fashionable world; her company, pleasant and intriguing. After Hogwarts, this attracted a number of wizards who, eager to tame her, had sought her hand in marriage.

There had only ever been one man she desired. But she married the man her father chose.

An excellent servant to her Lord: She was His. They were one. She forgave Him for occasionally forgetting so. She knew His indifference could not be the result of infidelity—she’d made sure of that, for He was hers, and He would see that one way or another. She loved Him for who He was, despite His ruthlessness, despite His faults.

A excellent mother, for she was laying the groundwork, sowing the seeds of a new world—the one her daughter deserved. 

Bellatrix was excellent.

It was hardly surprising that Andromeda looked at her now as though she were anything but. Bellatrix was accustomed to this injustice. She might have even taken offence, had it not come from a blood-traitor.

“What are you doing here, Bella?”

Wind tore at the trees, and rain battered the earth; Bellatrix was soaked to the bone. “Delphini,” she rasped, snatching the girl from Andromeda’s arms and clutching her to her chest.

Delphini thrashed like an angry cat. "LET ME GO!" She kicked Bellatrix hard, and reached for Andromeda who leaned forward—

“Don’t!” Bellatrix bared her teeth. “Stay away!” Her nails dug into Delphini's arms while the girl thrashed against her.

"ANDY!"

“Delphini—its me—I’m here, Delphi—I came—“

“PUT ME DOWN!" Delphini slapped her face. Bellatrix's eyes went wild. Her grip tightened—then slackened.

She lowered Delphini to the ground with shaking hands. The girl bolted to Andromeda, who dropped to her knees to soothe her. 

"She got my new pyjamas all wet!" Delphini pointed at Bellatrix. "Look, they’re ruined!"

“We’ll fix it up, love—“

"You dare defy me!" Bellatrix's voice shook. No one paid her any mind.

“There’s paint on them! She stained them!”

Andromeda ran her fingers through Delphini's curls and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Let's get you changed, alright?” She took Delphini's hand and guided her toward the stairs.

Bellatrix lunged after them and seized Delphini’s arm. “Delphini, come here—"

“NO!”

"Don't you pull away from me! You can't hit a Black—your own MOTHER—“

"Delphi, love," Andromeda cut in, stepping between them, "go pick out your pyjamas. I'll be there in—"

"You don't get to dismiss my daughter, Andromeda—“

"The ones with the bears? Can I wear the ones with the bears?"

“ENOUGH!” Bellatrix shoved past Andromeda. "Delphini—"

"Yes, love. Top drawer—"

“I said STAY!”

“I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, GO AWAY!” Delphini bolted up the stairs and banged her bedroom's door close. 

This tale was old; a rite of passage for every Black, a necessary step out of childhood. A riddle in nine syllables⁵ wasted on girls who never wanted, never knew how to love their mothers back. Druella had tried it three times over. 

Three times she'd failed to make her daughters love her.

"You've turned her against me.” Bellatrix's voice shook. She pointed her wand at Andromeda's throat. "You're nothing to her, just a temporary caretaker—but you've poisoned her mind thinking it'll help you keep her."

Andromeda sighed.

“You’d wish,” Bellatrix spat. “You’d wish you had offspring like her, with the Dark Lord’s blood in her veins. What you got instead was a Mudblood daughter who fell for a drooling beast and got tossed in a grave—“

“You’re covered in blood,” Andromeda said tiredly. She gestured toward the bathroom. “Wash up and we’ll talk.”

Andromeda never understood. Cissy couldn’t, either.

Wash? After a raid? Erase the evidence of her victory? The blood of traitors under her nails was her trophy. The scratches on her arms and throat, her prize.

Mudbloods were of no worth, yes, but in her hands they found purpose. Their flesh became holy tribute, a sacrificial offering only for Him: Her Lord, her King, future sovereign of Brittania Magica, ruler of all. And their screams! Oh, their screams—sweet hymns to His glory, godly chantings for His reign.

Bellatrix was excellent—and far from heartless. She understood Mudbloods had feelings—or, some instinctive mechanism that greatly resembled them. They had no souls, no worth—but still they experienced echoes of pain, much like mice squeaking in terror, or insects on fire.

She respected that pain deeply. She honoured it with her complete attention whilst she took their lives. Relished their end in hedonistic pleasure. Made them matter.

“I’m quite clean, thank you,” Bellatrix said.

Andromeda’s mouth twitched in disgust. “I’ll help her change," she said, moving toward the stairs.

Bellatrix stepped forward. "I'll do it—“

"No, you won’t. You will wait here. And if you ever speak ill of Nymphadora again I'll split you open and stuff your heart down your throat. Don’t follow me.”

Rain struck the windows in Andromeda's parlour.

A dying fire cast shadows across the floor; Bellatrix perched on the sofa, while her sister leaned on the mantlepiece.

Cold tea sat untouched in their cups. The set was the same one they drank from when they were little. Druella’s favourite; surprising that Cissy didn’t demand that she be the one to keep it.

Selfish, spoiled Cissy. Cissy with the rich husband and the Manor, and the perfect life.

Bellatrix snorted. Andromeda’s face hardened.

Cissy with nothing. Not even Druella’s fucking teapot.

Bellatrix with nothing.

Andromeda with nothing.

“You’ve turned her against me."

“She misses you, Bella. She’s protecting herself.”

“I am her mother.”

“And she’s angry. Give her time.”

Bellatrix looked at her hands, which she’d washed whilst Andromeda changed Delphini and tucked her in. Her skin carried the vile scent of artificial lemons and thyme; an awful, bile-green liquid soap dispensed from a plastic bottle, which flaunted its Muggle cheapness with three separate 50% off stickers on it.

Her robes had been Scourgified. Blood stained the hem still, drenched as she’d been until earlier this evening, but it’d gone dry.

She’d have gone to the Manor and slept with the blood on her until morning.

What a shame.

She stretched her leg and accidentally kicked away a building block. The carpet was strewn with them; bright, plastic cubes in various shapes and sizes, as well as dolls and soft toys. Drawings covered the kitchen door.

“I do not permit Muggle toys.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“My daughter will not be raised with Mudblood filth, any of these things could contain batteries, should a seekerfly catch her with electronics—"

“You should have owled me before coming here.”

Bellatrix shook her head. “You don’t decide when I can see her.”

“It was bedtime and you distressed her—“

“I don’t care—“

“Yes, exactly!” Andromeda dropped to the armchair across from her and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Exactly, Bellatrix, you don’t care.”

Bellatrix tilted her head. “Are you patronising me, Andy? After everything I have done for you?”

Andromeda’s head snapped up. “You and your lot have done nothing for me—don’t flatter yourself now to ease your conscience, you know what you are—“

“I convinced the Dark Lord to let you live—“

“He commanded the death of my daughter and grandson, Bellatrix!”

And how kind he’d been, to send them to the camps, when he could have given them to Bellatrix instead to play with! How happy she’d have been to wash the shame off her family, to kill the girl who’d mucked about with an animal, who let it breed her like a common bitch! “Andy! They were in the Order—“

“Teddy was ten months old.” Her voice was flat as she stared straight at Bellatrix, who stopped herself from saying more.

The truth was this: Teddy would have grown. He would have become a man. He would have married, bred, passed his canine blood down to another baby, spread his wolf blood to their nation.

But Andromeda did not care for the truth.

“Nymphadora was a traitor. She gave Him no choice—but He spared you!” Bellatrix sprung up and bolted to sit beside her. “Sister, listen—He spared you, forgave your crimes—“

Andromeda rose sharply and stepped away. “I agreed to raise my niece not out of any obligation to you, but because I feared for what she’d become in your care. Your Lord didn’t spare me out of kindness. He did it for himself. Who else would take care of his bastard, were I dead? Do you really think he would let you keep her?”

