Warning Signs Read Desolation
Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.
Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.
Chapter Four
Two days of rest. Two. Severus ground his teeth together, casting dark glares at the letter lying atop the mantelpiece, and threw a handful of Floo powder into the hearth. With a deep sigh in resignation, knowing it was no use struggling, he stepped into the green puff of flame and smoke.
"Hogwarts," he drawled coldly and was instantly shot up the chimney and into the intricate maze of brick and soot that was the Floo network. A few moments later, his feet hit solid ground, and in a flurry of green flame and grey soot, he stepped out of the fireplace in Dumbledore's office.
Severus flicked his wand to banish the layer of grime covering his entire body and took a look around the empty office with a raised eyebrow. Nobody here? What sort of hospitality was this supposed to be?
"Professor Severus Snape," said a loud voice to his right, and turning around with feelings of utmost indifference, Severus found that it had been one of the portraits who had spoken. "Welcome back, young man," said the old croon Severus recognized as Dexter Fortescue, holding his grotesque ear trumpet pressed up against his haggard face. "Headmaster Dumbledore kindly asked me to direct the guests to the Great Hall, where the meeting will start as soon as everyone is present ... Oh, I suppose it must be upon your arrival, young man – indeed, you are the last of the guests to arrive and –" Fortescue cleared his throat pointedly, "– quite late, if I might be so bold as to voice my own opinion –"
Ignoring the portrait completely once it had given him the directions, Severus headed out the door and slammed it closed behind him, successfully interrupting the old man before he could indulge in even more of his opinions. Severus swore silently to himself as he travelled down the spinning staircase and then strode through the overly familiar corridors towards the stairwells. He hated opinionated people – particularly when they had opinions on matters that in no way concerned them; a category into which just about every single person Severus had ever met landed themselves.
Grumbling about how one should not be forced back to one's workplace during one's much-needed vacation, Severus stalked the castle soundlessly, feeling his black robes flap satisfyingly around him. Even before he had entered the Great Hall, Severus heard the nauseating sound of cheerful people making small talk. Sneering, he pushed one of the double doors open and slipped inside.
The room looked just about as it normally did during semesters, except that the head table had spouted another set of chairs on its opposite side. Sitting around it were thirteen people in total; all of which Severus recognised either by appearance or acquaintance; none of which Severus liked. But then again, there were vanishingly few people whose company he genuinely enjoyed.
"Ah," called out Dumbledore in his slightly hoarse but yet firm voice, arising from his seat in the middle of the table, efficiently making everybody else fall silent and look up at the newcomer, "Severus – excellent! Please have a seat."
As he stalked across the room, headed towards one of the empty seats in the left end of the table, Dumbledore kept talking at him. "I am, of course, as I said to Minerva only a minute ago, sorry to have called you back here at such short notice, just two days after you left. But I am afraid, on account of these dire times, it was necessary. I can only say that I am glad you could make it."
Could make it, Severus thought to himself in spite as he took a seat, as if I had any choice in the matter. "Naturally, Headmaster," he drawled noncommittally, and watched through narrowed eyes how Dumbledore beamed at him and then sat back down.
"Dear friends," Dumbledore said then, "old and new – I would like to welcome you all to Hogwarts. It has been, if you'll all excuse me, quite wonderful to not have had to see you for so long. And by that, I mean, of course, that it has been bliss to have lived in such peaceful times. Nevertheless, here we are, and the times are not quite as calm – you all know, of course, that Harry Potter has not yet been found, and it is the fear of many that he is truly lost."
Quiet murmurings could be heard around the table at that as the guests couldn't contain their feelings of regret. Severus barely held himself from rolling his eyes at them all. Where had they been when Potter had needed support this past year? Where had they been when Severus has saved Potter from curse after curse after curse? Someplace else, he told himself, because they hadn't cared about him then. They hadn't even realised the danger he had constantly been surrounded by. But now, they all jumped on the bandwagon, like good little good-doers. Pathetic.
"Has there been no news on Potter's case?" inquired old Elphias Doge from Dumbledore's right, scrunching up his wrinkled face in sadness.
