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The power the dark lord knows not.
shouta / underage / mature themes / dark themes
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H I D E
( I HAVE BURNED YOUR BRIDGES )
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PART I
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12.
She doesn't mind the almost unbearable gelid wind, or the long and unending walk to Blackburn. They both serve to numb her thoughts—and limbs—until she can't feel anything at all. Good. It's better this way. Why can't she exist like this always? It would be so much simpler, so much easier…
So much less embarrassing.
Harry still can't bring herself to acknowledge what she's done, even when she finally reaches the town (that truck driver was right, she really did spend all day getting over here) and finds a petrol station with a payphone. The sun bends ever so slightly against the roof of the BP station, burning on the last of its embers upon a dark prussian sky—it'll be dark soon enough.
Hermione takes forever picking up, and once she does bombards Harry with questions she really doesn't want to answer.
In the end Hermione convinces her mother to drive down to Blackburn to pick her up, and she spends a horrible hour car ride in miserable silence. There's note even passing scenery to distract her—the world outside is obscured in an inky blackness, leaving nothing but her equally miserable , pallid face reflected onto the glass. She catches Hermione looking at her through it a couple times, but she doesn't look back.
She manages to keep her staunch silence all the way up until Hermione locks her in her bedroom, rounding on her and crossing her arms as she guards the door, as if assuming (quite rightly) that Harry will attempt to bolt out of it.
Her staunchly disapproving expression melts when she finally catches sight of how horrid her best friend looks, bleeding into a deep concern.
"Harry,"
She says, just as Harry chokes out, "I've messed everything up."
Hermione motions towards her bed, leading the other girl towards it. They both sit, and for some time Harry picks at the pale pink bedspread, looking upon the room, expressionless. She has matching pillows and an archaic looking teddy bear that sits on a chair not too far from it. There's a photo of her and her parents on her bedside table, a little blemish on the wooden surface, ancient evidence of nail polish gone awry. Books and books are piled atop every available surface, unsurprisingly, there are no haphazard piles of clothes to be seen anywhere. It looks lived in: it looks like home.
Harry swallows.
Does she even have one to go to? Or has she effectively ruined everything?
"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione murmurs, brushing a long spilling of hair that obscures Harry's face.
And, to Harry's silence, "Is it…" She hesitates. "Is it about that boy?"
Harry chokes on a laugh. That boy? The idea of whatever child Hermione has conjured in her own head in comparison to Lord Voldemort is particularly hilarious.
"Yes," Harry replies; the amusement has left her, leaving her hollow once again. "Sort of—more about me, really. I was the one who messed it up. I –I shouldn't have…" She looks away.
"Harry," she says again, and Harry can hear so much in that tone—all the love and trust and friendship between them.
She takes a breath.
"I…" Harry begins, unsteady. "I have a lot to tell you, Hermione."
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Harry was not surprised at all when Hermione's first remark is one of great mutiny and disapproval, "This whole time, you were talking about Tom—that Tom! Tom Riddle! V—err, you-know-who! He's the reason you're at the top of our class in every subject, isn't he?" She accuses, irascible. And then, with horror as the thought occurs: "Is he writing all your essays?"
"What? No!" Harry sputters. "Why—Hermione, don't you think there are more important events to worry about; like, for example, how I'm supposed to ever face him again?"
She pauses. "Well yes I suppose," she agrees, reluctant. "Oh, but Harry… this is utterly unfair. I mean, he's… he's You-Know-Who, he's—well, the most terrible wizard to ever live! But the things he must know…" she trials off, looking wistful.
But of course Hermione's first and only concern is about books and studying.
Harry sighs. "You're right about that," she admits at length. "I'm pretty sure he knows everything; also, he's a much better teacher."
This only makes Hermione pout further.
Harry eyes her critically. "Hermione… you're not…" She swallows. "I mean, he's the Dark Lord! You're not—mad?"
"Why would I be mad?" She retorts. "Do I think you're crazy? A little bit. He's a mass murderer—people are scared to even say his name!"
She huffs. "But, I'm pretty sure you of all people know this better than anyone. And you're the only one to have ever faced him, consistently, and come out alive at the end of it. What's it now—three times?"
"Four, counting when I was a baby." She amends faintly.
"I might be wrong but," she throws a hesitant look Harry's way, "you would know him better than anyone, right?"
Harry cannot manage a response to this, nodding around the rocks that have somehow lodged their way into her throat.
She fidgets nervously. "And from what you've told me he seems to be, well, different with you. I can't reconcile the horrible man from all the stories to the one you're talking about."
"That makes two of us then," Harry agrees, so soft it could hardly carry out of her mouth. She feels light-headed; spun up in nerves that only seem to worsen as the minutes roll by, snared in her stomach, crawling up into her chest.
Hermione says nothing to this, staring off into the pastel green of her walls; her attention caught in a hanging picture of the Eiffel tower, in complete synchronicity with the rest of the décor in the room. Harry wonders if Hermione picked everything out herself, or if it was her mother who decorated it for her.
Would her mother have done the same? But what would Lily Potter have imagined for her only daughter? Harry wouldn't know. And it's all because of the man that she was kissing not even twenty-four hours ago.
This should burn within her; livid anger should tremble up her limbs at the very thought of him. Her wonderful parents, that she would never get to know. And their horrid replacements that have made her life miserable for thirteen years of her life—before she finally was rid of them last year.
Against all reason, she finds she can't.
"Are you going to go back to him?" Hermione asks, quiet.
She falls upon Hermione's bed, despondent, staring sightlessly up into the ceiling.
"I don't know," she answers, honestly. Despite her best efforts, a dreadful blush begins to rise to her cheeks. "I don't think I could live through the embarrassment."
Hermione flushes also, looking rather uncomfortable. "Oh," she says, lamely. And then, clearing her throat, "Yes, I suppose that would be rather… difficult."
Harry turns her head towards her bookish friend, genuinely curious. "You don't think it's weird?"
"Well yes," Hermione returns, matter-of-fact. "But then—who am I to tell you who to fancy, you know? He's certainly a… um, surprising choice, but he's your choice, so…"
Harry buries her face into the pillow, wishing she had never brought up such an awkward, mortifying topic.
"So…" Hermione, if possible, looks even more red than she is.
Harry glances at her expression, wary. "What?" She asks, guarded.
"Was he a good kisser?" She blurts out, so fast Harry doesn't process it immediately.
Then she sputters aloud. "Was he a—" she looks away, wanting to melt into the soft comforter beneath her, if only to escape this moment. "I don't know," she answers hotly, at length, "I—we—it was very brief."
Hermione makes a noise of understanding. "And then you… ran out of the room?"
"Ran?" Harry laughs bitterly. "I sprinted, Hermione. It was practically teleportation."
"You didn't see his face though?" She presses. "Did he—well, I mean, was he mad? Or did he look like he liked it?"
"He looked confused." She answers, before she throws her hands over her face. "Oh Merlin Hermione, why did I have to do that? I'm never going to be able to talk to him again! How am I supposed to look him in the eye?"
A terrifying thought comes to her, and she removes her fingers just enough to peek up at her best friend. "…What if he tries to talk to me about it?"
Hermione's expression would have been hilarious had Harry thought anything about this situation to be funny.
"I… I think it would be an awful event for the both of you." She decides at length.
Harry could not agree with her more.
"But Harry," she starts, softly. "Are you sure it's not… requited?"
Harry's jaw drops as she flushes deeply, wondering if her face might actually be able to combust. "I really don't think so." She returns. "I mean… why would he—uh, like me, you know? I'm just a little girl to him." But even as she says this, she doesn't hold great surety in her words.
Hermione turns a critical eye towards her. "Well, you are very pretty," she observes, clinically. "Probably the prettiest girl in school. Or the one everyone wants to date, at least. And you're not that young anymore."
"That is completely untrue," Harry protests—to all of it.
Hermione ignores her. She scratches her nose, fidgety. "I just—I can't imagine that he hasn't noticed that."
They both fall silent.
