Harry would never be fond of the Dark Lord, but it was also difficult for him to dehumanize someone he spent so much time around.
It was a side effect of all their time together—though even when they were apart, Harry found himself imagining that voice in his head, that hand on his shoulder. He knew how the Dark Lord took his tea. He recognized the pose the Dark Lord adopted when deep in thought. All the minutiae that made up the Dark Lord were filed and shelved in the beginnings of the mental library in Harry's mind. The minutiae that made Voldemort human and not just a tyrant without morals.
Under the Dark Lord's tutelage, Harry had once again taken to studying Occlumency, this time with a renewed sense of purpose. Though his mind would always be open to the Dark Lord, his mental protection needed to meet a certain standard in order for him to serve properly.
There was to be no privacy when the Dark Lord was near. Harry knew this—though Voldemort never explicitly stated so—because he had learned to anticipate these things. Everyone else was to be blocked out, so that only the Dark Lord's whims would exist in Harry's mind.
And so Harry played liaison, funneling reports back and forth between the Dark Lord's manor and Ministry. The Dark Lord had activated the fireplace in Harry's bedroom, allowing two-way travel between his Floo and the one in the Minister's office.
It was now common for Harry to spend hours in an office chair there, trying to sort through files, restrained by the confines of the walls. Harry wasn't given access to everything, and he certainly was not given anything dangerous or heavily classified, but there was still a lot of boring paperwork that came from running an entire country, and it was now Harry's job to pick and choose the most important parts to summarize.
It was because of this development that Harry found himself spending a lot of time in the company of Theodore Nott.
While Harry wasn't allowed out of the office, Nott was allowed inside of it, usually to hand off more reports and such. But sometimes Nott would hang about, and Harry had begun to suspect that Nott was looking for the familiarity of having someone else his own age around. With jobs like theirs, there certainly wasn't room for much of a social life. Crouch Jr. was just as busy as the Dark Lord, if not more so.
So Harry struck up a rapport. Nott was smart, useful, and amiable enough that Harry had started to like him somewhat. In the weeks that passed, they got along better than Harry could have asked for or expected. Harry took in the intricacies of the Slytherin's humour, the wry tilt of Nott's voice when he thought Harry had said something particularly clever, the twitching curve of his smile when Harry caught him off-guard with a glib comment.
It helped to pass the time, at any rate. To let a bit of himself squirm loose. To stretch out the pieces that he kept locked tight whenever the Dark Lord was around.
Overall the work was routine, which was comforting, and the decisions Harry got to make were rewarding enough that he thought he could continue to bear this for however long it took for the Dark Lord to grow tired of him.
His mantra was such: he would bear it, he would bear it. When the Dark Lord's gaze fell upon him, questioning and analyzing, Harry did not flinch. As the presence poured into his mind, flooding his head, he held still, let it happen, allowed Voldemort to be assured of the loyalty that Harry had wretchedly promised.
And there was a vial on the Dark Lord's desk, one filled with the silver wisp that represented a memory. Harry had asked for it to be removed from his mind so he could distance himself from it, and of course the Dark Lord had kept it as a trophy of sorts. But only the echo remained, the empty ache in Harry's head, and it was less than it could have been—less than it should have been—and Harry found himself grateful for the separation that allowed him to maintain his aloofness.
Because although Harry was limited only to reports, there was still horror hidden between the neat lines of ink-etched parchment. There were reports on the progress being made to overhaul the Hogwarts curriculum. There were reports on Muggleborn children who were 'liberated' from their homes and placed into foster care and group homes. There were reports on the restructuring of the Ministry departments. There were reports on the budget allocation for prisoners in confinement.
It wore down on him, the things he read. The things he had once tried so hard to change. But the Dark Lord held to his promises to permit mercy, and so Harry would numb himself to the things he had to read about, because as difficult as this was, he knew that any other alternative would be truly unbearable.
As the month drew to a close, the dragon pox vaccine reached completion and flew into production. Harry supervised the paper trail and organized the contracts that the Minister for Magic needed to sign. The Dark Lord had read the contracts with care, taking the time to confirm the facts and numbers Harry had painstakingly compiled.
But Voldemort had signed in the end, because they both knew this was not an endeavour where Harry would be tempted to shirk his duties. There were lives at stake with this. It was the most useful Harry had felt since he'd first landed himself in captivity.
When it was all done, signed and sealed, Harry handed the stack off to Theodore, who nodded in a grim manner, his silent gaze conveying gratefulness.
"You're welcome," Harry said mechanically, answering the unspoken sentiment. This, at least, was something he could claim as a victory. "See to it that any further updates come to me first."
