Thanks to everyone who reviewed, faved, followed, or plain liked this story! I didn't expect this kind of feedback at all, so while initially this chapter was supposed to be uploaded only on Sunday, you have motivated me to hurry up a bit :)
Thanks to you all again, and I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Chapter 2. Come Crumbling Down
Harry's mind buzzed with emotions, feelings breaking even through the haze of alcohol.
He tried to soothe his heart flapping with the desire to break away from its bony prison. The fear only pushed it harder.
Voldemort. Bloody Voldemort is here, and the only thing I can do is stand here about to be reprimanded like a naughty child. Harry paused in his thoughts. A ray of light pushed through the cloud of depression. At least, the pureblood prig has got what he deserves.
Meanwhile, Malfoy realised that the curse had stopped. His thrashing broke off, the body suddenly still and subdued, bereft of all its ordinary poise and arrogance. A whimper. Then another one, and once again. Time stilled as the entire ballroom watched with morbid and detached interest the failings of the Malfoy heir.
They wouldn't forget it. Not for a long time, at least.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry observed as Lucius Malfoy's infuriated expression snapped into view. Yes, there it was, the pulsing vein on the forehead and the thinning lips, familiar to Harry through the lenses of his childhood. Back then, Harry had proclaimed his views, his parents' views, on muggleborns and muggles to wind up those Malfoy snowmen until their rage melted the ice. Until he got that hint of familiarity, a proof that even icebergs with cores of cause and pureblood belief had feelings mixed in somewhere.
Those experiments would always cost him.
Cost him as much as this latest stunt would, Harry knew.
Then, his resolve spiked, and steeled, and finally morphed into a shield, which protected him against the threats and promises of torture and pain.
Harry's eyes snapped to Lord Voldemort.
The man was easily recognisable. Stunning in his statuesque splendour, a thought sneaked in past the screen of reluctance. He stood tall and strong, wrapped in a veil of delicious Dark magic, pale, with thin lips and red eyes.
Eyes fixed on Harry.
The young man suppressed a shudder. Voldemort's lips curled into a taunting smirk and those eyes sharpened with a smug gleam. Obnoxious bastard. The familiar tremble in Harry's hands battered the fleeting fascination away.
What am I doing? Oh no, Dark Lord, you can hypnotise anyone with this freaky gaze. But me? Never.
Harry raised his head.
He would never surrender to him.
"How interesting, Lucius."
Harry watched with disbelief as Lord Voldemort chuckled. He was not supposed to chuckle! A Dark Lord must roar in anger, spittle, bristle, rave, and rage, but not do something as human as this.
"Is this a newest toy of yours? A pet project, perhaps? I don't believe I have ever seen him in our gatherings."
"Maybe because I have never attended them." Harry paused, his spirit high with delight at the widening of Voldemort's eyes. Had the man expected him to stand still like a naughty child and wait for his sentence? "My Lord," he added, lest the man thought him rude.
Which he usually was, but... Few had the gall to spit it into his face and come out of it uncursed.
"It talks," Voldemort drawled, taking a few steps forwards. Yet, despite the amused exterior, there was a murderous bastard skulking under the surface.
My second encounter with the man face to face, and he's about to tear me apart. Something tells me he will retaliate if I push it too much. Hell, he'll probably retaliate anyway, just for the heck of it.
It would have been so dull otherwise.
Harry ignored that last thought.
The ballroom stilled. In place of attempts to ignore Malfoy's piggy cries, or Harry's disruption, or even Lucius's hissed demands to let the Dark Lord strangle him, now the guests all stared, and evaluated, and gawped, and judged.
They would. Of course they would, with Voldemort there.
They would pick apart every word. Would survey every reaction and make notes.
Was he twisted for enjoying the attention?
"I am sorry, my Lord," Harry called out and slipped on a most guileless, somewhat slow smile he used on Bellatrix when her demands shattered the boundaries of possible and smashed the definitions of impossible into invisible dust. In other words, every time she asked things of him.
If his concentration hadn't been so intense, he would have missed the sharp inhale of breath and the smileful of teeth that flickered across the pale lips for a second.
Danger, danger, danger.
The teen forced himself to relax and present a tranquil and casual posture instead of shrinking into a tight ball of weeping nerve. The second variant actually sounded appealing.