Harry doesn't know how she feels about this. How is she supposed to feel? She's not sure how he… regards her, but she knows for sure that it's not in the way she regards him. It's true she means a lot more to him than a terrorizing little house guest that is constantly messing up all the furniture. They have a connection, so intimate that it scares her sometimes. She's seen all the parts of him he tries to hide—the past he is so ashamed of, and every sorrowful thought he's ever had.
She sighs.
"Why don't we just go to bed and forget we ever had this conversation?" Harry suggests.
"Yes, yes—excellent idea. It is rather late, isn't it?" Hermione agrees hastily, moving to pull down the bed covers.
They settle into a dark, torturous silence for some time. Eventually Harry's heart manages to remember how to beat normally, and then the exhaustion really does hit her. It's been a long, stressful day.
"Night Harry," Hermione mumbles beside her.
"Goodnight Hermione," Harry whispers back, and then, biting her lip, "And thank you."
Hermione gives her an unintelligible grunt in response. Harry smiles, before rolling over and joining her in her sleep.
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The next day finds both of them wandering around in the bright sunshine of Diagon Alley; it turns out they'd both gotten Ginny the same thing, so Harry offered to change hers to a new broom cleaning kit as Hermione scrambled for some last minute gift shopping for Ron. Harry already got him a Chudley Cannons sweater.
She's bought perfect gifts for all her friends: really nice eye makeup for Lavender, and an equally nice set of lipstick colors for Parvati; Hermione was probably expecting a book of some kind, so Harry got her this dress she'd been eying longingly all year.
It wasn't her friends Harry was worried about.
She'd finally found the perfect Christmas gift for Tom—but what of his birthday? She wanted to have something for both; two events that he never found any reason to get excited over, if only because no one ever cared to celebrate them. But they had to be absolutely perfect. She'd given generic birthday gifts in the past, and certainly gotten her fair share of them—and a lot of gag ones—that she appreciated all the same, but she didn't hold regard for them the way she did the meaningful ones.
And this was the first… she didn't think anyone had ever given him a birthday present, let alone acknowledged his birthday.
She wanted it to be something amazing; something that he would never be able to forget. And just… something he would like. Something he would appreciate.
Except—he didn't seem to appreciate much of anything.
Aside from her.
Harry shakes herself out of her thoughts before she ends up blushing for the umpteenth time that day, pivoting into Gringotts without a second thought. Hermione had weaseled her way into the book store, ostensibly to find something for Ron, but they both knew there was absolutely nothing in that store that Ron wouldn't burn at the stake. Harry had been a little annoyed with that—she really didn't want to face the goblins alone.
They scared her.
But when she had told Hermione this, she only gave her an incredulous look. "You're not scared of the Dark Lord—but you're terrified at the thought of bank clerks?" She balked.
Seeing the truth in her words, Harry decided to go at it alone. But, as it turned out, the goblins were rather scary. Scary and mean, that's for sure.
Still, they took her to her vault without much fanfare, and before long she was staring down somewhat familiar double doors leading to her vault.
It was as she clamored into the chamber, debating how much gold to take out, when she found it.
The perfect gift.
Or gifts, as it were.
Harry tripped on a loose Galleon on the floor, lost her balance, and collided face first with a stack of… books. When she'd coughed away most of the dust, she looked down to find a pile of ancient, centuries-old looking books. And as she followed the trail of them, she saw dozens more, precariously stacked in haphazard towers. Some are so old they're hand written, passed down for generations through her family—epic tales of lost treasures and knowledge, tossed away to live forever in the back of the family vault.
Harry smiles, bursting out of the vault and scaring the little goblin snoozing by the door.
"Hi, excuse me," she says, brightly, "Do you perhaps have a bag? A very large one, at that?"
13.
She has two perfect gifts for two occasions—but absolutely no idea what to say to him when she returns home.
For a moment, she wishes she had taken Hermione up on her offer and just spent the night again at her house. Harry has never been one to procrastinate though (on things not regarding schoolwork, that is) and had instead portkeyed back to the Riddle Mansion, standing on the porch without a single plan in place.
It's as still as a tomb inside, and Harry looks around warily, wondering when the portentous inhabitant of the manor would reveal himself. He is most certainly here, but she can't sense where, exactly.
She wanders around the first floor, growing more and more nervous the longer she goes without seeing him. She finally rounds the whole thing, and heads to the second. She finds him in the drawing room, hands clasped behind his back, turned towards the window. For all intent purposes, he looks to be calmly, casually stargazing.
But there is nothing casual about the Dark Lord—or calm, for that matter.
"Um," she stammers, after moments of silence, when it becomes clear he won't speak first. "Hi."
He turns around, completely unreadable.
Harry all at once remembers the last time she'd looked upon this face—remembers exactly what those lips felt like against hers. She looks down quickly, utterly terrified, wringing her hands in her scarf so violently she worried it might just tear apart.
"Um," she says again, intelligently, fixating studiously on the floorboards, trying to make herself say something—anything.
She hears him step closer, and fear seems to seep into the very calendar of her bones. She notes, almost absently, that she is trembling ever so slightly. He draws closer; her breath catches in her lungs and seems to burn corrosively through everything, her heart, her limbs, every single finger and toe. She can't remember the last time she' d been so scared of him.
Harry closes her eyes, completely unable to handle whatever is coming.
She's not sure what she was expecting—a very awkward and horrible reprimand, mostly. Or nothing at all, just the swish of his robes as he leaves the room without a comment or backwards glance.
A large, warm hand comes to rest atop her head, tugging her softly until she can feel the soft, silky fabric of his robes.
He takes a breath, and Harry has never before felt this kind of fear.
"You silly child," he reprimands, but there is nothing in his tone but affection. "What are you so afraid of?"
She squeezes her eyes shut. "I…" This is utterly unbearable.
"Do you hate me?" She asks, in a pathetically small voice.
"Hate you?" He murmurs. "Why do you think I hate you?"
And how is she supposed to answer that? Is he really going to make her say it out loud? This must be what it feels like to die from spontaneous combustion via an implosion of embarrassment. When she chances a glance at his face, she doesn't see any anger there at all. In fact, he looks almost… amused?
The thought hits her like a stab to the chest. Does he think this is funny? Is he deriving amusement out of this? Why wouldn't he, she thinks, hollow and miserable. It must seem rather funny to him—a silly little girl having a crush on him. Did he tell all his death eaters? Did they laugh about it after?
She pulls away, bitter, with an ache in her chest that is more painful than she could ever have imagined it to be.
"Never mind," she bites out, caustically. "What does it matter, anyway?"
He looks down at her, surprised by the bite in her voice. Harry jerks out of his grip while he's distracted, refusing to look him in the eye as she turns away.
"Harry," he says, but even the small bit of concern in his voice is not enough to stop her.
The hand on her shoulder, however, does.
She spins around, ready to tell him off, but there is an unguarded tenderness that crumbles whatever vehement retorts she may have had. And then she has no time to think up any others, because all the thoughts fly out of her head at the touch of his lips against hers.
There's a split second in which she stays perfectly still, immobile with surprise, before she's kissing him back with just as much insistency.
It is both infinitely better and worse than she'd thought it would be. Better, because that brief kiss from before was nothing like the overwhelming and unrelenting intensity of the lips upon her—and a lot worse, because she can't stop shaking and she thinks her heart will pound out of her chest and she feels very light-headed and oh god, she really hopes she doesn't faint from snogging the Dark Lord.
But it's not really her fault; he is… a very talented kisser. And she's never kissed anyone like this. It's all so overwhelming.
She thinks he might be trying to ensnare her soul right out of her mouth—it might actually be working.
He pulls away then, much to her distinct displeasure. But only to move those talented lips to her hair, kissing his way until his warm breath is in her ear, sending shivers all the way to her toes.
"What do you want, Harry?"
