Book II:
Chapter 17: The Pride of Kings and Princes
Harry bent over his work table, trying to ignore Professor Benjamin Beechlull's curious study of him in favor of his own academic pursuits. He had been reviewing Hermione's copious notes on Herbology and penning down an essay on the magical properties of roses since lunch almost two hours ago. Before lunch he had been reciting Dorian's Three Properties of Metal to Alloy Transfiguration and outlining his midterm paper for Charms.
Professor Beechlull, an elderly gentleman who seemed more curious about everything Harry except his homework, had been overseeing his progress. The man spoke very little, content to offer his name, his assistance if requested, and then relax in one of the library's plush reading chairs in order to watch him. Frankly, it was irritating.
Perhaps the only good thing about the man's presence was that Harry didn't dare shirk his school work and risk it being reported to his latest batch of keepers. Of course, left to his own devices, Harry thought he might have learned something more important from 'Guardian Beasts' than from Hermione's notes on the magical properties of roses. He hadn't been in any state to look through the book the night before, being exhausted and still reeling from his discovery. That morning hadn't been any better, as Victoria had woken him up early and hustled him through his morning routine and then straight to breakfast with no time to dally.
Voldemort had been on his way out just as Harry sat down at the long dining table, and offered him a short greeting, patted him on the shoulder, and then disappeared for the rest of the day. After breakfast, he'd been brought to the library, introduced to his tutor, and hadn't had an unsupervised moment since. Even now, the book sat in a neat pile by his desk amongst yesterday's selection. A constant temptation he couldn't yet indulge.
At a quarter to three there was a knock on the library door, and Mr. Whitby and Victoria entered.
"I'm afraid studies are finished for the day, Professor. Young Master has an appointment," Mr. Whitby said formally. Beechlull raised a curious brow, but said nothing as Victoria shuffled Harry out of the library.
"Come along, Young Master. We need to get you ready," she gushed, looking rather giddy about something.
Harry was a bit more dubious.
"For what?"
"There's a press conference today at four. The Dark Lord has requested you be in attendance."
The young Gryffindor felt a surge of panic.
"What's the conference for? I'm not going to have to talk to the press, am I?"
Victoria giggled, hurrying him up to his bedroom without a moment's pause.
"Who knows? I was just told to make you look appropriately plush and debonair."
"What does that mean?!"
They entered his room and Victoria went straight to his closet. Her reply was partially muffled by his new wardrobe.
"It means a suit, tie, and that lovely new cloak the tailor dropped off this morning."
Moments later, she reappeared with said ensemble, and took his shoes to be polished as he got dressed. Harry had worn suits before, but never in the wizarding world. His vaguely resembled Snape's usual black teaching robes, but were of a silkier material with dark violet vines embroidered along his inner robe, with a brighter violet vest over a starch white dress shirt with black tie. His trousers were dark grey and his shoes now shiny. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Violet was not one of his usual colors, and he had a sort of fear of developing the inexorably bad fashion sense that plagued the majority of the wizarding world. At the same time, he thought he might indeed look a bit...ah...debonair?
"Ohhh! You look perfect!" Victoria squealed in delight. She didn't attempt to straighten his hair at all.
In his vest pocket, his watch began to grow warm.
"Are we running late?"
His maid let out a flustered squeak, and hurried him back down stairs. There was yet another maid there waiting for him, winter cloak and gloves in had. The winter cloak was black and heavy, lined with thick fur, and hooded. The gloves were black, thin, and charmed to stay warm.
It seemed that if he somehow embarrassed himself it wasn't going to be over his clothes. Everything they'd dressed him in seemed to be at the height of elegance and style.
Harry on the other hand felt awkward and displaced.
He wasn't given time to linger on the feeling, being rushed out to the familiar black car waiting for him in the drive way. Mr. Whitby opened the door for him while he climbed inside.
"Good luck to you, Young Master."
"Er... thank you, sir."
The door closed and the driver pulled away from the estate. Harry watched it disappear longingly, before settling into his seat. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw Madam Hardwick sitting across from him, her expression seamlessly dour.
"Oh... Good ... Good afternoon?"
She tilted her head in acknowledgment but didn't return the greeting, instead launching into the reason for her presence.
"Our Lord has requested I provide you with a more thorough explanation of what this press conference will entail and what will be expected of you."
He swallowed, processing what she had said, and then nodded.
"Our Lord has decided to re-organize our Court Enforcement offices, opening up a large number of positions for wizards and witches that do not require the stringent educational requirements of most Court positions that are beyond the average person."