"I thought you would be able to tell just by looking that I am neither an object nor a magical creature to be called 'it', but then again, your sight can be deteriorating. It must be the age. How old are you again? One hundred something, correct?"
"Crucio," the Dark Lord drawled leisurely, red eyes gleaming with unleashed fire. He didn't even take out his wand, Harry noticed. And then a shroud of pain enveloped him, and he couldn't think anymore.
pain pain pain pain pain-
smouldering searing scorching burning-
in every part of his body, every limb and every inch of skin-
breaking splitting everlasting-
It hurt. Wrecked him. Not even whippings, canings, stinging hexes, milder pain curses, or anything else measured up.
The Cruciatus Curse broke a lesser man. Harry was strong, had to be after years of steeling reprimand, physical and emotional and psychological...
And yet...
He screamed.
Through the haze the pain brought on, he made out jeering laughter and a couple of wolf-whistles, and someone spurring the spell on. Familiar voices.
Bloody bastards. Oh yes, nothing improves appetite as much as a bout of random torture before dinner.
He chuckled through the pain, the sound grating and half-screeching. What a sight he presented! On the floor, black hair unbound and falling in a messy halo around his head, green eyes half-lidded, tears stubbornly held back in the corners...
And laughter, mixed with screaming, all hoarse and loud.
It had been his mother's tip, a parental advice that Harry took a bit too much to heart.
"Laughter doesn't solve your problems but it makes shadows fade. And pain, too, will die away. Remember, Harry, your Mummy wants to see you smile, always, even if it seems hard to you, even when you feel like crying. Just smile, and whatever trouble you will face, will look insignificant, like a bug. A stubborn bug, sure, but still a bug," his mother had once told him, when he scraped his knees and couldn't stop the tears trickling down his chubby cheeks. She had planted a tender kiss on his forehead, one of those things about the childhood paradise he missed, and smiled, taking him out for ice-cream.
Her words, his guiding light, always.
"My, my, what a screamer. I am glad to see you are enjoying this, child," the velvety baritone anchored him to reality. Harry cursed it mentally.
"As redundant... as it sounds," he croaked through his own desperate chortles, not paying attention to the gasps at his continuing cheek, "when life... hands you out lemons, try... making lemonade. Never knew... that Crucio leaves such a... strong acidic taste in the mouth."
"It does. I am happy to provide you with learning opportunities," the Dark Lord stated, calm, deceptively normal if entertained. "And if you wish to, I can help you turn the Cruciatus Curse from a brief acquaintance into a friend. Of course, I need your permission first."
He sounded concerned, almost gentle.
The pain intensified.
Twat. He knows he can do anything that comes into his head.
Harry set his jaw. He refused to show his weakness, refused to cry, refused to scream or beg.
Happy thoughts. Laughter. Mother.
Through a cloud of tears – from laughter? From pain? He didn't know anymore, couldn't tell anymore – Harry picked out a tall frame, a person clad in pitch black, an engulfing spot of darkness.
He laughed harder.
Laughter through pain was hard. It required concentration, so the process took Harry's mind off the Crucio and didn't let insanity claw at him.
Mum. I'm following your advice, see? Nothing can touch me. Nothing can faze me. He is like those shadows you talked about. He brings nothing but hurt and sorrow either.
"Father!" That was Malfoy Junior. The voice was shaky and hoarse, not at all his usual drawl. Harry rejoiced. "Has Potter finally gone insane? I told you this would happen. You owe me a broom now. My seventh one, I believe? Anyway, this time my heart longs for some vintage. Do they make-"
"Has the education at Hogwarts become so lacking that this is what concerns children? It seems I need to have a word with Dolohov." Notes of displeasure surged in the Dark Lord's voice.
Harry's agony fizzled out.
It's over.
He was free now. Free from the burning, from the shackles of ache and suffering. Free from the suppression of the other's magic.
Harry bolted upwards.
The world around him shook and swam. His throat parched; swallowing posed a problem. Something clogged his throat.
He coughed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Harry tried to stifle it, but something clumpy and slimy forced his lips apart. He peeled the hand away and inspected the trembling fingers. Blood dripped down his palm.
"A Cruciatus side effect," the Dark Lord explained, reminding the teen of his existence. "Happens to everyone."