How is she supposed to answer when she's so thoroughly distracted? She can't come up with a coherent response, so instead she pulls him towards her again, intent on dragging another debauching kiss from him. She has to reach up on her tip-toes, barely tall enough to press her trembling lips to his. It is so sweet and delicate, not at all like the one before, but equally as overwhelming. The soft innocence does not last for long; he backs her against something, and then suddenly she's losing her balance and falling onto—
The drawing room table. She has no time for surprise; his mouth is upon her, hot and insistent, burning against the lines of her throat. He trails up to her ear, coaxing a shuddering gasp from her lips. And then that gifted tongue is moving to her lips, and she opens for him, yielding, and it becomes difficult to think again. But even his mouth cannot distract her from his hands, wandering up and down her legs, flirting with the hem of her skirt; not demanding or invasive, but enough to remind her of what this means, what she's gotten herself into, what intimate acts inevitably follow.
The long, elegant fingers slip under, skimming lightly; a restless uncertainty douses the grip of her latent desire. And without her utterly distracting arousal she finds a tiny bit of fear replacing it— a niggling unease at the thought of going any farther. Does he want to? But then, isn't this what every boy wants (according to Hermione), the reason they kiss you in the first place, why they initiate intimacy at all? And if she doesn't want to, what will he do? Leave? Get annoyed? Do it anyway?
He pauses then, as if sensing her hesitation.
"Harry," he murmurs, warm and indulgent. Though the light pads of his fingers flitter against her skin, they don't move any farther.
She makes a little noise in the back of her throat. The touch scares her as much as it excites her.
"What do you want?" He asks again, and something very close to relief washes away all her concerns.
She says the first thing she thinks of. She's nervous, yes, but that does not at all mean she wants him to leave.
"Come to bed with me," she says, and her embarrassment once her words catch up to her is almost worth the unadulterated astonishment crossing his face. "Not like that!" She reiterates hastily, burying her face into his shoulder. "I mean, I just…" She squeezes him tightly, as if the touch could possibly convey all she wants to say.
I don't want to let you go.
He cuts her off before she can dig herself any deeper, holding her firmly, and then they're somehow sliding through time and space.
Wherever they end up is besotted in a cloying, unending darkness. She doesn't mind at all. She falls into a silken ocean, dragging him down with her. It's all too easy to forget about the entire world beyond the touch of his lips; whatever diminutive universe blooms in the spaces between their lips is one she wants to exist in forever.
He kisses her until she thinks she's forgotten how to breathe properly—or think, for that matter. She feels lost in the cage of his arms, pinned to the bed, gasping for air whenever they break apart. He keeps one hand against her thigh, crumpling the fabric there, rubbing against the small, intimate strip of skin above her stockings, but before the hem of her skirt. It makes something fearful cling to her throat, but also sinks into her stomach with a liquid heat she doesn't know what to do with.
"Harry," he murmurs, but she only buries herself into the lines of his shoulder, unwilling to respond, or try to have a conversation at all. She doesn't think herself capable of it right now.
She doesn't know when she drifts off, but it's somewhere between the heavy beating of her racing heart and the warmth of the body above her, so hot she thinks its consuming her very soul.
28.
She blinks upon him, sleepily, doused in sun; lashed and insatiable essences in barborous gold. There are four insignificant freckles, curved around her eye as a vigilant constellation that always manage to elicit his complete attention. Absurdly, he finds himself fixating upon them now. The world is a gray and melancholy waste around her, unsubstantial, unremarkable and wholly unguessed by the eye.
"Tom," she murmurs, thick with dreams. Her eyes drift closed; spiky shadows dance across her cheeks with the flittering lashes.
For a timeless moment, everything is still and undisturbed; white washed light caught in an endless hold; wandering hair a pool of fire beneath her, tangled in his fingers; a dust mote flutters by her nose, a subdued glow; a small, almost insignificant smile touches her lips.
"Happy Christmas, Tom," The smile grows into something infinitely more beautiful and dangerous—it will ruin him if he's not careful, he knows.
But he's already been careless.
14.
Harry emerges reluctantly from her dreams, blinking into an indeterminable sunlight and feeling as if she has forgotten something very important in them. But she can no longer remember anything about them, aside from snippets of color, light and sound.
She closes her eyes again, turning in her sheets, nosing in against the remaining heat of her pillow.
Except this is definitely not her pillow.
A gentle warmth flickers in her heart when her eyes open to the great Dark Lord himself, pliant and indulgent beneath her. He is awake, deeply contemplating the ceiling above them. For a moment, all she wants to do is watch him in the early morning light, far too comfortable to even contemplate moving. Something delighted thrills in her chest when she thinks that he's here with her, right now. That he stayed. Harry smiles slowly, closing her eyes and burying her face into his shoulder.
He peers down curiously.
"It's Christmas," she turns her smile into his robes.
"Yes," he agrees, distant, and not sounding at all enthused.
She lifts her head up, feeling rather giddy as she presses her lips to his again, and he allows her, tongue shyly licking against him. When she pulls away he appears in marginally better spirits. A thought occurs to her with a frown.
"You don't like Christmas?" She looks haltingly toward him.
The Dark Lord sits up from beneath her, and something both like fear and anticipation coils inside of her when he looms above her, something burning and hot lingering in his eyes as he looks down upon her.
"It has it's advantages," he answers, elusive.
"Does it?" She murmurs, finding herself drawn to his lips. It's strange; she never thought much of kissing before. But now it's as if that's the only thing she can think about. "What… exactly is an advantage?"
He lowers himself down to her; she stays very still, breathless.
"I find it makes people far more… charitable," he replies, but she is barely paying attention.
"Charitable?" She echoes, absent, quiet and distracted by his mouth, so close to her own.
"Yes," he agrees, with a dark smile. Something lurches in her heart at the very sight of it—a foreign, inexplicable heat pooling in her stomach. "They are much more agreeable to do what you ask… willing to indulge a small favor, or two—if given the right incentive."
Harry shivers with the promise in his words. "I see," she whispers; an intangible wisp against his mouth. "What kind of incentives are we talking about here?"
"I'm sure I could come up with a few." And then that dark smile is pressed against her own, lightly, enough to make her eyes flutter shut but not enough to ease the restless heat inside of her. "I wonder, Harry… what kind of incentive might I need, to elicit a small favor from you?"
"Hmm…?" The lips move away, and her eyes open, reluctant.
He looms above her, dark and dangerous and doing horrible things to her heart. "W—Well that would depend," she whispers, faltering. "On, um…" her breath hitches; his mouth lowers to her neck, searing a line of fire down to the her chest. "What—what kind of favor you're asking for..."
His fingers slip through the collar of her shirt, every so slightly, exposing bare inches for his perusing mouth, igniting every nerve it passes by. His lips worship the downy, smooth skin he uncovers with every pass of his fingers; the shallow dips and shadows, the indent of her collar.
"I'm sure you won't be too adverse to it," he murmurs, silkily, and then there is no more room between them for conversation.
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Harry murmurs with disappointment when his fingers stop threading through her hair, feeling cold with the loss of them. He indulges her again, a bemused look to his face as he resumes his petting. Harry approves.
She feels sleepy and warm and very comfortable, and is besieged with a great unwillingness to move—possibly for forever. In front of her he holds a book with one hand, the other running through her hair. She doesn't know what this one is about, but she is completely unsurprised to see him reading a book once more; it is so very similar to the Tom Riddle in her dreams, who almost always has his nose in a book.
Her eyes slide closed again, and she must drift off for some time because then he is nudging her awake; not with annoyance but great amusement.
"Harry," he says, and there is a little thrill in her chest when she hears the fondness in his voice. "How long do you plan to sleep on me?"
"Forever," she says in response, burying her nose in the fabric of his robes and studiously ignoring him.
"Or perhaps just until lunch?"
The thought of food rouses her from her cozy slumber, and she mutters insensibly as she rises from his lap, yawning and pawing flimsily at her eyes.
"Lunch, then," she pouts, mutinous, but follows him to the dining room anyway.
She's reminded that its Christmas when she's greeted with the traditional Christmas fair, laid out upon the table in amounts far too large for the both of them. The house elves must have gotten excited for this one. Harry blinks rapidly at it, coming out of her blissful daze at the thought.
"Oh!" She jumps up from her chair, almost arbitrarily.
Lord Voldemort looks up, curious.
