The sun had settled a few hours before, leaving a dying wash of amber in its wake. Soon night would fall fully, plunging them into darkness. Though winter was drawing close to its end, the air outside remained frosty and bitter. Voldemort had pulled a pair of dragonhide gloves on to shield his hands from the inclement weather.
A pace behind him, Potter shivered, drawing his cloak closer to his chest. It was a thick black cloak of fine quality with silver threads sewn into the material. The threads traced faint patterns across the upper back and shoulders. Narcissa's choice, no doubt. Such taste and attention to detail Voldemort could only attribute to her. Narcissa was fond of Potter, perhaps due to the fact that her son was no longer residing in her home to be doted upon. The young Malfoy heir and his bride to be were constructing a new home for themselves and their potential children to live in.
And Potter would likely be invited to the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding, a thought which amused Voldemort to no end. Narcissa was clever to align herself closely with Potter. Such an invitation to Potter, who would feel obligated to attend, would result in the inevitable attendance of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort would have attended regardless; a favour to the Pureblood house that had served him faithfully since Abraxas Malfoy's initial pledge of allegiance. But the additional treat of having Potter for company would make excellent entertainment.
As they drew deeper into the woods, Potter's gaze wandered, ghosting over the surrounding trees. Potter was likely curious as to where they were going but was simply too stubborn to ask.
Nagini was also following them, winding around their feet as they progressed, and soon Potter's attention was swallowed up by his attempt to navigate over both Nagini's meandering path and the uneven forest floor.
After a minute or so of walking, Nagini spoke.
"Time to hunt, Masster?"
Potter's head snapped violently in Nagini's direction, his foot catching on the ground as he went to topple forwards. Voldemort steadied him with a wave of wandless magic, holding Potter's upper body in place and preventing him from falling.
Nagini angled her head towards Potter, hissing her amusement at his predicament.
"She will not harm you," Voldemort said, releasing Potter from his suspension.
Potter's mouth had flattened out. But he nodded, expression grim, and adjusted his clothing with anxious hands, his eyes flickering with wariness between Voldemort and Nagini.
"You may go," Voldemort added to his familiar.
"Not much tassty prey now," Nagini hissed. "Too cold." Then she coiled herself up, waiting expectantly.
Voldemort's lip curled without thought, but with a few short spells, he was able to Transfigure some nearby rocks into rats for Nagini to chase.
"No eating," he chided her. The rats would revert to their natural form once his magic had worn off.
Nagini's tongue flickered out, teasing, and then she vanished into the underbrush.
Potter's eyes were fixed on the spot where Nagini's tail had been. He seemed… surprised.
"Something to say?" Voldemort asked.
Potter swivelled back around, eyes involuntarily wide. "No," Potter said, but his response was too quick to be casual.
"Parseltongue is the language of serpents," Voldemort began. "A trait inherited from Salazar Slytherin; the mark of a powerful wizard. A skill which I possess by means of the blood that runs through my veins."
Potter did not respond, and so they continued to walk in silence. Twigs snapped beneath their feet, and branches were waved aside as they continued. They grew closer to their destination, only Voldemort wanted Potter to ask, and so he altered their path, curving it, and so their little walk stretched onwards. Voldemort was growing impatient, and if they went longer without a reaction, he would be forced to turn to more drastic measures.
"I could hear it."
At this outburst, Voldemort turned to face Potter, curiosity peaked. In lieu of a verbal response, however, he merely raised a brow, waiting for Potter to elaborate. Had Nagini's presence tipped the scales in favour of offering a response?
"What… Nagini… said." Potter's gaze flew upwards, towards the dark skies above. "I could hear it. And I could hear you responding."
Voldemort felt his face twist into a scowl. "Parseltongue is not a silent language, you understand."
Potter's own face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling. "I know." Then Potter fell silent again, walking a few more steps before he added, "I heard you speaking like it was in English."