Oh, more jobs for everyone. That sounds nice, Harry thought naively.
"He will be making the announcement today so that he might begin recruitment after the first of the year. This is to be a celebrated occasion, so our Lord thought today would be a good opportunity to present you as his... protégé? Most of the papers will be more interested in his announcement, but there will of course be a few gossip rags represented. You will be stationed with the Dark Lord's advisors and some of his staff, safely behind a line of Sentinels. Stay close to either myself or the Dark Lord, smile and try to act interested in the proceedings, and what ever you do don't pick your nose or scratch yourself."
Not even if it itches really bad? he thought sarcastically.
Having said her part, she said nothing more, which was fine by Harry. He was starting to dislike the haughty old prune. They disregarded each other for the rest of the journey. They entered Bristol on a muggle highway, then spent the next fifteen minutes weaving between muggle and wizarding streets, marked only by sudden change in pedestrian wardrobe and the intermittent silences of the planes landing and leaving Bristol International Airport. Quaint little shops and restaurants gave way to cathedrals, clock towers, and government buildings.
One moment, Harry was sitting back and enjoying the strange metamorphosis and the next he was plunged into a darkness. Startled he turned to his chaperone.
"We're in Our Lord's private garage. Security precaution," she said dismissively. The car came to a stop and they were confronted by several Sentinels, who cast several spells to check them for... just about anything, before being escorted to the elevator. The elevator released them into the lobby, where Voldemort was already waiting.
After being shuffled about for the last two hours by strangers, Harry felt strangely grateful to see the man. Which was silly really, since it was Voldemort's fault he was in this mess in the first place. The dictator was busy ordering several of his staff around, demanding reports on who was coming, who he wanted excluded, what pages he wanted dedicated to this story, and where was his cloak for Merlin's sake? When he spotted Harry, he broke of his line of commands to gesture the boy closer.
Reluctantly, Harry obeyed until the Dark Lord was close enough to seize him by his shoulders. A cool elegant hand lifted his chin, forcing him to look out at the bustle of witches and wizards who had paused to watch them curiously.
"This is Harold James Potter. It would be wise of you to remember him," he stated, offering nothing by way of explanation before seeming to lose interest in the boy altogether. Without a second glance he went back to ordering everyone around.
Harry felt rather miffed... or was it disappointed?
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
"... For centuries, thousands of witches and wizards have been deprived the privilege to serve their country simply by the circumstance of their birth. Political positions have been treated as familial assets, passed down from parents to children, and withheld from others who long to serve this proud nation..."
Harry stifled a yawn, and tried to look interested just as he had been instructed. The conference was being held outside to accommodate the large number of reporters and curious onlookers who had gathered in the square to listen to their ruler. Despite the cold, the crowd seemed excited to be there, cheering enthusiastically at words like 'patriots' and 'opportunities'.
He wished he were among them, rather than stuck sitting behind and off to the left of the podium, trying not to sneeze or yawn or scratch his nose in full view of the flashing cameras. It didn't help that he still had no real idea what the Dark Lord was talking about. He understood that there were going to be a lot of jobs opening up at Court, perhaps even a new branch of the Court itself, and that anyone was welcome to apply, but not what the jobs were or what they paid or what people would be doing.
To make matters worse, he found himself sitting two chairs down from Hermione's foster father Lucius Malfoy. The man was poised perfection, not so much as a hair out of place and his gaze fiercely intent on his lord and the crowd that adored him. He knew Malfoy Sr. had a coveted position in the Court working closely with the Dark Lord, but Harry hadn't realized how close until now. He was sitting one chair closer than Headmistress Lestrange was.
The woman had shown up just as they were being given instructions on where to sit by one of Voldemort's million-and-one lackeys, and seemed utterly horrified when she spotted Harry. Luckily, a completely unfamiliar man was stationed between them or else Harry thought he might not have gotten off with just a nasty glare.
Snape was no where in sight, but perhaps that was to be expected. Hermione had said that while her godfather coveted power, he didn't give a wit about popularity. Still, Harry wished the man were there. They could have been uncomfortable and bored together.
"- one more step towards a nation where privilege and success are earned, not inherited!"
There was more cheering from the crowd and Harry clapped with his fellows, desperately trying to keep himself from scratching the thousand different spots that had started to tingle from lack of distraction and ignore the bitter cold seeping into his toes.
"- and a Happy New Year to you all."
One last thunderous applause and a wave of cheering, and the Dark Lord exited, as regal and majestic as a lion and grinning with the subtlety of a snake. Harry and the rest of Voldemort's entourage stood and followed as he passed.
