Chapter 10: Once Upon A Time

"No," Harry said.

"Yes," Sirius answered.

"Unconditionally no," Harry stated.

"Absolutely yes," Sirius retorted.

"You can't make me," Harry breathed, eyes wild.

"You wanna bet?" Sirius snarled.

"What?" Hermione cut through, poking her head through the fireplace.

Harry and Sirius turned to Hermione, floo calling in not a moment earlier.

"Sirius wants me to go to a gala," Harry said scathingly. Hermione's eyebrows rose.

"Harry doesn't do galas," Hermione huffed. "He didn't even come to the Yule Ball when he was a Champion. McGonagall lost the plot," she said, laughing.

"Well, he's doing this one," Sirius said sternly, brooking no room for argument.

"Yeah, okay, well I was going to ask Harry to come with me to the new bookshop in Langington Alley but I can see that's not going to happen," Hermione said, frowning.

"I want to go to the bookshop!" Harry said, jumping up and making a break for the fireplace. Hermione's head disappeared as she reared back in surprise, scared Harry would trample her.

Sirius caught the scuff of Harry's collar before he could get three steps away from the kitchen table. "You're coming to the fucking ball, damnit," he growled. "I'm not going alone!"

"Is that what this is about?" Harry asked, aghast. "You don't want to go alone?"

"Yes, Potter. And you're coming with me, whether you try to wish your pretty little head out of it or not," Sirius answered, eyes alight with demonic determination.

Harry despaired.

Perhaps Harry had not made himself clear enough. Harry HATED balls, functions, events, gatherings, soireés, parties, galas, and any event that required him to be around a large amount of people (which was specifically classified as more than Hermione and Sirius, those people exactly). And that didn't even include the socialising. Dear god, the socialising.

There was guaranteed to be food, music, dancing, jolliness, and worst of all (and dreaded of all) – small talk.

Harry nearly vomited.

"Heir Black!" A woman tittered, extending her hand. Sirius grinned dashingly, bowing and taking the woman's tiny appendage. It was kissed delicately and two bright spots of blush bloomed on the woman's cheeks. It was so completely practiced and fake that Harry nearly laughed as the woman swooned. As if reading Harry's thoughts, Sirius' eyes flashed and the man gave Harry a piercing look out of the corner of his eye. Harry bit his lip and busied himself with looking at candle chandeliers. Luckily for Harry, there were dozens of them.

There was something very particularly annoying about that night. Harry knew word of his ability to do Strange Things had gotten around (especially since the Taming of the Dragon in fourth year, as referred to by The Prophet) and Harry was under no illusions that people wouldn't proposition him to their side. The war now loomed dangerously over Britain, the shadow of the beast casting shade on muggle and wizarding alike.

For some reason, that thought made Harry a little happier. Beasts shouldn't entertain Harry, but Harry was entertained by a lot of things he shouldn't be.

Harry's eyes glazed over and he stared at a wall blankly, not even pretending to notice the diplomats trying to garner his attentions. Harry was two thoughts away from wishing Very Hard that he was literally anywhere other than Here when a cold, smooth hand wound itself around the back of his neck.

"Hello, little watcher," a voice crooned in his ear, deep and sultry and sending painful sparks of awareness down Harry's spine.

Harry tilted his head to the side, a hair's breadth away from the face of Voldemort, brown eyes flashing red. A coil of heat twisted dangerously in Harry's stomach and he attempted a brittle mockery of a smile.

"Hello, Vol –" the hand on his neck tightening dangerously "Advisor Riddle," Harry ended politely, smiling a little stronger now. How easy it was to get under the man's skin in public. Harry felt a little mischievous; he wondered how far he could go. And who Harry could guess would die tonight. Considering his odds, Harry had a two in three chance.

"Riddle," Sirius said abruptly, dropping the woman on his arm so quickly that the woman stumbled. "What are you doing here?" Sirius was mad. Harry could almost hear the man growling.

"Ah, The Mutt. I don't believe we've officially met before," Voldemort answered in a faultlessly polite tone, extending his free hand. Harry felt a well of laughter bubble in his chest. How Voldemort made these events bearable, Harry didn't know; he immediately decided on bringing the man to every function possible from now on.

Sirius looked as if he wouldn't take the man's hand but the pressure of the onlookers weighed the dog-man down. Sirius shook Voldemort's hand a little too roughly, but Harry supposed that Voldemort could handle it. Voldemort seemed to enjoy Too Rough.

"Take your hands off my son," Sirius gritted through beared teeth, an imitation of a smile.

"Godson, isn't it?" Voldemort answered back flawlessly, hands still shaking. "Such a shame about his parents; one wouldn't ever wish to need a godfather, but these are the times we live in."

Harry didn't like that. He stepped forward, out of Voldemort's claws, and spun around.

"Sirius, will you teach me how to dance?" Harry asked cheerfully. "I've never learnt. I was supposed to in Fourth Year, but I hid in a closet. That counts as a secret, by the way."

The unnamed woman gaped as Sirius smiled, besotted. "Of course, Harry," he answered warmly. Harry was swept onto the dance floor and there was much swearing and toe crushing.

Harry suddenly realised he didn't mind being looked at. The realisation struck him to the core and he stood still in on the marble dance floor, looking at Sirius in shock. The feeling filling his frame was undecipherable, a strange amalgamation of wonder and carelessness. Harry wasn't scared. A turbulent concoction of freedom and euphoria filling his frame. Freedom. Harry tasted the word over and over.

Harry was pulled off the dance floor quickly, Sirius' concerned eyes fading into the distance.

"What has you so pleased? I could feel your horrible pleasure from across the room," Voldemort whispered in his ear, a hand firmly griped around Harry's bicep. Walking past doors and people and suddenly outside, alone, the cool air calming.

Harry looked at Voldemort, his mind clearer than it had been in… Well, forever.

"I'm your horcrux," Harry said suddenly.

Voldemort looked trapped, then. Caging around Harry, looking ready to fight the green-eyed boy to death.

"The prophecy has been fulfilled," Harry continued, words tumbling out of his mouth. "It's just me, just you, and a horcrux."

Voldemort's mask flickered. "What do you plan to do about it?" The monster hissed, hackles raised.

"Nothing," Harry answered simply. "I don't really mind. Do you?"

Voldemort seemed at a loss for words. "Omen of chaos," Voldemort then said, frowning. "My little wildcard. Why don't you mind?" Voldemort looked mad that Harry wasn't upset, ready to battle with no fight. Harry wondered if this was another Stone issue all over again. Voldemort didn't handle when things went well.

"Why not?" Harry asked, lips quirking mischievously.

Voldemort's face was suddenly in Harry's, challengingly, boxing him in, cold hands wrapping around his waist. Harry realised he didn't mind. It was – nice.

"Why not, indeed?" Voldemort crooned, hell burning in his unnatural eyes. Harry inhaled the scent of ash and magic, death and destruction. He closed his eyes, smiling, sharp teeth against his lips, wishing Very Hard that this moment would never end.

A/N: Just a short little chapter. And shamelessly dark but not; with any luck, you like fairytales with immoral endings. I feel like I could go on and on but this seems like a good place to stop. Marked complete from now, but if I think of anything I'll post as a oneshot. Hope you enjoyed and thank you to everyone for your reviews, favourites & follows - you fed me through this story.