Voldemort slowed his steps, and Potter did the same. They turned to face each other. A mystifying heaviness settled upon Voldemort's chest as he exhaled, soft breath fogging the space between them. His wand, still in hand, itched upwards, threatening. Potter eyed the wand, did not flinch, did not blink. Voldemort allowed his magic to gather—hot and deadly, charging the cold winter air.
"Impossible," he spat.
Potter held steady, posture tall, his voice firm as he said, "I wouldn't lie."
The scar on Potter's forehead, previously made visible by the haircut Narcissa had bestowed upon him, was now partly covered by fringe. Potter's hair was unruly, untidy. Reckless like its owner.
Voldemort found himself drawn to the sight of the mark, his mark, etched into the skin. There was a piece of himself residing inside of Potter. Perhaps, then, it made sense that Potter could now speak the language of Slytherin's heirs. It was a skill delivered along with the piece of his soul. What had once been only his claim to hold had now also bestowed upon his Horcrux.
This logic calmed him, enabled him to speak in an even tone. "You hear my wordss?"
"Yess," Potter answered. And then his forehead creased, as though he was taken aback by his own response. Potter's jaw moved, stretching out and around—likely an attempt to discover the source of the new, unfamiliar sounds. "I can sspeak?" Potter added in a quiet tone.
"You can sspeak," Voldemort confirmed. He deliberated a moment, then lowered his wand. In English, Voldemort continued, "You will learn the difference eventually. The feeling in the throat that produces the correct sounds."
Potter cast his gaze to the forest again, but there were no creatures nearby; Nagini was far away, chasing after her prey. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes." Voldemort waited until Potter looked over, until those green eyes made contact with his own. "I have decided to permit you leave of the manor. You will remain within the perimeter of the property, behind the wards. The weather has improved lately, and I believe the fresh air may do you some good."
Potter's mouth slid into a frown. "Alright. So I can leave whenever I want?"
"As long as you continue to perform to the expected standards, I see no reason to restrain you. I am a reasonable man, Harry."
Potter's jaw moved again, only this time it tightened. "Thank you," Potter said, stiff.
So Voldemort stepped closer, passing the boundary of propriety until he could make out the faint flush of cold that stained Potter's cheeks. Colour wrought by discomfort. Voldemort brushed the hair on Potter's forehead aside with his gloved hand. Even the detached contact incited a powerful resonance—the harmonious energy that connected them despite the physical distance.
"It has been one month since you have passed into my service. You have sworn your loyalty to me, but you fail to engage. You are reluctant. I understand this, dear Harry, and I am willing to make an effort to encourage the level of enthusiasm I expect you to put forth. I desire a return to our previous state of affairs, only now you will be fully cooperative under my guidance."
Potter blinked, dark lashes fluttering in slow motion. Voldemort could see himself reflected in Potter's spectacles.
"And what does that mean for me?" Potter asked.
"You will find it within yourself to enjoy your work, make peace with your life—eternal as it will be—and move forward with purpose. There is no use for dissatisfaction within my ranks, and as you are my direct subordinate, I will not accept less than your best efforts. True loyalty, not this reluctance you have given me."
"But what if you don't think I'm giving my best effort?"
It was obvious that Potter was expecting torture. Pain was something Potter understood; a concept he equated with servitude under Voldemort. But pain was not a useful tool in bringing Potter to heel. Potter had shown himself willing to suffer for strangers, such was the strength of his righteousness. Further physical harm would only solidify Potter against him, would undo the progress they had thus far accomplished.
"You may find less than desirable outcomes will occur. I have agreed to leave your two friends unharmed, but this protection does not extend to others."
Potter's hands clenched, his head turning away from Voldemort's hand.
"I could see Theodore Nott moved out of Barty's service. Perhaps to another office? I do believe your latest report from the DMLE suggested that there is room in the budget for additional patrols..." Voldemort let his voice trail, enjoying the way Potter's profile grew sharp, tense.
"You don't have to do that," Potter said. "I've already agreed to do what you want. To work with you. You don't need to use threats."
"Once I have seen adequate changes in your behaviour," Voldemort said, heedless of Potter's plea. "I will grant you further concessions. More chances to save the lives you wish to save. Projects similar to the dragon pox vaccination."