"The Dark Lord will Mark her and claim her, as is her birthright—“

“Is that the life that you want for her?”

"That's the only life," Bellatrix snarled. “She is His heir."

“That man has ruined you.”

How absurd, to refer to the Dark Lord as just a man. He’s a God, she wanted to object, but knew Andromeda wouldn’t believe her. She wouldn’t sense His beauty in her bones, His power in her veins.

“He’ll claim her,” she repeated. “Right after France and Italy—“

“He doesn’t want her, Bella.”

“You don’t know him!” Bellatrix stood up, so they were face to face. “Not like I do. The idea is fresh to him—“

“It’s been years!”

“—and He’s busy—when He takes her under His wing everything is going to change—“

“Nothing is going to change. Nothing is going to happen. The only reason he lets her live is to keep you leashed. Cross him once and see what will happen to her.” Andromeda gathered the teacups and took them to the kitchen.

"I'm going up," Bellatrix announced to no one in particular. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

Delphini's room was warm, lit only by a small candle. Delphini was awake; upon seeing her mother, she turned on her other side and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Bellatrix kicked her boots off and draped her cloak over a chair. She slipped under the covers and drew Delphini close.

Delphini didn't stir. “Were you fighting because of me?”

Bellatrix pressed her face into Delphini's curls and smelled her. “We weren’t fighting.”

“You’re always lying. You missed my birthday.”

“I had something important—“

“Leave, then.” Delphini rolled over to look at her. A green dragon teddie was clutched in her arms. “If you can’t be here when I want you to, then don’t come at all. I hate you.”

Bellatrix huffed. “You’re rude like a skunk."

“And you’re bad.”

(Bellatrix was, had always been, excellent.) “I’m not bad,” she said defensively.

“Yes, you are. You’re the worst. You’re the worst in the whole world, and if there are other worlds then you’re the worst there too.”

Her excellence, it seemed, had failed to meet Delphini’s standards.

“Tell me about him.”

“Hm?”

Delphini nudged her. “Tell me about him.”

Bellatrix sighed. “Your father is magnificent. All-powerful. He’s King of the world.”

“Does he wear a crown?”

“No.” Bellatrix smiled. “His greatness exceeds physical symbols of power. He has no need for them, he has rejected them.”

“Does he have a palace?”

“Palaces are for gaudy, greedy little men… Your father is humble. He has merely a room."

“He’s boring like you. He’s the worst.” Delphini bit her lip, thinking. “Does he love me?”

“Yes,” said Bellatrix after a moment. “Yes, he does. Very much.”

After that night, Bellatrix Lestrange began to fear for her daughter's life. 

Her growing anxiety regarding the future inevitably drove her to engage in a secret exchange of letters with a fortune-teller of questionable repute, to whom she feverishly scrawled details of her disturbing dreams, seeking to derive from them astrological meaning.

In 2011, during my deranged attempt to heave her old armoire off a window in Malfoy Manor, in order to make space for no less than fifty-eight boxes of Penguin Classics, I discovered her letters tucked into a hidden drawer. 

I read them all—and through them I discovered that, in her sleep, she saw the Dark Lord not as God, but as a Titan, unwrapping her infant daughter's swaddles and sinking his teeth into her tender flesh.⁶

She dreamt of blood beneath her fingernails, unsure of whose it was.

She dreamt of herself, kneeling and offering her Lord a sack of stones.

The fortune-teller, unaware that her anonymous client’s paramour was the Dark Lord himself, had asked her: would she be willing to feed her lover stones to save her child?

In a frantic scrawl, Bellatrix had responded: He’d never hurt her, you sleazy, cunt-licking whore.

“The weather seems wonderful,” said Dumbledore with a smile. “Am I in the countryside?”

“Malfoy Manor," Narcissa replied. She sat on the floor, leaning against a ceramic pot and holding on her lap a cup of tea. “Your original portrait was burned during the reformation. I’ve told you this six times today alone.”

Dumbledore tilted his head. His canvas was propped against a wooden stool; the fresh paint glistened still where she’d corrected the length of his nose. “Oh? Was Hogwarts reformed?"

“Everything was reformed.” Narcissa studied him carefully. Had she missed something in the enchantments? But the canvas was perfect. The spells, exact. “The Dark Lord has won. England is his. Soon he'll be crowned and rule as king. I painted you so that—“

“And I confessed myself honoured, dear Narcissa—though it does make one wonder how dreadfully idle you must have been—surely a lady of your station has more agreeable diversions?"

“Yes I painted you, many times.” She flicked her wand and a cabinet door swung open. Failed Dumbledores stared out, stacked against each other, some on canvases and some on parchment. “You’re the first one to come alive.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “I see that the shape of my nose has been a particular challenge," he said thoughtfully. "Alas! With practice comes mastery—"

"Listen.” Narcissa leaned forward. “The Dark Lord has taken over my home. His royal Council, his Blades—his guards—the Death Eaters as well, they’re all here. He's taken my bridal suite for himself and given my son's chambers to Potter." Her voice remained steady, but her knuckles whitened around her wand. "My son sleeps amongst the house-elves whist the Dark Lord dispenses his inheritance to whatever he pleases."

“But this is wonderful news," said Dumbledore. "You're very fortunate to have royalty under your very roof. I imagine Lucius must be pirouetting with joy—“

"My husband is miserable. He surrendered our legacy. He’s lost everything. I've lost everything. Listen—you must tell me what the plan is.”

A pair of smudged eyebrows knitted together.

“The plan, Dumbledore!”

“The plan?”

There had to be a plan. There had to be something. “My son faces two choices,” she said, moving closer to the portrait. “Swear himself to celibacy and join the Archivists, or be sent to the war to die. Either way, his life is over. You must have a plan. You’re Dumbledore. You’re the only man the Dark Lord ever feared.”

Dumbledore made a squeaky sound, as if she’d just said something amusing. “While it is always a pleasure to be reminded of my own brilliance… I am afraid I can hardly be of help from beyond the grave. Might I suggest turning to someone alive?”

“No one else has the power to end this.”

“You mentioned young Harry—“

“Harry Potter took the Mark years ago.”

“Ah. I see. ”

“Look—I just want the plan—“

“What plan?

Narcissa sighed into her hands. “A plan that might enable me to get Draco out of the country."

A book appeared in Dumbledore’s hands; he settled further into his armchair and flipped it open. “Would you mind painting me a bottle of brandy, if it isn’t too much to ask? Ogden’s Finest, perhaps?”

He wasn’t right. She’d have to try a different spell. She’d have to paint another Dumbledore. Merlin, this one had taken her months, now to start over…!

“Maroon would do fine for the bottle. Dark green for the label. That brush over there seems excellent for the task.”

“The Dark Lord has won,” she said sharply. She grabbed the painting with both hands, leaning until her face was inches from Dumbledore’s. “France is under attack. There are negotiations with Italy. Russia is preparing for world war. We’ve been ridiculed, removed from our quarters, our gold forcefully taken, my clothes given to Bellatrix—“

“How dreadful.”

“Yes, I know you don’t get it,” she snapped. “You think I am shallow for grieving my gold while people die. But it was my gold. Mine. Anything that was ever mine now belongs to him and I’m left with nothing. The Dark Lord took everything.”

Dumbledore turned a page on his book. “Are you conspiring against your king, Narcissa?”

“I—well—no—“

“Are you hoping for his downfall?”

“No, but—“

“Do you wish to start a rebellion?”

Narcissa remained silent.

“You do.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Just as well,” replied Dumbledore. "A Death Eater's wife would hardly inspire the resistance's trust."

She couldn’t start a rebellion. The thought alone was preposterous.

But perhaps… “Perhaps I could reach out to the rebels.”

