Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing from Rowlings terrific characters.

What do you know, two chapters in one weekend! It kind of surprised me as well :). Please review!

Chapter 9

Hermione looked over at the portrait on the opposite wall as she shook out the cramps in her wrist. It was empty now. The only things moving were the flames in the rough-painted hearth. She wished she had a hearth of her own to warm the room. She felt cold.

Putting quill to paper, she started in on the next sentence.

The case of Williams, Robert. Born on the 20th of October 1991 to two muggles. Transfer occurred on May 6th 1996 to Zemers Institute.

She stopped to rub her arms again. The window had an Imperturbable charm on it. These weren't the dungeons. Still it was cold. Was it her imagination, or had Hogwarts itself changed, somehow? Snape's reign as headmaster had proven to be very different from Dumbledore's, certainly.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of the old Headmaster in battle, his half-moon glasses knocked away, his wizened face bleeding into his white beard. But at least he had gotten away.

Ginny hadn't been so lucky.

Closing her eyes for a moment, her quill found the paper again. It wouldn't do to dawdle.

888

The world had narrowed down to a simple waiting for his obedient heart to stop its beats. Only his brain was left, and perhaps his lips, his eyebrows if he tried hard. He almost managed to lift one of them as he noticed that the pain in his forehead changed to a growing pressure. Was this last bastion of observation finally going to be squashed out of existence, he thought with clinical detachment. He couldn't decide whether he liked this turn of events or not, so he simply observed, which was the only thing left do to anyway.

Because of this keen awareness of his mind, Harry noticed the subtle change from pressure to presence, one that was now trapping his own awareness firmly. It was not unwelcome exactly, but it did make him feel cornered just a bit. He sent a question towards his unexpected companion, and then he screamed, surprising himself.

Pain.

So much pain – it was back, the agony from earlier, but it was different from that, the pain went somehow deeper than before, more all-consuming

Apparently his ears were back as well because they protested fiercely against this high inhuman shrieking he was producing. He felt his own awareness grow weaker as the others' grew stronger, until he was only an observer of his body, as opposed to a participant.

From one moment to the next, the entrapment of the intruder suddenly changed to a gentle cradling and he was able to feel around himself again for his own thoughts. This perception of his own existence was stimulated by the foreign mind surrounding his own, until he could manage to feel anger at its violent actions.

A prickling warmth floated towards him along with a tsking sound.

'Really Potter, it's not as bad as all that,' the being – Voldemort! – whispered inside his mind. 'You should feel honoured. You have just received a taste of immortality.'

Immortality?

'Yesss... No one gets to tap into that and live. But for you I will make an exception.

Harry shivered. The unspoken words 'this time' were a loud silence for the space of a few seconds, a vast, frozen emptiness inside him. He was suddenly very aware of his position on the ground, and the intimate grasp on his mind. The drawback of understanding again was trying not to think of anything. Which was impossible, of course.

A tendril of magic prodded him again and he sneezed in reaction to the sudden, invigorating feeling of power imprinted on him.

'Hm. You entertain me, little one. So few of them do these days.'

He flushed as he realised that Voldemort could read him like an open book, registering Harry's intake of breath at the surge of magic inside him. Now feeling much more awake, he snapped open his eyes. With annoyance he observed his shaking arms in front of him. He curled them against himself, not wanting to look at them. He waited for whatever it was that the creature in his mind wanted.

The presence left. Harry gasped in a deep breath, feeling like he'd been submerged all this time and was only now able to draw air into his lungs. His gulps soon turned into sobs. Projecting calm onto himself he managed, after only a little while, to suppress his urge to cry. It took a huge effort though, and he felt empty, like a Dementor had just left the room.

He didn't know how long he lay there, just breathing in the quiet of having his brain to himself again. After an indeterminate amount of time he realised that Nagini was nowhere near him. He had probably taken her back to let someone tend to her wounds.

Something small and black drifted above him and fell into his lap. He sat and glanced down, throwing out an arm for balance. It was a letter written on black paper. Harry rolled his eyes as he saw the signed V at the bottom. Of course Voldemort had to have black stationary.

It said:

There will be a Celebratory Ball held in my honour on the 25th of May, which you shall attend. I require you to be presentable. Someone will come for you this afternoon at one to take you to a tailor. I advise you not to do anything foolish.

