Chapter Twelve:
Snape's wand was out in a split second, and in the same moment Sirius had lunged, seizing the man's wrists, a spell just missing his shoulder.
"Please," he gasped out. "I mean no harm - Harry - James' son - Lily's son-"
Snape's eyes flashed furiously, lips white with a livid rage.
"Let go of me!"
"Sniv-Snape, please! For merlin's sake, I'm begging, I'm bloody well begging...you must want to find him too-"
"-I have no interest in helping you commit murder-"
"-It was Peter! Wormtail! I swear - I swear on my life!"
Sirius crumpled completely, letting go of the Potion's master, sliding to the floor in an ungainly heap as he sobbed humiliating tears, unable to stop.
He was exhausted; this had been his last shot, barring Dumbledore...and he just had no idea what to do anymore. Azkaban flooded back to his human form like an unshakeable chill on his bones, muted when he was as dog.
Snivellus eyed him with utter disgust, but, miraculously, didn't curse. Maybe it was the faint, broken, tingle of magic that filled the room, sealing his solemnity and the truth of his statement.
The next second, Snape's hands had fisted around his collar, dragging him up and slamming him back, hard.
"Tell me what happened. Now."
The Potion's Master shook him roughly when he didn't immediately speak, and after a moment or so he began - stammering and halting at first, his voice cracked and hoarse from lack of use, but growing clearer and smoother as time went on.
Black eyes seemed to dissect him the whole time, and a few minutes in Veritaserum was shoved down his throat - he accepted it blindly, desperate.
Finally, he was pushed down into a chair, Snape studying him with an ill-concealed hatred.
"What do you want?" the man questioned icily, wand still aimed in his direction.
"Harry. I need him to be safe. Help me find him."
"Why not approach the Headmaster?" Snape asked. Sirius' lips twisted mirthlessly.
"I'd rather not get tossed straight back into Azkaban," he mumbled. "Trust me, you were not my first choice...I just...I don't have anyone else..." he finished, rather pitifully even to his own ears. He didn't blame Snape at all, for once, for looking like him as if he were an unwelcome slug that had crawled in, or a flea-bitten mutt.
"The Werewolf?" Snape offered, seeming desperate to get rid of him.
"You know where Remus is?" Sirius returned. There was a moment of quiet.
"Do you know where Potter is?" The word 'Potter' dripped off his tongue like slime, and Sirius couldn't help but bristle, eyes narrowing.
"No, I don't know where Harry is," he replied tightly. "If I did, I'd be with him. That's what I was hoping you'd help me with."
"You think I know where he is?" Snape questioned, a bit too silkily, gaze turning menacing. "And pray, why is that? You don't believe that I would have reported my findings to the Headmaster?"
Sirius stared at him for a moment, eyes dark, jaw working.
"Because you're a slimy Death Eater," he bit out, finally, "and Harry wasn't kidnapped by anyone light. You're my best shot on that...avenue of investigation."
Snape watched him, no expression on his face.
"Regardless, why should I help you?"
"For Lily's son," Sirius replied, after a moment. Snape's eyes immediately darkened, and Sirius resisted the urge to take a step back as the man stalked towards him again, wand jabbing fiercely into the hollow of his throat.
"You dare-" he began, his voice barely above a hiss. Sirius stared back, challengingly.
"It was obvious to everyone, you loved her. We all knew! Probably why you hated James so much you -" Sirius made a grudging effort to reel himself in...he did need the help, after all, and was rather at Snape's mercy right now. "I'll do anything for Harry, and I know you'd do anything for-for her. You won't let her son suffer needlessly."
He may have been a Gryffindor, but he had been raised a Slytherin in the House of Black, however much he chafed against that heritage and influence.
Snape sneered at him.
"I'll help you," he said finally, coldly. "But if you ever talk about L-about her to me again, I will chop you up and use you for Potions ingredients, Black."
Sirius swallowed; there was no threat in Snape's voice, just a hard edge of menacing fact.
"...duly noted," he said, too tired to give a response more acerbic than that. How far he had fallen!
Snape glared at him.
"Take a shower and change, you're making my house smell like wet dog."
Sirius looked down at his tattered Azkaban garb awkwardly, before at Snape once more.
"As always, your intelligence knows no bounds," he muttered with a loathing sarcasm. "I'm a fugitive, would you like me to just nip and grab an outfit from my portable wardrobe?"
Snape's face twisted with distaste at the realisation. There was an uncomfortable silence.
"I'll transfigure your clothes while you shower, throw them out the bathroom," Snape instructed stiffly - there was no planet on which he was lending the man his own clothes, or anything so sickening.