"Harold, come here," the Dark Lord instructed, not looking back at him. Harry was quickly becoming irritated with this strange not-disinterest, but he dared not disobey with Lestrange practically kicking him in the heels as they walked. Even if he wanted to kick the man for calling him 'Harold'. Who the bloody hell was Harold?
Voldemort took him by the shoulder as soon as he was in range, having him walk beside him as they made their way back inside. The flash and click of cameras was conspicuous, and did not cease once they had entered the building. A flock of reporters and photographers were waiting for them, eagerly throwing out questions.
"My Lord, who will be in charge of this new department?"
"When will the name be finalized?!"
"Has anyone expressed reluctance opening Court positions to the average witch and wizard?"
"Who is your young friend?"
Harry blushed and ducked his head at the last question, unconsciously stepping a little closer and behind the Dark Lord. The hand on his shoulder tightened a bit, either to comfort him or ensure he didn't retreat any further Harry wasn't sure.
"I will, of course, remain the ultimate authority as Commander and Chief of the Court. But as I have stated before, these new positions, including that of the Department Head, will not be finalized until after the first of the year and will go to whom ever proves most qualified, regardless of political or familial ties."
Voldemort seemed to conveniently forget the third question and went straight for the fourth.
"And this young man is Harold James Potter. He is my ward, for the holidays at least."
A curious murmur ran through the ensemble. Some of the reporters seemed to recognize the name.
"The Harold Potter. The only known parselmouth aside from the Dark Lord?"
Harry's ears turned pink and he ducked his head even more. Voldemort's thumb sudden stabbed him sharply.
"Eep.. I...ah.. That is... yes, yes I am."
"Is it true you're the youngest Seeker at Hogwarts in a century?"
Harry glanced cautiously at the Dark Lord, before answering.
"Yes... or I was last year, any way." A genuine sigh. "Haven't been playing much of anything at Hogwarts these days."
Thumb stab. And did that man ever trim his nails?
"I mean... I've been sick the last couple of weeks!"
"Which is why I should take him home to rest," the Dark Lord picked up, throwing off any further questioning of his charge. "It has been an eventful day."
The reporters sensed nothing more was going to be gained from questioning this latest curiosity, and went back to getting comments on the Dark Lord's announcement from the rest of the entourage. At last they moved into the restricted section of the building, leaving the reporters behind.
"That went well," Voldemort remarked, entering a private corridor and releasing Harry.
"Yes, My Lord," Lucius agreed, "They seemed very receptive to the idea."
Lestrange rolled her eyes.
"Why shouldn't they? It's the answer to their prayers. Jobs for everyone and all you need is a wand. You don't even need to be very good with it."
"Bella, now now," Voldemort chided gently, "They all have their place. What they'll lack in power and skill they'll make up for in sheer numbers and obedience. Speaking of power and skill, I've been reviewing your latest selection of new professors for next year. They seem quite capable."
Lestrange preened under her Lord's small praise, the first she gotten in several months. Harry who had started sulking, perked up at the news.
"New teachers?"
"Hush, Potter, this doesn't concern you," Lestrange hissed, irritated by the boy's very presence. She wanted nothing more than to cast several of her more creative curses at him and she thought she had conveyed that well enough with just her eyes, but the little brat actually had the audacity to glare at her.
"It will if we're stuck with another McNair," he said pointedly, then slapped his hand over his mouth. Bad mouth! Bad! What I have I told you about running away with yourself?
He got away with a dark look and a slap upside the head from Voldemort, a nasty look from Lestrange (it was less intimidating while she was blushing from embarrassment), and a chuckle from the man he didn't know.
"We're going to have to do something about that mouth of yours," the Dark Lord drawled, "It's far too compulsively honest. You handled yourself with the press fairly well though."
"I sounded like a twat."
Voldemort smirked. "Perhaps, but you came off as honest. That's why I didn't give you any prepared statements."
No, only a couple bruises, Harry mentally groused and rubbed his shoulder. After that, Harry frankly didn't want to talk any more and the Dark Lord seemed more than happy to let him continue sulking while he chatted with his minions about work and holiday plans. The sulking deepened as Harry overheard several dinner dates, press conferences, and charity banquets he was probably going to have to attend with the leader of wizarding Britain. Somehow he doubted it was going to be anymore exciting than it had been today.
There was a brief, more formal conference in the Dark Lord's office, which Harry was thankfully excluded from. He was placed in an empty cubicle and given some tea by a harried secretary, whose twitchy smile made Harry suspect she was only a few short hours from a psychotic break.
