Disclaimer: Harry Potter will never belong to me. I can only wish.

Thank you so much to those who reviewed and to all those who kindly informed me about the plagiarism. Luckily, the story (thanks to the help of many considerate people) was voluntarily deleted.

I hope this chapter is long enough, and I will try to update the next one as fast as I can.

"Not only will it be a magnificent opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with powerful witches and wizards, but it will also give you the chance to know my Inner Circle," said Voldemort. "Lucius and Bella have organised everything splendidly, all you will need to do is to be present next week."

Harry sighed in aggravation. "So is this something like a formal dinner party with dances and fancy speeches?"

He had barely been Voldemort's apprentice for five months, and already the Dark Lord was considering parading him in front of his followers?

"You can put it like that," Voldemort agreed. "I will be introducing and familiarising you with my supporters."

There was the confirmation from the dark wizard's own mouth. "No, I don't think so," Harry asserted. "I am too unprepared and inexperienced to fend off your devotees; you have to give me at least another extra twelve weeks."

Voldemort glared dangerously at his ward. "I will be beside you at all times; they will not dare to give you any trouble. You have already put this off for two months; the initial plan was for you to be announced the same time as Daphne, however, you happened to be unready… This time you will be ready whether you like it or not."

"You know as well as I do that I am ill-equipped for this, being completely unaware of your Pureblood etiquettes. I'll either embarrass you or I'll embarrass myself. Most likely both," protested Harry. "You cannot be by my side at all times, and I've seen enough of your Death Eaters to gather they're nit-picking savages."

"Well, you will have to defend yourself against these 'nit-picking savages' then, will you not?" Voldemort said indifferently. "Your impertinent words, which you regularly direct at me, can be used to bother those Death Eaters who offend you, if you so wish."

"With Potter as my last name, half of them will be out for my blood," Harry said.

"You will have to prove yourself worthy in front of them," Voldemort responded coolly. "If my apprentice cannot even survive my Death Eaters, then what use will that apprentice be to me?" He strode out, leaving Harry wallowing alone in his weariness.

Harry had been apprentice and ward to Lord Voldemort for a grand total of no more than five months. In that time, he had submitted himself to the Dark Arts, yielding to Voldemort's persistent urgings and his own ghastly temptations. To his dismay, the longer he lingered under the dark wizard's influence the stronger his appetite for dark magic grew, even with him trying desperately to rein it in, until he could withstand against it no longer. Of course, that had delighted Voldemort to no end.

In the five long months, Harry's intense hatred of the Dark Lord too had burned out, leaving behind a grudging acceptance and, as much as Harry didn't care to admit it, a delicate respect for his authority.

Lord Voldemort openly savoured in Harry's new cooperation, displaying slightly more leniency than usual; and as a result, Harry developed the boldness to answer back. Consequently, the banters and verbal spars between the Dark Lord and his apprentice grew more constant than ever. Yet, none of them had ended in Harry being cursed.

If Harry didn't know better, he would say the Dark Lord was growing soft… but that didn't seem remotely likely in his head. His instincts told him Voldemort was planning something big; something vast enough to change his life. He sighed; Voldemort guarded his secrets so tightly that Harry had long ago given up on unearthing them.

His attention shifted onto his latest dilemma: his initiation. Somehow, Harry didn't feel flattered in the least that Voldemort had spent an entire week arranging a formal celebration just for him; it seemed almost like the Dark Lord was gift-wrapping him as a special meal for his vicious Death Eaters.

He muttered a few unintelligible curses under his breath, and placed his head heavily on his fist in exasperation. The Death Eaters were guaranteed to trouble Harry – with him being the last member of a prominent light family and all – and if he wasn't capable of defending himself, they would undoubtedly rip him into shreds. The worst thing being that Voldemort would probably stand aside, perch himself on his throne in the casual position of watching a show, and let the Death Eaters do their worst.