"Lend me your wand, I'll do it myself," Sirius returned, not trusting Snape not to make his outfit utterly ludicrous and degrading.
"Give you my wand?" Snape said delicately. "I don't think so. You'll wear what I give you, or not wear anything at all."
"Never realised you were so eager to get me out of my clothes, Sniv-" he came to a halt at the murderous expression of Snape's face, the sharp stinging hex that seared his already battered and aching body. He nearly growled.
"...fine," he muttered. "Should I transfigure myself some shampoo or do you actually own some?"
The next spell threw him out the living room with barely leashed killing intent and violence.
Sirius didn't comment further.
Harry's eyes snapped open as he bolted up in bed, his dreams filled with vague, nightmarish shadows that wanted to suck out his soul.
And then, when they managed it, it was like being under the sensory deprivation spell - but this time, there was no one to fix it, and no counter curse. He was trapped in the darkness forevermore, and even Riddle wasn't there.
He was covered in a cold sweat, gasping for air, shaking all over, unable to stop. The landing light was on, his door was open a crack to let the light creep in, along with a chink in the curtain that splayed moonshine over his bed.
It still felt too dark though.
There was no sign of Tom, and Harry found himself torn between relief and disappointment at this realisation. Then his stomach twisted with horror at the realisation of this disappointment...surely he couldn't want Tom's company or comfort...that was just absurd!
He was well used to having to deal with his own night terrors at the Dursleys anyway, and had mainly been afraid of waking them up.
The Dursleys...did they have any concern for the fact he'd never come back? Did they even care? Probably not! Well, maybe that was little harsh...they'd care that they went to pick him up for no reason, or that there was no one to tend the garden in his absence.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, his breathing slowly evening out.
It was good that Tom wasn't here - he'd made himself appear pathetic enough to the other already...
Not that he cared what Tom thought of him, or wanted to impress him...well, okay. Maybe just a tiny bit. Tom seemed so powerful and knowledgeable and different to everyone else he'd ever met.
That, and pleasing him, or impressing him, tended to benefit Harry himself with a reward system. That was all it was - self preservation, Slytherin cunning, something like that. Not any desire to impress Tom because it was Tom.
He was changing his thought track...
He slipped out of bed, resisting the urge to shiver as his feet touched the cold floor and the warmth of the duvet left him, creeping out the door. From what he knew about nightmares, he could rarely get back to sleep after them.
They were too vivid; far more vivid than his dreams ever were.
He found himself leaving the room, shooting a wary look at Riddle's closed bedroom door - that remained one room he hadn't entered, and hopefully never would. He shuddered at the thought. The study was bad enough.
He realised too late that the kitchen light was also on, where he'd automatically headed to make himself tea or something. He froze on the spot, heart pounding, muscles rigid as he wondered if he could sneak away again unnoticed.
He was torn between the fervent wish to keep as much distance between himself and the young Dark Lord as possible, and curiosity as to what the older boy was doing up.
The choice of sneaking away was taken out of his hands when Tom glanced up, obviously sensing his presence.
The Slytherin Heir's senses seemed particularly acute, hyper alert at all times - maybe it was a byproduct of having gone without them for so long. Harry swallowed, but, steeling his Gryffindor courage, entered. Leaving now would just make him look like a coward!
"What are you doing up?" he asked, padding across the room, eyeing the kettle and ultimately curling on 'his' seat, opposite Riddle's.
"Working," Tom replied - scratching and rewriting something on a piece of paper. There was a fresh parchment next to him, lying untouched, obviously for the final version of whatever it was Tom was working on. Harry craned his neck to try and get a better view, only to note Riddle's gaze had moved upwards from said parchment and onto him.
He flushed, embarrassed to be caught prying, but stared back defiantly nonetheless.
"I'd ask what you were doing up yourself," Tom continued, after a moment, tauntingly making no effort to hide the document - probably nothing to directly do with Harry himself. "But the evidence is more than conclusive, so it would be a waste of my lung capacities. Do you get nightmares often, Harry? Or is this a new occurrence?"
"How-?" Harry began, nonplussed.
Tom smiled thinly.
"You're shaking, whilst that could be the cold, the tremors are fainter than that - remnant nightmares, which would correlate with you being up at this time. The stimuli for nightmares is obvious, not to mention the fact I could hear you tossing and turning etcetera. Nightmares, obvious, only confirmed by your reaction."
"You're so damn smug," Harry muttered, wanting to bury his head and hide, even more embarrassed now. Ugh.
"Smugness suggests an excessive amount of pride, my pride is not excessive, it is entirely accurate in comparison to my abilities."
Harry shot him a flat look, unimpressed.
"That's a matter of opinion."
"You don't think I'm impressive?" Tom practically purred, eyes gleaming suddenly.