"It has been confirmed that Potter is not still here at Hogwarts," Alastor Moody stated grumpily, having his magical eye trained on Remus Lupin, as if he was watching his movements closely; a notion that made Severus smirk. "Some students swore to having seen Quirrell fly out of the castle, carrying a black rabbit in a cage, and the Aurors are fairly certain that that was Potter, transfigured into an animal for easy transportation."
"Yes, but isn't that old news?" Emmeline Vance claimed with a frown. "The papers have fed us all this piece of information for quite some time now –"
"What the papers believe is plausible, and what the Aurors can conclude after thorough groundwork, are two completely different matters," Moody growled back at her with both eyes standing at attention.
"Yes, I understand that," Vance stated with raised eyebrows, "but there must be something more? Is there really no trace of the poor boy?"
"Not so far," Kingsley Shacklebolt uttered simply. Severus instantly liked him a little more.
"Although there hasn't been any sign of Potter," said Minerva McGonagall sombrely, making a short pause after uttering the boy's hate-inspiring surname, "I believe Severus has some news to share with us."
All eyes instantly settled onto him, and Severus pressed his teeth together hard as Dumbledore sent him en encouraging nod. "I happened upon an oddity in Little Hangleton two days ago," he stated through clenched teeth. "A diseased muggle man who had had one of his hands cut off – most certainly by magic, and by the looks of it, mere hours before I found him."
After a short silence, the infuriating voice of Remus Lupin piped up. "But, what does that mean, Severus? Do you think that that man had some sort of connection to Harry's disappearance?"
Fuming at the casual usage of his name, Severus glared at him. "It is not ... entirely impossible."
"Yes, that was a job very well done, Severus," Dumbledore said with another beam, which only made Severus' scowl deepen. "As it happens, I found myself in that area the very next day to have a closer look. Wonderful muggle village, Little Hangleton – just stunning, and it has its fair share of history as well, hidden in every odd nook and cranny ... After a short talk with some of the locals, I too travelled to that same house where Severus had found old Mr Frank Bryce, just to stumble right into a muggle investigation. What I found interesting, and what many wizards tend to overlook, was their way of using dogs to scan the area."
"Dogs! Really? That is just ... fascinating," said Arthur Weasley fondly, quite uselessly interrupting Dumbledore just as he seemed to be about to finally say something interesting, receiving a reprimanding slap on the shoulder from his plump wife.
"Quite," answered the Headmaster with a smile. "What I had not been expecting was that the animals would lead me and the policemen, not into the house, but around it and over the hill to what looked like an abandoned church with a small graveyard. What they found there was a small pile of ash, suggesting a fire had been lit there recently. And even more intriguingly, they noticed that one of the graves had been meddled with. Upon further investigation, the Muggles soon concluded that something, their guess was a small animal, had dug up some bone out of the ground."
"A fire and the usage of bones," grumbled Moody. "That sounds like ingredients for some dark ritual to me."
"Did the tombstone give any clues as to who might be behind this?" asked tiny Dedalus Diggle to Severus' right, turning his purple top hat around in his hands nervously.
"It did," Dumbledore said, and now, everybody was visibly at the edge of their seats. Severus frowned in thought – this whole graveyard-episode was news to him. "Lord Voldemort."
As one, the guests gasped in outrage, some covering their ears with their hands; others flying back in their seats, as to get as far away from Dumbledore's sudden exclamation as possible. Severus himself hissed under his breath at the free usage of the Dark Lord's name.
"Y-Y-You-Know-Who!?" exclaimed Mundungus Fletcher in an undignified squeak, exchanging a panicked look with Sturgis Podmore across the table.
"What do you mean by that, Dumbledore?" Moody demanded in a growl. "He Who Must Not Be Named has long since been dead."
"No," Dumbledore disagreed in an airy voice, "he was merely banished to some far-off place to bide his time. Now, with the help of Quirinus Quirrell, whom we all thought was firmly on our side –" Not I, thought Severus spitefully, recalling how he time and time again had tried to argue with Dumbledore about Quirrell's shady behaviour, "– he has not only taken both Harry and the Philosopher's Stone into his possession; I also have reason to believe that he has now managed to restore some sort of body for himself."