Harry clenched his teeth with a horrible, grinding sound. Life with Lord Voldemort was tiresome; he was sick of being tested all the time and faced with the options of either fighting or perishing. Of course, Harry knew the Dark Lord would never let him die – at least not yet – but a painful injury was a whole new thing.

"Musing, Harry?" said a familiar, calm voice. "By the gloomy expression you are wearing, it looks like it is not going well."

Harry's head immediately spun towards the direction of the portrait hanging on the wall. "Hello, Tom," he replied tiredly. "You're quite right. Voldemort brought some extremely bad news."

Tom Riddle raised his eyebrow and smirked. "Really? From what I have heard, it appears to be extremely good news; I have not seen the Dark Lord so thrilled in a long time."

"Thrilled to see me break, you mean," Harry said scathingly. "His servants will literally be the death of me. Do you think he'll be kind enough to give me a proper burial and to place flowers on my grave?"

"Do not be so negative," Tom reprimanded. "The Dark Lord is waiting to see you leave the hall victorious and even prouder than when you entered it."

Harry scoffed derisively. "Oh yeah, that's definitely going to happen, especially when the entire Inner Circle gangs up on me."

"The most powerful members: Bellatrix, Lucius and Severus Snape all know better than to challenge you on such an occasion, and most of the trusted Inner Circle are smarter than to defy Lord Voldemort's budding apprentice," reassured Tom. "If you are going to be resisted, it will be by an underling. Daphne Greengrass was introduced without any difficulty from any of the Death Eaters – perhaps you will have her luck."

As always, Harry felt his temper flare at the mention of Daphne Greengrass' name; it had been bothering him for a long time, a constant source of his aggravation. He had no clue why he loathed the very thought of the elder girl, let alone why he could not endure her presence without gritting his teeth.

Harry had been feeling like an important part of him had gone astray, that something was missing, for months – however, it wasn't until the recent that disconcerting, lucid dreams began haunting his nights. Specific details lingered in his mind even when he woke.

"Oh, I'd love to have her luck… or better yet, her Pureblood elegance, on my side," Harry answered sarcastically. "Tom, just drop it. Voldemort is an obnoxious jerk, and nothing's going to change that – he actually seems to want to see me humiliate myself."

"The Pureblood etiquettes and aristocratic grace can be learned, as long as you get rid of your attitude," Tom sneered. "I believe the Dark Lord is planning on you impressing the Death Eaters with your magical potential, not your mannerisms. However, if you are concerned, I can teach you."

Harry brightened instantly, jerking his head to stare hopefully at Tom. "You will? Are you a Pureblood?"

"Regretfully, I am not one by birth, but as I said before: Pureblood etiquettes can be learned," Tom Riddle said, evenly. "Are you quite sure you wish for me to teach you?

Harry gave a firmly nod. "I'm sure."

A triumphant smile etched sinisterly across Tom Riddle's face as he contemplated Harry's answer, his blue eyes glinting sharply. "Good enough," he said chillingly. "But there is a slight problem." As he said those words, Harry felt the atmosphere drop a few degrees, icing over.

"For me to teach you," Tom Riddle said slowly, "I will have to get out of this frame." His soft, velvety voice draped smoothly over Harry in a protracted whisper. "You can help me achieve that. Come over here."

Harry found himself instantaneously rising and walking sluggishly towards Riddle, as if hypnotised. He halted upon a few inches away from the portrait.

"Lend me a few drops of your blood," Riddle purred silkily. "Spill them onto this portrait."

Harry moved his head dazedly, as if stirring from a dream, and gaped at Tom. "Pardon?" he said.

"Spill a few drops of your blood onto this portrait," Riddle repeated. "I assure you they will not go to waste."

Harry frowned. "Why –?"

"Because," Riddle murmured mildly, "it will assist me in your teaching."

"That's not all," said Harry steadfastly. "I know that's not the whole truth. What do you truly want?"

Tom sighed gently. "In all honesty, the Dark Lord cold-bloodedly entombed me here for decades, subjecting me to a life of compliance and servitude. I can feast my eyes on the world through my many frames, but never touch sense or touch anything. If you were me, Harry, would you not want the chance?"