Harry used the sudden privacy to try and figure out what was going on. Voldemort had been strangely reserved with him today, even a bit cold, despite the casual conversation and good humor they'd shared the day before. Had Harry done something wrong, he wondered, or was the man just too busy to pay him any mind? If he had done something wrong, would he be told? Would he be punished?
He glared down into his tea. He already had been punished. He'd been poisoned and tricked into signing that contract. It might have been Snape's idea, but it was done to fulfill the Dark Lord's orders of absolute secrecy. Never mind that the bloody thing was trying to kill him.
Good God, what was he doing here?
How had he gone from orphaned nobody to the protégé of a bloody King? Dressed in the finest clothes a wizard could ask for, having a tutor, going to press conferences, mingling with the most important families in Britain... and being forced to keep secret a murder, attempted murders, and a murderer. How?
And more importantly, why?
The answer lay in Voldemort, but he could not truly trust the answer. The man would only tell him something sweet and sugar coated, like he had the crowd outside that afternoon. Something to induce compliance, even enthusiasm for something you didn't even truly understand. The truth... the truth was of a different flavor. Was it sour like Lestrange's superior, conceited view? Was it bitter like Snape's poisonous practicality? Or was it rich and dark with a sharp bite like Voldemort himself?
"Harry?"
The soft call jolted him, spilling lukewarm tea on his hand and the desk. He cursed himself, and quickly cleaned the mess with his wand before going out to meet the source of his confused thoughts.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The ride back to the estate was a quiet one. Aside from the driver, Harry and Voldemort were alone in the car. Madam Hardwick had apparently found alternative means to get to her house, or her crypt, or whatever sheltered the stuffy old biddy. The Dark Lord was studying him intently, completely opposite of the earlier disregard. Also completely opposite of earlier, Harry had no desire for the man's attention. He avoided intent red eyes by looking out the window, searching the trees for life as they entered the Sianach Estate.
"Are you angry, Harry?" the man finally asked, sounding genuinely curious.
"So it's 'Harry' now, is it?" It was the first thing that came to mind, yet it wasn't what was truly bothering him. Of course, he didn't really want to talk about what was really bothering him. This man's assistance could only make things worse.
The Dark Lord chuckled.
"Don't take it personally. It's necessary to put some professional distance between us while in the company of others. You are aware of how jealous Slytherins tend to be, aren't you?"
Oh, yes, Harry had been made well aware of that.
"Keeping you as nothing more than a PR prop prevents... or at least delays such feelings. No one envies a prop."
"And am I? A prop, I mean," he asked, watching the man in the reflection on the glass.
Voldemort looked surprised by the question, but quickly recovered, his expression curious.
"Do you think you are?"
Harry looked beyond the reflection to the passing buildings, eyes floating upward briefly, following the bell towers of a gothic style cathedral.
"I hope I am."
Now Voldemort's curiosity was anything but feigned. He had been unprepared for such a response. Why would anyone want to be a prop?
"Why?"
"Because... after I get thrown away, I'll do my own things. Stuff I want to do, with people I want to do them with."
Well, that was an idea that Voldemort could appreciate, yet still utterly not appreciate from Harry. Being shy or uncertain of his capabilities as his protégé was one thing, but not wanting the job was a different matter altogether.
"... You ungrateful little bastard."
Startled, Harry spun around. Voldemort moved with the speed and accuracy of his totem, a hand at his prey's neck before he could so much as lift his wand in defense. The boy's startled yelp was smothered with a sharp increase in strength of his captor's grip. Crimson eyes glowed like hot coals, burning with a rage that sent aimless waves of malevolent magic pounding against Harry's senses.
"I would make you my prince and you would chose to be a pawn?!" he snarled.
Dark magic pressed against Harry, crushing his mind and spirit, invading the cracks and crevasses like salt in an open wound. He buckled under the initial onslaught of pain, stunned by its intensity.
But then the will to live, to fight, to lash out at the source of his torment rose up with fangs bared, sinking its teeth into the dragon.
"FUCK!"
Voldemort snatched back his hand, stunned by the miraculous pain the likes of which he hadn't known for almost a decade. He now bore a crescent shaped wound on the delicate skin between his thumb and forefinger. He turned his wide eyes to Harry, the child's teeth bared and stained with blood. His blood.
"Prince or pauper, your pawn either way," Harry hissed.
Already unbalanced by the retaliation, and again by Harry's savage look and words, he was unable to rouse himself to action quick enough for what happened next. The car wasn't moving fast, but it was still moving, which logically meant one should not attempt to exit the vehicle.