V

He yelled in surprise as the paper burst into flames, leaving only ash behind. His arms started trembling again and he scowled, folding them against himself. He tried to stave off his desperation, but couldn't quite help himself.

Why did he always have to feel like a puppet to everyone else? To Voldemort he was a puppet. To Snape, definitely. What about that other powerful wizard? Dumbledore did not treat him like a puppet, that much was true, but still he felt like one. Or was it just too much exposure to a select group of powerful individuals? He thought back to Dumbledore's careful instructions this year, their companionable forays into Voldemort's past. He then realised how dangerous these thoughts were and quickly backpedaled to safer waters.

So then. Someone was going to take him to a tailor? He shouldn't be so surprised, actually: Voldemort had a flare for the dramatics and for appearances. He snorted. Let him read that thought. Maybe it was another pureblood thing, Harry considered. Not having had the gold-spooned upbringing of say, Draco Malfoy, he didn't care about what other people thought of him, or of what he looked like. Although, that was not quite true. He did care, but not to the extent of dressing himself up in order to impress others. Actions decided peoples' thought of you, not appearances, surely. Although he supposed a Slytherin would disagree.

He looked over at the old clock on the granite mantelpiece above the hearth. To his astonishment he saw that it was now eight thirty in the morning. A whole night had gone by without him noticing. Although, he had not really been present to observe the passage of time. He had no clue as to how long he'd been in this strange not-awareness of self, until that awful moment when Voldemort had taken over.

He considered this at length as he made his way one floor down towards breakfast. By taking over, had Voldemort removed the venom from him? Maybe it had something to do with their shared blood. Harry shook his head as he sat down, the table once more filled with delicious scents. He'd probably never find out what precisely happened last night.

After breakfast, he decided to take a stroll through the gardens. He wisely kept to the path this time, not wanting to disappear into another strange world when his appointment was due in just a few hours. He found that nature always soothed his nerves.

Harry reentered the manor calmed and refreshed. He took his first bite from a sandwich when he heard a bang of Apparition behind him. Putting the sandwich back and turning around, he saw a young woman standing behind him of average height. Blond hair hung around her round, pleasant-looking face. As he stood and went towards her, he saw that her blue-grey eyes were sharp and deep-set, and they were telling a frosty tale. Her wand was out and pointed at him.

'Mr. Potter,' she nodded at him. He inclined his neck in response.

She held towards him a piece of rock that seemed to be made of granite.

'Come.'

'Wait, I need to get my – never mind.' Coat, he was going to say, but he didn't remember having seen any of his things; the cloak he was wearing was not his own. He reached for the granite.

She pulled the hood of his cloak over his face before saying in a cold voice: 'No unexpected moves. Here we go.'

A hook reached around his navel and they were both transported to the starting point of a busy and famous shopping district: wizarding Diagon Alley.

Harry decided that if an opportunity presented itself, he would make a run for it. But only if he had a fair chance of escaping. Now he timidly followed the woman through the throng of people, watching carefully all the while. He was surprised by how lively things were. He'd have thought with Voldemort's takeover that the streets would be deserted. His heartbeat suddenly slammed in his ribcage as he remembered the date of the ball: 25th of May. What date would it be now? Apparently there was some haste to making him presentable, so the 25th couldn't be too far off. He knew he'd been out for some time, but come on, was it May already?

'Ehm, ma'am, could I ask you a question?'

'No questions,' the witch immediately returned. Harry sighed.

A bell chimed and he looked up as a door in front of them opened and a customer stalked out, a large parcel under his arm. They entered and were immediately accosted by Madame Malkins.

The witch next to him (she hadn't told him her name) spoke up, her wand now unobtrusively in her sleeve. 'Good day, Madame. Let's see, he will need: two sets of working robes, three sets of dress robes and a mantel. Show us your finest quality please.'

Madame Malkin didn't need to be told twice. She bustled around, showing the witch different types of colours and cuts. Harry was told to sit on the measuring chair. He blinked as they argued over what he was going to wear, right down to his shirts and underpants. After Madame Malkins had taken her measurements he was urged towards the back of the shop, where he was ordered to put on the items that the witch was holding out for him. She was paranoid enough not to let him close the curtains. Slightly uncomfortable he proceeded to remove his cloak and other garments (who's they were he had no idea). As he glanced up to place them on the cloth hangers next to his head, he noticed her gaze on his chest, her cheeks reddening as her eyes snapped up to meet his. He quickly averted his eyes, an idea starting to take shape.