Harry opened his mouth to retort, eyes ablaze, but it took him one look at Voldemort's gentle smile of a shark and sinfully red eyes to remember. Inside, he tore into himself for his carelessness tonight, especially in his interactions with the Dark Lord. Bloody firewhiskey.
I can't let him take an interest in me. I've been so carefully keeping to my facade of a magically strong but not very bright guy for so long... I can't fuck it all up now.
Then again, mouthing off a bloody Dark Lord isn't exactly my definition of 'clever'.
His world tilted. Dark spots were hushing him to slumber. A headache sneaked in.
Unable to resist the lulling promises of darkness, Harry swung his body back and crashed into the floor again. The surface cooled his cheek. Harry nuzzled into it, not minding the bystanders, most of whom scurried off under the menacing gaze of the Dark Lord.
Mmm... Marble. Sometimes, I love the stuck-up purebloods and their antics...But honestly, do their feet never feel cold in winter? I mean, there are warming charms but it's not the same...
"Potter!" came Lucius Malfoy's enraged hiss as Harry found himself roughly prodded with a boot. Beaten, more likely. His foot certainly doesn't take hostages. My ribcage is about to split. "Don't you dare relax here while my son is suffering the consequences of your actions."
"If you haven't noticed, Mr Malfoy, I am suffering the consequences of my actions," Harry remarked dryly, but the older man ignored him, while Malfoy Junior sent him a smug smirk and raised a mocking brow.
Harry didn't retaliate because he deserved it. Tonight was uncalled for, and he attributed the loss of control to both the alcohol and the letter he had received the day before...
Ah, it isn't a good idea to think about that here. The Dark Lord is a genius at Legillimency, and I am pants at Occlumency. Obviously, we don't mix.
"Have more decorum, Lucius," the Dark Lord reprimanded. Malfoy looked at him sharply, only to lower his head in submission at this lord's hard countenance. Words, however, he could not restrain.
"But- My son! You won't let it go, my Lord, will you?"
"The boy will receive his punishment-"
This wasn't it? Harry thought with horrified disbelief. His muscles, his limbs, his skin, his bones, his hair all itched with lingering pain. The minor wound on his leg from the private training didn't help any.
"-but if he desires to make a further disgrace and laughing stock out of himself, why not let him? Unless, of course, he does want to preserve whatever dignity is left in him. In this case, he will do well to stand up and tell me his name." Warning tones entered the last sentence.
It wasn't an offer. Wasn't a suggestion. Not even an order.
Propped up on his elbows, Harry heard the clear threat the man's baritone and suppressed a surge of hatred.
"Of course I will, my Lord."
He scrambled to his feet and dusted his robes. Thankfully, the dust-repelling charms cast on the floors functioned well, so Harry's simple but stylish garments remained clean. No need to add dirt to sweat.
Lord Voldemort didn't help him get up, of course. Harry suspected he wouldn't, because Dark Lords were prats like this and would never assist until threatened, which was as likely as Hermione Granger suddenly proclaiming she was going to throw out her books and go play Quidditch.
"Your name, child?" At Harry's confused look, the Dark Lord waved his hand in impatience and irritation. "You amuse me."
Thanks. Do I get the proud title of the court jester?
But Harry knew that he had overstepped, had overrun, the boundaries for the night, and if he kept on, he wouldn't get away with a few minutes of Crucio anymore.
If a Dark Lord was out for your blood, your blood he got. Harry's parents a case in point.
"Harry Potter, my Lord," Harry said carefully, tonelessly. He conjured a hair tie to gather his messy coal-black hair into a ponytail. When he raised his eyes, the frown on the Dark Lord's face didn't startle him.
Harry waited. This sort of reaction was as familiar as the Lumos incantation or the sight of his own wand.
"Potter?" Something sparked in the red orbs but blankness swept it away in a second. "I have heard of the surname but I have never met you."
Harry's eyes swung Voldemort's way, disbelieving, outraged, seething-
Nothing.
No recognition, no memories of their only encounter... The one encounter that could have changed Harry's attitude to the Dark Lord for the better but hadn't, because the man had blundered the opportunity up, was too stubborn to-
Harry barely reined in his rage.