Gryffindor's were not known for their logic.
One moment Harry was pressed defensively against seat and the door, and then the next the seat was empty and the was door slamming shut.
"Stop the car!"
The driver, seemingly oblivious to what could possibly have been construed as a murder-in-progress not moments before, hit the brakes on command. The car skidded to a halt, but by the time Voldemort managed to pull himself out of the car, Harry had disappeared into the shadows and trees.
"FUCK!" he snarled, pounding his hand into hood of the car. A spike of pain made him hiss, and unfurl his fist. The bite mark shown bloody with the beginning of a bruise forming around the edges. He glared angrily at it and it seemed to glare right back, righteous in the midst of his folly.
Yes, his mind taunted, you deserve this.
It was ridiculous. He had killed men for less than this. A lot less than this. Yet to be defied, no, attacked by a little boy? A god damned ungrateful little bastard...
Oh... oops.
Harry wasn't a bastard, ungrateful or otherwise. He was a descendant of Slytherin. Of the same blood, of the same clan, as he. A clan with a sense of pride too easily bruised. Voldemort had, carelessly, made the first blow. Harry had, rightfully, returned it. Then things had escalated, again a result of his carelessness.
Well, bother. Things had been going so well, too.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Harry ran as far as he could and as fast as he could, which wasn't nearly far enough. The cold of the approaching night burned his lungs, forcing him to stop and cough violently. Paranoid, he scanned his surroundings and then hid behind a large tree while he tried to think up a plan.
Voldemort had just tried to kill him... well, fuck. He couldn't go back the mansion or really anywhere in the wizarding world. Would the man send the Court after him? Would he come and finish the deed himself? What was wrong with that man?!
Oh, he had known about the violent temper. He had been at the end of it more than once, but he'd seemed to warm to Harry since then. How stupid of him to think it had been honest interest or affection? The Dark Lord was probably laughing at his gullibility, or had been at least. Right now he was probably thinking of creative ways to dismember him. Or maybe he'd just let the man-eating deer do it.
Ok, rest period over. It was time to get out of these woods, out of Bristol, out of the country when it came down to it. But how? Getting out of the woods was easy enough, he just had to keep walking. Perhaps if he was quick enough he could get past the barrier before they sent someone to guard it. If someone wasn't guarding it already. If it even required a guardian to keep people out or in. Had the driver just opened the gates or had he used a spell or password?
Alright, stop thinking about that. Think of something more important... like man-eating deer.
Feeling newly motivated, he tightened his cloak around him, covering his mouth and sprinted in the general direction of the exit. It was dark and gloomy in the forest this time of year, full of empty shadows and strange noises. Several times Harry had to pause, thinking he'd heard something or seen something move out of the corner of his eye.
This continued until after sunset, after almost an hour of wandering had convinced him that there was no way to get back to the road or the gate. He was trapped in a land steeped in magic. Perhaps the only way to leave the place was by the road, and now that he'd wandered off the path he would never be able to find it again. The wizarding world was full of such places.
Just as despair fell over him, stealing the warmth that his cloak and gloves provided, he heard something. He turned to see torches flickering in and out of view as they passed through the trees. Faintly, he could hear people calling 'Young Master' and 'Harold' and even the occasional 'Harry'. He turned to flee, but all that stood before him was darkness and dangers unseen.
"H-Harry?"
Victoria stood behind him, caught up during his long moments of indecision. She was wrapped in a dark green cloak, but her legs held no protection but a sheer pair of pantyhose and her shoes were even less suited to the cold. Her nose and cheeks were bright red, her teeth chattered a bit.
"Good grief, what are you doing out here dressed like that?!" Harry admonished, casting a warming charm on her. She sighed in happy relief, but then came back to herself to glare intently at him.
"What am I doing out here? Looking for you, you silly sod. What were you thinking running away like that?" she scolded. He gave her a glare of his own.
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I was thinking, 'I don't want to die'?"
"So you ran into a strange forest filled with Merlin only knows what?!"
"No. I ran away from a psycho trying to kill me!"
That seemed to take away a bit of her self-righteousness. She fidgeted uncomfortably, scrambling for a retort.
"Well... The Dark Lord sent us out to find you. He's worried about you."
He snorted.
"Oh, come on, Harry! What are you going to do? Stay out here all night? I don't know what happened between you two earlier, but he's not angry anymore. I really do think he's worried."