Severus paled dramatically. "Headmaster," he gasped, "what makes you think –"
"Outrageous, Dumbledore!" exclaimed old Doge, arising from his seat. "Absolutely outrageous! You have to excuse me, but how do you suppose we should believe that You-Know-Who is back ... without proof? What do we have to go on, Dumbledore? Your word?"
"Sit down, yeh impatient old man," roared Hagrid, slamming a thick fist into the table so that it groaned in protest. "Good Professor Dumbledore always has un explanation, so listen well."
"That is quite all right, Hagrid," said Dumbledore kindly. "I can speak for myself. Elphias, to answer your question; there are certain pieces of clues which make me believe that Voldemort lies behind this, and it is possible that my old mind has decided to come to a faulty conclusion. But if I might be so bold as to brag a little, I would like to say that throughout my long life, I have very rarely been wrong."
Sending the Headmaster a dubious look, Doge sat back down and kept his mouth shut.
"I believe that Voldemort was possessing Quirinus Quirrell's mind the night of his disappearance – what clues me in is not only the fact that he successfully managed to fight trough all obstacles protecting the stone, but also managed to lure it into his possession before flying out of the castle. Now, the power to lift off the ground and fly is quite unheard of, and only an immensely powerful wizard could manage it. Admittedly, Quirinus Quirrell was a strong wizard, but yet not so strong.
"I do also have reason to believe that that dark ritual you spoke of earlier, Alastor, was a very old one deriving from the 12th century Spain, combined with some use of the Philosopher's Stone which would have strengthened its properties. The ritual itself, named Muerte convertido en la carne, uses flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy, and bone of the father – all of it ingredients we know Voldemort was in the possession of. We have evidence that Mr Frank Bryce was robbed of a hand, which could mean that he was considered a servant and had to sacrifice his own flesh for Voldemort. We also know that Harry was there, and as an enemy, surely had to sacrifice some of his blood. Lastly, the grave which I spoke of a moment ago belongs to no-one other than Voldemort's own father."
"His father!?" Fletcher exclaimed, his face turning a nauseating green hue. "Perish the thought. Must 'ave been a nasty bloke, that."
While most of the other members smiled at his quite unnecessary comment, Severus felt a strong urge to tear a big chunk of hair out of the top of his head. To beat some sense into the conversation, he decided to speak. "If those deductions prove to be correct, Headmaster, the Dark Lord is back to full power, and would be gathering his forces as we speak."
"Yes, I am afraid so," said Dumbledore, and a sombre silence laid itself over the company like a thick blanket. "That is the main reason why I have deemed it necessary to call you all here this evening." Dumbledore arose and let his gaze travel from one end of the table to the next. "Friends, I hereby call upon the members of the Order of the Phoenix. Who will answer?"
One by one, they all rose, simply saying "I will" as confirmation.
Once everyone was standing, golden cups filled with white wine appeared in front of each guest. Holding up his own cup on a toast, Dumbledore then spoke again. "We stand as one; we fight as one; for the greater good!"
"For the greater good!" Their call rang through the Great Hall, and as they all put their cups to their lips, Severus merely pretended to drink.
Dobby was sad and very worried. He had never ever dreamt of landing himself in this sort of situation. He had been born into service under the Malfoy family, just like his father before him, and his father before him, and his father before him, and so forth. That he would be handed over as a gift for He Who Must Not Be Named was completely unexpected, and so horrible Dobby had first thought he was having a bad dream.
And now, he was working in a new place, with new house-elves ... and with Harry Potter, Dobby reminded himself in order to cheer up. How he had landed himself here Dobby didn't know, but he was incredibly happy to have finally met him, and to finally get to be a good elf to him; within the lines of his new master's restrictions, of course. Although, Dobby had to confess that he didn't always stick to what his masters told him. Sometimes he felt he just had to break their rules, even though his conscience always caught up to him in the end, making him punish himself for his bad behaviour.
Being the servant of He Who Must Not Be Named had proven difficult for Dobby. He not only had conflicting feelings of loyalty to his master and hate towards the Dark wizard who nearly destroyed all that was good in the wizarding world, but he also constantly found himself in positions where he felt the need to spy on his master.