Harry's stiff expression immediately softened, and his lips curled into a hesitant smile; he had never been one to leave an associate unaided. "Of course I'll help. All you had to do was ask."

Without missing a beat, he cast a cutting hex on his own wrist, and stretched towards the portrait, attempting to cup the blood that gushed out.

Watching the beads of dark crimson sinking into the canvas, Tom Riddle smiled intensely. "Harry, how do you feel about finally meeting me in person?"

The next phases astounded Harry to the extent that his mouth dried up. First, the rich colours in Tom's cheeks and clothing faded, and then the rest followed. In next to no time, the entire depiction of Tom Riddle was gone, leaving behind only a barren backdrop.

Harry twisted around and, lo and behold, there stood Tom Riddle behind him, basking in the glory of human flesh.

"Hello, Harry," Tom said, his smile revealing rows of pointed, flawless teeth. On impulse, Harry took a step back. "No need to be scared, Harry. I am not going to harm you."

Recovering from his initial shock, Harry loosened and flashed Tom Riddle a warm grin. "Heavens, I thought your handsomeness was mainly due to the skill of the artist."

"Jealous?" Riddle teased. "You are appallingly naive, Potter, freeing me without truly knowing whether I am friend or foe."

"You're friend," Harry replied immediately.

Riddle scoffed in exasperation. "You are too trusting for your own good."

Harry turned his head for a better look at the boy who had kept him company ever since the time he arrived. Tom's confident poise spoke volumes; commanding respect and flaunting power. No wonder the boy had been considered a prodigious leader in his time.

"If you wish to learn the Pureblood etiquettes, then you must pay attention. All in all, it is merely a simple set of abilities you need to bring forth," Tom said.

Harry looked hesitantly at the older Slytherin who suddenly became very business-like. "Alright…" he said.

"When you are dealing with egotistical elitists, one of the key points is to set out to impress," Tom explained. "If you are intending on treading the dangerous waters of a Pureblood hierarchy, you need to learn how to dress to impress, speak to impress, and act to impress."

Harry arched an inquisitive eyebrow. It seemed he was not cut out to mingle with Purebloods.

"The first thing to focus on would be to enhance and expand your vocabulary," Riddle instructed firmly. "Use the most decorative words in your knowledge, lace your language with sophistication. As laughable as this sound, it tends to impress wizards like Lucius Malfoy rather effectively."

"Please resume, I implore you," Harry uttered, unable to keep a chortle from bursting out.

Riddle acknowledged his attempt with a faint smirk. "That, unfortunately, is just laying it on thick. You will fool no one but inane morons."

"Then, that means it'll fool you just fine," Harry grinned.

"If I am a moron, then what are you?" Tom said coldly. "Secondly, you must dress handsomely; displaying yourself in the most expensive attire the Dark Lord tailored for you. I will make the final decision concerning what you wear."

He opened his mouth wide to protest, "Tom! I'm not a child, I can decide –!"

"Thirdly, you will learn how to walk, stand and sit properly with the classic Pureblood grace," Tom continued, ignoring Harry's outburst. "And lastly, I will teach you taught how to dine formally."

"Fine," Harry conceded. "But, unlike a baby, I already know how to walk, stand and sit!"

"Oh, really?" Tom taunted. "See if you can imitate this." He treaded across the room in a manner so elegantly authoritative that it reduced Daphne's style to that of a lurching drunkard.

Harry stared. "You're joking, right? I need to do that? Walking is a routine human thing, not some kind of…some kind of dancing art."

"Wrong," Tom said disapprovingly. "Surely you have read the Jane Austen's most famous Muggle work, Pride and Prejudice? In one scene, the protagonist, Elizabeth Bennet, is invited to take 'a turn about the room' with Miss Caroline Bingley, and at one point, Miss Caroline Bingley calls out to Mr Darcy, with whom they were talking with, and asked him to join them in their 'refreshing' walk – to which he replied, 'You can only have two motives, and I would interfere with both. Either you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking. If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here.'"