Theodore nodded again, though his brow creased momentarily with hesitation, his fingers curled around the folder full of contracts Harry had shown to the Dark Lord. "You may not believe in the cause, not really, but it's good that you're here. Things are better with you around."
Better? Harry couldn't see how, unless it was because there were now less people who had to deal directly with the Dark Lord's temper—a large portion of the Dark Lord's interactions was now funneled through Harry instead.
So Harry was busy, which was good, but it also meant that Harry had little clue as to what the Dark Lord was doing during his periods of solitude. But if Voldemort was still torturing people in his spare time, at least no one was writing any reports on it, and so Harry didn't have to know about it.
"Thanks," Harry said to Theodore, unmoving.
Theodore drew closer, his tall form throwing a shadow across Harry's desk. "I mean it, Harry. We've done a good deed with this. I know you understand that. And I admire your bravery, the way you hold to your Gryffindor values. But you can find your place here as well. I believe it. We work well together, don't we? And this can continue for as long as the Dark Lord sees fit."
Harry didn't miss the underlying implication. And he did not miss the way Theodore's eyes touched upon his lips, his eyes, his forehead. They were both standing, and it only took a few short steps for Theodore to round the corner and come to a stop directly next to Harry.
"It's been nice working together," Harry said, polite and stilted. "I'm glad the treatment will be distributed soon."
Theodore lingered longer, the slender fingers of his free hand drumming across the wooden surface of the desk. The dark tendrils of his hair fell across his forehead, shadowing it. His silent gaze, inscrutable, passed over Harry's stiff posture, and Harry noted there was concern pressed into the neutral lines of Theodore's thin, pale face.
And then Theodore's hand came up, the motion slow, and landed upon Harry's shoulder. The weight of it felt heavier than it ought to. Too warm, too comfortable. Too familiar. The pressure of each individual digit against his robes, burning down into his skin.
"Harry," said Theodore. The name came out soft, like a term of endearment.
Harry tried to form words around the tightness in his chest. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, and so all he could do was drop his shoulder down and step back.
"Thanks," Harry repeated, numb. A dismissal.
Another second stretched on, painful and heavy—
Theodore left.
The office door swung shut with a click, the reverberations from the wards on the room raising the hairs on the back of Harry's arms and neck. He felt cold.
Harry Potter was no more.
Though Potter answered to his name when called upon, there was a detachment to the way he carried himself that spoke of calculation and restraint. Potter with his nose to the grindstone, attracting no notice, working silently behind the scenes.
Waiting, waiting, waiting—but for what? There were no thoughts of betrayal in Potter's mind; Voldemort verified this himself on a regular basis. But Potter was hollow. He was devoid of the spark that had once made him so defiant.
There were still remnants of old from time to time; Potter still fought for others, still wanted to protect the helpless and the innocent. But it was a distant desire, an impulse far removed from the rest. The Occlumency lessons had reaped their rewards. The congested emotions that had previously plagued Potter's mind to the point of paralysis were no longer influencing his actions and demeanour.
Potter was now a reflection of Voldemort's ruthless proficiency and methodical capabilities.
But a hard worker with no ambitions could not exist. It was impossible to think the singular agreement to secure Potter's loyalty to him had succeeded, yet it appeared that Potter had truly given his free will over to Voldemort's reign.
Prior to the capture of Potter's friends, Voldemort had initially drafted multiple plans to seal Potter's allegiance. The cornerstones of Potter's old life would have been chipped away until his mind was free of them. But those plans could now prove to be unnecessary—there was no need to leverage Potter further. Voldemort possessed information, had been giddy with the thought of using it, but now there was no need.
Potter's idea of specific, emotion-triggered wards had been anchored at key points along the border, and there were now less false alarms than there had once been. Voldemort had been more merciful to those who had been captured, as Potter had desired, but it remained that the wards would not have been possible without Potter's original suggestion. The end result had succeeded. Weasley and Granger had been captured.
Sharing this knowledge would no doubt shatter the mask that Potter was now so desperately endeavouring to hold in place. Only there was no reason to do so now. Such information should have been shared on the day of their agreement, the day Potter had promised his best attempt at loyalty. But Voldemort had stayed his hand then, and now the opportunity was gone, at least for the time being.
Work at the Ministry continued to progress more smoothly than expected. Voldemort called his assistant 'Harry' rather than 'Potter', but even the use of first name rather than surname had little effect. Potter neither acted submissive, nor argued back. He was, evidently, resigned to his fate.