Harry said nothing for a moment, trying to think. Really, what else could he do? He couldn't really run away, and he had known about Voldemort's strangely fickle temper. This wasn't the first time the man had grabbed him by the neck or threatened him, but he had never... never what? Never hurt him? Completely untrue. Never frightened him? And Snape's favorite color was hot pink. Never what then?
Never made you feel disposable.
Ah, that was it. The crux of the matter. He had felt like he was going to be thrown away, and so easily too. It wasn't a fear he had been consciously aware of. Perhaps it hadn't even appeared until that morning, when the man had so casually dismissed his presence and it had come to head in the car where he thought for a moment the man was going to strangle him to death. And he had provoked him to do just that. Alright, not strangle him, but throw him away. Was it to reassure himself that he would be fine with that or to make the Dark Lord reassure him that it would never happen?
But had Voldemort really tried to kill him? It seemed kind of silly now, really thinking about it. He had been angry, and an angry Dark Lord was always scary, but had he been deadly? No more than he had ever been, he supposed.
"Ok, fine," he surrendered. "But he better not be expecting an apology."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Voldemort waited in the study for his servants to return with Harry. One of the servants had lit a fire, and it roared in his thoughtful silence, casting heat and light and shadows over the contents of the room. A few book shelves, filled with more instruments than actual books, the wooden floors, the writing desk that was little more than slanted table, and the ancient tapestries he'd chosen in place of paintings, gave the room an ancient feel he found homey and comforting.
He wasn't particularly worried about Harry's disappearance, the boy being more than capable of handling the local wildlife and incapable of leaving estate grounds without his consent, so he need only be patient. What did concern him was what he should say to the boy.
"Sorry, I tried to strangle you."
That just didn't seem to cut it. And frankly it was never his practice to apologize to anyone... for anything.
"I won't do it again."
That... probably wasn't true.
There was a light knock on the door. He had no more time and no idea what to say. Hopefully his improvisation skills would be up for the following conversation.
"Come in."
Whitby entered the study, followed by Harry, and then his maid still holding his cloak and gloves. Voldemort's gaze found Harry's. The boy's eyes were intense, guarded and distrustful, ready for yet another attack.
"Leave us."
Whitby and Victoria shared concerned looks, but neither of their masters were paying them any mind. They bowed as they left, closing the door behind them. With their absence, Harry's eyes shifted to the rest of the room, taking it in curiously. It was odd, but the room reminded him strangely of Hogwarts. Or rather of time in which Hogwarts would have been built. In the light of the fire, Harry was reminded of another time exactly one year ago when he had seen Voldemort stand before another fire place at the Malfoy mansion, and thought him a devil.
And he still thought him a devil, but a devil made more comfortable in his own fiery pit. He was bare foot and stripped down to his trousers and dress shirt, one hand holding a silver chalice and the other resting on the mantle of the fire place. The glow of his red eyes seemed muted in the fire light, as did the rest of his expression. Was that restrained rage or quiet introspection Harry was seeing now? He couldn't tell, and until he could he was staying close to the door.
"Are you alright?"
Harry started. The voice was gentle, regretful perhaps?
"Yeah," he replied, reluctantly.
There was a tense silence.
"... You bit me."
"You deserved it."
Voldemort felt an unexpected twitch in the corner of his mouth.
"True enough... but I'm not going to apologize."
"I'm not going to either."
This time, he did smile, almost laughed even.
"Good... if we have nothing to apologize for, than we have nothing to be angry over either."
Harry glared, clearly not agreeing. He released the first button on his shirt and pulled at the collar, revealing the bruises encircling his throat.
"These say otherwise."
Voldemort mentally admonished himself at his own foolishness. Those bruises were going to be difficult to hide from the public. On a more immediate note, they were serving as a reminder to Harry of his own wounded pride. He was going to have to make amends, a gesture where words would not suffice. He set his glass on the mantle and walked over to Harry. The boy took a step back at his approach, but didn't run.
Brave child.
"I have one to beat yours," he said, holding up his wounded hand to his protégé. The bite had turned dark, the exact shade hard to see in that light, but ugly all the same. Harry flinched. The Dark Lord mentally grinned. Perhaps he would luck out and obtain a little regret from Harry as well. "I tell you what. I won't apologize, but... I won't heal this wound with magic either. A reminder of my mistakes."
Harry was taken back by the offer. The man was throwing him for loop. He hadn't expected an apology, but even more so he hadn't expected an admittance to being wrong on any level. Penitence hadn't even occurred to him.
"W-won't people wonder?"
The Dark Lord chuckled.