One of the loose pants he was ordered to put on had a strange metallic clasp at the front, which did not appear to have any mechanical purpose like a muggle belt button would. He saw his chance and, putting on a puzzled expression, asked: 'What am I suppose to do with this?'

The witch approached and entered his cubicle. 'What do you mean? Oh, that's a tightening clasp, it fits itself to your size if you order it to.'

He watched her from under his lashes and shifted, subtly broadening his chest. Frowning, he asked: 'Could you show me?'

'Very well,' she said, coming up to him and gripping the clasp with her left hand, still careful to keep her right sleeve out of reach. She was very close now. Behind her Harry could see that Madame Malkin was already engaging a new customer at the front.

He bent towards her while stroking her hand with two fingers, trying to remain unthreatening, his mouth now nearly touching her right ear. She was breathing shallowly. Almost unwillingly she turned her head, eyes drawn to his.

'Mr. Potter, I know what you're- '.

He kissed her, swallowing her words.

Even though she was about to imply that she knew his plan, she still froze in shock. He remained as passive as he could, not pulling her towards him, just moving his mouth on hers. As she drew in a breath past her surprise, he took advantage by slipping in his tongue. He hoped he looked like he knew what he was doing. It had been a while since he'd kissed a girl – a year in fact. She sighed, though, and he felt her right arm, the center of his awareness, loosening at her side.

Still stroking her left hand with his right, he estimated the position of her wand arm, then in one fluid motion, managed to snatch her wand from her right sleeve. Turning it around quickly in his hand, he sent her a soft Expulsio, which flung her into the right cabin wall. He threw a Stupefy after for good measure.

He glanced back over to watch for any movement at the front: Madame Malkins was still talking to the customer, her hands full of differently coloured robes. Perfect.

He pulled on his robes over the now formfitting pants and spelled it closed high-up to cover his chest. Twirling the wand around himself as though about to throw a lasso, Harry spoke a Disillusionment Charm. He watched in satisfaction as his arm took on the colour and texture of the wooden cubicle. He had removed his shoes and was now only wearing socks, but he didn't dare take the time to put them on. As he discovered to his satisfaction, the socks gave him the advantage of keeping his footsteps silent as he hastily crossed towards the door. Madame Malkins kept up her talk, but he noticed that her customer followed him steadily with his eyes, making him swallow nervously.

Out the door he burst into a sprint. His feet were taking him directly towards Weasleys Wizard Wheezes'. His heart sank, however, as he saw its colourless appearance and the boarded up windows. He took to the side of the street, thinking quickly. Here in the heart of London he could think of no safe place to hide, except for Grimmauld Place. He turned around and ran back the way they'd come, pushing over passersby in his haste. The thrumming of his heartbeat was now pulsing in his ears. He watched all around him for any suspicious activity, but it was hard to tell with so many black-robed wizards and witches about.

Finally he reached the dilapidated entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he opened one of the double doors and snuck in. His eyes had to adjust to the sudden dark atmosphere before he could see the back entrance. He glanced around again before making his way around the bar and towards his ticket to freedom.

Just before reaching his destination however, he was struck by something in the back that made him fall to the ground. Rolling to keep his attacker in sight, a curse was on his lips, but he hesitated.

The person who had cursed him was Tom. Tom the bartender, who could now see clearly whom he was attacking: the Disillusionment Charm had come off as the spell had hit. Only then did Harry realise he'd forgotten to pull up his cloak. Several wands were now pointed at him from all angles. However, if he'd thought that being Harry Potter would help win the sympathy of this old acquaintance, he was wrong: Tom's eyes were expressionless as he gazed down at Harry.

There was a plop and a tall man materialised next to Tom, also holding his wand at the ready.

'I'll take it from here,' the man told Tom in a low voice, who nodded his agreement.

'Tom!' Harry started, desperate now. 'What's going on? Tell me!'

But Tom only watched him in silence. The stranger next to him grasped Harry's arm in a vice-like grip that would leave bruises later. The man then pulled him up and against himself with commanding force, before Disapparating the both of them away from the dank tavern and Tom's emotionless stare.