"Of course, my Lord," Draco Malfoy butted in, his face a beam of pure conceitedness and pride. "His breeding is too low for you to bother. Personally, I think-"
"Lucius," the Dark Lord ordered sharply. The said man twitched in response. Harry surveyed, enraptured. "Your spawn is overly talkative today. Careful. If he continues being this cheery, I may reconsider giving Potter a punishment."
The younger Malfoy paled and ducked his head.
Harry gave the ballroom a cursory glance to find out that Malfoy's date had shrunk into the crowd, probably damning whatever preconceptions she might have had of a romantic evening with the pureblood heir, while the other guests were seeping into the other, darker ballroom, filled with wizarding VIPs and usually forbidden to everyone but the notorious Inner Circle.
"Forgive me for asking, my Lord," Harry tried, straightening his back – the bloody thing cracked when he did – and meeting the man's gaze head on, "but what is it going to be?"
"Elaborate," the man demanded imperiously.
"My punishment," Harry did. "You did douse me with Crucio already-"
"Are you truly so frail that this seems enough?" The Dark Lord raised a mocking eyebrow and stalked closer to Harry. The younger male refused to step back. "You are going to be a Death Eater, child, not a trophy husband. Some of my followers have to endure weeks of torture by the Light side. Months of unbearable pain. Slow, painful death. They have to endure it all for the cause, for the future, for their children, for me. When you start going out on missions, something as minor as this will be the least of your problems."
By the time the last word of reproach slipped off his tongue, the man towered over Harry, radiating allure and seemingly not noticing the way everyone's eyes returned to them, seeking recognition from their Lord, desperate for the tiniest grain of attention.
This close, he was even more breathtaking. Harry willed his gaze not to linger, not to give out the tremors that originated both from hate and... other feelings.
Malfoy must be dying of envy out there. The tall and broad figure shielded him from viewing the blond. He has never stood this close to his obsession.
Harry grunted and cringed away when spidery fingers landed on his shoulder. A whiff of cologne assaulted him. The man leaned in, mouth so close to his earlobe that his breath tingled Harry's ear.
Harry wanted to push him away. He convinced himself it was out of pure, undulated disgust without a taint of positive emotion.
The Dark Lord whispered.
"But it seems unlikely to me that you will break." Voice lowered as the hand tightened around the shoulder. "I have never seen you-"
And there it went again. That pang.
You utter bastard. Have the decency of remembering, at least.
"-but it doesn't mean I have never heard of you." Voldemort leaned back and straightened to his entire height, his eyes gleaming. Shades of crimson swirled, and Harry couldn't look away. "Harry Potter. Top duellist. Mastered the Slashing Curse at eleven, the Patronus Charm at thirteen, the Explosive Chain at fifteen... Remarkable. Outstanding. You will go far if you continue like this." He flashed Harry a dark smirk. "Believe me, my childhood was similar."
Sharing this with me? Harry's self-preservation instinct wailed and kicked. No good. No good at all. What the hell does he need me for? Or-
Harry's eyes didn't bulge out at the sinking suspicion only because he mastered emotion concealment.
Has he always been interested in me? Or is it a recent development? No, I doubt that even a Dark Lord would be as creepy as to keep tags on a 'useless traitors' kid', so it must be the latter...
The man observed him with amusement, head tilted back, waiting for Harry to show a reaction, to start speaking. One corner of his lip hiked up higher than the other.
Harry opened his cramped fists.
Why would he do that? If this interest has something to do with any latest events... Does he know about the letter, then? Was it traced? Is he waiting for the Marking Ceremony to start so he can execute me publicly? Damn, I knew I should have burnt it sooner!
"Does it always take you so much to process things?" Voldemort queried lightly, although dots of impatience were now swirling around the irises. "Or are you too busy admiring me?"
Harry let it go. There was nothing he could do anyway.
"My Lord?" Harry asked. He faked he didn't hear his last words, treading on the knife's edge, aware that the knife would turn on him the moment the Dark Lord lost his weird amusement and disposed of Harry for something as mundane as breathing too loudly. Or not being a pureblood. Or being a traitors' son. Whatever worked, Harry supposed. "Is there... a reason for this sudden revelation? I mean, surely I'm not that important for you to track my achievements?"
"Why not?" A dark eyebrow shot up towards the hairline. "A student should be proud of having his achievements noted. Although..." Here, the man lifted a thin finger to stick it under the strong chin before drawling in a taunt, "You seem to be an exception in all regards."