She could do it anonymously. Arrange everything herself, then have them smuggle Draco abroad. But how? Where did one even find those people?

"Had you painted me with finer oils," Dumbledore sighed, "I would have conjured the brandy myself.” He closed his eyes in deep concentration and lifted his hand. A faint, translucent drink appeared, then faded before it reached his lips. He sighed disappointedly. "Quality materials make all the difference."

“I am telling you that I’m desperate, and you—“

"And these robes lack detail," he went on, smoothing down the front of said robes with care. "The original had yellow moons at the sleeves." He pointed at his plain purple cuffs. "Quality oils would have filled those in."

Narcissa hurled her mug across the floor; tea splashed everywhere as it broke. She pushed herself up, grabbed a handful of empty oil tubes and threw them at Dumbledore’s face. She leaned over the table, clutching at the roots of her long hair.

“Narcissa.” Dumbledore’s voice was calm.

“What? What do you want?”

“You need better oils.”

“I’m done painting Dumbledores.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Then it is time to paint something else.”

CITATIONS

1. "When in trouble or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout!^" (In reference to the cases of stress-induced paranoia among naval officers in World War II.) Herman Wouk. “The Caine Mutiny” 1951. No copies of this book survive.

2. "Then I, and you, and all of us fell down! Whilst bloody treason flourished over us! O piteous spectacle! O woful day!" (This is Mark Anthony's impassioned plea to the Roman crowd: by killing Caesar, they'd destroyed Rome.) Shakespeare, William. “Julius Caesar.” 1599. Fifty copies (nine of which are in acceptable condition) successfully reached Norilsk in 2006.

3. "A city of thieves! A monstrous hive!" (In reference to the Court of Miracles, otherwise known as the hidden underworld of Paris.) Hugo, Victor. “Notre-Dame de Paris.” 1831. Six copies in English and one in French were smuggled out of Brittania in 2007, but a storm damaged them greatly. Three English copies survived. The original French text is now considered lost.

4. Dickens, Charles. “Great Expectations.” 1861. No copies of this book survive.

5. “A riddle in nine syllables” (in reference to the nine months of pregnancy.) Plath, Sylvia. "Metaphors." 1960. A handwritten copy survives still, and is owned by a friend whose name I shall not disclose.

6. After becoming king of gods, Cronus learned that he was destined to be overcome by his own children, and thus proceeded to devour them all. When his sixth child was born, Rhea handed Cronus a swaddled stone which he promptly swallowed, thinking that it was his son. Hesiod. “Theogony.” 730–700 BC. No copies of this book survive.

Chapter Text

By April’s full moon, half of France had been conquered.

Normandy had fallen after sixty-eight days of siege; Cherbourg’s defences had surrendered; the Belgian forces had retreated.

Paris remained impenetrable. Its ancient wards had awoken, and repelled the enemies who dared approach them.

This infuriated the Dark Lord to no end, and led him to a series of grave mistakes.

Master Archivist Dominic Wimer

“...picked Snape, of all people, the worst goddamn bastard—“

“Is that your concern, Harry? Your Redeemer’s character?”

“I’ve done nothing requiring redemption!”

Harry and the Dark Lord stood at opposite ends of the desk in Harry’s chambers; Godelot’s book lay open between them on the page of the Transference’s incantation.

“Do you have a preference, then? Enlighten me; who shall I order to bed you? Who do you imagine would pleasure you most? Avery? Goyle?”

“Fuck you,” Harry spat.

The Dark Lord smiled. “In time.”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. My Lord,” said Harry hoarsely, “I’ve done everything. I have no intention of fighting you. I pose no threat to you. You needn’t take my magic, I don’t care for it, I haven’t used it in years, I don’t even have a wand—”

The Dark Lord rounded the desk and seized Harry’s chin. “How remarkably naive one must be to think that quarrelling with the Dark Lord might result in success!”

“I can’t do it!” Harry shoved his hand away and staggered back. He’d kneel, he’d beg if he had to—he surged forward and grabbed the Dark Lord’s hand in his. “I can’t do it. I can’t—”

Someone knocked on the door. Nagini, who lay coiled on the four-poster bed, lifted her head and hissed, "The potions-maker has arrived.”

“No, please—my Lord—“

“Come in, Severus.”

The switch to English sent Harry's head spinning. He hadn't noticed they'd been speaking in Parseltongue until that moment.

Leaning on his cane, Snape entered the chamber and bowed his head. “My Lord.”

Harry imagined running. Running to the door, and down the corridor, the stairs, the hall, the gardens, until he reached the gates. He’d find them locked, he knew that—but the dignified thing would be to try. Why was he standing there if running was what he should do?

Why wasn’t he sprinting?

Because I’m a coward, that’s why, he thought hatefully. “You can’t keep doing this to me,” he hissed to the Dark Lord in Parseltongue. “You can’t keep torturing me like that.”

Snape’s eyes darted between them. “Is everything alright, my Lord?”

“Yes, yes…” The Dark Lord picked up Godelot’s grimoire and walked to the sitting area. “The boy and I were merely chatting. Assume your positions.”

Harry moved to the desk and poured himself a glass of whisky. How nice it burned—how soothing it was—

He poured another. What the bloody fuck are you staring at, he thought, sensing Snape’s gaze. Take your eyes off of me. You’ve no right looking at me—

Go fuck yourself—

Snape was pathetic. He was trash. Absolute fucking trash.

Harry filled up his glass a third time and drained it. Something was off with his heart; beating too fast, or too slow, he couldn’t tell—hammering against his ribs then stopping altogether. His shirt collar felt suffocating. His belt, too fucking tight.

Whisky spilled down his front when he gulped the fourth or fifth glass.

“Assume your positions,” repeated the Dark Lord.

Harry braced himself against the desk. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let Dumbledore’s killer touch him again, show Harry he’d won, rub that victory to his face.

My magic is mine. My body is mine. My magic is mine my body is mine my magic is mine my body is mine—

Harry seized the bottle and hurled it at the wall. It crashed and shattered, spraying whisky everywhere. What if he grabbed one of the shards? If he sliced the Dark Lord’s invisible throat open? What if he sliced Snape’s?

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” hissed the Dark Lord in Parseltongue.

Nagini slithered off the bed and wound around Harry’s legs. “Scaredy-cat,” she said. “Crybaby.”

They’d force him, if he didn’t comply. They’d hold him down, punish him, curse him—

Harry stepped over Nagini and moved to where the Dark Lord waited. He pressed his palm to Snape’s chest and felt the steady beat of his heart.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It won’t always do that, Harry thought. One day it’ll stop. One day I’ll kill you, and I’ll place my hand on your chest, just like that, and there’ll be nothing.

Snape moved his cane to his left hand and placed his right one over Harry's heart. Harry swayed; the room tilted with each blink.

“Incipiamus!” The Dark Lord pressed his wand to Harry’s hand, and the air crackled. A strand of light burst from Snape’s chest, as it had the first time. A second one spewed out of Harry’s, tearing through him as if someone had punched a hole through his ribs.

The Dark Lord began to chant. Harry stared at Snape. Strands of their magic danced between them before merging into a sphere of light.

Die, Harry thought with all his might, daring Snape to dive into his mind and see it. Die, you son of a bitch, die, hang yourself or slash your wrists or something.

Snape turned his gaze away.

The sphere split into identical smaller orbs, which slowly descended and sank into their chests. Harry’s heart kicked in pain.

“The conduit is open,” said the Dark Lord. “You may proceed.” With a flick of his wand, the chandelier flames were extinguished, and a handful of floating candles materialised around the bed. He seated himself on his armchair, and Nagini slithered behind him to drape herself across his shoulders.

The room wasn’t dark enough. Harry could still see Snape clearly.