"Hold on," she says, quickly, "I just—oh I completely forgot—
And with that utterly unintelligible statement, Harry is out the door like a bolt of lightning. He watches her dart out of the room with surprise, before ultimately deciding it is far too difficult to attempt to rationalize the mind of a teenage girl. They are illogical and irrational and… have a way of surprising you. He smiles darkly at the memory of sweet little Harry, the only one to have ever dared interrupt him when he is speaking, pressing her lips to his as she stands on her tiptoes. Very surprising indeed.
She skitters back into the room, grinning brightly.
It drifts away at the sight of him, but only to emerge again as something soft and reticent.
"Tom," she draws close to him, shyly, almost—nervously.
He looks at her, curious—not prepared at all when she reveals a small little box wrapped in perfect silver wrapping paper, an equally perfect bow of illustrious gold ribbon tied at the top. He knows what it is, by definition at least. It's a present. A Christmas present. He's gotten a few over the years, many from his followers; none have ever elicited such emotion as this one does.
She leans in close, pressing an innocent little kiss to the side of his mouth. "Merry Christmas," she whispers against his lips.
Harry watches anxiously as he carefully unwinds the bow and peels off the paper. She's never been so concerned over someone's reaction to one of her gifts. But then, it's Tom. Of course it means more to her.
"A soul gem," he remarks when he opens the box, looking somewhat surprised.
She nods, moving close enough to place her hand over his, until he can smell her lilting scent and feel the silky drift of hair slipping from her shoulders, brushing against him.
She takes his hand, drawing the stone up to the light.
His eyes widen when it flashes a deep crimson when it hits upon the sunlight, glinting between its original slate coloring and the searing red. He's never made one himself, but he's read about them in a variety of texts. They're innocuous enough; personal, but not particularly useful. He's very sure they're not supposed to change colors. They're rocks; and though some can be great and striking colors, they are all just stones at the end of the day.
Not this one, though.
"Watch," she whispers, lowering it back down into the shadows beneath the table. This time when the light glints off of it, it turns to a bright emerald.
This is even more surprising.
"It's neat, right?" She enthuses, excited. "No one else's did that."
But of course they didn't, he thinks silently.
None of them share a soul with someone else.
It doesn't escape his notice that this gem is a physical representation of both of them. He imagines if he ever had to go through the tedious process of making one of his own, it would look the exact same as hers. It is, however, just a rock. But all the same he's almost… touched that she's entrusting them with it. They're usually precious treasures that are kept within the family, perhaps lauded in some ostentatious glass case as the Malfoy's have them, or in a Gringott's vault with other heirlooms.
The thought strikes him, then.
Harry is his. She is the closest thing he's ever had to family.
.
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The thought makes him pensive and maudlin for the rest of the day—although to be honest, everything about this Christmas has him quiet and thoughtful. In his school years, Christmas at Hogwarts was always a muted, lonely affair, celebrated with the sparse inhabitants of the castle that stayed for the holidays. Though even that was an exaggeration; nothing about it was ever all that celebratory, especially in regards to him. And in his later years as he traveled the world he never bothered to celebrate it at all; he had learned to scorn this holiday, as he did all others. He eventually had to tolerate it during his first rise to power, but he had never come to truly enjoy it.
He's not particularly sure if he's enjoying it now, either.
But Harry always makes for pleasant company—the only company he cares for, really—so this is not to say he is as dispirited and annoyed with this day as he usually is.
It is certainly a different experience, though.
The day is a quiet, subdued affair—but not lonely. If anything, it is somewhat comforting. He returns to the main floor to find a heap of presents and a small army of owls perched in the large front foyer; it doesn't surprise him at all to see that Harry is well received by her peers.
She tucks herself in next to him as he lounges in the study, book in hand, diligently plucking away at her sea of presents. He notices that she left many of them out in the entrance room—she only opens the ones that are from people she knows, she said. And yet the amount is still alarming.
He finds himself unwillingly curious; it soon turns into confusion and a general sense of exasperation when he sees just what exactly the contents are. Again, they aren't necessarily surprising. That said, he doesn't think he's ever seen so many beauty products all in one place in his life, or jewelry, for that matter. It strikes him then that he didn't get her anything at all—but Harry does not seemed concerned with this.
She seems more than content, actually; he catches her smiling at him at odd hours, for no reason at all; she steals kisses from him sporadically and intermittently, without much rhyme or reason. As if the fancy simply overtakes her. He has never been the recipient of this kind of attention before, but it is not… unwanted. Strange, yes, but not unwelcomed.
She spells all the torn wrapping paper away, turning around with an expression that makes all the thoughts fly from his head.
Harry wanders over to him, smiling shyly. Why is she doing that? Does she not understand who he is? A lovely young girl like Harry—she could have anyone she wanted. She must be the apple of every eye at Hogwarts, of this he has no doubt. The thought stirs within him a low grade level of fury; there are probably dozens of boys panting after her, and he knows exactly what they're thinking. It mollifies him slightly to know that she is only looking at him right now, but does nothing to answer his questions. Why does she—how could she possibly—?
But then the impossible child is crawling into his lap, gently tilting his head up to place a quiet kiss upon his mouth, and it comes to him then that it doesn't matter why. The point is that she is here, and there is no way he will ever let her go.
.
.
.
15.
The days pass in an intermittent haze of calming quiet, with the occasional stolen kisses. She's a bit unhappy with the fact that it hasn't gotten much farther than that. No matter how insistent she is, he always pries her fingers away before she can get anywhere with them.
Harry pouts.
He acts as if everyone else in her year isn't doing this already. And now that she's gotten used to it—more than used to it—she finds herself wanting more. She already pointed this out to him, but it didn't do her much good. The dark lord does not care at all about what is in vogue for teenage girls.
Her birthday present for him arrives, and she has a merry time assembling it to surprise him—and then promptly forgets about the whole thing after a half hour or so of distracting him from his work, plopped onto his office desk and making a delightful nuisance of herself. He tells her as much when he finally pulls away, grabbing her hands before they can even reach his robes, as if finally realizing where all the time has gone.
"You're doing this on purpose," he accuses, sending her a baleful look.
In response, she smiles up at him, blinking in innocence even as she hooks her legs tighter against him, wiggling around just to be spiteful. "Doing what?"
He releases her hands to still her hips, but then she immediately uses her freed appendages to move for the top clasp of his cloak. He growls, grabbing them again and then throwing her down onto the desk, pinning them above her head. "Proving to be a pest." He replies. "If you continue, I will lock you up in the room."
"The bedroom?" She clarifies, excited. "Will you be joining me?"
He makes a strangled noise, dropping his head onto her shoulder. "You are far too young to even be aware of any of that. What sort of things do they teach you in that school?"
"No I'm not!" She protests, hotly. "And everyone I know is always talking about—
But he shuts her up with a firm kiss to the mouth. After a minute or two, the fight has left her and she is once again melting thoughtlessly under his incredibly talented tongue, completely forgetting what they were even arguing about. The dark lord is perhaps even quite pleased with this new predicament he's found himself in; at the very least, he has discovered a way to both distract her and stop her incessant whining that, incidentally, is pleasurable for the both of them.
She is blissful and compliant for the rest of the day, content to sprawl across him and read her insipid and unproductive books. This is, perhaps, the best birthday he has ever had. He often forgets that this day is his birthday at all, far too caught up in his work to remember a date that he considers meaningless.
It is only when he looks up to check the time does he notice something amiss in the library.
Something against a bare strip of wall scintillates with magic; a poorly conjured invisibility spell, for he can feel the magic quite easily. He immediately becomes concerned—who could have possibly been able to conjure it? And what sort of malicious violence was waiting to ensnare him on the other side? He does not let anyone into the Manor, aside from the drawing room or office, and the dungeons. He has no wish for any of them to discover Harry, or for Harry to discover them. Still, the only ones who use this mansion in anything approaching regularity are him and—
He turns an accusing, angry look to the girl lying upon the couch.
"Harry," he starts, very slowly, but she immediately hears the danger in his tone. Harry looks up at him with wary eyes, lowering her book slowly.