"It's just-" Harry made a show of grasping for words. He could turn it all into a game; all he needed was to play the part of a boy overwhelmed with all the attention, first from the Malfoy heir, then from the guests, and now, as the cherry on a cake, the Dark Lord's. "It seems so surreal, my Lord. I have never met you before. I have never imagined meeting you. And now, when you stand in front of me, and talk to me, and show your interest in me-"
"Interest?" Voldemort's face distorted into a cruel jeer. "A necessity. Surely, you know who your parents were."
Harry bit his tongue.
I know. I know, and I won't let you forget either.
And you had the chance to fix your fuck-up, my dear Dark Lord, but you screwed up even then. Well, it's not my fault you are a prideful creep with no life and no hobbies, guided only by your homicidal tendencies.
"Traitors," Harry whispered needlessly.
"To more than merely blood," the Dark Lord agreed with an unpleasant curl of lips. "You realise that we cannot let children like you, impressionable, with bad genetics, strut around without any monitoring."
"Of course, my Lord." Harry bowed his head, showing disarming submissiveness. "Aunt Bellatrix-" And oh how he loathed the name they forced on him! Yet, he picked his battles. "Aunt Bellatrix stressed how difficult it will be for me to take my place as a respectable member of society and not part of the Resistance Movement."
Oh yes, she pounded it into him time and time again, an unforgettable mantra.
The Dark Lord shot Harry a mocking smile before his hand crashed into Harry's shoulder again. This time, it was not a clutch but a pat.
Humiliating. Disgraceful.
"Exactly. I wouldn't want to put to death such an asset as you, Harry Potter. Good servants are hard to come by." The voice pitched lower, so low Harry had to strain his ears to allow its velvety quality to caress his ears. The Dark Lord's lips almost did, too. They were a little dry. His breath carried firewhiskey and something sweet. "Your talents will be useful for the Dark Side. For our side. Don't make the mistake your parents did. You will live to serve me."
Lord Voldemort pulled back and smiled. Harry read treats and threats and could only imagine how many undertones he missed.
How could he go against this man?
Only the weight of his vow steadied him on his legs.
Harry tried to swallow. He sketched a bow, graceful as a feline, murmuring, "I cannot imagine a purpose higher, my Lord."
"Indeed?" the man mocked, tilting his head to a side before pivoting on his heels and turning to the Malfoys who had been watching the exchange boggle-eyed. The elder had that constipated expression of strangled curiosity, while his son hadn't quite had the experience to master it yet.
"The Marking Ceremony is starting in an hour," the Dark Lord declared, flicking invisible lint off his pitch black dress robe. "After your performance today, Mr Potter, your tale will be passed on to the next generation."
"Uncouth mudblood," Malfoy spat out. Harry ignored him. Disregard of the stupid had been another lesson of Harry's mother.
"Your punishment," Voldemort announced, drawing Harry's attention to his gleaming teeth.
"What about it?"
"Your guardian is Bellatrix Lestrange," the man stated, and Harry clearly made out the undercurrents of sick glee and viciousness.
It hit him.
No! He can't mean-
"As your guardian, she has full rights to mete out the punishment she sees adequate." The Dark Lord, taking off and irritably motioning for them to follow, threw a backwards glance at Harry. He couldn't be more puffed up with pride and smugness.
"My Lord, you mentioned that you need my talents-" Harry started, his own pace controlled and graceful even as his heart fluttered in his chest and pulse drummed in his ears.
"Need? Don't think too highly of yourself, insolent child." The monster paused. "That said, yes, your aid will be beneficial for our cause."
Beneficial, my arse! I'll make myself irreplaceable!
"I won't be of much use to you if I am dead," Harry pointed out bluntly. Once again, he ignored Malfoy's quiet 'if only'. "So, it's a bad idea to entrust my punishment and behaviour control to that woman."
The Dark Lord's lips curled into a smirk.
"Dysfunctional family? Be careful, sweet child. You mustn't air your dirty laundry. Some people might be desperate enough to snatch and use it."
"Then they are not people but unprincipled beasts," Harry retorted, stuffing his hands into his pockets, thanking Merlin he had begged Madame Malkin to stitch them on. "Family matters are sacred."
He ignored the fact that he would totally use such information to attain power over someone else.