Part of him wanted it pitch-black. Another feared what Snape might do to him in total darkness. He sat on the bed and kicked off his boots. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Snape working on the buttons of his coat.

“If he gets starkers I’m leaving,” hissed Harry in Parseltongue.

“Don’t be rude,” the Dark Lord hissed back, grinning. “Poor Severus doesn't get many opportunities like this… Let him enjoy himself."

Harry yanked down his trousers and pants together, and kicked them off in a tangle. He lay back and fixed his gaze on the ceiling.

The mattress dipped. Fabric rustled; knees shuffled closer. Warm fingers touched Harry’s thigh. Harry jerked his leg violently without meaning to. He released a breath. He wasn’t drunk enough; he could still think, still feel—

The grip on his thigh tightened, and the view of the ceiling was suddenly blocked by Snape’s hideous face looming above him.

At least he’d only removed his coat.

Harry turned his head to the side.

The clink of a belt buckle; then a zip, pulled down sharply. Snape’s breath hit Harry’s face. The shadow of movement, as Snape stroked his cock. “My Lord, if I may use a lotion of my own creation…”

“Make yourself comfortable, Severus.”

Harry’s legs were forced apart. Knuckles brushed against Harry’s bits—

“Don’t do that!” Harry shoved Snape’s hand away.

A sharp exhale—as if Snape was offended. Yeah, fuck off, thought Harry. Die and rot before anyone finds you. Eat shit.

Snape pulled a vial from his pocket and uncorked it. The cloying scent of sandalwood hit Harry’s nostrils. Oiled fingers probed his arse.

Harry needed a bump. The wrap of Mist sat right there, in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. So close and so far away! He was such an idiot. Should've sorted himself before the Dark Lord arrived.

Too late now—and Snape for sure was taking his time fiddling with Harry down there.

“Just get on with it.” Harry squirmed away form the finger and tossed his glasses aside.

Snape slicked his cock, which was still flaccid, and rubbed the head against Harry’s hole.

At least he didn’t reek of sweat like last time. Had he washed for this? Harry pictured Snape in the shower, scrubbing off days of grime for the exclusive purpose of fucking him.

The whisky sloshed in his stomach. Bile rose in his throat.

(But he’s the Chosen One, whispered the masses after it became known that the boy had taken the Mark. The Boy Who Lived, what a shame! What a shame!

Such cruel entitlement! Did they think him above mortal weakness? Did they demand he die a hero rather than live on his knees? Do you know what becomes of those who deny their gods?)

“Our friend is struggling,” mused the Dark Lord in Parseltongue when minutes passed and Snape was still soft. “Perhaps you should give him a hand… or a mouth.”

Harry pretended he hadn't heard. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for Snape to get it up.

A hand pressed into the mattress beside Harry's face.

Don’t scream don’t shout don’t scream don’t shout don’t scream—

(Haven’t I told you that we all did?)

A smooth, steady motion, and the spongy tip of Snape’s cock breached Harry briefly. It slipped back out when Harry clenched. Snape guided it back in, and swore when it slipped out again. He shifted closer. Gripped the underside of Harry’s knees, spread his legs wider.

“Stay like that,” he murmured. He roughly circled Harry’s hole with a finger, then lined up his cock and pushed.

Half of it lodged inside Harry with a single thrust. Harry cried out as his body jerked toward the headboard.

Fuck, fuck—oh God, the pain—

Oh God—he couldn’t—

I’m fine, Harry told himself as Snape fucked him into the mattress. I’m fine, I can do this, I’m fine, the Dark Lord will heal the damage, it’s okay, I can take it, it’s fine—

“PLEASE!” The scream that escaped Harry’s lips sounded like a wail. He shoved Snape away and curled onto his side, pressing his face into the mattress. He was crying; why was he crying? Why was he making so much noise? He had to stop—to control himself right now—

“Continue, Severus.”

“Please!” sobbed Harry. “I CAN’T!”

“Severus.”

Undisturbed, Snape pulled Harry back to him, and continued.

“The Chosen One! The Chosen One!”

Yes, yes—but look at what he’d been chosen for.

Snape came, at some point; Harry wasn’t sure when exactly. He’d drifted away; distracted by some distant thought about Godric’s Hollow, some fantasy about a family dinner that never happened, with parents he’d never known.

Snape rolled off of him and collapsed beside him, massaging his bad leg between heavy breaths.

Harry's chest exploded. Pain spread down his abdomen and up his throat, so intense that he doubled over, clutching at his sternum.

The Dark Lord stormed to him and seized his shoulder. “What is it? What are you feeling?”

A sphere of light tore from Harry’s heart, connected to him by a golden thread. The Dark Lord released him. Harry hissed; it felt as if sinew itself were being stretched away from his flesh. The thread snapped, and the sphere floated to Snape. It hovered above Snape’s chest, as if briefly uncertain, then descended into his heart.

“Get up,” said the Dark Lord.

“One moment, my Lord, my leg—“

“Not you. You.” He pulled Harry from the bed and dragged him to his feet. A wand was thrust into his hand. “Summon your Patronus.”

Harry struggled to grip the wand. When had he last held one? The room spun at a sickening speed. He dropped to his knees.

“Up.” The Dark Lord pulled Harry's arm, but Harry swayed and fell again as soon as he stood. The Dark Lord left him there. “Cast something. Cast your Patronus. Now.”

Snape, who had sat up on the bed, watched intently.

Harry’s hand trembled. “Expecto,” he mumbled—“Expecto Patronum.”

His stag did not appear. Only a faint wisp of mist emerged in its place, but even that dissipated almost instantly.

“Try Incedio,” the Dark Lord commanded.

Harry aimed at the dying fireplace. “Incedio!” A single spark shot from the wand's tip, and the charred wood in the hearth came alive.

He’d made it! He’d made it, he’d cast something, after years—

The wand was snatched from his hand and pocketed away.

“Never mind! We shall continue next month,” said the Dark Lord. “Thank you, Severus, you are dismissed—“

“Lumos,” Snape murmured.

The room was bathed in a soft, gentle glow. The Dark Lord grinned. Harry’s heart sank.

Light bloomed from the tip of Snape’s finger.

He was not holding a wand.

Long have I agonised over the telling of Harry's tale—for this tale is Harry’s, more than it is anyone else’s—and over the accusations you, reader, might hold against me.

The first crime of which you might accuse me is treason to the Dark Lord—for writing these pages you’re now holding.

The second is treason to Harry. (For what right have I to unearth these private moments of humiliation from their rightful grave? How dare I show you Harry Potter’s disgrace?)

The first accusation I shall simply deny—one cannot betray what one never truly served.

I deny the second accusation also. You must be told everything.

Edric Yaxley knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was handsome.

This he could see in the mirror all right, and also confirm by the admiring glances he received from ladies and gentlemen alike.

His light brown hair might have been blonder, true—and his green eyes were dark, often mistaken for brown. But he was tall, and well-built (thank you, Mighty Muscle Magic Mix, twelve galleons per vial), and the gold on his fingers and wrists adequately displayed his wealth.

This was why he couldn’t quite grasp why Rosie preferred the company of others over his. He was well-endowed too, or so he’d been told, (thank you, Size Surprise Syrup for Sorcerers) and that his sharp jaw and curly hair were reminiscent of Ancient Greek beauty.

The coin she made by whoring herself to nasty old drunks was crumbs compared to what he could offer.

She could retire.

He urged her to. “I’d give you anything, Rosie. Everything your heart desires.”

Sitting on the bed, Rosie dipped the tiny brush into the cherry-red lacquer, wiped the excess on the rim, and continued painting her toenails.

“Anything, Edric? Everything?” Her tone was derisive. “And what would I do with everything? Free myself from Bobette to be chained to you instead?”