Harry's mouth was parted by the time the older Slytherin finished; it was incredible how he had quoted the characters without as much as a stumble while Harry hadn't even read the cover of the book.

"This is evidence that the posture and grace of one's walk was significant even in the early nineteenth century, and even to Muggles," Tom Riddle stated. "Harry Potter smoothly gliding in to greet the Death Eaters with Lord Voldemort by his side… think about that. The very sight will ward off many problematic challenges."

"You kind of have to teach it to me before I can do that," Harry pointed out.

"Exactly," Riddle deadpanned. "Stand straight. No, Harry, that is called standing hunchbacked. Make sure your back is in a vertical line."

After three minutes or so of arranging and rearranging himself, Harry was finally permitted to proceed.

"That is enough; barely adequate but it will do," Tom Riddle said impatiently. "Now, hold your head up, up. Not in that exaggerated manner… and try to project a little self-confidence. Try never to loose your composure."

Harry could feel his back starting to ache, being strained in such a peculiar position; he honestly felt more like a stick than a human. He also felt absurd; he just couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how looking like a pretentious imbecile would help with his situation at all.

"When you are speaking with a Death Eater, make sure you are neither looking down your nose at him nor looking levelly at him; something between the two would satisfy," Tom Riddle directed. "Looking down at him would trigger feelings of resentment you do not want while looking straight at him would suggest you consider him your equal. On the other hand, you must not look at the Dark Lord in that way."

Harry nodded, storing the information into his head. According to Tom Riddle, it would seem reading body language was particularly convenient in the realm of Purebloods.

"When you are walking, keep your pace consistent and maintain a more measured pace that implies dignity and purpose. Remember to keep your body posture when you are walking. Aim to glide, not saunter."

Attempting to wrap his head around everything that had been said, Harry struggled to convert the words into actions. He moved smoothly through the bedroom in that dominant stance, hoping that he didn't look too idiotic, and when he faced Tom Riddle again, he saw that the older boy was smiling smugly.

"Not too bad," Riddle drawled. "Congratulations, you have conquered the Pureblood walk. Next, we shall turn to dining."

"Okay," Harry said, bracing himself for the overwhelming information that was to come.

"On a dinner table, especially during a twenty-course dinner such as the one the Dark Lord is preparing, there will be over twenty utensils, with soup spoons, oyster forks, salad forks, dessert spoons, dinner knives and more. Utensils will be placed precisely one inch away from the plate, the knives and spoons placed to the right and forks placed to the left," Tom Riddle said. "Glasses are located above the knives in the order of left to right: water goblet, white wine glass, red wine glass and champagne flute. You will find your napkin on your plate, and it is best if you lay it on your lap as soon as you sit."

"Hang on a minute," Harry protested. "I can't keep up with you."

Glaring in disdain, Riddle slowed down. "You cannot possibly remember the names of all the spoons, forks and knives. The next best option is to work your way from the outside inwards, use the utensils furthest away from you and work your way in."

Harry nodded stiffly as if in pain from processing Tom's words. "Okay… I think I get it," he said reluctantly.

Riddle frowned intimidatingly at him. "You should never slurp your soup or talk with your mouth full, if you do not know already."

"Thanks for the reminder," Harry remarked dryly. "I do think I understand."

"Very well," Tom Riddle retorted. "Then I beg you not to make a fool out of yourself. As for the rest… you can only rely on your own power."

—0O0—

In precisely one week's time, Harry was perched in front of a mirror and marvelling at the imposingly magnificent robes his reflection sported. The robes were of a very dark shade of stunning green with slender black snakes embellishing the rims.

In addition, Harry was donning a beautiful black cape, as smooth to the touch as a river of silk. Tom had forced him to wear the cape, insisting that with the fabric being so light; it would flutter at the slightest waft of wind, thus enhancing Harry's splendour.