"No," Harry replied stubbornly. "I think you're a creepy kidnapper."
"I think you need to expand your vocabulary to include new and better insults, but you don't hear me whining about it every time the opportunity allows," Tom returned, not missing a beat. Harry scowled. "You're evading the question," the Slytherin added, after a moment.
"What question?"
"Do you get nightmares often?" Tom asked again.
"None of your business," Harry muttered, defensively.
"I'll take that as a yes," Tom said, studying him. Harry's scowl deepened. Riddle smirked. There was an awkward silence; at least on his behalf - Riddle seemed oblivious and immune to the tortures of anything so socially crippling or human as feeling awkward.
"Do you want to talk about it?" The young Dark Lord ventured eventually, with no change in expression.
"No."
Tom said nothing in response, merely going back to his work, writing again. Harry sat watching him for a while, quietly, feeling uncomfortable.
What was with that question anyway? It wasn't like Tom really cared...he just didn't know anymore. He'd put that in the 'not thinking about it now, yet, or maybe ever' box too.
After some ten minutes had passed, the quiet only broken by the surprisingly calming gentle scratch of Tom's quill, he got up to make himself tea, vaguely wondering what time it was.
He drank his tea, making one for Riddle too when Tom gave him a gesture to do so. He set it down without comment, and received no thanks either, before settling in a marginally hunched, curled up position on his own chair again, sipping his tea.
Riddle didn't look up, sparing him the scrutiny and assessment ever present in his dark gaze, and with the quiet scratching Harry soon, almost involuntarily, found himself calming down again.
He'd never admit it though.
When his head hit the table again, in sleep, he wasn't even aware of it.
Tom looked up upon hearing a dull thunk, eyebrows raising to see Harry had fallen asleep where he sat, in what looked to be a rather uncomfortable position. His lips pursed, torn between disapproval and amusement.
The boy was slumped across the kitchen table, narrowly missing his empty cup of tea, cheek pressed against the wood.
It took all of his self-control not to just boil more water and pour it across the child's head to wake him up, and then send him to bed with the scolding not to be so bloody stubborn about not going to sleep, and a warning to never dare fall asleep in his presence again. It was insulting.
Even if he wasn't attacking Harry, the boy should always be aware and respectful of the possi-but wasn't this a good thing? Didn't it suggest that Harry was starting to trust him on some level?
Of course, it could also mean Harry trusted him so little that he slept terribly when forced to share a house with him, and thus consequently collapsed from exhaustion over the table...but either way.
He finished off writing his letter, before moving over, vowing to post it at soonest convenience. Then, even to his own slight surprise, he found himself moving over and scooping Harry up - more used to the weight than he probably should have been.
Honestly, he should have just let the boy sleep at the table, get a horrible crick in his neck and hence teach him not to do it again, but the opportunity of seeming caring was too big to be missed. Besides, Harry would only be grouchy if he did sleep across the kitchen table, which would therefore make him insufferable company.
He made his way quietly up to Harry's room, somewhat amazed that the boy's eyes only fluttered slightly at his initial touch, instead of waking entirely. There, he deposited Harry onto his bed, annoyed to find that Harry's hand had clenched around the front of his shirt during the process.
He frowned darkly.
"If you don't remove your fingers, I will remove them from your limbs," he told the sleeping boy, icily. There was absolutely no reaction. He gritted his teeth, furious. Was Harry awake and doing this on purpose!?
Resisting to urge to simply curse the fingers off, he set the work to prising away Harry's grip, setting his hand back down at his side, pulling the covers over him - because the last thing he needed was a sick twelve year old boy hero on his hands! - and backed away, more unnerved by the whole experience then he cared to admit.
If Harry had been awake during that, he was going to skin the child!
Inexplicably, he lingered for a moment at the doorway, before shaking his head, dismissing it, and walking out.
It felt odd to be...needed.
Lucius Malfoy paused as an nondescript owl appeared through the wards, and half considered tossing the damn thing away.
Indeed, he was in the process of doing so when the insignia - the Dark Mark - on the envelope gave him pause, flooding his insides with ice.
It took him several tries to open the letter, his hands were shaking so much.
I believe we have much to talk about, Lucius, especially in the light of the death of Ginerva Weasley. Come to the Hangman's Pub in Knockturn Alley, alone, at 11pm.
LV.
He swallowed, face turning white as sheet.
...What exactly had he done?
So, enjoy, I hope! Thank you for all the reviews, and the interest in my novel (it makes me so hyper, and happy, you have no idea how much it means to me! Should be published by the end of the month, I'm in the process of doing so, currently.) Anyway, hope you enjoyed the update :) much love!