Propped on his elbow, Edric toyed with her dark curls. “There’d be no chains,” he said. "You'd live like a queen—"

"Oh?” Rosie lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was the Blades who killed the Queen?"

He withdrew his hand. “You speak like a blood-traitor."

"Maybe I am."

"I could have you arrested for even saying that."

“Have me arrested.”

Part of him wanted to hit her. She was arrogant, and hardly anything to look at—especially if put beside him. They made an unsightly match, what with her being so short and well-padded around the hips, and so loud when she laughed—not to mention the pockmarks on her face and arms.

She had no right to reject someone like him. He was a Yaxley. She was nothing. She wasn’t even Rosie—Merlin knew what her real name might be, how unattractive it might sound.

Perhaps it was Abigail or Bertha.

Soon he’d become a proper Blade—his life would be all about assassinations and secret missions. He’d have power, he’d be feared—she’d be protected if they married, couldn’t she see that?

She wiggled her toes and glanced at the clock on the wall. “You should be on your way before your father suspects.”

“I told Malfoy I’m seeing someone else. Word will spread.”

“Your father knows you.”

Good. Then he should know that Edric wouldn’t back down until Rosie was his.

Your relations with that whore have cost me, he’d told Edric over a month ago as he’d slammed his fist on the desk. Lost a job to fucking Snivellus, of all people—passed over for the cripple because I had to waste my time cleaning up after you!

Blah, blah.

Sooner of later, Father would realise that she was the one.

“You’re kicking me out again,” Edric said.

“I’d rather not get in trouble with the Master of Magical Law himself.”

“Is that it, or do you have another appointment?”

Rosie sighed. She placed the lacquer on the bedside table and turned to kiss him. He couldn’t help it; he kissed her back. “I want you,” he murmured. “I want to be with you constantly.”

Rosie kissed his jaw. “You are so handsome when you’re jealous.”

“Rosie, please—leave this place—come with me. I would kill for you, I would die for you.”

He gripped her waist, and she hopped onto his lap, keeping her legs at an awkward angle so that her toes wouldn’t touch the sheets. “Do you mean it? You’d do anything for me?”

“Yes,” he said as she kissed his jaw. “Yes, anything—I’d marry you—give you the world—“

“I need a thousand galleons.”

Edric blinked. “What? Why?”

“You tell me I’d live like a queen but you don’t even have a thousand?”

“Of course I do! But what for?”

“My father is sick. Has been for a while. If you can’t help me out I’ll just see more clients—“

“No.” The thought alone made his skin prickle with rage. He’d said he’d give anything, sure—but he didn’t exactly own any gold himself. He didn’t think she’d ask. In his head, this conversation had gone an entirely different route.

This was a complication.

“No, I’ll help you out,” he said, shifting under her.

“Thank you, Edric.” Rosie kissed him.

Now what? What would she think when she realised the luxuries he’d promised her were nonexistent?

There was only one thing he could do.

Edric was going to have to steal from Father’s vault.

Upon his arrival at the Isle of Wight, Voldemort was greeted by Death Eaters, Alchemists, Sentinels, Blades, and the Council’s Master of Necromancy, Matthias Maelzel, who bowed his hooded head and followed Voldemort and his guards into the main compound of Muggle Camp 07.

The tour covered everything: first, Voldemort was shown the Potions laboratories and testing chambers, where Alchemists studied magic's effects on Muggle subjects, then the interrogation chambers, the barracks, the mess hall, and the graves.

In the officers' lounge, the General offered refreshments: warm croissants and sugared tea, both of which Bellatrix sampled first. They discussed the war: Belgium’s withdrawal, Paris’ defences, locations of interest and coastal strategies.

Then they discussed the camp: housing capacity, labour allocation, disposal efficiency, and the separation of magical children for transfer to London’s orphanages.

At the settee, Bellatrix’s knee brushed Voldemort’s whenever she reached for her cup. This irritated him to no end, though he concealed his annoyance excellently behind the tedious conversation with the General and his men.

He’d see to her correction later. She was easy, too easy to play with. Starve yourself for three days, Bella, he could say, and she’d do it.

What a shame, for someone of her skill and temperament.

Too vile when finesse was required, too involved when it came to him.

She interrupted the General twice to rant on with excitement—your work here is wonderful, General, and in such little time too, truly impressive—

Perhaps Voldemort should transfer her here for good and be done with her.

She wasn’t to blame for lacking humility. Allowing her to keep her tongue when he should have cut it off years ago was Voldemort’s fault alone.

Alas.

He hardly expected anything impressive of the Death Eaters these days. He’d been desperate for followers when he’d first gathered them; he’d taken anyone willing to bow. Things were different now. The Council of Shadows had been assembled with the intention to recruit servants with proven skill, competent and charismatic.

The Death Eaters knew they had been replaced.

Voldemort entertained their dying sense of importance with minor tasks and harmless information that couldn't damage him even if it leaked.

Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord’s right hand.

A good thing that being his right hand meant nothing more than sampling his tea and shutting up.

How unbearably arrogant, they all were. How hungry for crumbs of validation.

He felt no sense of achievement in the way they worshipped him. They’d worship a dog’s turd if it told them they mattered.

After tea, he dismissed Bellatrix and the rest to the carriages, sent the Death Eaters back to their posts, and only then did he request to be shown Project T.

The General, the Necromancer, and the few fortunate Sentinels chosen by Voldemort last winter were the only ones aware of the Project’s existence. No records were kept, nor had it ever been discussed via letters or the Floo.

The men reported directly to Voldemort, in person, in absolute privacy, every three months.

At the camp yard, six Muggleborn witches were dragged and lined up by the fence. Voldemort paced slowly, observing them one by one. The wind was cool; he tightened the Invisibility scarf around his neck, and tucked its edges into his coat.

(He’d made Harry watch the night he ripped James Potter’s Cloak to pieces. He’d handed the boy scissors to cut the final piece himself. Six strips, hidden away; a seventh one for Voldemort to always wear. The Deathstick, always, in his pocket.

Two Hallows to guard him against death.

Three Horcruxes to bring him back if all else failed.

Power, reader—power, so much of it—so much!—but it wasn’t enough.)

Voldemort toyed with his wand, then probed a witch under her chin with it to meet her eyes.

“Has there been progress?”

“See for yourself, my Lord.” The General smiled under his thick moustache. He snapped his fingers, and one of the witches dropped to her knees, screaming in pain. He flicked his wrist and the screaming stopped. The woman shook, gasping for air.

“Impressive,” said Voldemort mildly. “How long have you been able to cast complicated curses without a wand?”

“Since the eighth Transference, my Lord.”

“And you?” He turned to Necromancer Maelzel.

“A few weeks, my Lord. After the ninth moon.”

“This one’s with child,” Voldemort observed, gesturing toward the third witch in line. Her head had been roughly shaven; she cradled her swollen belly as she stared ahead.

“I am Redeeming that one, my Lord,” said one of the Sentinels.

Voldemort pressed the Deathstick to her belly and closed his eyes in concentration. “A healthy boy,” he said with amusement. “Do you have interest in keeping it?”

“If it is magical, perhaps, my Lord.”

“Then an Alchemist shall test the child for magic upon birth. You may keep it if traces are found. You shall eliminate it yourself otherwise.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort lifted the chin of another witch. “Are they able to cast spells?”

“Scarcely, my Lord,” replied the General. “It requires a level of concentration they don’t currently possess. They do better when they’re not hungry.”

The Sentinels snorted. One of them thrust a wand into a witch's hand. “Go on,” he told her.

“Lumos,” she cast hoarsely. Faint sparks burst out of the wand’s tip, but no light appeared. “Lumos,” she repeated, flicking the wand harder.

Nothing.

The Sentinel seized the wand back. “May I suggest that we set up a wandless duel for you to enjoy, my Lord?”