It had been a mere month with this new version of Harry Potter, but Voldemort found himself irritated. This was not what he had envisioned when he had asked for cooperation.
This numbness could not last. The suppression of a personality as vibrant as Potter's was disappointing to behold. If Voldemort wanted a mindless servant then there were plenty to choose from, though Potter was admittedly a preferable choice.
Preference. That was the extent of the desire. Voldemort had never been fond of anyone—the exception lay with Nagini, who skirted the line between Horcrux and familiar and friend.
But I'm different, aren't I?
Potter's words, detached and withdrawn, resounded. No, Voldemort was not fond, but he was invested. Potter had potential, an innate affinity for serving his Lord. Potter was a conduit of inspiration, and he contained a wealth of fresh ideas. Valuable beyond existence as a Horcrux.
But time passed, and the distance remained. Potter holding himself far, far down, underneath sheets of thick, frosted glass, drowned beneath a sea of black, murky water, and Voldemort could no longer reach him.
When he was not occupied with matters of the state, Voldemort resided in his private office in the manor. He would summon Potter to his side, so that the younger man could settle into the chair and desk that Voldemort had provided for him.
In his spare time, Voldemort had been furthering his research on Horcruxes. In particular, he had searched for information about living Horcruxes. Unfortunately, Horcruxes themselves were so rare that Voldemort had begun to suspect that Nagini might have been the first living Horcrux ever created. The flattering knowledge that he had once again been the first to push such boundaries was counterbalanced by the lack of relevant reference material. Everything from this point onwards would be based on guesswork.
The tenuous connection between himself and Potter was powerful. This much he recognized, this much was immediately apparent whenever he touched upon Potter's mind. It was only Occlumency that prevented the overflow of their minds into each other. The feeling of possession was potent, heady. To indulge was to permit an excess that led to unknown results.
All the more reason for Potter to master the art of Occlumency quickly. It would not do for any mistakes, for any moments of weakness. Potter would maintain his shields at all times unless he was asked to drop them, and in this way they would be protected from each other.
From across the room, Potter stirred, legs and arms stretching out. Though Voldemort knew too well the cramps one got from holding the same position for too long, he tended to ignore the stiffness, determined as he was to focus on his tasks.
Only Potter would rise every half hour or so to pace the room, claiming a need to move about.
It was a measure of timekeeping without needing to look at the clock. Just out of curiosity, Voldemort chanced a glance at the wooden clock pinned to the wall. Half an hour since the last walkabout, nearly to the minute. Preposterous.
Potter paced a slow circle in the cramped space, rotating his ankles. He kept his gaze on the floor while he continued his circuit. The first few times Potter had gotten up for a walk, he had knocked his feet against the desk legs, tripping over them.
So Voldemort had taken to calling Nagini whenever they were alone together. This had forced Potter to pay more attention to his surroundings, since otherwise he would have found himself sprawled on the floor next to Nagini's irritated head.
"Harry."
Potter looked up. Though his expression was impassive, Voldemort could still make out the glint of fear in those green eyes. Without further prompting, Potter stepped over to the desk, eyes still downcast.
"Eyes up."
Voldemort saw Potter's jaw tick, clench and unclench, and then—
Potter straightened. Shoulders back, brow set. Not defiant, but… strong. Determined to emerge from the ordeal of having his mind perused without weakness showing.
Voldemort made eye contact; not probing, only waiting. Then, slowly, he felt Potter's Occlumency shields drop away to nothing.
A typical day at the Ministry. The flashes of memories that Voldemort had come to expect. Forms and reports and summaries, and then the occasional visit from other employees. Meetings as well, though Voldemort was present for those.
The visuals swirled as Potter pushed more recollections to the forefront of his mind, rewinding through his day. Hours spent in the office, alternating between pacing and sitting. Pale face, sharp angles. Theodore Nott. Barty's assistant. The two of them standing together. Standing close enough to touch. Potter's smooth train of thought stuttered as Voldemort brought the memory to a halt.
"What do you think about Theodore Nott, Harry?"
Potter licked his lips, his throat bobbing. "He's smart. And useful. I can see why Crouch picked him to be his assistant."
An answer lacking details. Possibly truthful, possibly a simple truth masking further information. The two men had bonded over their respective jobs, only today's scene was flavoured with a distinct apprehension. There were gossamer threads that connected the memory to other, associated thoughts.
Voldemort did not bother to follow the threads down. He yanked, dragging them forward, and Potter's mind reeled, resisting on impulse. But it was more efficient this way, to catch Potter off guard, to unveil all there was to know. The threads grew taut, hauling the tangled web of thoughts and feelings Potter had worked to keep tucked away into the forefront of their minds.