With the formal dinner party being only half an hour away, Harry was beginning to lose his nerve. He had never been comfortable dwelling in the midst of a large crowd. Hoping that Voldemort wasn't expecting him to make a speech, he got up from his place in front of the mirror.

"Tom?" Harry said. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Tom mimicked. Hearing the mocking undertone, Harry whirled around and scowled at the portrait. It was a pity, really, that his blood had only managed to keep Tom in human flesh temporarily. Tom Riddle was back to being a portrait.

"Whatever," Harry muttered. "Bye." He strode out the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

How…excellent; meeting Voldemort and then accompanying him to launch the dinner party. It seemed this would be another torturous night.

—0O0—

The guests sat in their prearranged seating, anticipating the arrival of the Dark Lord and his apprentice. The settling darkness was only lifted marginally by the crystal chandelier suspended high above the white-clothed tables, and the ignited candles espousing flames.

Suddenly, moving out from amongst the darkness was Lord Voldemort himself, dressed in a wafting black cloak and standing assertively in all his radiance. Escorting him was a young, raven-haired boy whose bearing was no less fluid.

Indeed, the young boy carried himself in a manner unseen for his age, stepping with his head held high and casting an aura of supremacy into the atmosphere. This display rendered many of those who previously scorned the boy speechless.

At the sight of the pair, every attending guest in the room got up and respectfully bowed in unison, chanting, "All hail the Dark Lord!"

Harry saw Voldemort direct a smirk at him that spoke volumes. He felt the Dark Lord lean towards him subtly and breathe into his ear, "This is my reign, Harry, mine to govern and rule. If you join forces with me, it will one day be yours."

With that, Lord Voldemort stepped up and scanned the crowd intensely. "Welcome, my loyal followers to the initiation of my young apprentice. His capacity for greatness is undeniable, but there are many of you here tonight who do deny it."

If Harry had not seen it for himself, he would never have understood how so many people could tense under the words of one man.

"But it has become evident that his obstinacy is ruinous, and that he has countless things to learn," said Voldemort, smiling. "Therefore, I hope you will test him, challenge him, converse with him, familiarise yourself with him. I have no doubts he needs the experience."

Harry could not believe his ears – Voldemort was opening inviting Death Eaters to challenge him! He was on familiar terms with the dark wizard's wicked tactics, so he should never have been surprised; it seemed this evening was about to plummet downhill before it even began.

"Duel with him and test his magical strength for yourselves," Voldemort said. "Appease your curiosities, and you shall receive no objections from me."

Supressing a feral growl that threatened to emerge from his throat, Harry glared daggers at his guardian. He was not going to let this affair pass; he would make Voldemort regret this.

"Seeing as tonight is first and foremost a dinner party, you may go and dine at the dining table whenever you so wish." The Dark Lord snapped his fingers and at least thirty house elves appeared before Harry's eyes, carrying large plates on which lay various foods. "The house elves have cooked a marvellous dinner for all of us, and it will be rude to let it go to waste."

"When you require something – be it wine, drinks, juices, you may summon a house elf," Voldemort advised. "Those of you who want to speak to me about important issues may do so anytime during the party. I wish all of you a lovely time."

With that, the celebration began. And Harry snuck away into the shadows.

Still maintaining the elegant posture, Harry inwardly groaned as he paced the glooms; damn Voldemort. Yearning for a bit of peace, he avoided large groups and made his way to the most isolated area in the hall.

Unfortunately, luck seemed to have abandoned him when he needed it most. To his displeasure, he almost collided with Draco Malfoy.

"Hey, watch it!" Malfoy snarled, seeing it was a child his own age. Harry watched in amusement as Draco Malfoy automatically took a step back when he realised exactly who it was.

"Hello, Malfoy," Harry said. "I didn't know they allowed children in."

The blonde boy blushed the shade of a beetroot. "All high and mighty now that you're the Dark Lord's apprentice? I wonder whether you'll still be so arrogant if he whips you like Professor Carrow did. You deserve it, you pathetic nuisance."