They conjured an armchair for him to sit, and proceeded to waste an hour of his life in demonstrating results they could have simply relayed to him verbally.

No spells were cast; no wands were raised. The four Sentinels grouped in pairs and duelled each other merely with the power of will.

Voldemort lost interest after the first minute or two, but clapped his lazy approval nevertheless. Their enthusiasm for the Project was essential until they completed their Transferences. His validation was needed.

On the way back to the carriages, Voldemort lingered by one of the smaller buildings, feigning interest in a blood-stained wall. He eyed Necromancer Maelzel, who understood instantly, and motioned the others ahead before he came to stand beside him.

They observed the blood patterns in silence: glistening red, shining over the layers of dark brown and black.

“I seek your counsel,” said Voldemort.

“I’m listening, my Lord.”

“There is one more subject undergoing the Transference, in another location. He is exclusively under my observation, is unaware of the Project, and believes himself to be the first.”

Maelzel had a sharp mind. He was a man of brass and wood, and often Voldemort thought that his obsessive foresight could beat at chess all the race of mindkind.⁴ That was why, after all, Voldemort valued his opinion more than anyone’s.

It was also why Maelzel was now undoubtedly thinking of Harry Potter. “May I ask who you’re Redeeming, my Lord?”

“I am not part of it,” replied Voldemort. “I am merely supervising… I have been wondering, however, theoretically… how the Transference might affect certain unusual conditions.”

“Unusual conditions, my Lord?”

“If a body carried two souls,” Voldemort offered. “Both magical,” he clarified, “but one weaker… dormant, let us say. It is clear, is it not, that if the Killing Curse struck such a body… it would extinguish the weaker soul alone. Wouldn’t you agree? After all, a single Avada, no matter how potent, can only claim one soul at a time."

Maelzel stared. “Theoretically, my Lord.”

“I have been wondering… If the strongest soul of the two was firstly weakened over time, through the Transference, rendered eventually Muggle… then, undeniably, the dormant soul, the one still possessing magic, would become the strongest of the two. Yes?”

Maelzel pondered this. “That is a compelling hypothesis, my Lord." A gust of wind cut through the trees around the fence and pierced Voldemort’s robes; tree leaves skittered across the ground. “You wish to know which of the two souls would die if the Killing Curse was cast on the body who carries them.”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Necromancy is a tricky art,” said Maelzel. “Most of our work has little regard for souls, as they so often persist where they shouldn’t… ghosts, for example, haunting one’s home. Like the two souls, in your… theoretical situation, my Lord, haunting a body in unison.” His gaze remained steady on the blood-covered wall before them. “There are no texts to consult, two souls have never co-existed like that. Theoretically, however… a soul whose magic was taken away… is likely made fragile enough to break at the smallest nudge.”

(Here is indeed the triumph of all things evil—the turn of events which contradicts the holy books: the Dark Lord didn’t care for Magic, Transferences, and all the rest. The Dark Lord cared about himself.

Part of himself was in the boy.

Do you understand me?

He wanted the boy dead.

Do you understand me?

Part of himself was in the boy.)

“You may not speak of this conversation to anyone.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“It all remains theoretical.”

“Naturally, my Lord.”

They walked to the carriages in silence—and on the flight back to the Manor, Voldemort thought of nothing other than his Horcrux, trapped inside a boy he couldn’t yet kill.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix started.

They were alone in his carriage; the rest of the convoy followed behind them carrying his other guards. Voldemort silenced her with a dismissive gesture, his eyes on the grey sky outside.

“My Lord, I would like to bring Delphini to the Manor.”

“Who?” He knew the girl’s name, of course—but reminding Bellatrix how little they both meant to him was the fastest—and most satisfying—way to crush any idiotic hopes of hers under his boot.

“Delphini, my Lord. Your—“ she lowered her voice, “my daughter.”

“Your daughter does not concern me, Bellatrix. I have made myself clear on that matter.”

“My Lord, she needs me—“

“Don’t speak for a month. Stay silent. Do not contact that daughter of yours for three. Mention her again and that’ll become a year.”

There.

Finally, silence.

This was the Dark Lord’s first mistake.

She found her husband where she thought she might: at the north wing of the Manor, locked inside his old study, leaning against a window and gazing outside.

He shouldn’t be there. This room belonged to the Council. A herb dispensary, they’d turn it into—though the project had been put on hold years ago due to budget constraints. The furniture, the carpets, had all been removed. Dust coated the marble floors and towers of boxes reached the ceiling.

“Lucius.”

Lucius turned, surprised. “Oh, my. The lady of the conservatory deigns to grace us with her presence. To what do we owe this rare occasion?”

“I wish to speak to you.”

Lucius’ mocking smile faded. Narcissa closed the door behind her hard enough for a cloud of dust to rise from the hinges. “Do you know what I’ve come to discuss with you, Lucius?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Not in the slightest?” She suppressed a sneer. “You’ve no idea?”

Lucius swallowed thickly, but his gaze remained steady. “I’m afraid not.”

”I sent Wispy to Gringotts yesterday morning to withdraw five hundred galleons from my vault," said Narcissa. “Imagine my surprise when she returned empty-handed, claiming that she’d been denied access."

“I can imagine,” replied Lucius after a moment.

“Why was she denied access?”

“Perhaps she lacked the proper permit—"

"I signed the permit myself."

“Then she might have forgotten to present it—“

"She did present it. They still refused her."

“I’ll ask Corban,” said Lucius carefully. "There might be new regulations about unaccompanied house-elves—"

"Did you empty my vault?"

“What? Of course not!”

“You did. You locked me out of it. How?”

“Cissy…!” Lucius scoffed. “I did no such thing! I haven’t left the Manor in months—“

“You gave him my gold. He asked you to, and you complied.”

“Nonsense!”

“Shall I ask him myself?”

Lucius licked his lips. “Cissy—I did not give him anything—”

“You’re a pathetic fool. You let him manipulate you—”

“If I were you, Cissy, I’d go back to doodling and leave financial matters to—“

“To whom? To my dear husband? You married a Black, Lucius. I am still a Black. I am a Black more than I will ever be a Malfoy, or your submissive wife. I demand you return what you’ve taken.”

“I haven’t taken anything!”

“Then I demand you make the one who did return it—“

“You’re being audacious—“

“I don’t fear him. I want my gold back. He either stole it himself or you handed it over. Which one is it? I will ask him if you don’t tell me the truth.”

Lucius let out a hollow laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Very well.”

She turned to leave, but Lucius seized her arm. “Do you think I had any choice, Cissy!?”

Narcissa shoved him off. “My mother’s gold—my father’s gold—everything I had for Draco—you’ve allowed him to disgrace us, again—he’s laughing behind our backs—everyone is laughing behind our backs—“

“And we’ll be laughing behind theirs when—“

“He’ll discard us like a bag of rubbish when we have nothing more to give! Are you blind, Lucius? What am I to do now to feed all these mouths he’s forced upon us? Auction my jewellery? Sell the elves and scrub your floors myself?”

“I don’t know—“

“Shall I sell the heirloom silver? Become a beggar? Whore myself out?“

“Enough, Narcissa! I don’t know! I don’t know what to do either! Stop!”

“My paints are nearly finished,” she announced coldly.

“What?”

“And their quality is not as good as I’d hoped. I need better ones. I need you to find me better ones, and find a way to pay for them, too.”

He looked at her blankly. “Is that what you wanted five hundred galleons for? Paints?”

“Yes.”

“Five hundred galleons!”

“My galleons, Lucius! I do whatever I please with them—“

“Sweet Merlin—“

“I need new paints—“

“Certainly! Shall I ask the Dark Lord to order you some by owl when he’s next available?”

“Don’t mock me. I know you can find whatever you want. You have your ways.”