The door to the other ballroom loomed into view, a short distance away.
"Go find your caregiver, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord murmured, even more poised and straight-backed than before. A dark mantle of alluring power, the very essence of magic, descended and blanketed him, just as envy burned its sneaky way into Harry's mind: he was no less powerful, and yet his skills didn't even approach such instantaneous control over his own magic. "If you are having trouble with a fragile woman, I will make sure you survive your punishment myself."
With those words, the Dark Lord prowled off to enthrone himself in the centre of the room.
He didn't even turn around. Why did it sting?
Bellatrix? Fragile woman, my arse! Had His Highness deigned talking to the common folk, they would have quickly disillusioned him. Then again, the Dark's Lord's definition of 'fragile' might just include snapping necks, breaking arms, and hurling poisoned daggers into people's eyes.
From behind, someone grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around. Harry came face to face with Lucius Malfoy.
"This is not the end of it, mudblood," the man hissed.
Harry raised a mocking eyebrow and tilted his head to the side.
"Of course not. We are yet to be marked, Mr Malfoy. This is the point of the entire evening and did you really think I would go home after a pleasant chat with your son and the Dark Lord?"
Malfoy gritted his teeth but didn't stoop to the common display of human emotion and glower. Then, his eyes narrowed to slits as he spat out, "Do you wish to resurrect your childhood, Potter?"
Harry laughed.
It was a hollow laughter, bereft of joy, of humour, of optimism... even bereft of those morsels of purpose, which had chipped in to keep his sanity intact under the blast of Crucio earlier.
Harry thought it suited him. It mirrored the emotions found when his facade crumbled and left mere ruins of his personality, with only the cobblestones of goal resisting the collapse. Empty, empty, empty... What would it take to build up the castles of his childhood again, full of hopes and dreams and happiness, in place of the dilapidated shack he was now?
"You misaimed, Lucius," Harry took care to enunciate the name. The vein was protruding on the aforementioned man's forehead again. Typical of their confrontations. "I am not this seven-year-old anymore. Remember: I can hex you now. I'll pounce on the opportunity, actually. Oh, and pull this stick out of your arse; it has been stuck in there just for... your whole life, maybe?"
Harry flapped his eyelashes a few times in a model imitation of Parvati Patil. Malfoy's face shut down.
"You wield your insolence like a shield," he finally intoned, grey eyes blowing cold as they stabbed. "You imagine it to be an absolute protection against all foes and throes. And this will be your downfall. For now, I shall allow you this whim and indulge you, but another transgression, Potter-" His voice turned fierce and Harry dared not breathe. "-and I will rip apart this farce of a shield, will bring you down with words and leave you weeping on the floor."
Harry allowed a tiny smile to play around the corners of his lips.
"Strong words to say, Lord Malfoy," he acknowledged. "Alas, as much as talking to you delights me, I have a deranged 'aunt' to find."
Harry breezed past the stoic pureblood.
He got to the farthest wall of the ballroom before he allowed himself to exhale and relinquish the tight leash he had on himself... Well, when he wasn't drinking, anyway. He skewered alcohol trays with a glower.
Not again, he told himself firmly.
Instead, Harry surveyed the ballroom.
He had never been there. Not even Malfoy or Nott were allowed. Most of the Dark Lord's guests mingled in the other, "common", ballroom, while only the most upscale guests and Inner Circle members had access to this part of the castle.
Every year, only one night allowed – well, more like demanded – all ordinary seventh years there. They would get the Mark – and go off to Hogwarts in a day, already legal Death Eaters.
He abhorred it.
Harry knew he was scowling, yet it didn't matter: he stuck out like a sore thumb in this mass of spick-and-span people, all owning shops and manors and shares, all forcing out laughs and giggles despite the hidden desire to smash their companions' heads.
How pathetic.
His gaze stumbled upon Lucius Malfoy conversing with his wife now, her hand held gently in his as they made way to the centre of the ballroom, not far away from the Dark Lord's throne, surrounded by a swarm of buttlickers in silks and velvets.
Upscale racist couple reunited, Harry thought with a detached amusement as the man stooped over to whisper into Narcissa's ear, to which she replied with a silent gasp that she stifled with a manicured hand. Cold crept into her eyes. Talking about me, I presume. It might be a good idea to reinforce the wards around my room today. Just in case.