Harry froze for a second before retorting, "Is that the best you've got, Malfoy? You realise your father's new job is to tutor that pathetic nuisance while giving him full respect?"

Draco growled like an angered dog. "My father is serving the Dark Lord not you!"

"Voldemort ordered your father to serve me," Harry corrected sweetly. "And I must say… Lucius Malfoy does his job well. He is ever so polite." That taunt seemed to have hit the mark, because Draco looked like he was about to prance forward and punch Harry in the nose.

"At least I have a father, and a mother, at that. Your parents are dead!" Draco spat spitefully. "Go back on the streets, orphan!"

As babyish as the remark was, Harry couldn't help but feel a pang in his heart. He was beginning to that feel the argument was pointless. "Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Malfoy. Now if you don't mind excusing me…"

To Harry's irritation, Draco moved to block his way, seeming to mistake his maturity for defeat. "Don't go, Potter, unless you're a coward."

"I've been learning quite a few dark curses with Voldemort. If you want a taster, then by all means, continue blocking my way," Harry warned. "Or, you can publically challenge me to a duel."

Malfoy involuntarily removed himself from Harry's path, before saying, "I don't think you'll get off so easily. Look who is coming."

Harry twirled around to see a young man with a rather scarred face steadily approaching him. "Hello," he greeted civilly. "May I help you?" Then, remembering Tom Riddle's advice, he held his head higher until he was almost looking down at the man.

"Harry Potter…" the young man murmured. "How did you ever get chosen by the Dark Lord? I do not mean to offend… but you are no one extraordinary."

"None taken," Harry replied lightly, inwardly surprised at the blunt rudeness. "But perhaps you ought to ask the Lord Voldemort. I have no idea what he was thinking when he picked his apprentices."

The man's expression darkened considerably. "The Dark Lord has brought up a rather proud apprentice," he commented jokily. "In your own opinion, are you something special?"

Harry grew continuously more piqued by the wizard's jabbing remarks. "In my opinion, only the Dark Lord's opinion counts; it would be rude of me to contradict if he considers me special. If I may ask, what is your name?" It was probably safer to stick to the more formal language.

"I'm Barty Crouch," the man said. "And I will be honoured if you'll grace me with a duel."

Harry felt his heart sink; he was hoping he could get through the evening without any of these challenges. Maybe he should just refuse, and tell Voldemort later that he never said Harry couldn't decline. "Are you a member of Lord Voldemort's Inner Circle?" Harry asked tensely.

"Yes. Shall we proceed?"

Cursing Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Harry nodded against his will.

...

First entertainment tonight, Harry thought grimly as he faced Barty Crouch. He could see Voldemort sitting at the head of the dining table, engaging Bellatrix in a conversation. He could also see Voldemort's eyes swerving sharply in his direction to see whether the duel had started yet. Several others were doing the same. And the rest were just blatantly watching.

Seeing Barty Crouch bow, he bowed back; it wouldn't do for the Dark Lord to become irked simply because he didn't follow the usual courtesies.

"Harry Potter… you may deliver the first blow." Barty smirked. "After all, it would impress on me badly if I act ungraciously to a child."

Is this what Barty was planning? Categorising him as a child before beating him in a humiliating defeat? Harry's fist clenched tighter around his wand. "If you are sure…"

He reacted, striking like a venomous viper. Twirling his wand easily in his hand, Harry shot several Sectumsempra curses at Barty, not hesitating to see the wizard blockade them before firing the next volley.

Harry continued the bombardment – always with the Sectumsempra and never pausing, even briefly. His stamina did not fail him.

So far, Barty seemed to be faring rather well, either dodging curses or magically shielding himself. But Harry knew he wouldn't remain forever in the defensive position. A few minutes later proved his estimation to be accurate when Barty suddenly thwarted an entire line of curses and sent all of them flying back towards Harry.