“And how would I pay? I haven’t got a thing.” He turned his pockets inside out.

“Then you shall take the heirloom silver to the market yourself. You have humiliated your family enough, now be a man and take this upon your shoulders. Pawn what we meant for our boy, and give the money to the elves so they can sort out the food. And keep some aside, and get me paints. Tomorrow.”

Lucius grabbed her arm and dragged her to the window. “Do you have any idea where Draco is? He’s with Potter. Right there. Strolling around the estate. Feeding the ducks.”

At the stone path to the stables, Draco was conversing with Potter while a couple of skinny, mud-covered ducks waddled around them. There used to be more of them; fifty at least, excessively fed and perfectly round.

“Our son has been spending an unwise amount of time in Harry Potter’s company, not that you would know, locked in your ridiculous art den as you are. Potter belongs to the Dark Lord—he is property—and Draco hardly gives a damn. Do you care? Or do you care about paints?”

Outside the window, Potter pointed at something into the distance, and Draco broke into laughter.

Narcissa knew that laughter well; he used to laugh like that, her boy,  when he was little. Chuckling and instantly tearing his eyes away, as if his happiness itself was forbidden. The year he hit puberty, he replaced his laughter with a stiff smirk, which he’d deliberately copied form his father.

She hadn’t seen him laugh like that since then.

“They’re just bored,” she said. “There’s little else to do in here—“

“I don’t want him meddling with a war prisoner,” insisted Lucius. “Potter is out of limits. That should be unquestionable.”

“They’re just boys.“

“I’ve asked Turton to take Draco on an assignment tonight. I think it's time.”

But his smile—his joy— “It’s too soon—”

“It isn’t.”

“He’s not ready.”

“Turton believes he is. And I agree that he needs a distraction.” He glanced at the window bitterly. “I shall… sell the silver. I will take it downtown myself. I’ll get you paints.”

Narcissa nodded.

Lucius gripped her hand. Did his bottom lip quiver?

Merlin, she thought, struggling to recall the last time he’d squeezed her hand like this. He is lonely.

She was impressed by how little this affected her.

Arms folded over his chest, Draco tapped his wand on his shoulder with a vague sense of impatience. The wind was sharp against his face as the thestral-drawn carriage glided through the night sky. He suppressed a shiver and pulled his cloak tighter around him.

Beside him sat Oliver Jones, a junior Archivist apprenticing under Master Archivist Lessard, Turton’s sworn enemy if elf gossip was to be believed. Across from them, junior Archivist Clarissa Flint examined her long, glossy nails.

"Cold tonight, innit?” It was Oliver who’d broken the silence.

Clarissa smirked. "Afraid of a little chill, Jones?”

Oliver huffed, but said nothing.

“They’re taking us to London.” Clarissa gestured at the window. “I can see the tower.”

Where the Great Clock of Westminster once was, the Red Eye Tower rose above the city like a needle cutting through the clouds. It was so much taller than Draco had anticipated. He wondered if its top was even visible from the ground. Hovering right above it, a red, glowing serpentine eye blinked slowly; thousands, millions of seekerflies swarmed around the tower so fast that they resembled a golden cloud.

Oliver leaned over her to take a better look. “What d’you reckon they want us for?”

“Must be something big. What do you think, Malfoy?”

“We’ll see,” Draco replied.

Flying with his broom when he was young (wasn’t he still? He reckoned he should feel so) he’d sometimes wander far enough to reach the edge of the suburbs, where farmland met the busy roads.

There he’d stop and watch the lights: petrol stations, vehicles, lamp posts. So many of them, filling up the highways or scattered across the country lanes.

There were no lights anymore.

The Energy Ban had seen to it.

There were landfills at first, during the war; graveyards of industrial waste and machinery, piles of plastic and metallic debris: phones, wires, electric stoves, all to be destroyed and banished.

Forever gone. Erased.

Draco had never seen a Muggle car up close. He reckoned now he never would.

The carriage descended smoothly in front of a grand building.

“Here goes,” said Clarissa and opened the door.

They disembarked.

The ground was gravelly under Draco’s boots. The air smelled of rain. A dozen more carriages followed, and one by one landed next to theirs. A total of twenty, perhaps twenty-five apprentices, lined up and waited for the Master Archivists to deliver instructions.

"Form up," barked Turton, eyeing Draco as if he’d already let him down simply by standing here. Draco straightened his back and gave him the standard Malfoy up-and-down, extra scornful for good measure.

Turton and Lessard’s cloaks billowed in the wind as they inspected the apprentices one by one.

“Tonight, you observe,” said Lessard in an accent. “You stay close, move as a unit. This is your first mission.”

“And your last, if you fail,” Turton cut in, glaring at a pair of whispering apprentices. “Those who fall behind will be removed from the programme. There will be no exceptions.”

“Do you know what this is?” Lessard pointed at the large stone building behind him.

Draco thought it might be a Manor. A palace, even. Wide stone steps led to a set of large greek columns arranged in a row. Sculptures of half-naked Muggles decorated a pediment above the doors.

Lessard cast a spell, and the doors opened slowly. “This is a temple of lies. A source of misinformation and deceit. An attraction site for Mudblood cockroaches to flatter themselves and spread their false sense of superiority. The British Museum.” He spread his arms theatrically, pointing at the entrance and gesturing for the apprentices to move.

“After you, lads,” said Turton. "Hands at your sides, away from your wands. Where I can see them."

Draco followed the others up the stairs and into the building.

All he could see around him, as far as the eye went, was books. They towered to the ceiling, like crooked spines, held into place by unsteady spells. The apprentices walked through the narrow passages between the stacks, from room to room, then up the stairs, which too were filled with books. Draco clutched the railing; his feet slipped on the tomes and he nearly landed on his hands and knees.

“Mind the dirt, Malfoy," Clarissa whispered with a sly grin. "Wouldn't want to soil those pristine hands."

Draco dusted down his trousers and sidestepped another pile of books.

Ulysses… Middlemarch… Fables of Aesop… He shouldn’t be doing that. Reading the titles was forbidden. Engaging with Muggle culture was a traitorous act, a grave offence.

Some were in languages he didn’t speak.

Some made little sense. Dracula, Oedipus, Absalom, Absalom!

"Keep moving!” Lessard yelled.

“Look at this rubbish,” muttered someone, nudging a colourful book that’d clearly been meant for children.

“What a load of crap,” another apprentice replied.

“Don’t touch anything,” Oliver snapped.

“I didn’t touch it, I kicked it—“

“Well don’t kick anything either, smart-arse—“

“As if it’s worth anything—“

"Worth enough to get you in trouble—“

“Shut up,” spat Draco at both of them.

The path between books led to a large, carpeted room with an enormous glass dome above it. Bookshelves, desks, and chairs had been all shoved aside, leaving the centre empty. There, on the floor, about twenty men and women knelt with their hands tied behind their backs, surrounded by Blades.

There was a brief greeting between the Master Archivists and the Blades, and then Turton motioned at the apprentices to gather around.

“Come, future Archivists. See for yourselves. Face the evil we are obliged to cleanse,” Turton roared. “You.” He pointed at a kneeling man with a greying beard and a bruised face. “Stand up, now. Why don’t you step forward? Mrs Bennett here has some questions. Mrs Bennett, question this insect for us, please.”

The Muggle looked up. He straightened slightly, then took a breath and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered; a Blade seized him by the arm and held him upright.

"State your name," the apprentice named Bennet inquired after cleaning her throat.

Despite his battered appearance, the man’s voice was composed. “Professor Edmund Scott."

“Un professeur!” Lessard shouted, clapping his hands. “Professor of what?”

The man licked his dry, chafed lips. “Anthropology.”

Bennett made a face of disgust. “You dig up bones, then?”

“You are confusing anthropology with archeology.”