Dobby knew his master was up to no good, even more so than evil Lucius Malfoy had been, because He Who Must Not Be Named was going to start another war. Dobby also knew that since he knew that that was what his master was up to, he couldn't stand just sitting around without doing anything to hinder it.
He didn't know yet what he could do, but he did know that Harry Potter could not stay on this island with He Who Must Not Be Named, because it was dangerous for him. He couldn't make out what his master was going to do to Harry Potter, but he knew that it couldn't possibly be anything good.
So for Harry Potter's sake, Dobby tried to listen in on his master as much as he could allow himself, in order to find out how he could get him off the island and back to safety. Dobby knew it was impossible for him to use his magic to directly disobey his master, and he had also been told that he could not, under any circumstances, leave the island, but he was determined to find some way around it.
This was why Dobby was constantly covered in bruises, cuts and burns nowadays, since he was constantly punishing himself for being a bad house-elf. This was also why he currently found himself being outside in the middle of the night, hiding behind a tall tree at the edge of the rocky shore, to keep an eye on his slippery master.
So far, Dobby had no clue what he was up to. The only thing he could see was that he stood staring out at the water edge, seemingly at nothing. He had been standing there for about ten minutes now, just looking, and Dobby had started to suspect that nothing would happen. Sometimes, he told himself, wizards are just weird.
He was just about to Apparate back to the fortress when the mood suddenly changed. It was as if a dark shadow had stolen over the island, making it seem even more horrible and dangerous than before. Dobby watched with wide eyes as some dark shape moved closer and closer to the shore, moving soundlessly over the dark water. When it came close enough for Dobby to see, and close enough for his master to touch if he wanted to, it stopped, and instantly, Dobby just knew what it was. A Dementor.
It was very tall, covered in some ghost-thin black fabric that coiled around it in the wind, and out of the darkness of its hood sprouted three tall, black shapes that looked to Dobby like upside-down icicles. A crown, he thought in stark fear, feeling so deep a despair that he couldn't help but Disapparate. He had some very severe punishing to do.
The moon shone brightly over the dark waters all night, before descending below the horizon, being replaced by a glaring sun that warmed the island to unbearable degrees the higher it rose on the clear blue sky.
Ten hours after the Dark Lord had left the shore, his place was unknowingly taken by Harry, who had decided to spend another day staring out at the ocean whilst trying to find a way to escape. It didn't take him very long to realise how futile his attempts were; he hadn't learnt any new spells since yesterday, and he no longer had any hope that Hedwig would come to save him. Nowhere around the island could he spot any sign of land, or ships passing by. He was completely isolated from the outside world – muggle and magical.
With a strong feeling of apathy, Harry sat down, leaning against the side of a big rock, watching the lazy waves roll in against the shore. Despite being enveloped by shadow, Harry soon felt how his black robes started to warm his body to an alarming degree, making the ocean surface in front of him more and more inviting.
Growing up with the Dursleys, Harry had never had the chance to learn how to swim properly. He could splash around and keep himself above surface, but anything beyond that was completely out of his comfort zone. Then again, the water looked quite shallow, so he should be safe as long as he stayed relatively close to shore.
Deciding that it was far too hot for second thoughts, Harry started stripping until he was only clad in his black briefs. Hesitantly, he put his wand down on top of his folded pile of clothes, and started trekking towards the water.
With a hiss of pain, and a grimace to match it, he tried his best to avoid stepping on the rough stones that made up the shore. Telling himself that it was going to be over as soon as he reached the water, he kept on, and was completely discouraged once he came close enough to see that the rocks weren't exchanged for sand below surface as he had hoped. Instead, they only seemed to get bigger, in addition to being covered in billowing, green slime.
Frowning in annoyance, wondering how he would ever manage to enjoy a good swim like this, Harry wished there was some way he could make the rocks soft to walk on.