"Yes?" She replies, timid.
"Would you like to tell me what you've done to the study?"
Harry blinks at him, uncomprehending. And then she gasps, leaping to her feet. The dark lord scowls, most displeased. He is imagining a great many irritating things she could have done—has she blown a hole through the wall, and is trying to cover it up from him? But then she is tugging him forward, with a giddiness that surprises him.
"I haven't done anything bad, I promise, so don't be angry."
"Is that supposed to reassure me?"
"Close your eyes," she demands, in an excited whisper.
His frown grows. "Harry—
"Please?" She pouts, leaning up to steal a kiss from him, as if she thinks this might make him more amenable to her games.
It works.
He gives a long suffering sigh. "If I must," he gives a grand capitulation. She smiles, and then releases him to point her wand towards the wall.
He feels magic tingle in the air as she pulls down whatever half-managed wards she had hiding the wall, and then she is telling him to open his eyes.
At first, he is confused. He doesn't see anything all that different. Except, there is a bookshelf that hadn't been there before, full of books that are unfamiliar to him. Harry is watching him with big, anticipatory eyes, that grow wider when he draws closer for deeper inspection. They aren't familiar to him—at all. He's never even heard of most of these titles, and some don't have any at all. A few jump out at him; ancient texts that he has never quite been able to get his hands on. Books from centuries ago that are now only obscure references in other things he's read. Some of these are quite dark—archaic, black magic, so evil he cannot imagine how they came to be in Harry's possession.
"Harry," he begins, in barely a whisper, taken by complete surprise. "What is this?"
She brightens immediately, reaching up one her toes to kiss him softly. When she pulls away, she smiles quietly at him. "Your birthday present, silly."
No one has ever called him 'silly' before, at least not that he can remember. And if they had, he surely put them under the cruciatus for it. But he cannot feel anything but complete, conclusive shock. No one has ever given him a birthday present, either.
He swallows, thickly. "You… where did you get this?"
"My Gringotts vault!" She enthuses, as if that isn't at all shocking. "There were so many of them—I didn't know anyone else who would appreciate it."
"Your Gringotts vault?" he repeats, slowly. She nods. "Harry, these are heirlooms," he finds himself explaining, because it is clear she does not understand the value of them. "Family heirlooms," he adds, if the former explanation is unclear.
She blinks. "I know." She shrugs. "But I'm never going to use them. You'd probably find them more useful than me."
"Yes," this is invariably true; Harry is incapable of reading anything with more substance than overly-imaginative stories about a space pirate and his shaggy dog. Or maybe it's a bear. This is beside the point. "But these are yours, Harry. They belong to your family—you can't just give them away."
"Why not?" She ripostes, sounding genuinely confused.
Harry walks closer to him, until she can wind her arms around him. "I want you to have them," she whispers, tugging him closer, until she can fit herself into the crook of his shoulder, her nose cold against his neck. "I want to give them to you."
"Harry…" He doesn't think she truly knows what she's giving him, but he feels strangely touched all the same. "These aren't the sort of things you give away."
But he is reminded once more that, like him, Harry comes from a very prestigious and illustrious lineage that she had never even been aware of until recently. She doesn't understand the value of it, nor is she aware of the traditions that are so prevalent in pureblood society. The Malfoys, for one, would never, even upon certainty of death, give away their treasured books and scrolls. The Malfoy library undoubtedly has texts that have been long lost to the rest of the wizarding world for centuries, squirreled and hidden away for only the Malfoy family to see.
And though the Gaunts had long since squandered away whatever palatial fortune they may have once had, he knows that the Potters did not. She had a grandfather, once, the patriarch of her family; she had a family manor that was most likely full of family treasures; so many timeless and precious heirlooms for only her eyes to see.
All he had left of his inheritance was a locket, and even that had been squandered away before he was born. This might be all she has left of hers.
"Why not?" She frowns, curiously.
He searches her gaze, so unguarded and trusting. He could steal these away from her so easily, and she would never know the wiser. He's certainly done it before, to others who were so naive; he's not sure why the idea has lost its appeal—that it disturbs him, even.
"Harry," he sighs, "these have been a part of your family for longer than you've most likely even had a family tree. It's your inheritance; they are heirlooms. They belong in your family—you can't just give them away."
She doesn't respond for some time, though she holds his gaze unerringly. It doesn't surprise him; she has always been the only person who could ever hold his gaze, without fear or trepidation.
"But you are my family," she replies, at length. Her eyes are wide and beseeching and—fearful. There is a flicker of terror that flitters through her features, though it is so very different than any he's ever seen before. It is not a fear for her life, or a fear of him. "I'm yours… right? That's what you said; that we have a connection."
His mouth opens, but he finds himself completely lacking coherent thought.
He had said that.
And had he not been thinking something similar only a few days ago? She is his. He is so deeply and irrevocably a part of her that there is no way to refute this.
His hand reaches up to her forehead, smoothing slowly against her rampant hair, brushing against the scar so prevalent on the unblemished skin.
Perhaps she is right. She shares his very soul; he does not think there is a more intimate connection to exist.
Even blood.
"Yes," he agrees, barely above a whisper. His eyes darken as he trails a possessive hand down her cheek. "You are mine."
She shivers delightfully, reaching towards him with an eagerness that surprises him. It is not long before his possessiveness gets the better of him, and he is succumbing to his desire.
The argument is forgotten soon enough, the rest of the world crumbling away until it is only the two of them, two parts of the same soul, whole once again.
29.
There is a darkness in him; she can feel it, an endless danger just underneath his skin. Can feel it wash over her, as she lingers in his embrace. A darkness that has always been here, perhaps, but has grown into a deep, besotted miasma that is almost overwhelming sometimes.
It doesn't escape her that she has noticed it far more than she ever has before. That his magic calls out to her in a way that no other magic does. That she can feel each and every horcrux; their location, what they are, how many. Dumbledore would probably kill for this kind of information—maybe she really is the only person capable of vanquishing him.
The intimate darkness has seeped into her, becoming a part of her the longer she stays in his presence. It's changed him, she thinks. A piceous veil that has slipped between them, separating them, even now.
"Tom," she whispers, as he sinks into her, biting burning kisses into her neck. She winces at the sudden intrusion, at the pace he sets soon thereafter.
He doesn't respond. His hands have left dark marks in her hip, his mouth has left even more. He is rough and unrelenting—he's taken her three times today, each more insistent than the last.
There's a black aura that tingles on her skin; a viperous look in his eye and a fear that feels foreign crawling up her spine.
"Tom," she repeats, urgently.
He doesn't appear to be listening. That talented mouth moves to hers, teeth scraping against her bottom lip, leaving it swollen and red. His grip grows tighter, and he's thrusting into her almost uncontrollably—aggressively.
She pries her mouth away from his, her hands moving to push him away. "Tom, stop it, you're hurting me!"
He blinks down at her, the haze leaving his eyes as he takes her in. From his expression, she probably looks as bad as she feels; sore and achy and littered with bruises.
"Harry," he murmurs, almost apologetically, stilling inside of her. He leans down, slowly, pressing soft kisses into her hair.
She doesn't respond, closing her eyes as she heaves for breath, finally having a moment to calm her racing heart.
"Are you—" his gaze trails down her, concerned, full of a fear of his own. "Did I—
She shakes her head, pulling him down to meet her lips. "No, it's okay—I'm fine," she reassures, relieved that he's snapped out of whatever malevolence had held him. The guilt is almost just as bad though, even if it is relieving to see.
She moves against him then, slow and sweet, drawing a groan from him. "I want it like this," she whispers, lowly, purring into his ear. "I want you to make love to me slowly, until I can't take it anymore, until I'm begging for you to go faster—
The guilt is besieged with a look of intense desire, and he is surging into her so slowly that it makes her toes curl, doing as she asked. Almost too soon it becomes far too much, and she really is begging him to go faster, hurtling head long into oblivion. He follows her after a few moments, holding her so tight she thinks he might be breaking something. His grip relaxes as he sighs into her hair, and Harry feels herself slip into a languid, sleepy contentment, warm and comfortable in his arms. Like this, it is all too easy to forget whatever lies beyond the morning, the reality she'll have to come to terms with when the light strips away the quiescent night. The darkness that grows deeper still, even now.