“Crucio!”

The curse came from Turton. “Respect your betters, worm!” he shouted as the man thrashed on the floor and shrieked.

“This… individual,” Lessard continued when the curse was lifted, “published a number of fascinating articles during the war, immediately after the statute was broken. Their focus was on unity among our kinds.”

The apprentices booed. Someone threw the professor a book, which hit him on the shoulder.

“What sort of unity would that be?” Bennett asked him. “D'you think we're equal?”

“We can be,” replied the professor between heavy breaths. “We’re all human.”

“Excellent," Turton exclaimed. "Now we get to the point. Why don’t you explain to my proteges here, Professor, what an anthropologist is? What it is that you do?”

“I—scientifically study humans,” the man stuttered. “Human development, human culture. I study change.” He’d been pulled up to his knees again, by two Blades who held him still.

Bennett scoffed. “And what have your studies told you so far, I wonder? That you are on top of the world? That everything belongs to you? That we’re subspecies?”

“Y-you have never been studied,” the man said with difficulty. “Nothing we know about evolution could justify—explain—how you ev-evolved, what mechanisms may have occurred that allowed for powers—“

“I don’t care, answer my question. Do you think that we’re subspecies?”

The man shook his head. “Do I—well—from a biological standpoint, you have outdone us—but, subspecies—there is no data—if we studied you—“

“Studied? You’d like to study us? Like we’re rats?”

“Let him finish,” Draco heard himself say. All eyes turned to him, but his eyes were on the professor, whose face lit up with hope as he turned to Draco.

“There would be great benefit for the future of humanity, for—for all of us—in sharing with each other what we know of human life…! Don’t you see—our experiences must be vastly different—and similar—we can learn to live with each other peacefully—we can teach each other what we know—we can make advancements in medicine, in—in space exploration—“

“Stand,” Turton commanded. The Blades forced the professor to his feet.

The professor held Draco’s gaze as he said, “Those who don’t know history are destined to—“

“Avada Kedavra!” Lessard’s curse hit the man on the chest; his body collapsed heavily on the carpet.

“Malfoy,” Turton called, gesturing for Draco to come forward.

He pointed at a kneeling woman, whose shoulders shook uncontrollably. 

“An anthropologist, like our friend here. Do the honours.”

Draco pictured it: green light, at the tip of his wand—green like his first school robes, at eleven, and green like the pond behind the Manor, before neglect dried it up. Green like the grass on the Quidditch pitch, and Draco flying, and Father sitting at the stands, watching his son with pride.

Green like the countryside, illuminated by cars and lamp posts, at night, every night, fading out slowly when dawn approached.

“Avada Kedavra,” said Draco.

Nothing happened.

“You have to mean it!” Turton shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “Again!”

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted louder. He pressed his wand to the woman’s head. “Avada Kedavra!”

Turton flared his nostrils and sighed, like a bull ready to charge.

The woman sobbed.

Several apprentices laughed.

Draco let his arm flop on his side. He couldn’t do it.

"Efficient work, everyone," Turton announced, hands clasped behind his back.

They stood at the yard outside the museum, watching it burn.

The night sky above was covered with smoke; charred paper and ash filled the air.

Oliver patted Draco’s shoulder. “It’s tough at first,” he said. “You’ll do better next time.”

The fire enveloped the greek sculptures one by one.

The roof crumbled down.

“We’re leaving, folks,” Turton called from the carriages.

The stone columns snapped. The windows shattered.

Something caught Draco's eye. A thick book lying off to the side, untouched by the flames. He glanced around; he was alone.

Muggle books were dangerous. Filled with lies and deceit.

But one of his boots had come untied. Yes, it had—it definitely had—so he dropped to one knee, fumbled with his lace, and snatched the book and slipped it inside his cloak.

It could be anything.

It could be a cookbook for all he knew. Surely some recipes couldn’t be dangerous?

"Malfoy, keep up!” Turton called from ahead.

"Coming!” Draco ran.

And yet!

As destiny often had it, especially for tossers like him, Draco Malfoy had been mistaken. The tattered book he’d hidden in his robes that night was no cookbook at all.

Hours later, under the blanket, down in his freezing bedroom, he lit his wand and read the title on the damaged cover. With conspicuous care, and only the distant banter of drunken house-elves for company, he flipped it open and began to read.

He engaged in this act of intellectual rebellion until early morning—and the joy he derived from it would have made his father's hair (meticulously straightened, as it was at the time) stand on end.

I shall not reveal the title of the book he saved. Whether it was Dante’s Divina Commedia, or a fine collection of Lord Byron’s poems, whether it was Akhmatova’s Requiem or Pushkin’s tales, or even Tolstoy’s Voyna i mir—it matters not.

(For I assure you—in due time, he will read all of these, and more.)

As for you—I speculate that, despite your trust in your own education, you must be absurdly, woefully illiterate. Appallingly uninformed! You have been taught that Muggles had been primitive and slow, and that their culture lacked artistic vision as much as it lacked beauty.

These teachings are wrong.

The Archives are incorrect.

I shall impart to you only the passage with which Draco’s stolen book began:

“I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself!”

This passage planted the seed. It triggered the whisper.

The whisper said: one book is enough. If one book can be saved—that is enough.

Here is the uncomfortable yet brutal truth: Draco Malfoy was, beyond a sliver of doubt, never meant to be given important tasks.

All he’d been asked to do, that night, was cast a curse.

And now look at what he'd done. He’d gone and sparked a schism, right within him.

After that night, he began to think of the Dark Lord as the Antichrist.

A cookbook, in retrospect, would have been better.

Peony,

Use this raven for emergencies only. Address replies to: The Crack in the Old Water Pipe, Under Potley Lane Bridge, Corsham.

Goliath informed me of your latest houseguest. Ensure she remains hidden. Try not to scare her off with your charming disposition.

Regards,

Sage

P.S. I know you told Goliath to be purposefully vague. How is your health really?

Sage,

Guest is secure. The baby was born last night. It’s a girl. Possible assistance from Belgium expected in June.

My health is fine, no thanks to the chronic stress you and your demonic lot have been inflicting on me since I was eight.

P.S. My disposition is still better than your manners.

P.S.II. How is he?

Peony

Dear lovely Peony,

It is thanks to my good manners that you were helped into freedom despite the delightful way you have always treated me and my demonic lot.

Don’t ask me how he is. I don’t know. He’s alive.

Sage

Severus tied the scroll on the raven’s foot and sent it off.

He walked back to the Manor, locked himself in his rooms, downed three vials of laudanum, jabbed his thigh with procaine, and collapsed into his chair by the fireplace.

“Lumos,” he murmured. Light sparked upon his open palm and formed into a glowing sphere. It hovered above his skin and radiated warmth. He toyed with it, let it dance on his fingers—then passed it to his other palm, observing the trail of stardust it left behind.

Wandless magic had always been the dream.

No—not wandless magic per se.

The dream had been power.

The dream had been control.

He cast trivial spells now, but soon he’d be performing any enchantment he wished with a mere snap of his fingers. Soon his wand would be but an optional accessory.

It was mesmerising.

Captivating.

This magic was not his.

He hurled the ball into the fireplace with astonishing rage, and didn’t flinch when it exploded like a firework. Sparks flew off the hearth and landed onto the rug and his shoes.

Severus closed his eyes.

His last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness was that the sparks might set the rug ablaze.

His leg still hurt. How in the ever-loving fuck did it still hurt? Was he going to have to chop it off?

If I burn I burn, he thought as he drifted to sleep. Whatever.

CITATIONS

1. Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade” & “Maelzel's Chess Player." 1845. No original copies of this book, or the article survive. Fragments of the book have been found scattered across the Luna Plena in various translations. A Russian translation was located in Novosibirsk in 2031.