As luck would have it, Harry was already one step ahead. He ducked beneath them and, unseen by Barty, slipped one little spell under disguise sailing towards him. Barty didn't even detect it.

Now unlimited by Harry's persistent barrages, Barty rose to an entirely new duelling level, flinging a wide variety of spells at him – dark spells, light spells, prank spells, first-year spells. Harry, out of his depth, was left struggling to keep up.

If he had tried to duel Barty Crouch five months ago, he would have been knocked out within five minutes; his skill and cunning had dramatically improved.

When everything seemed to be drawing to an end, when Barty was on the verge of finishing him off, Harry sent a stunning curse at him. Time seemed to slow as the Death Eater leapt over it – or at least tried to. His shoes had been tied together, and he fell shamefully right on top of the spell.

Harry had taken a page out of Draco's book. It might not have been a praiseworthy method, but Crouch had been defeated in the most humiliating way possible.

The rest of the evening, much to Harry's surprise, passed smoothly.

—0O0—

A few hours later, in Voldemort's office, Harry was throwing a miniature temper tantrum.

"Still feeling angry, Harry?" the Dark Lord asked silkily, offering him a plateful of biscuits.

"No – I mean I don't want any of your biscuits," Harry said, utterly livid. "Angry? I'm outraged. I cannot believe it." He gnashed his teeth.

"Calm down, Harry. You are ever the drama queen, making a mountain out of a molehill," said Voldemort calmly, behaving as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

"You practically dumped a whole nest of Death Eaters on my head. Luckily, only Barty Crouch apparently seemed to have a taste for my blood," Harry barked.

"Oh, I know many who would love to bleed you to death," Voldemort replied flippantly. "Your performance unnerved them. I need to congratulate you on your new elegance, by the way. It was rather impressive."

Harry was in no mood for the light talk. "I thank you for your compliments," he responded sarcastically.

"You are always welcome, Harry."

Harry fell silent, too angry for words. He was seriously tempted to trash Voldemort's office and to hurl all the priceless possessions against the wall, but even in the haze of redness he understood that if he ever did something even remotely similar, the dark wizard would make him regret it. It was likely that Voldemort's temper was already running short.

"Sulking like a little child, Harry?" Voldemort asked, provoking him further. "That seems extremely unlike you."

"I am a child!" he snapped. "You made me grow up too fast!"

There was a faint rustling from behind one of the ancient cabinets and a heated hiss. Voldemort sighed in exasperation. "Perhaps you should consider lowering your voice if you do not want to receive a bite from a viper."

A second later, an enormous snake with onyx coloured scales slithered out. Harry watched incredulously as Voldemort stretched out a hand and the snake tenderly bumped its head against it.

"Masster, who is this sickening piece of human filth? He sspeaks like a Sonorus Charm gone wrong," the snake hissed.

"Thank you so very much," Harry said sharply. "But I do not need a talking snake insulting me."

The look of shock on Voldemort's normally impassive face was enough to make Harry forget completely about his bad temper.

"What's wrong?" he asked anxiously.

For the first time in his life, Harry saw the Dark Lord looking so staggered that he had to pause before giving him an answer. "You can speak," Voldemort said in disbelief.

"Yes, I can…" Harry answered hesitantly, bemused.

Lord Voldemort's expression immediately darkened in a way so ominous that Harry took a shaky step back. "Oh?" he asked threateningly. "Tell me, Harry, why did you not inform me of this earlier?"

Harry stumbled around for words he did not have. The sudden changes in atmosphere caught him completely by surprise. "What…what do you mean?"

"What I mean is," Voldemort pronounced dangerously, "is why did you choose to hide this from me?" The dark tone promised Harry a foreboding future, and he realised he might just be cursed for the first time by Voldemort's hand.

"I haven't hidden anything!" he cried.

"You liar," the Dark Lord hissed. "You will tell me everything I want to know and more. Harry, meet my familiar, Nagini." With a mere gesture from Voldemort, the giant black snake wound itself so harshly around Harry that he was temporarily silenced by the discomfort.