He shifts against her, and she makes a noise of discontent. "Don't pull out," she murmurs; he stills, blinks down at her. "I want to feel you."
A dark look crosses his eyes, but it's gone as quick as it had come. Her eyes flutter shut soon enough, and she's drifting off, sleepy and satisfied. He says something to her, in that moment, and the words wander in between her dreams.
She can't remember them when she wakes up.
16.
I must not tell lies.
Harry bites her lip furiously, ignoring the words, and the pain. They're not actually what's bothering her—it's the woman in front of her, giggling away as she pours copious amounts of sugar into her tea. Around her, ornate portraits of cats meow away obnoxiously. Harry has the intense urge to explode each and every one of them, and then destroy the woman in front of her.
Somehow she manages to keep it together long enough to hold out through detention.
She swoops into her dormitory with a bang, near shaking violently with anger. The only thing that keeps her from destroying the whole room is the letter waiting for her on her night stand.
Tom.
Something bright and warm besieges all her anger, dragging it out like a waning tide at sea until its just a mere memory.
Harry settles herself onto her bed, quill in hand—a real one, this time. She takes a moment to simply look at his lovely script. It reminds her of the writing in the diary, but it's a bit different; still infinitely better penmanship than her own. But then, of course Lord Voldemort's penmanship is impeccable, how could it possibly be anything else?
But penmanship reminds her of what she was doing not even ten minutes ago. She scowls, shaking the thought away.
"Dear Tom…" They always start innocuously enough, but they've become long-winded conversations about all sorts of magic—any little thought or curiosity she's ever had he indulges, anything she's ever dreamed of knowing, even about himself. That she hadn't expected; it's true, she knows most of it already, and she's sure he probably knows hers just as intimately. But she's amazed that he would speak of it at all.
They have… far more in common than she's comfortable admitting. It is uncanny, actually, how similar they are.
Yet, it is equally uncanny how much they don't.
It is painfully glaring to see what has been erased from each and every memory he explains through. He speaks of academics triumphs, berating the professors for their inability to teach him anything meaningful. Of his peers who were so shallow and easily manipulated. He had no friends, no indulgences; nothing at all but a stewing anger and loneliness, and an insecurity she doesn't think ever really left him, buried deep under layers of cruelty and callousness. He didn't have a Ron or Hermione, who are there for her through thick and thin. He doesn't have the Weasley's, who shower her with warmth and love and belonging.
He never had anywhere to belong.
That's not true anymore, she thinks, vehemently. He does. He has her. That has to count for something, right?
Harry jolts upright then, hissing in pain as she shakes out her hand. She'd been thinking so deeply she'd clenched it into a fist, and it has begun to burn as if she had held it over a hot stove.
She looks down at where she left off in her letter, scowling.
"Why must you have cursed the defense position?" She writes, rather mutinously, on a different tangent than her abysmal potions grade they had been talking about prior, "You can't really blame me for my 'lack of education' when you look at the track record for that post. I'll remind you in case you've forgotten; one of them was you on the back of someone's head; the other was a barmy fake with ridiculous hair; another was a death eater in hiding. (To be honest though, Barty Crouch Jr. was actually very good)
I'll admit, this one is by far the worst. Her name is Dolores Umbridge—She may possibly be a troll sent from hell to wreak havoc upon the school. She's made it her mission to ruin my life, I think. She's put me in detention five times this week, and I'm pretty sure her detentions are illegal. Unless blood quills have become acceptable forms of punishment have been pulled off the banned list. Hermione said they've been illegal since 1828—is that true?
Honestly I think I'd even prefer Professor Snape's detention to this. At least bat eyes don't hurt afterwards. She made me write 'I must not tell lies' over a hundred times today—it's still on my hand! She's absolutely mad."
.
.
Harry blinks up into the shimmering lights, a wide, wondrous smile upon her face.
She'd been incredibly reluctant to teach all these students, its true, but seeing all the progress they've made. She's starting to enjoy it, actually. It's clear to see she may actually be something of a natural born leader, no matter how vehement she denies this. She doesn't want to be, is the thing.
But she can sort of forget about all that, laughing as Hermione's otter chases Ron's dog around. Luna's rabbit darts around the windows, sprinkling glittering blue light onto the students as it runs past. It's beautiful—they all are.
It is over all too soon.
The room shudders ominously. The cheer and laughter comes to a sudden halt, as they all dart wary looks around the room. The walls shake again, as if something rumbles in the deep. Harry watches in horror as a crack splinters on the wall where the door should be. The crack crawls along the rocks, shaking with the effort of whatever is on the other side. Little Nigel darts forward with her, intent on getting a look. She catches him by the collar, before shoving him back towards the others.
She looks again between the wall and the students, and makes her decision in a split second.
Tom had told her an anecdote once of the invisibility charm, used to render a target area completely invisible. He'd mentioned it offhand when remarking upon the Ministry's uselessness; apparently at a Quidditch match they'd attempted to use one to hide the stadium from the Muggles, but ended up hiding it from everyone else too.
She's never actually attempted it, but…
There is an ominous boom from behind her. Rocks skitter onto the floor as the wall begins to break.
Harry takes a breath. "Sudarium," she whispers, and the other students fade right before her eyes.
Another boom, and she throws a silencio charm at them as well.
"Bombarda Maxima!"
The wall finally gives way, revealing Umbridge in her two-piece pink suit, looking down her nose at her with an expression of disdain. Predictably, Draco Malfoy, leader of the Inquisitorial Squad, is by her side. She scowls at both of them.
"Miss Potter," Umbridge sniffs, narrowed eyes darting around. "I thought I heard others…"
"There are others," Draco insists.
"No, there's just me." Harry retorts coolly.
Umbridge eyes her shrewdly. "And just what are you doing up here locked up in this room by yourself, hm?"
"Practicing my spells," she admits, as if reluctant.
Umbridge's eyes glitter at the admission. "Ah-hah! Practicing spells in the corridors, are we? May I remind you that there is to be no magic in the halls?"
"This isn't a hall." Harry points out, but it goes unheard.
Umbridge shakes her head sadly. "Another misdemeanor, Miss Potter. You are truly quite the delinquent. So sad… such a lovely girl like yourself, unable to become anything more than a common tramp. It's quite tragic."
Harry rolls her eyes.
"With such a lack of manners!" Umbridge adds, offended at her expression. "Follow me now, Miss Potter. You must be punished."
Draco smirks at her as she walks past him, tagging along.
Harry says nothing for the duration of the long walk to Umbridge's office. Draco is a smug presence beside her, and Umbridge totters in front of them, running a litany of insults against her. Harry wants to hex this stupid toad, and briefly considers actually doing it. What does she need school for, anyhow? Tom could probably teach her anything she wanted to learn—and teach her far better than anyone could here.
But this was just a farfetched dream—she would never voluntarily give up Hogwarts.
Her reality is just as farfetched.
Umbridge throws open the door to her office, bodily dragging Harry along. Harry stumbles behind her, running into her when Umbridge halts in her tracks.
"Dolores," comes the low, smooth baritone of Lucius Malfoy.
Harry gapes at him. What the hell is he doing here?
"Father!" Draco is positively beaming. Lucius spares his son a solemn glance, but does not return his excitement.
Oh, that's right. He's the governor of something important. He was there after the debacle in the Chamber of Secrets, wasn't he? She supposes it's not all that surprising to see him at the school, but she doesn't know what to feel nonetheless. Lucius Malfoy is a death eater—a known one, at that. How he slipped his way out of Azkaban she'll never know, but his allegiances don't escape her. He was never 'imperio'd into whatever crimes he committed.
His calculating eyes turn to her, ever so briefly. She freezes in the gaze, returning the look with an expression of wariness. What, exactly, does he know? About her? About the Dark Lord?