Potter's eyes widened minutely at the offer, and Voldemort knew this was the way to the heart of the problem. Twisting Potter's empathy to usefulness, offering the possible relief of innocents' suffering and torment as a soothing balm. This, the carrot to match the threat of the stick, would revive what had been lost in the period since Potter's friends had been sent away.
And even if this did not succeed, the years stretched ahead of them, endless and inevitable; ample time to mold Potter into the perfect vessel, to channel Potter's strength and defiance into productivity.
Voldemort took a step back, peeled off one of his dragonhide gloves and extended his hand. "Do we have an understanding, Harry?"
Potter wore no gloves; there was only the bare skin of the hand and palm, the neatly trimmed nails that grew out from the fingers.
Magic pulsed when their palms met, when skin touched skin. Their latest agreement was now sealed.
After their newest agreement, the Dark Lord had walked them to the edge of the wards. The latest expansion of Harry's gilded cage. The wards were dangerous, powerful, and keyed into Voldemort's magic. Harry wasn't foolish enough to think he could get past any of it. But after the Dark Lord had left, Harry had remained for hours in the woods outside the manor, using the time alone to think.
It was difficult to settle on what it was, exactly, that the Dark Lord wanted from him. Enthusiasm was a tall order to fill, doubly so because Harry was genuinely unenthused about the entire business, and any attempts to play pretend would only result in being caught out once Voldemort probed his mind.
Harry recalled how their interactions had gone prior to their first deal. They had sat in his bedroom and discussed the creation and application of wards. Harry failed to see how that conversation had been interesting enough to provoke such a generous offer.
Because the offer was generous. It was too tempting for Harry to pass on, underlying threats notwithstanding. In the time it had taken for them to reach this point, there had been plenty of negotiation. Harry had given up nearly everything: his life, his family, his free will. Yet Voldemort wanted more.
The Dark Lord had also spoken of guidance and effort. Harry was well aware he was being trained, being groomed to bear the position he now held by the Dark Lord's side. A position he would hold forever. Perhaps it was Voldemort's ego that had led to this—what better assistant could there be than one who housed a portion of his very soul?
The connection that existed between them, whatever it was, followed Harry wherever he went. Without the regular use of Occlumency, he could sense the void in the back of his mind; it was a window that led to the Dark Lord's thoughts. Not that Harry would have ever been able to access said thoughts without Voldemort's express allowance, but the existence of such a path was discomfiting at best.
If Harry was going to fall further down this rabbit hole, he needed something more substantial to hold onto. The knowledge that Ron and Hermione were safe wouldn't be enough to keep him going. Not if he had to shed the thick layers of indifference he had been using to shield himself. He didn't belong here, despite what the other Death Eaters seemed to think, despite what the Dark Lord wanted. This was not where he wanted to be; he was only trying to make the best of things.
But Theodore believed that Harry could find his place here, somehow. Theodore thought that his presence had worth—a positive impact on the small part of the world that they resided in. That he could make things better.
"Masster?"
Harry pivoted slowly towards the sound. Nagini came into view, dead rat dangling from her mouth. Her scales shimmered even in the dim light of the evening. Magic, maybe. Or else the shine of her skin was just very reflective.
"He'ss not here," Harry said, swallowing uncomfortably around the syllables. "He went back insside."
Nagini's head rose higher, her body lifting from the forest floor. She watched Harry for a moment more, and then she returned to the ground, slithering away.
Albus had said Nagini was the closest companion to Voldemort. A creature familiar, but also the nearest thing to a friend that the Dark Lord had. Harry had kept the company of both of them long enough now that he felt this fact held true.
Nagini was certainly fond of her master, and the Dark Lord seemed inclined to indulge her predator tendencies when he had the time to do so. It was a simple relationship, but it was a genuine one, one that indicated that Voldemort was capable of feeling… good emotions. Even if it was only because Nagini was a snake, not a person, and was also a Horcrux to boot.
