A/N I'm updating a few days early just because it's a high stress time for everyone, and I'd ended on a bit of a cliff-hanger last time. I imagine that my next update will be back on schedule, though (likely April 6), so the downside is more of a wait for you between chapters.
Voldemort went straight to a polished cupboard, which was well stocked with spirits and liquors. He poured himself a finger of an amber drink and downed it, then poured another. Idly swirling the drink in his hand, he asked, "Have you ever had Scotch?"
"I've had Firewhisky," said Harry.
"Then, no, you haven't. This burns in an altogether different way." He poured Harry a bottom-full and handed him the tumbler. "I've always preferred this—Slughorn's fault, him and his damned parties. Don't tell my men."
"I won't," Harry promised, pleased that he'd been trusted with such a secret. A small thing, yes, but his alone. He would keep it safe for his Master.
Voldemort strode to an armchair facing the fireplace, which roared to life as he sat, and lowered Nagini onto the plush carpet at his feet. He ignored everything after that but the dancing flames.
Harry took the opportunity to study his Master's room. He'd thought about it often these past weeks, knowing it was just down the hall. He'd not wanted to ask Nagini about it; she liked to tease him for any such interest, he'd learned. But he would imagine what these rooms were like. In truth, he now saw, they were very like his own. More opulent, certainly—everything was fancier, shinier: silk and satin, gold and mahogany. Everything was larger, too, though not overwhelmingly so. But the layout was much the same. There was the desk by the window. There was the door leading to a washroom. And there was the tapestry leading straight through to Harry's room. Well, nearly straight through. A glorified walk-in-closet-turned-study wasn't much of a barrier.
Harry tried a sip of his Scotch and immediately regretted it. He remembered Vernon praising an aged bottle of Glenlivet he'd bought to butter up his boss at Grunnings-'Smoothest there is, this one. I'll be a shoo in for the promotion.' But this was vile and astringent. Harry almost spat it back into the glass.
There was an amused snort from near the fireplace. "It's an acquired taste, I admit. I've learned to roll it under my tongue and let it seep down to my throat. That way, the bite misses the offending receptors on the tongue," the Dark Lord lectured.
Harry's chest warmed, and not from the offending swallow of whiskey. He wasn't being ignored. He set his tumbler on a side table, deciding that he'd test his Master's technique some other time.
"Come closer," his Master said to him. "Remove your robes and shirt."
Harry's breath caught. But he had to obey, especially with Voldemort in so volatile a mood. He came to stand before his Master, with his back to the crackling heat. His fingers, shaking, reached up to unfasten the top button of his robes.
Whore. His uncle's words slammed into his mind.
"Master?" he asked. His voice was shaking.
No answer. His Master wasn't even looking at him, his gaze still locked on the fire, as though he hadn't watched enough burn that night. Harry worked at his task, slowly, then neatly folded his clothing and left it upon the hearth. He licked his lips and forced himself to not cover his chest with crossed arms.
"Closer," his Master said, until Harry was right next to his chair. With the lightest of touches, he guided Harry into a kneel. The tickling of nails scratched across his torso, tracing the runes carved there. "These have scarred well. I should have checked them earlier. I have been remiss in my attention to such matters, my Horcrux."
"I'm fine," was Harry's ingrained response.
"Of course," the Dark Lord agreed. "I've rifled through your memories. I have given you greater care than you've received since my soul joined with yours."
Harry nodded. It was the truth.
Voldemort's nails skimmed up his chest, to his neck, across his cheek. They ended up in his hair, plunging into his soft, messy locks. "Who do you belong to, Harry," he whispered.
Harry swallowed. "To you." His migraine was lifting, even as the Dark Lord's fingers in his hair gentled and the warmth of the Scotch bled through their connection. "Master? Do you really think you shouldn't have Marked me?"
"Hmmm?" Voldemort took another sip, his eyes glued to the fire. "What are you talking about?"
"You said earlier that maybe you shouldn't have Marked me," reminded Harry.
Voldemort sighed. His hand trailed down Harry's face to lift his chin. "I said that Marking you had gone to your head. But here, with you kneeling so prettily next to me, I realize I was mistaken. You do seem to know your place, darling."
At your feet, Harry thought, blushing.
Whore.
He had his shirt off, even now. Was nearly nude. His Mark was a black stain, marring the milky whiteness of his body. He ran his fingers across the brand, tracing the coils of the snake, avoiding the skull and its promise of death. The serpent's model was close by, just out of reach. He stroked her likeness sketched on his forearm.
"Whose skull was it?" he wondered aloud.
"No one's," was the soft reply. "Maybe everyone's."
So long as it wasn't his own, Harry decided. He'd traded too much for his life already.
Again, his Uncle's vicious words ran heavy through his mind.