Potter gasped, his hips slamming into the desk as he fell forward, catching himself with his palms as he braced them on the surface of the table.
Kindness. Fondness. Attraction. Connection. Memory.
Voldemort's hand crossed the distance between them and landed atop of Potter's, squeezing, and Potter's hand jerked out of reach just as quickly, his head turning away, breaking the mind link.
But the damage was done. There was no hiding from the Dark Lord.
Potter panted, the breaths harsh and angry, his head still bowed and his face shadowed.
Eventually, Potter's breathing evened out. "You're nothing alike," Potter said, his voice hardly above a whisper.
Nott was lankier, his hair shades lighter, but his face was angular, high cheekbones with dark eyes set above them, and his manner was formal, stilted, witty charm—
"Dumbledore showed you more than he should have," Voldemort said. "And yet his memories fail to do me justice."
Tom Riddle had charmed an entire school, had charmed all of house Slytherin into following him, had charmed Hepzibah Smith into displaying her most prized possessions. And so Harry Potter, too, would have fallen to such charms. Hogwarts' darling Muggleborn, rising star, Head Boy Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Potter's eyes remained fixed upon the table, where his hands, clenched into fists, lay trembling.
"Do you find me charming, Harry? Do you find me to be kind?"
Silence loomed in the office like a shroud. Nagini slithered out from underneath the desk to examine the tension, her tongue flickering out to taste the heavy air.
Potter's head twitched to the side, an echo of a negative response, but then he appeared to think better of it, for he went still.
"I do applaud you for having the taste to turn him down. Nott is useful, certainly. An intelligent young man, a diligent worker. But for all his ambitions, he will always be small minded, lacking vision, lacking conviction. He will never find or wield true power."
Voldemort stood. Potter's head lifted at last, following the motion. The two of them, former adversaries, now separated only by the physical barrier between them.
Potter shrunk down as Voldemort swept around the desk. But he did not shrink away, because that was not an option. His shoulders rounded, curling inward, his expression melting into blankness.
And then Voldemort placed his hand upon Potter's shoulder, the way he had done many times before, and he felt Potter's attempt to relax himself underneath the touch. To avoid the show of weakness.
"I will care for you, Harry. You have no need to think of anyone else while you remain here by my side. Attachment will make you weak. Affection for others will do you no good."
Potter nodded at this, his head tilting upwards to meet Voldemort's gaze. Green eyes clear like emeralds. Full of the conviction that Voldemort had accused Nott of lacking.
"You have done well these past weeks," Voldemort said, gentling his tone. "And I shall reward you for your behaviour. Would you like that?"
Potter nodded a second time, though the sides of his mouth slid downward.
Still no genuine engagement or reaction. Subservience had its use, but Potter was unique, special. Voldemort had chosen Potter as a Horcrux vessel. Such precious things deserved only the greatest care, the most delicate treatment. It would not do for Potter's sense of self to waste away, to be trampled by his numbness and resignation.
"You hold a privileged position," Voldemort said shrewdly. "You would do well to remember it." His hand slid up the shoulder to the back of Potter's neck, holding Potter in place. The skin there was very warm. The flow of the blood to the brain pulsed under the pads of his fingers.
Potter's eyes slid shut, facial muscles twitching with the effort to hold still, to behave. At least, with whatever it was that Potter imagined proper behaviour to be.
"Do you miss our old arguments?" Voldemort murmured. "When you bargained for the lives of others, one rescued Mudblood at a time?"
"...I don't know," Potter said, voice raspy.
"But look at you now, Harry. How you submit yourself to my mercy." His hand trailed to the side, cupping Potter's cheek and jaw. "You have learned this lesson well. But now, I think, it is past time for you to be reassured of my intentions."
A/N:
so theodore snuck up on me... but who wouldn't like harry? harry is just the best. everyone likes him.
as for voldemort... yeah he's sort of fond of harry now, he's just a dumbass about it fjdmshdkdkhd. him trying to be like I AM WAY COOLER THAN THEODORE NOTT and actually succeeding somewhat if only bc harry doesn't wanna get involved with anyone atm is just kind of sad.
as my friend hannah said to me, he's got inadequacy issues 😛😛😛
still dunno how many more chapters, per se. the theodore bit hit unexpectedly :/ as do most of my minor plots in this story . the most important thing to me while writing this is i keep the relationship between harry and voldemort realistic. so if that means more words, then we will all have to go through more words!
i am hoping to finish this story this month though, so fingers crossed for that. thanks for reading!