Still, it was something. It was better than working for an emotionless robot. Harry would work with feelings; he could understand them. Voldemort was immortal and powerful. But was he still human at heart? Did he still feel things the same way others did?
Voldemort had claimed to be reasonable. He had allowed Harry to negotiate with him in the past. Maybe that could be pushed further. But before Harry could do any of that, he would need more information.
"Theodore? Can I ask you something?"
They were having lunch in the Minister's office. Harry hadn't asked whether or not this was allowed—mostly because he was fearful the answer would be no—and so he had never pushed the matter with Theodore or the Dark Lord.
"Sure, Harry. What's on your mind?" Theodore set his sandwich down upon its plate, bracing his forearms on the table as he inclined his head in Harry's direction.
Theodore always listened attentively, like everything Harry had to say was interesting and important.
"The other day… you said that, um, things are better, now that I'm here. And I assume you meant things around the office," Harry added carefully, not wanting to stray from the serious topic he wanted them to discuss, "and so I was wondering what you meant by that."
"Ah." Theodore shifted, leaning back in his chair, legs uncrossing and recrossing. "You know, I often forget that you aren't privy to all of the gossiping that goes on outside these walls."
"Gossiping," Harry repeated flatly. It shouldn't come as a surprise that people were talking about him, but to have it confirmed was irritating all the same. He had his suspicions on what this gossiping would entail, but he decided to wait and see what Theodore said before he jumped to any conclusions.
"Well, yes. Not that I partake in any such conversations, but I do like to eavesdrop on them." Theodore paused to offer Harry an easy grin. "Never know what might end up of use."
"Slytherin through and through," Harry said, wry.
"Exactly. But to return to your question, Harry, it's a bit… hard to explain. Before you arrived here, you were on—to put it lightly—the other side of things. It may sound like I'm stating the obvious, but there was a marked difference between the two periods. Before you, and after you."
"Before me," Harry echoed.
Theodore shot him a look full of meaning—namely, a 'you know exactly what difference I'm speaking of' look.
"The Dark Lord," Theodore said carefully, "has had his burdens much relieved since you started working with us. As our Minister, his duties are many, and his job would be a stressful position for anyone to manage. Only our Lord has put forth great additional effort into a multitude of projects and endeavours that take up a great deal of this attention. He is extremely busy, his time is precious, and this is a fact that we, as his faithful servants, understand completely."
Harry could read between the lines well enough. A stressed Voldemort was an unhappy Voldemort, and an unhappy Voldemort meant equally unhappy followers once the punishments were handed down.
"He doesn't have much spare time," Theodore continued, still maintaining eye contact, "and so what little free time he does have, he ought to be... enjoying it."
Harry felt his cheeks colour. "Not like that," Harry said hastily, then clamped his mouth shut.
"I didn't say anything of the sort," Theodore said, lifting his hands in a placating motion. "I am merely the unfortunate messenger."
"Anyways," Harry said, "so what I'm hearing is he's… in a better mood lately. Is that really all?"
"There are families and supporters he favours. Mr. Crouch, for one. The Lestranges, the Malfoys. The Blacks, before they all died off." Then Theodore grimaced. "Sorry. I forgot about your—"
"It's fine. Continue."
"Well. Even those with his favour had become subject to... criticism. Standards were high, mistakes were unacceptable. As subjects of our Lord, we are expected to perform to our full potential. It was difficult to succeed, to reach such optimistic goals."
Harry was having difficulty wrapping his head around the double meaning of what Theodore was saying. Though Harry had seen Death Eaters disciplined by the Dark Lord before, it hadn't ever occurred to him that it was irregular behaviour. It only made sense for Voldemort to rule over his followers by using fear, because Voldemort was the villain, and that was what villains did.
Only… before Tom Riddle had become a Dark Lord, he had won people over in other ways. With charisma and intellect. But now an entire nation grovelled at his feet, desperate to please, afraid of failure. There was no need for a gentle hand anymore.
"And now?" Harry asked, when it seemed Theodore wasn't about to continue further.
"And now things are better. You've eased the burden, and everyone is in a better mood because of it."