After a long silence, when Harry was almost too exhausted to remain upright, his Master said, "I was right about your uncle. You couldn't have managed more than you did."
Harry nodded. He couldn't talk, all his thoughts drowned out by Vernon's last insult. He looked up at his Master, up at what his cowardice had bought. His Master's eyes gleamed down at him. He knew Harry's every treacherous thought, whether they lingered on shame or (more frequently) self-satisfaction. And wasn't he most guilty of that, now? The ease of his new life had blanketed him. And he was okay with that. Was starting to relish it, even. Even wandless as he was, his current life was cocooned in its own special magic.
"I'm pleased you think so, Harry," was the quiet reply to these idle thoughts. "If you give me a moment, I will fetch a new book for you. Some poetry, I think."
He stood, drawing Harry up with him. Harry followed him to the tapestry, but before they could go through, his Master placed a thoughtful finger to his mouth. "I still haven't keyed you into these wards." He sucked his teeth, then guided Harry the few feet to the bed. "I will return momentarily. You may sit here whilst you wait—you look tired enough to fall asleep standing."
Harry sat. He murmured, "Thank you, Master."
True to his word, the Dark Lord soon returned. He sat next to him on the coverlet and lay the gift on Harry's lap. "I believe you will enjoy this."
Harry glanced at the title. Goblin Market and Other Poems. He couldn't imagine what would be particularly interesting about goblins. They'd always come across as the harshest of creatures, all teeth and snarl. The cover illustration was pretty, if not confusing given the subject matter. "Thanks," he said. "I'll try it, but I haven't finished the last book you gave to me."
"It is merely a gift, my dear. I like giving you things."
Then taking them away, Harry thought, remembering his last present. What was Hermione doing now?
"You are fortunate, Horcrux, that I don't punish you for your thoughts," the Dark Lord warned. He raised his hand to squeeze the base of Harry's neck.
There was a knock on the door. Harry made to move, to get off the bed, to curl up next to Nagini, to rush home through the unwelcoming tapestry—
"Enter," his Master called, holding Harry's neck more tightly.
The door opened slowly, and Bellatrix stole in clutching her stalk of orpine. She was still wearing the pretty green dress from before, but her hair was now loose and the flowers that had been woven into her braids were beginning to fall out. She was barefoot, walking on tiptoe. Her eyes were coyly cast down as she skimmed over to the bed. She looked up confusedly when she saw there were two pairs of legs hanging off of it.
"Is there something I can help you with, Bella?" Voldemort asked. He moved the hand not already squeezing Harry's neck to the book on his lap, pressing down to keep his frightened Horcrux from darting away.
"I…I had thought you may be in need of company, Master." She eyed the book, then reddened.
Voldemort's fingers wandered to caress the title and the image of the girls printed on the cover. "Harry is already providing all the company I require."
The hand at Harry's neck dropped lower, tracing down his naked spine. Harry shivered, nearly pulling away from the rousing shockwave that washed through him, but his Master's grip moved to his waist and he was drawn closer to the Dark Lord instead. "If you are lonely, my dear, I suggest visiting our newest mother-to-be. How is she faring?"
Bellatrix pulled her gaze from the book on Harry's lap. Even shielded so, he hadn't appreciated her scrutiny of his lap. She said, "She's been sicking up much of her food. She has lost weight, my Lord, even though she is with child. I had thought she meant to find an easy exit by starving herself to death, but my sister says her nausea and an initial drop in weight is not unheard of."
"I trust Narcissa in this matter," said Voldemort. "And our resident toad is large enough to survive a bout or two of morning-sickness, though do not allow her to become anaemic. I want her to survive as long as possible. We don't want her dying of malnutrition before her baby grows large enough to rip through her womb."
Bellatrix nodded in agreement with this last fiendish sentiment. "My sister thinks a diversion would be of benefit, my Lord. She believes it will stimulate her appetite and alleviate her depression."
"Then find something for her to do," Voldemort told her. "So long as it does not decrease the horror of her situation, I think it a good plan."
"What about knitting?" Harry suggested, forgetting himself. He immediately wished he'd held his tongue. But it was too late; he now had their full attention. At Bellatrix's curious expression, he said, "Have her learn to knit, then she can make something for her baby."
"She's not going to actually survive childbirth," his Master reminded him. "She will inevitably miscarry, and both mother and child will be lost."
"Ripped to pieces," Bellatrix almost sang.
Harry nodded. "Yeah, I know. But that makes it even better. Futile. Like writing lines in detention," he explained. "You know, Snape used to burn the lines he had us write, to drive home the point that we were just wasting our time."
"So make her knit something for her baby, then burn it!" Bellatrix exclaimed, her eyes bright.