Umbridge seems just as excited as Draco, a vicious grin erupting upon her face as she giggles away. "Lucius, how wonderful it is of you to stop by. I've much to show you; I think you'll be quite pleased with the progress the Ministry has made in correcting the violations of this school."
"Is that so?" Lucius raises a brow.
"Oh yes, indeed." Umbridge turns to her, snagging her by the arm and forcing her into her seat. "Young Miss Potter here is a prime example. A lost cause, this one. I'm afraid I might have to resort to more unseemly measures to compensate for it. Such a loss."
Harry can't hide her snort of derision.
Umbridge gasps at her impertinence, tutting as she shakes her head. "Unseemly indeed."
"Unseemly…" Lucius repeats, slowly, almost absently. His eyes are fixed determinably upon her—evaluating her. She swallows.
He knows.
The elder Malfoy ignores the simpering woman, stalking towards Harry with a purpose that surprises her. He catches her arm like a snake lunging at its prey—her left arm. Harry flinches, but his grip is like iron. She watches with incredulity as he pushes her sleeve up, inspecting her arm as if he perhaps thinks she might have the dark mark or something. Has he gone mad?
Draco apparently seems to be thinking something similar. "Um… father…" he stutters.
Lucius looks up, as if finally noticing his son is in the room. "Draco," he barks. "Close that door."
Umbridge squeals with excitement. "I see you've come to the same conclusion as I have, Lucius. She is far beyond redemption; we must—
"Have you ever heard of the torture curse, Dolores?"
She looks positively brimming with anticipation, nodding readily, turning her gleaming eyes towards Harry. "Oh yes, excellent idea, Lucius, I was thinking the exact same thing—
Harry turns a conflicted gaze towards Lucius Malfoy, hands clenching tightly against the arms of the chair, as if debating whether to bolt of fly at them both in a fit of rage. Just try, she thinks, angrily. She can only imagine what sort of retribution Lord Voldemort would have.
Lucius draws his wand.
"—And of course, what Minister Fudge doesn't know can't hurt him—"
"I'm afraid I wasn't referring to Miss Potter." Lucius interrupts, in a voice smooth and dark, laced with an undeniable sense of anticipation.
Dolores sputters, blinking her unnaturally long lashes. "I'm sorry?"
Lucius turns to her with a smile.
"Crucio,"
Harry recoils, but nothing comes. Her eyes snap open and she watches in shock as Umbridge falls to the ground with a shriek, seizing violently all over her heinous paisley print carpet. The cats in the portraits begin to meow with terror; Umbridge wails as she flops about on the ground, ruining her outfit and her hair as she flails about, clawing mindlessly at the ground.
It seems like hours before Lucius finally releases the curse—her screams are horrible, and so loud they are deafening. Harry's eyes are wide and fearful as her gaze flickers back to the expressionless man in the center of the room, and the pitiful woman seizing on the floor. Draco actually looks just as terrified, plastering himself against the wall.
Umbridge sobs in a heap on the ground. Lucius spares her a dismissive glance, jabbing her with his cane until she rolls over, as if he doesn't wish for even his boot to touch her.
"Dolores," he greets, raising a brow as he looks down at her. "It seems you are not quite as familiar with it as I had thought you were."
She looks up at him with tearful eyes. "L—Lucius…" She heaves, between sobs. "How could you—
"The Dark Lord sends his felicitations." Lucius interrupts.
It is as if all the air in the room has left, leaving everything cold and quiet. The mere mention of his title has Umbridge freezing up in terror. Her flailing stops. Draco sucks in a horrified breath from his spot against the wall.
Lucius merely raises a cool brow. "Consider this a… gift of commemoration, if you will. I applaud you, quite honestly. You've truly managed to elicit his entire attention—this is quite the feat, you know."
"No…" she whispers. "You lie—Lucius, you lie. The dark lord doesn't exist—
"I think you and I both know I am not." He smiles down at her, indulgent. "There's no need for your denial; ignorance is so unbecoming."
Umbridge staggers to her feet, pointing her wand wildly at the Governor. The elder Malfoy eyes it with amusement. "Why do you think I placed you here, Dolores?" He begins, stalking around her, like a predator around its prey. "Because I liked you?" He scoffed. "Because the Minister asked me to?"
She simpers, blubbering for a response that does not come.
"Or perhaps," he muses aloud. "It was the Dark Lord himself, who wanted you here?"
She makes a strangled noise. Harry actually share her opinion on this, eyes widening with incredulity and surprise.
"No, no—
"You see, the Dark Lord is quite fond of the Minister—he is… most ineffective, and is only helping the Dark Lord with his vehement denial of his existence. This, of course, leaves Dumbledore as his most dangerous enemy—and what better way to cripple him than to place you here, in his own school? To use the very Ministry as his vehicle of attack?"
Umbridge's face is very pale. Her wand shakes violently in her hand, as her mouth opens and closes without retort.
Again, Lucius' gaze flickers to her, and it dawns on her. Harry realizes with a distinct sense of horror that she is the reason for this encounter. Her letter, to Tom.
"However, I'm afraid your usefulness has expired."
"I suggest you leave, Dolores," Lucius advises loftily. "Leave, and hide your pathetic, cowardly self in some pitiful hole for the rest of your life, praying he never finds you."
The portly woman staggers back, losing her balance on her shoe, crashing into her desk. Lucius rounds on her. "For I assure you," he continues, in a voice of velvet. "He will find you."
She lets out a squeak of terror.
"You see, the Dark Lord does not like it when people touch what is his." His eyes briefly flicker to Harry, whose breath catches in her throat.
"He does not like it at all. And you will find that the Dark Lord's… displeasure, is a fate far worse than death."
Umbridge's eyes bulge from her head as she turns towards Harry. Harry ignores her, still staring at Malfoy.
The fat toad looks wildly between the two of them; Lucius Malfoy, poised in the center of the room with an ominous smile, and Harry Potter, a young, pretty little girl, seemingly of no relation to any of this, as if suddenly coming to the obvious conclusion.
She lets out a shriek of terror, and then darts right past them, throwing herself bodily out the door. It opens with a bang, and she slips and falls on her broken heel. This does not deter her, as she scrambles back onto her feet, running for her life. She slips a few more times, as the floor is quite slippery when one is wearing stockings.
Harry doesn't even spare her a glance, her unreserved attention directed towards Mr. Malfoy.
He does not look at her, though.
Instead he turns to his son, with the same cool glare. "You'd best keep that under advisement as well, Draco." He cautions sternly. Draco's terrified gaze shoots towards her. He looks, perhaps, on the verge of tears.
"I—I—" He splutters inelegantly, pressing himself further against the wall. His face has lost all its pallor, as if he has just realized what this might mean for him, her tormentor for over five years. Draco looks at her with an expression as if she is the Dark Lord—as if he would fall to his knees in front of her and kiss the hem of her robes if she demanded it of him.
"You will not be spared for being my son." He adds, in a decidedly softer tone, as if imploring Draco to understand the severity of this situation.
Severity may be an understatement. After all, Lucius Malfoy just swept into the room and threw an unforgiveable at her teacher, and afterwards threatened her imminent death—and all because she had laid a blood quill on Harry Potter. Because she had dared to touch what belongs to the Dark Lord.
He straightens up at that, settling back into a state of laconic composure. He eyes them both. "I trust I do not have to remind the two of you to use discretion?"
They both shake their heads vehemently.
"Very well." And with that, he moves to follow Dolores' erratic footsteps out the door. But not without pausing in front of her. She watches with curiosity as he procures an envelope from his robes.
"For you," he intones without inflection. "Good day, Miss Potter." And then he swoops out of the room.
Harry stares down at it, already very aware of what it is. She knows just by the color of the envelope—the dark green and silver seal.
She decides Lucius has the right of it, and stands up abruptly. Draco jumps at the sudden movement, but she ignores him, intent on leaving the scene of the crime before someone shows up and realizes that the High Inquisitor and Headmistresses has fled the school—and perhaps the country.
.
.