888

Harry's feet slammed on what felt like uneven ground to his unprotected feet, but what was actually just gravel. A magical shield appeared and shimmered behind them before it stilled back into nothingness. Looking around, his first thought was that they must be back at Malfoy Manor. Then he noticed the driveway was much smaller than at the Malfoys. He braced himself before gazing sideways at his captor. The man was firmly build, of Asian descent. He had a long scabbard strapped to his right thigh. The man started to walk up the driveway, not looking back to see if Harry would follow. Harry noticed his stolen wand was missing. The stranger must have taken it from him mid-Apparition.

The man glanced over his shoulder then, expectantly. Seeing no way out, Harry followed. The gravel was tearing at his socks. Hundreds of tiny rocks that scratched and blistered his feet, but he couldn't spare them any attention. He noticed he was trembling again, unable to stop the panic from sinking its long claws into his chest. First his attempt to kill Nagini, now his running away -what would they do to him? Harry could no longer be sure of anything: all that he knew of the world had spun on its head since Voldemort had taken over.

Unexpectedly, the man now walking next to him laughed.

'Scared, Potter? You should be.' His eyes twinkled, belying his words.

A gothic-like structure loomed above them. Gods, Harry thought, were all wizarding homes this old? Didn't they need some kind of reconstruction once in a while? He scowled at his own tired ramblings, then quickly blanked his expression.

The black doors opened to let them through towards the large stately foyer, which included dark winding stairs that ended in fierce-looking gargoyles. Harry began to feel like he was on a tour of the Great Wizarding Mansions of England, or something. He grinned lightly through his nerves before again smoothing his expression.

Another door opened before they touched it and a woman turned towards them in what appeared to be a drawing room. Her face was dark-skinned and very handsome. Harry realised that she reminded him of Blaise Zabini. He decided this must be his mother. The woman was dressed regally in dark purple and struck a casual pose, a glass of red wine in one hand, her wand in the other.

'Mr. Potter,' Mrs. Zabini nodded and gestured with her wand hand for Harry to come further into the room. Harry moved towards the oval dinner table, all the while keeping both of them in his field of vision. He felt his jaw drop as Zabini proceeded to sketch a low bow towards the stranger that had caught him.

'Mr. Watanabe, it is a pleasure to receive you in my home.'

Mr. Watanabe bowed as well, though not as low as Zabini, Harry noticed.

'The pleasure is mine, Angerona, I assure you,' he smiled charmingly. She straightened with elegant dignity from her low pose and send him a frosty smile, gesturing behind her in the direction where Harry stood.

'He is in there.'

'Thank you,' Watanabe said. 'I will be back shortly.' He proceeded to walk towards the door to Harry's right, pushing Harry in front of him. This door again opened without touch to admit them to a long, bright gallery that probably served as a parlour, with splendid views of the grounds. Gold lining surrounded the paintings that decorated the walls and ceiling. Sculptures of all kinds of human forms stood at regular intervals. The splendour of it all was such that it took Harry some time before he spotted Voldemort, sitting behind a large desk in the middle of the gallery, perusing some documents with a pencil like any normal person.

It was a disconcerting sight. Voldemort wasn't doing anything so ordinary as office work, right?

Voldemort's eyes shot up to meet his and Harry's inner ramblings stumbled to a halt. There was far too much empty space between the two of them, Harry decided.

Watanabe came to a stop next to him and now bowed as low as Zabini had earlier.

'Well done, Takumi,' Voldemort said in his trademark soft tone.

Watanabe straightened from his bow.

'I will be next door if you need me, my Lord.'

Voldemort put down his pencil. 'No, stay for a moment.' He stood and walked past the desk, coming to a stop in front of Harry, his wand out.

'Legilimens.' Harry had no time to put up a defence: Voldemort was in his mind at once. The force of his will was pointed, clearly looking for something specific. Soon he found what he was looking for, and the scene at Madam Malkins played out in Harry's mind. Although he knew what was coming, Harry felt himself grow red as the Dark Lord viewed Harry's seduction in the cubicle. Harry was released. He forced himself not to take a step back.

'I can appreciate a Slytherin move when I see one, Potter. Though perhaps you'll remember that I specifically warned you not to do anything foolish.' Voldemort's spidery hands crept around Harry's neck at the last word, and he squeezed.