"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Have her knit something for a baby who will never be born, the one that is her death sentence. As a bonus, she might find the act of knitting soothing, which will help her pregnancy along."
"A very good suggestion," his Master said, making Harry smile at the praise. "But who will teach her? None of my followers will know this skill."
Harry thought for a moment. Mrs Weasley, knitter of many a sweater, was dead. Then it came to him, and it was perfect!
"Hermione," he said, grinning. "She learned to knit back in school. And forcing the creator of the Muggle-born Registration Commission to take orders from her would be an extra slap in the face."
Bellatrix started cackling, delighted by the irony. "If the Mudblood bitch needs to live, I think this a perfect use for her."
Harry rolled his eyes but kept his temper and let the slight go. He was getting more and more used to pure-blood bigotry, after all. He had to.
"I agree," Voldemort said. "Tell Narcissa; I believe she had been keeping Ms Granger in the kitchens. Give her this new task, and provide her with the needed paraphernalia: wool, needles, and other necessary tools. Make certain the needles are charmed to not penetrate skin—I don't want anyone impaled. And move Umbridge somewhere more comfortable."
"Someplace pink," Harry offered, picturing the witch's garish office. "And put decorative kitten plates on the wall."
Voldemort looked fairly disgusted, but said, "If that will help her to relax. In addition, provide her with texts on pregnancy and infant care, and perhaps some novels featuring happy mothers-to-be. I want her, for a time, to forget her fate. Then, as she begins to fall asleep each night, caressing her belly and thinking fondly of her unborn child, I want the horror to come upon her. To remember, in the dark, that a monster is slowly growing inside her."
Both Harry and Bellatrix's mouth had fallen open in wonder at their Master's words. Yes, this was a man who no one should dare cross. Forget the Cruciatus. The green light of the Killing Curse was immediate, and (probably) painless. Voldemort's cruel genius lay here, though, in the sadism of kindnesses offered, then yanked away. Yet there was no real deceit here. Umbridge had been told, in lurid detail, what awaited her. The real torture was in allowing her to forget it for a time.
Harry shook himself, then found his voice. "How far along is she?"
Bellatrix was the one who answered: "Three weeks." Then, proudly, she added, "Cissy taught me fertilization detection charms, and I used the toad as my puffskein and was the one who realized that the giant seed took. She hasn't even missed her menses yet." As if Harry wanted to know that, about Umbridge or any woman.
"Puffskein?" he asked, bewildered.
"They are typically used in magical experiments. The wizarding equivalent to the guinea pig," Voldemort explained. Then, addressing Bellatrix, "As interested as I am in the status of Umbridge's gestation, I am more interested in why you were attempting to master a fertilization detection charm in the first place."
Bellatrix smirked. "Is it not a spell all witches should be familiar with, my Lord?"
"I suppose," Voldemort said with narrowed eyes.
Bellatrix's gaze moved again to Harry. "When is your pet leaving?"
Harry scowled at her, but bit down a snicker when his Master deliberately misunderstood his lieutenant. "I will be keeping Nagini with me this evening, as I have missed her these last weeks. Harry will need to stay to keep her company, as they have become inseparable."
"Oh." She licked her lower lip, then tried, "Would you like to share in a nightcap?"
"Not tonight. Perhaps another time."
"Another time," she echoed. She looked up into the Dark Lord's eyes. Whatever she saw there made her sigh, and she backed towards the door. "If you change your mind…"
"I know where your quarters are," Voldemort said. "Good night."
She left as quietly as she came, leaving behind only the faint scent of her perfume and her disappointment.
Voldemort's lifted the book off Harry's lap as his other hand traced up to the middle of Harry's back, the nails scratching a bit too hard. Then, with no warning, he pushed Harry off the bed. "Do you require a pillow? A blanket?" he asked. "Or will the fire and Nagini suffice?" He pulled an emerald night robe from off the headboard and was already striding to the washroom.
"I'm fine," Harry said, wondering if he would get a chance to brush his teeth. Such mundane thoughts were all he could process right now, with the prospect of sleeping in his Master's bedroom, even if it was on the floor.
Voldemort didn't say another word to him, not then, and not after the lights were spelled out. The fire slowly died until it was banked. Nagini loosened her coils enough for Harry to slide next to her. He was overtired, overexcited, and overthinking everything, and it seemed impossible that sleep would ever come for him that night. He pressed an ear against his sister, the rise and fall of her breathing familiar, and tried to pretend he was in his own room and that the soft rustle of fabric nearby were his own curtains moving in the night breeze.
When he awoke, he was in his own bed. Nagini in front of his own fire. And he was fully dressed.
A/N I am such a tease! But I had warned that nothing untoward would happen until Harry's eighteenth birthday, and I'm most definitely sticking with that :P