Not the rocks, he realised suddenly, hopping back to his pile of clothes with excitement. Enjoying the feeling of soft grass against his sore feet, Harry picked up his wand with a smile, aimed it against one of his soles and said "Spongify". Watching with delight as the bottom of his foot swelled a little, turning rubbery and bouncy, Harry repeated the procedure on his other foot and merrily stepped back onto the rocks to test the result.
With a little laugh, Harry hopped around the rocky surface, not feeling any pain at all; the Softening Charm had worked wonders. He ventured out into the water, splashing, laughing and just enjoying the way it cooled his burning skin down to manageable degrees. The slimy seaweed felt a little disgusting rubbing against his feet as he walked around, but he soon became used to it and started thinking of it like walking on grass under water.
Once he had grown used to being in the ocean, he settled down into a sitting position, being covered up to his chest by water. He sat like that for quite some time, looking out at the horizon. It didn't take him long to come down from his high, however, and he soon grew bored. With a sigh, he therefore started thinking of other things he could do to occupy his time.
Standing up and picking out his wand from where he had stuck it into the side of his boxers, Harry watched as droplets of water formed beads and simply slipped off it, as if the wooden surface was covered in a layer of plastic. Smiling with affection for his wand, getting a warm feeling from holding it in his hand, Harry tried to come up with a spell he could play around with.
The first thing that came to mind was the Levitation Charm. What would happen if he tried to levitate some water?
"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry said and focused on a section of water in front of him. To his delight, tiny droplets of water immediately flew out of the water, hanging mid-air in front of him, looking like rain that had been frozen in time. Laughing, Harry dropped the spell and watched the pebbles of water fall back down, hitting surface with a tiny splash.
What more can I do, thought Harry with an excited grin.
"Very well, Lucius," said Voldemort and arose from the gold and blue coloured French Empire bergère he had been seated in for the better part of the forenoon. His host hurriedly copied his motions, keeping his attentive grey eyes locked on his Lord as if determined not to miss a thing about him. "That will be all for now. I will, of course, expect your attendance tomorrow night."
"Certainly, my Lord," said Lucius smoothly, making a short bow towards him, "I will be awaiting your call most eagerly."
"Good," Voldemort said with a thin smile. "Your service and your donations have proven invaluable to me these last couple of days. Know that Lord Voldemort will always repay such generosity."
"Thank you, my Lord," Lucius gushed with pleasure coating his eyes, "I am glad that the gifts have been to your liking. Know that if there is anything at all that you find yourself lacking, My Lord, I and the rest of the old wizarding families will be happy to provide."
So ready to kiss the ground I'm walking on, thought Voldemort with a mixture of disdain and glee, so ready to bend the knee now that I am back to my former glory. "Very well, I must admit that your gifts have proven ... most insightful so far. The fortress is steadily being filled up with furniture and wares ... Although, I must ask – how is it possible that you knew to provide clothing, not only for your Lord, but also for his young ward?"
Flattered to such a degree that he looked about to burst with pride, Lucius made another short bow. "It is only natural, my Lord, for the father of a boy the same age to think of such things. It sounded to me, when you mentioned the boy, like you had some grand plans for him, and at once I thought it necessary to provide for him as well. I am glad my Lord found the gesture ... insightful."
"Indeed," Voldemort answered quietly, appraising his blushing servant for a moment before taking out his wand with a flourish. "Good bye, Lucius."
"Good bye, my Lord," answered his servant at once, falling to one knee just as Voldemort made a turn and soundlessly Apparated back to Ravenclaw Cliff.
Arriving in the study located on the first floor of his tower, Voldemort smiled and took a deep breath of the ocean air streaming through the open window to his right. Everything was going according to plan. Now, the only thing that remained was a little fine-tuning, some very particular alliances that needed to be tested, and then Phase One would commence.
He was startled out of his gleeful reverie by the vague sound of distant laughter. Striding over to the open window, he looked out and was met by the sight of young Harry Potter, standing waist-deep in the open ocean, creating little balls of water with his wand that he then flung up on shore, looking to be aiming at one of the trees at the forest edge. Chortling in victory once a ball hit its target, Harry kept up the game with childish enthusiasm.