"I doubt they'll suspect that you're abusing me, Harry."
The boy flinched at the mention of abuse, hand instinctively reaching for his bruises.
"We'll have to get rid of those before tomorrow afternoon. We're going to a charity banquet," Voldemort informed him.
"I... shouldn't I... keep them as well?"
"People will wonder. And in your case they will suspect I am abusing you."
Because you are, Harry thought, then dismissed the idea. The Dursley's had abused him, and though they had done far less physically, he still suffered from the wounds they had inflicted. Voldemort's behavior... was something more complicated.
"But... it won't... it's not..."
Frustrated with his own inability to express that yes, he wanted to accept his attacker's penitence without actually accepting it as the apology Voldemort wouldn't give, he resorted to a gesture of his own. He undid the button of his sleeve and pulled it up.
"Harry, what are you..."
And bit himself... hard. He let out a grunt of pain and released himself, swallowing the taste of blood. It hurt and lingered in a way that magically induced pain didn't. More real some how.
"There... a reminder of my mistakes that no one else will see."
Voldemort bulked. He hadn't been expecting it at all. Improvisation had been serving him well for a majority of their interaction, but he hadn't counted on Harry's need for reconciliation. He'd thought all that could be obtained that night was vindication, in which he suffered for his mistake and Harry's pride would be soothed.
He wasn't prepared for it, and his wits had suddenly deserted him. He didn't know what to do now, didn't know how to accept Harry's unspoken offer.
"... You should go have Victoria clean that. Bites get infected easily," he found himself saying, and felt extraordinarily stupid for being so inane. Harry didn't notice, or perhaps he was as eager as he to escape the awkwardness that was quickly descending over the room.
"You're right," the boy said, re-buttoning his sleeve and turning to leave. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The door opened and closed, leaving Voldemort alone with his confusion.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Victoria, as far as servants went, was more liberal than most, yet even she knew better then to question the bruises on his neck or the bite wound on his arm. He could see her suspicion, her indignation, and her worry but ultimately did nothing to reassure her aside from offering her a smile. She rubbed a salve into his neck and wrapped it in gauze, and per his instructions merely disinfected his bite and stuck on a large band-aid patch.
Afterwards, he asked to be alone to study and to have dinner brought up to his room. Now, Victoria was not really a servant, but she had come to understand the need for servant gossip rather quickly. When the cook asked if everything was alright with 'Young Master', she indulged the woman by saying Harry was simply tired and had thrown a tantrum and run off, but was now quite contrite and resting in his room.
She made no mention of what Harry had said earlier or of his injuries, though she feared for the boy. What could any of them really do to protect him? Morgan, the bastard, would probably be more concerned that Harry had bitten Voldemort, than the other way around. Ruddy bastards the whole lot of them.
Harry, for his part, didn't seem unsettled in the least. He had found himself an interesting book to read when she had dropped off his dinner, and when she had checked on him later he had fallen asleep over it. She roused him just long enough to change and brush his teeth, then set him gently to bed.
"G'night, Vicki," he murmured as she tucked him in.
She smiled and shook her head. Such a strangely charming child.
As she tidied his desk, she took a peek at what had been reading so diligently.
The basilisk is the second largest of all the known guardian beasts, but also the rarest. With the ability to kill by merely looking its prey in the eye, few wizards or witches are capable of handling let alone controlling it. Originally from the Mediterranean...
Charming, but with strange tastes in literature.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
"...I know it's not shown on the map, but we placed one way seals on both entrances to the Chamber. If anything wanders in, it won't be leaving," Lestrange said, pointing to the general area of girl's bathroom on one map and a part of the Forbidden Forest on another. Voldemort nodded thoughtfully, looking for flaws or weaknesses in the castle's many new defenses and traps that had been laid since the school had been cleared of students and a majority of the staff. Lestrange and Snape had been thorough, and he couldn't see anymore necessary additions to suggest.
"All of the alarms can be monitored from my office, and there is always someone present to watch them. When I'm not around it's either Snape, McGonagall, Toure, or Umbridge. Only Snape and I are aware of all the security measures of course, but the others have proven their loyalty and I felt them trustworthy enough to remain in the castle."
"McGonagall?" Voldemort asked, more amused than contradictory. Minerva McGonagall was indeed a capable woman and an asset to the school, but if she indeed had loyalty it wasn't to him.
"Is loyal to the school. She is as territorial and fierce as any lioness. She would do just about anything to keep her cubs safe," Lestrange said, strangely affectionate. The Headmistress held no love for the other witch, but Lestrange would be the first to admit she held a sort of reluctant respect for her old teacher. McGonagall was stubborn, powerful, and against all odds had managed to come out of the war relatively unscathed and undiminished.