Harry's gaze drifted further.
And halted.
In the middle of a group of wildly crowing wizards there stood she. A grin split her face in two, her black curls bobbed around her gaunt face, and a pale hand was holding the stem of a wineglass.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
In his childhood, that hazy year following his parents' assassination, the derision expressed by the society had nearly broken him. His recollections of that time included only the few shards of pride that remained after the sledgehammer of sharp words had smashed into it. After the equally cruel indifference to his suffering. He would run to his room, ridiculously lavish but as cold as a Dementor's Kiss, lock himself up, and cry himself to sleep. He would sleep the day away until Bella came up to his bedroom and wrecked the locking charm, disregarding the bits of peace and quiet for Harry that shattered along with it.
The woman would laugh at his misfortune, then. Calling him a mudblood, she would taunt and mock and chortle, only to cruelly punish him when he snapped and fought back.
Now, Harry knew all the petty tricks in her arsenal; knew ways to neutralise them and ways to turn them into his own weapon, one to smash right in her smirking face.
When he had been seven, though, he hadn't. Her attitude had traumatised him more than he would ever admit.
It's time to remind myself of her. I can't avoid her forever. Unfortunately, Harry chided himself mildly and tucked a lock of black hair behind his ear.
Every great journey started with a single step, right?
And here he took it. See? Not hard. Not hard at all.
Trying to envision it as a leisure stroll rather than a walk to the chopping block, Harry ambled to the other side of the dark ballroom, manoeuvring whenever he touched upon the dancing zones.
He almost froze in his tracks when her eyes darted from Avery to Harry.
A startled o-shape of lips twisted and morphed into a wide grin.
No way out now. Harry's pride would not allow him to back out, would be screaming and bucking and jerking against it, even when his childhood memories would pull him away and lull him into the safety of the shadowed corner.
Just a step away. A mere step. And now-
"My faithful followers!" the voice rang through the ballroom, stilling the music, stilling the dancers and the idle chatterboxes.
He stopped. A shiver of anticipation ran down Harry's spine.
After all, despite how much Harry hated the man and would love to see him on the other side of his wand, the teen had come to terms with his eventual Death Eater-ish fate and couldn't rebuff the opportunity to see how Marking worked.
One day, he might even topple it.
The Dark Lord rose, generously allowing his groupies to pile at his feet as some of them bent over to kiss the hem of his robes while others had starts in their eyes and drool trickling down their chins as they silently worshipped him.
Harry grimaced.
Show-off and a ponce. Dear Dark Lord, is there an end to your drawbacks?
Yet, even he could not deny the aristocratic majesty with which Voldemort carried himself, nor the enthralling aura. No wonder he captivated the public with his charm.
"The obligatory Marking Ceremony has been held for fifteen years," the Dark Lord continued as he crept in the darkness, black cloak billowing around him in a Snape-like fashion. Everyone knelt. Longing hands reached for the fabric of his robes to touch this magnificence embodied in a seemingly middle-aged man. The hemline mischievously danced away from grasping fingers.
The Lord motioned for them to get to their feet.
"This year is no different. Tonight, the following students will receive the pleasure and the responsibility to become my loyal Death Eaters: first, Hannah Abbot!"
The girl, dressed in cheap material and with straw-coloured hair askew around her plump cheeks, stumbled through the crowd to the Dark Lord. She halted in front of him and dropped to her knees.
"My Lord," she murmured reverently, pupils in her brown eyes dilated, as if she couldn't believe this wasn't a dream.
"Your hand," the Dark Lord demanded and, when she failed to provide it fast enough, roughly wrested it to him. "Morsmordre!"
For a moment, all was silent.
She screeched.
Today is obviouslya bad day for my eardrums, Harry decided, discreetly casting a sound-lowering charm. First Malfoy, then myself, now this ceremony, then... it will be me screaming there.
The unmerciful echo carried her bawl through the ballroom, magnifying the sound. The spectators didn't help her, only watched on and retained a solemn silence even as her hand shot upwards, even as screams died down in her throat. Even as slowly, gradually, the spot where Voldemort pressed his wand mushroomed and took shape.
Morphing, shaping itself, the blemish rearranged into a picture: a black skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth. A symbol that would soon adorn Harry's own arm. The arms of all present here.