Harry frowned. "I only started working here properly about a month ago, though."
Theodore made a noise that might have been a tsk of admonishment. "The spotlight, so to speak, is on you. The Dark Lord has little time for the petty qualms and minor infractions of his subjects when you pose a more… intriguing... alternative."
Harry shook his head. This still wasn't making much sense to him, and thinking on it longer was only going to give him a headache. If there was an explanation for how the Dark Lord treated him, Theodore wasn't able to say it outright without getting himself into trouble with Voldemort.
Theodore frowned, seeming to sense Harry's mild distress. "Listen, Harry. I don't consider myself an expert on these things, and Merlin knows that you're higher up than I am at this point, so I doubt you'd be alright after thinking these sorts of thoughts, but—" Here Theodore paused again, pinching at the bridge of his nose in consternation. "But you have to see that there's more to this than just you working here."
"I already told you—it's not like that."
"And it doesn't have to be." Theodore scowled further, running a hand through his hair. "I just—fuck. Harry. I'm not saying it's like that right now, or whatever it is you think I'm implying. But you—you're interesting, Harry. And I'm going to be slaughtered for saying this, but you're attractive, and likeable, and maybe you're just a trophy to him, but that doesn't mean you're not important."
"I'm—" Harry started, then stopped, because he wasn't sure how he had planned to end the sentence.
"He listens to you," Theodore said. "That means something."
Harry wanted to protest this, argue it. If he had so much sway, then why was he still here, bound and chained to the man he was prophesied to defeat? What power did Harry have in the position he had been all but forced into?
But deep down, Harry knew there was truth buried into those words. Because Voldemort did listen to him, somewhat. Harry was the private audience that no other Death Eaters had ever been. Voldemort didn't abide by all the moral standards that Harry had attempted to hold him accountable for, but he did listen. He let Harry offer the so-called intriguing alternatives that were, apparently, what held the Dark Lord's interest.
So Voldemort listened to him. That was better than nothing. It was the one thing that Harry had left to leverage, and he would have to use it.
Harry resumed eating his lunch, now thoughtful. Theodore raised a brow in response to Harry's silence, but he said nothing, and so they continued the rest of their meal while Harry pondered over his situation.
"Theodore," Harry said, after their food was gone and the lunch hour was near its end. "Do you think the Dark Lord is human?"
Theodore's brows pulled together, his expression morphing into one of concern. "I'm not sure what you mean by that."
"Nevermind," Harry said. "Just an errant thought."
"Alright." Theodore watched Harry's face, searching, and then he stood up. "I should get going, then." He paused, straightening his robes, then added, "Lunch tomorrow?"
Harry nodded. "If I'm here."
"If you're here," Theodore echoed. He lingered by the door, his eyes still fixed on where Harry was seated behind the desk. "Take care, Harry. I look forward to our next conversation together."
Harry dropped his own gaze, thinking back to what the Dark Lord had said. If he had any sense at all, he would put a stop to this. If he was a good person, he would dissuade Theodore from stopping by for lunch, because this association was never going to lead anywhere good for either of them. Especially if Harry embarked on the path he was now suspecting he would have to choose.
"Draco Malfoy is getting married this spring," Harry said, looking up at last. "Are you going to the wedding?"
Theodore had already been halfway out the door, but now he pivoted to look at Harry once again, bewilderment clear on his face. "The Malfoy-Greengrass wedding?"
"Yes," Harry said. He could feel his cheeks warming with embarrassment. "That one."
"I was invited, yes," Theodore said, incredulous. "Are you going?"
"I hadn't decided until just now," Harry said, trying to inject some levity into his voice. "But now I think I might."
A/N:
uh so, it'll be the wedding next chapter i guess? i hadn't planned on including it, but the opportunity just presented itself so beautifully that i couldn't resist.
not to lie for the millionth time or anything, but i better finish this fic this month or else i'm going to stage a protest against myself for being incorrigible and writing too many chapters for this story.
anyways. would appreciate thoughts and comments on this chapter, thanks for reading!