'Are you not provided for? Are you not grateful for the meals, the clothes that I allow you?' With every couple of words the pressure on Harry's windpipe became more severe, until he was fighting to breath. 'Do I not allow you access to a library of invaluable knowledge?' Harry began to feel lightheaded. His hands automatically scrambled for purchase on Voldemort's fingers, trying to wrench them away. The pain in his scar came back then, white-hot, and he wondered where it'd been earlier.

'You do,' Harry tried to say, any defiance forgotten, but only a scratching sound left his throat. Most of his vision now consisted of black spots. His knees were growing weak: only Voldemort's hands squeezing the life out of him were holding him upright. However, the words had somehow gotten through, as the Dark Lord let go.

Harry fell like a sack of potatoes. He gasped in air, breath after painful breath.

'Then why do you insist on behaving this way?' Voldemort spat in a venomous hiss. In sharp contrast to his aggressive manner, he waited in silence for Harry to get his breath back. Harry raised himself to a sitting position, but didn't trust his legs to stand.

'Why are you doing all this for, then?' Harry retorted, now thoroughly done with this game or whatever it was that Voldemort was playing. He regretted his outburst immediately. If Voldemort had decided to give him a whole mansion to explore, why in Merlin's name would he question it? Voldemort had a point: he wasn't being tortured, was he? 'I-I don't understand,' he stammered, confusing sufficing his tone as he stared at his folded hands.

'Your understanding is not required. But I will enlighten you anyway.'

Harry's jaw dropped for the second time that afternoon as he saw Voldemort lower himself to one knee in front of him. They were now on eye level. Harry quickly closed his mouth.

'You, young one, belong to my treasured spoils of war,' Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue. 'I will parade you in front of all those weak-hearted fools of the so-called 'light', so that they might learn an important lesson: my will shall be done, and all will bow to my vision of a prosperous future for wizardkind.' A hand shot out to touch Harry's right cheek, where the slapping of Nagini's sharp scales had scalded his skin. Harry was very aware of the Asian wizard standing nearby, observing everything.

'A lesson that I will enjoy teaching you as well. Crucio.'

Harry screamed his already burning throat raw. The curse seemed to wring all the muscles of his body into a tight, painful mass. But Voldemort held the spell for only a few seconds. There was a fierce pressure behind Harry's eyelids and he blinked a few times to clear them of it.

'Try to learn quickly, little one,' Voldemort hissed, the words sounding ominous. He stood, and Harry did so as well on shaky legs.

'I introduce to you Takumi Watanabe, my right-hand man,' Voldemort proceeded in a normal tone, as if nothing untoward had happened. Harry slid his gaze over to Watanabe, who was staring at him in fascination. Great, Harry groused inwardly, just the kind of attention he wanted from Voldemort's right-hand man.

The man gave him a small bow, surely a sign of respect. Harry didn't know how to respond, so he decided to just incline his head. Really, what was it with the Death Eater etiquette?!

'He will be your guard in future outings and not, I should hope, as easily manipulated as your first.'

Harry flushed, looking away from Watanabe. Voldemort gave him a thin smile while Watanabe forehead creased in a small frown.

'You will also see him on other occasions, the nature of which will become clear to you soon. Now,' he stepped close again, lifting Harry's chin with one finger. 'Do try not to harm my dear Nagini in the future. If I sense one damaged scale, a friend of yours will find himself without a head.'

Harry felt all the blood drain from the surface of his skin as his stomach clenched painfully. He nodded his understanding, bowing his head for good measure.

'Good,' Voldemort said coldly, the word like ice skidding over glass. He walked towards the windows, hands folded behind him, which reminded Harry bizarrely of Dumbledore.

'Takumi,' Voldemort's voice still cut the air like frost, 'take Potter back to the manor.'

Whose manor? Yours? Harry wanted to ask: he wanted to ask all kinds of questions, but if ever there had been a right time for it, it definitely wasn't now.

'Certainly, my Lord.' Takumi walked over to Harry and drew him into his arms. Harry couldn't quite get used to the intimate feeling of side-along Apparition with his enemies. There surely was another way of transportation invented just for these situations...

Takumi's grip tightened and the visage of Voldemort at the tall windows whirled out of sight.


Don't worry, Snape will be back soon!

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