Well, he is a child, Voldemort reminded himself as he stood watching with a thoughtful expression on his face. Behold the only thing that is distinctly not going according to plan, he then thought, drumming his long fingers on the windowsill. Lucius thought I had some grand plans for the boy, which is quite ironic, since I have not yet decided what I'd best do with him.
His first plan had been to extract the soul-piece from his human Horcrux in order to relocate it inside a far more stable container. He had tried to do this on the first night he spent in the fortress, while the boy was asleep, being non-the-wiser as Voldemort stood by the bedside, trying all sorts of spell-work on his unsuspecting mind.
As it had turned out, his soul had been so intricately woven together with Potter's own it was impossible to detach it in one piece. It had been about as easy as trying to separate a mixture of two bowls of water from each other. Voldemort suspected it was possible, after some very involved research, to find a way. However, he had neither the time nor the energy to spare at the moment, so if he were to choose that route, it would have to wait until he held the wizarding world in his hand.
As for what to do with Harry, he had several options at his disposal.
Kill him and just be done with it, hissed one part of him.
No, every piece of your soul is far too valuable, hissed another, immediately contradicting his previous train of thought.
Lock him up where he cannot cause any damage, hissed a third part of his soul, hastily making plans of tossing Harry into the deep caves below the fortress and throw away the key.
No, that will be a waste, hissed a fourth voice, you can use him.
Feeling how the majority of his soul agreed with that statement, Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the boy, who was still playing around in the water.
He needs you, hissed a fifth voice from such short distance, Voldemort felt a sting of longing inside his chest. He immediately recognised that the comment had come from the part of him that resided inside Harry, and pondered on the validity of the statement.
Did Harry need him? And more importantly, did he need Harry?
There were certainly some very redeeming qualities to the boy. At the mere age of eleven, he was sharp-minded enough to recognise the limitations of the freedom he had. He was also extremely inquisitive and eager to do what he felt was right. And as far as Voldemort could tell, the confinement had not made him wallow in sadness – quite the opposite. It seemed that the boy was both inventive and independent enough to find a way to entertain himself. And, more importantly, the confinement seemed to have sparked a desire to use and develop his magical abilities – something that Voldemort had felt the boy sorely lacked, judging by what he had seen of him during his year inside Quirrell's head.
All of these qualities were not what he had been expecting from an eleven-year-old, and he strongly suspected that the influence of his own soul had sped up the boy's mental development by at least a couple of years.
Perhaps, Voldemort thought to himself with a spark alighting in his deep red eyes, the best use of young Harry is the one my enemies are least expecting.
Harry was having far too much fun, but he didn't care – he had finally found something to take his mind off his dire situation. Currently, he was immersed in the result of his experiment with the Fire-Making Spell performed under water. To his delight, the result was that the section of water he was focusing on was ever so slowly warming up. So if I would try this on, say, a bowl of soup, Harry thought, would it be set on fire or would it just heat up?
Readying himself for trying out the Dancing Feet Spell on another section of water, Harry was quite startled when a sudden pop sounded next to him.
"Harry Pot–" he heard before the sound was replaced by a splash and an array of gurgles. Hurrying to grab the small house-elf by the waist, Harry hauled it out of the water and saw that it was Dobby.
"Thank you so much, Harry Potter, sir," gasped Dobby with water streaming down from his floppy ears. "You saved Dobby's life – how will Dobby ever repay kind Harry Potter?"
And to Harry's horror, the elf burst into desperate sobs, making fat tears start to blend with the water cascading down his face. Deciding to find a place where he could put Dobby down, Harry trekked back to shore, trying to hold the elf far enough from his body so that he wouldn't end up with a blob of snot on his chest.
Once back on safe ground, Dobby slowly calmed down, producing a very dirty-looking handkerchief out of thin air before blowing his nose in it.
"What happened to you?" Harry asked in outrage as he took in the sight of the small elf, and realised his entire body was covered in cuts and bruises. "You're hurt!"
"Oh," Dobby gasped and sniffled. "This is nothing, Harry Potter, sir, that you should concern yourself with. Dobby is needing to punish himself sometimes. Dobby is a bad elf, you see. But don't worry, kind Harry Potter, Dobby is fine."