Hermione and Ron are practically in hysterics (well Hermione is, Ron is on the couch, eating an apple) at her hour alone with Professor Umbridge. Because they have a crowd, she puts on her most smug expression and simply says they won't be seeing any more of Umbridge any time soon. Fortunately, everyone is too excited about the prospect of never again seeing the hideous pink toad to look too deeply on how her disappearance came to be in the first place.
Harry tells Hermione later that evening, after they have squirreled away under her bed curtains.
"Lucius Malfoy?" Hermione balks, loudly. She sucks in a breath, darting her head around, before she remembers that Harry already casted a silencing charm.
Harry nods.
"He threw a—a- cruciatus curse at Umbridge?" Hermione repeats.
Harry nods again.
She leans back, stunned. And then, after a beat; "Merlin, what I would have given to see that."
Harry chokes on a surprised bark of laughter. She would not have expected that from her bookish friend.
"Honestly, I know it's awful of me, but I can't find it in me to feel sorry for her. I would have done it myself if I could have—and believe me, there were moments when I thought I could."
"Oh, I believe you." Harry grins. "I would have been there right with you."
Hermione bursts into laughter at that, setting her off as well. But the mood darkens quickly after that, the both of them sobering up at the realization of what this means.
"He's more than back," Hermione says at length. "He already has so much power… in the Ministry, and even here."
Harry says nothing to this.
Hermione shakes her head with a sigh. "Well, at least this time he's done something I can approve of."
Harry isn't so sure she can agree.
She bids Hermione a good night as they both settle in for bed. The room is still buzzing from excitement over the realization that Umbridge is finally gone. She can still hear them singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch's dead' down in the common room, even though she's fairly sure most of them don't even know where that comes from. But Harry can't stop thinking about Lucius Malfoy's parting words:
He will find you.
Harry knows he's right. She'd heard rumors that Igor Karkaroff has fled from Durmstrang and gone into hiding; in fear of what the Dark Lord will do to him when he finds the traitor that willingly betrayed his fellow Death Eaters to the Ministry. But she doesn't doubt that Voldemort will find him eventually. And she doesn't doubt that he'll find Umbridge, too. Harry wonders; will Umbridge be down in the dungeons next time she goes home, rotting away in a cell, begging for death? All because she'd punished Harry with a blood quill? Because—she had dared to touch what belongs to the Dark Lord?
Harry peers down at the scar. Already it is fading, but the scar in her head still burns unpleasantly with his anger. The mere thought of someone marking her has him utterly livid with fury. Merlin, Lucius is right. What would Voldemort do if she relayed to him what Draco's done to her over the years? She despises Draco, this is true, but she doesn't think she could condemn him to death.
Harry swallows.
Condemn him to death—like she's done with Umbridge.
.
.
The school year trudges on in a most torturous manner. Voldemort haunts her every waking thought; Tom Riddle haunts the world of her dreams. It's impossible to escape him. Every night, memories of a lonely boy erupt behind her eye. He has already murdered so many people—the poor girl in the bathroom, the inhabitants of Riddle Manor. In his possession is a diary and a ring; they are prized above all else. Like Harry, they all contain a part of his soul. A horcrux. That's what they all are: horcruxes.
She was a little shocked at first, and also, to her complete embarrassment, a little jealous. A tiny bit of resentment spikes within her, even when she reminds herself it's stupid of her to get jealous of an object. An object, for Merlin's sake. But she had thought she was the only thing in this whole world that held a part of his soul—what if he held the other horcruxes in higher regard? She knows that's ridiculous. None of them are alive, for one; they can't touch him like she can; can't make him come undone beneath their caressing fingers; they can't press their lips against him, tasting every seam and indent, the hollow of his neck, the lines of his shoulder.
Though to that end, they also can't: talk back, trail mud into the house, disrupt him when he's working, accidentally flood the bathroom, forget to put things back where they found them—
She scowls. Alright, so there are definitely some benefits to having a horcrux in an object rather than a person.
The point remains that there are other objects that house pieces of his soul, and who knows how many of them there are. Tom Riddle does not appear to have any intentions of stopping at two; he is wholly fixated on his horcruxes and his immortality.
Meanwhile, Voldemort is as equally fixated upon some elusive blue orb stuck in the Ministry.
His feelings will drift over her at odd hours during the day; mostly they are brief touches of excitement, or anger. But lately they've been images and thoughts; there is something he is hunting obsessively for, and it's in the Ministry.
"A blue orb?" Hermione repeats, when she quietly relays this to her in the library.
Harry nods. "Yeah, about this big," she motions with her hands, "and it sort of glows, a bit. But the real strange part is—whenever he thinks about it, he also thinks about me."
"At the same time?" Hermione clarifies. She nods again. "As if he's connecting it to you."
"That's what I think too." Harry agrees. "But I just don't know why."
Hermione bites her lip, silent for a moment. "Those prisoners… the ones from Azkaban. Was it—?"
Harry sighs, looking down where she's wringing her tie in her hands. She drops them when she notices. "Yeah." She admits, flat and toneless. "That was him."
"What do you think he's trying to do?" Hermione whispers, fearfully.
Harry shakes her head. "I dunno." She frowns pensively. "But it must have something to do with that orb—and…"
And the war, she thinks but doesn't say. It seems so inevitable, suddenly. The Order has regrouped, the Death Eaters have been broken out of Azkaban. Hermione doesn't call her out on her sudden silence, nodding and returning to her books.
Her best friend goes to work almost immediately, vehemently searching through book after book in an attempt to find out what it could possibly be. Harry tries to tell her to slow down, at least for the sake of her health, but Hermione seems to have made it a personal quest at this point. Best to leave her to it, then.
The days stretch by, languid and leisurely, and Hermione and Harry aren't any closer to finding out what it is.
And Voldemort's excitement only seems to grow as the days go by. He's getting closer to finding that blue orb. Harry is very concerned with whatever plot he's schemed to get it—she can only imagine the destruction it'll cause.
Incidentally it's Ron who finds the answer, and he didn't even find it, technically.
He already knew it.
"A prophecy," he says, like that was the most obvious answer in the world.
Both Harry and Hermione give him incredulous looks, before they tug him closer by his tie. He sputters, slapping away at them and gagging dramatically once they let go. "Harpies!" He cries, shaking his head. "What's wrong with you two?"
"You knew this whole time?" Harry ignores him, at the same time Hermione says, "What do you mean, a prophecy?"
"Well, to be honest, I don't really know much about them." Ron rubs the back of his head. "Just that they match your description, and that they're held in the Ministry. In the Department of Mysteries, actually, so nobody really knows exactly. Only the person mentioned in the prophecy can get to it."
Harry digests this, solemn. There's only one obvious conclusion to draw.
Telling Ron about her new predicament was both the hardest and easiest thing she's ever done. Working up the courage to reveal it in the first place was far more difficult than stomaching his reaction. Ron's first reaction was to gasp incredibly, looking at her with wide eyes as he enthuses; "You're shagging you-know-who? Wait—you've gotten laid?" And then after a beat; "Before me?" She admitted to it, but then insisted with great misery that they haven't actually gotten around to the sex yet.
It sunk in a little bit more after that, but even then his reaction was about the same as Hermione's; a mostly indifferent incredulity. He agreed that he can't tell her who to fancy, even if it is a very strange subject. But he reasons she could've done worse; it could have been Snape. Harry has to admit she can see his point.
She can also see his point now—there's only one reason Voldemort would fixate so deeply on this.
"It's about me, then." She announces resigned, less like a question and more like a statement.
Hermione throws her a concerned glance. "Harry…"
"It makes perfect sense. Why else would he be so interested in having it? Not only that, why would he also think of me when he thinks of the prophecy, if the prophecy wasn't about me?"
Neither of them can refute that.
"Why d'you reckon he wants it so badly?" Ron mulls aloud. "I mean, sure, it's about you. But what does it say about you?"
"An excellent question," Hermione observes, softly.
Harry looks down at the surface of the table they've commandeered in the common room, absently tracing some kind of drawing that someone left in the wood. It sort of looks like a penis, so she's assuming Fred or George. Only they would find that funny.
"Nothing good," Harry answers, at length. "I think he's—worried. About it."
About me, goes unsaid.
.
.