Voldemort conceded the point. He too was strangely fond of the woman.
"Then it would seem that you have everything in order. I entrust Hogwarts to you and your staff, Bella. I know you will not disappoint me," he said easily, turning towards the exit. Lestrange fought back a grin, maintaining her poised neutrality at the compliment. It seemed she was gradually falling back into the Dark Lord's favor again. All she needed to do now was catch and destroy the basilisk and its handler and she would be firmly in his good graces.
"Oh, and do tell, Severus hello for me, won't you?" Voldemort said, glancing back at her. "I was hoping to speak with him today, but I suppose it can wait. The Christmas party perhaps?"
Lestrange's triumph waned. Curse Snape. The man hadn't faltered in her time away, and it seemed that he had moved up in the Dark Lord's regard, even if he had failed to catch the culprits. She blamed Potter. Most of potion master's new importance revolved around his ability to protect, manipulate, and spy upon the boy.
"Perhaps, my Lord," she said, "But you know Severus. He despises parties and usually finds something 'more pressing' to attend to. I will let him know of your interest, however."
Maybe.
"Thank you, Bella, I would appreciate it."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
From Hogsmeade, Voldemort appartated to Askrigg without his usual entourage of Sentinels. The little coastal town held no wizarding community and Voldemort felt confident he could wander there without impunity. He appeared in an alley way between a pub and a café, transfigured his cloak into a trench coat and walked out into the muggle town. Despite his perfectly normal appearance, many people stopped and stared as he passed them, suspicion or curiosity clear on their faces. He had to fight the impulse not to pull out his wand and...
His private town house was suddenly before him. It was one of several, used more as a safe house for various officials than for himself, but he visited this one occasionally. It was small, but tidy and rich in historical details with a beautiful little garden in front. He opened the wrought iron gate, stepped inside, the muggle world now safely separated by a tall brick wall, and breathed a little easier.
He knocked once on the door to announce his arrival, then let himself in. It was, after all, technically his house. Tom did not come to greet him. Rude, but not unexpected. A brief search of the lower level of the house revealed the ornery boy in the kitchen, eating lunch and glowering over a newspaper.
"You couldn't resist, could you?" Tom said, glowering at his elder counterpart as he entered.
"Whatever do you mean?" Voldemort asked, playing at innocence.
Tom threw down the newspaper at the Dark Lord's feet. The headline read 'You-Know-Who Promises Hundreds of New Jobs in New Year', and featured several moving photographs of Voldemort himself and one Harry Potter hovering beside him. The Dark Lord smirked.
"Surely you didn't think I'd let you keep him. I told you before, he's not for you. He's for all of Britain. The sooner Britain is made of aware of this the better."
Tom's face twisted into angry snarl.
"Even if it makes him a target of your enemies and 'allies' alike? Are you so arrogant as to think you can protect him from all sides and at all times?"
Voldemort lifted up his hands as if to say 'probably not, but oh well'.
"Damn you!"
"We're both damned regardless, as you well know."
Tom snorted, and then turned his attention to his lunch. If Voldemort had come merely to mock him, and that was likely the case, he wasn't going to oblige him any further.
"What do you want?"
"Ah, nothing much. I just thought I'd see if you'd discovered anything more about the basilisk and its handler."
Tom took a large bite of his sandwich, chewed it longer than was necessary, swallowed, drank from his glass of juice, and waited for a flicker of impatience to cross the Dark Lord's expression before answering.
"I sent you my report already. The basilisk isn't in the castle anymore, and since I am limited in my range of movement my investigation has run cold. If you'd release my restrictions, I would perhaps have made more progress. As it is, I don't even know if the handler is a teacher, a student, or even located in the school. The more I think about it the more I suspect an outsider."
"You know I can't set you loose on civilians. I remember when you and I were the same person."
"Then I suppose you'll have to rely on your minions, and I'll have to sit here and twiddle my thumbs."
Voldemort did not appear surprised or annoyed with this declaration. He'd more than likely knew it all along.
"So be it. I'm just going to take some books from the library and be on my way."
Tom said nothing, pointedly taking another bite of his sandwich. Voldemort went to the library as he said. After selecting a few books at random, he went the desk sitting in the middle of the room, unlocked one of the drawers, set something inside, and relocked it.
If Tom thought he was spending the holidays alone and unsupervised, well... let him keep thinking that. It made things so much easier.