He doesn't look fine, Harry thought to himself but decided he'd best keep his mouth shut if he didn't want to upset Dobby further.
"Master sent Dobby to take Harry Potter back inside," said Dobby once he had calmed down a little, and looked up at Harry with bulging, sorrowful eyes. "Dobby doesn't know why he is wanting Harry Potter to come, but don't worry – Dobby will keep watch and protect good Harry Potter from master, even though he will have to nearly kill himself afterwards."
With wide eyes, Harry hurried to dissuade Dobby. "No, please Dobby, don't do that. I think I can handle it."
Dobby's lip started quivering, and he shook his head firmly. "No, Harry Potter cannot stop Dobby. Dobby wants to keep Harry Potter safe, and he will do it, no matter what Harry Potter says." And with that, Dobby clamped his mouth closed firmly, refusing to say anything more on the matter.
Resigned, wondering how he would ever get Dobby to understand that he didn't want him to hurt himself for his sake, Harry told him to wait while he dressed, cringing a little at the discomfort of putting on dry clothes on top of soaked underwear. Once dressed, Harry followed Dobby up the country road to the fortress, thinking up wild scenarios of what Voldemort could want with him. Growing more and more nervous the closer he came to his destination, Harry dutifully followed the elf into the entrance hall, up the stairs and into the familiar sitting room on the first floor.
Harry looked around the room for Voldemort, and found him standing to the right in front of one of the bookcases, calmly scanning the book spines with his glaring red eyes. "That will be all, elf," he said quietly without turning around, and with one last determined look at Harry, Dobby disappeared with a pop.
"You asked for me?" said Harry after an extended moment of silence, trying his best to look unaffected as Voldemort levelled his gaze onto him.
"Indeed," said Voldemort calculatingly, as if he was weighing every syllable before uttering it. "I noticed that you seem to have developed an interest in magic, at last."
Oh shit! Had Voldemort seen him, was Harry's first thought, before he steeled himself. Having an interest in magic was not a bad thing, was it?
"Yeah ... I mean, I was interested before but ... I hadn't really thought of what I could do with the spells I know before today ..."
"As for example," Voldemort mused, turning around to face him properly, "drying your underwear before putting on clothes."
Blushing, Harry looked down and saw that his wet boxers had left a visible, wet patch on the robes around his hip-area. "Y-Yes, sir," he murmured, trying to think of a spell to fix that. "I don't think I know the right spell for that," he confessed a moment later, when he couldn't think of anything.
"How about the Hot-Air Charm?" Voldemort mused, giving him a questioning look.
Harry gulped. "I don't know that one, sir."
"Would you like to?"
Harry stared at Voldemort quite rudely, thinking that he might have misheard. But when Voldemort merely raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Harry hurried to answer. "I would!"
"Very well," said Voldemort and walked over to stand next to Harry, picking out his wand and holding it up in front of him. "The wand-movement is a little complex, but I will walk you through it."
After a couple of minutes of practice, Harry had got the hang of it, and tried his luck with performing the spell.
"Vapor!" he tried, but nothing happened.
"You're using a British r-sound," Voldemort stated calmly. "Make the sound with the tip of your tongue. Vapor!"
Harry had to try a couple of times more, recalling that he knew a few other spells that also relied on such a pronunciation to work properly. At last, a gush of hot air started streaming out of the tip of his wand, and following Voldemort's direction, Harry slowly dried his garments with it.
"Very good," said Voldemort once he was completely dry. "You're a fast learner."
I am? Harry hadn't known he was, but Voldemort seemed pleased with him, and having gotten to know the Dark Lord these last couple of days, Harry had soon learnt that he was far from a patient man, so he supposed he had to be.
"Thank you, sir," he answered quietly, trying to mimic Voldemort's smooth way of speaking.
"Would you like to keep learning, Harry?" Voldemort asked then, making Harry's heartbeat speed up as he, once again, thought that he had misheard.
"I'm sorry, but what do you mean?" he asked carefully, starting to feel a bit disoriented.
"I mean," Voldemort said with a smirk, "that I intend for you to become my apprentice."