Abbot glimpsed the mark and squeezed out a tiny grin before passing out. Soundly. With a resonating thud.
"Weakling," someone sneered.
"The kids are too young to withstand the pain," Lord Greengrass chided behind Harry. "Their cores are a step away from fully developing, so it hurts way more than it would an adult wizard."
Still keeping his head down, Harry blinked.
Then why? Why did Voldemort choose this particular age for them to get marked? Al of us are seventeen already, some even days away from eighteen... Strange. And I doubt he is doing it simply to satisfy his sadism.
And on it went.
Each one of his classmates ended up on the floor with a lost consciousness. Even Hermione Granger, a resilient mudblood whom Harry actually tolerated bumped onto the marble after receiving her mark.
"Harry Potter!"
Harry clamped his fingers into the tender flesh of his palm.
In an imitation of the Dark Lord's saunter, he arrived to the centre of the ballroom and knelt, like the others before him.
His hand was viciously yanked before he could offer it.
"Morsmordre!"
The words were a deadly sentence and for a second, when the burning sensation flooded him, Harry wished it were lethal so he could escape the misery-
"Smile, Harry! Your mother wants you to live and be happy, my beloved son. Surely, you will grant me this wish? Live as unburdened and free life as you can, and you will make your mother happy."
Harry raised his head and met the Dark Lord's gaze. Ruby clashed with emerald, red with green.
A smile bloomed on his face.
The Dark Lord's eyes widened and his poker face fell down like a house of cards, soundlessly but surely, and Harry savoured the triumph. The wings of victory carried him over the rest of the pain. It ended before he could comprehend the extent to which he was hurting.
His mind cleared and he hadn't fainted.
The only one here.
Whispers broke out behind him and Harry only stretched his lips in a cold smile when the angry, resentful, envious mumbles of 'mudblood' and 'traitors' son' prevailed.
Nothing new here.
"And I must repeat," the Dark Lord broke the background buzz, "remarkable, Mr Potter. If you complete your assignments as a Death Eater and be less of a nuisance to the wizarding community, we can forgive the taint in your heritage and award you a silver mask." His smirk gained a hint of mockery to it. "Only if you behave."
On the outside, Harry's demeanour didn't switch back from the demure one he had adopted during the second part of the evening, after all the damage he could do had been done.
On the inside, a surge of inspiration pierced him.
Oh, I will. Outwardly. I will become your best Death Eater, your right-hand man, the very pillar of your power. You will rely on me and trust me implicitly... And I will be the one to drag you down.
Actions always have reactions to them, my Lord. Just because you wield power, you are not exempt from them.
Although receiving the mark hadn't been as painful for him as for the others, not least because of a Crucio received on the same day, the spot still stung. And Harry still felt unclean because of the brand. Tainted.
He had to shower. Now.
A house elf handed out portkeys to the guests, and Harry held out his arm to take one. Just as his lips formed to utter the password, a baritone halted him.
"I admit I am reluctantly impressed, Mr Potter."
Harry spun. He hadn't mistaken the voice; his newly appointed "master" was observing him, leaning lazily against the wall.
Harry flicked a casual glance to the side. No one in the room bar the elf.
"You have said it already," slipped out before Harry could catch himself.
Voldemort stuck off the wall and advanced to Harry, making the young man jerk back.
"And will be repeating it endlessly if you continue to amaze me." He invaded Harry's personal bubble like it was nothing, his presence like a pointy needle. Harry's eyebrow twitched and the teen forced himself to count in mermish. Sometimes, it helped. Sometimes, it didn't.
"I believe we will see each other again," the Dark Lord exhaled into his neck.
I hope not. But you are going to brutally murder my optimism, right?
Harry rushed the portkey to whisk him away.
Also, it'll let you in a bit on what the Light side is doing, but please remember: there's much more under the surface, and all the movements of the Order are a mystery to anyone but the Dark Lord and his Inner Circle. As Harry gains more influence in the ranks, he's going to be allowed to the facts which are concealed for now, so some things Light wizards do might be confusing at times or not make any sense, and some might be known to Harry only through his spying in on Bellatrix.
Next chapter, though, is going to be very long and it'll show Hermione, Ron, and Snape, too, as well as first glimpses of Harry's manipulations and duelling capacities.
Enjoy!
