The table by the fire was laden with fruit. Mounds of cherries and brilliantly red strawberries spilled off a platter and onto the table. Harry popped a grape into his mouth. Its thin skin burst, giving way to sweet juice with the slightest pressure of his tongue.

The book of poetry his Master had given to him was set beside a plate. A silk ribbon lay within and was wriggling about to get his attention: Open here! Read! Read!

The book was old, though not as old as the Darkling Childe. Not even close: 1862, the cover read. As with the other book, Harry could feel the soft pulse of a protection charm. Even then there was a faded stain of what looked like peach juice on the page he opened to. He picked up a ripe plum, then read:

"Buy from us with a golden curl."

She clipp'd a precious golden lock,

She dropp'd a tear more rare than pearl,

Then suck'd their fruit globes fair or red:

Sweeter than honey from the rock,

Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,

Clearer than water flow'd that juice;

She never tasted such before,

How should it cloy with length of use?

She suck'd and suck'd and suck'd the more

Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;

She suck'd until her lips were sore

Harry bit the fruit in his hand. It was sweet and tart all at once, and so juicy that it pooled out his mouth to drip down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and kept on reading and tasting the succulent plums, and then the peaches offered up next to a cluster of raspberries. He sucked their juices from his fingertips, finally sated. He thought of Laura, the girl in the poem, who became addicted to the goblin fruit and was left in a constant state of want and unfulfilled desire. Poor thing. But she should have known better than to trust a goblin.

A folded sheet of parchment had been tucked inside a teacup. His Master's neat script told him to expect Draco (again? he groaned) after lunch. Nagini, the note explained, had complained that, now that the days were longer and warmer, she had been stuck inside long enough. She and Harry were to take daily walks around the manor grounds, escorted by the 'young Malfoy heir.'

Harry muttered choice words to himself as he washed and got ready for the day. He had no proof, none at all, that Draco had anything to do with the nasty things his uncle had said.

Whore.

He had no proof that anyone had said anything of the sort. Vernon might have been lying to him, riling him up, getting in one last blow.

But the words had struck home. For his life, Harry had sold something far more precious than his virginity, and like a prostitute he had to be shameless about it. On top of that, his Master did not possess only Harry's loyalty. He owned all of him: body and soul. Considering the gifts of poetry and fruit, combined with Harry's own admission of love (as silent as it had been), surely Voldemort would not leave his human Horcrux alone for much longer. A time would come when he would demand more.

The fruit he'd gorged on sat heavily in his belly, and at once Harry wished he'd had but a slice of toast for breakfast. He wanted a cup of tea, the comfort of something familiar, but was now too full. Why couldn't he have eaten more slowly? Why had he not more sense?

Was the poem about regret? he wondered. Was that his Master's message? But Voldemort would not want to raise doubts in him. Not at all.

Perhaps it had been just a gift. A thoughtful gift for a foolish boy. He set his new book on his bedside table and looked forward to when he'd see Voldemort again and they could talk about the poem together.

Draco's eyes were lined with his fatigue. He didn't bother entering Harry's room, but leaned against the corridor wall outside.

"How long did you and Snape look for those fern seeds?" Harry asked him. Judging from the other boy's exhausted demeanor, their walk today would be a short one. Harry was fine with that. He'd been outside for long enough the day before and was ready for another month-long hibernation, safe in his rooms.

"A couple hours." Draco stifled a yawn. He pushed open the door leading out of the wing and said, "But then he made me sort them all and lay them out to dry. After that he needed help with everything he'd harvested yesterday at dawn. We were at it for hours, tying up herbs and hanging them up. You know how finicky he gets. Everything had to be done just right."

Harry nodded. He easily remembered Snape's severe exactness. He, himself, had never been able to meet Severus Snape's demanded perfection. Hell, he'd stopped trying after realizing he'd be marked down regardless, just because he was his father's son.

"So, he had me do it one way, then checked his notes. Then he made me take everything down, untie every fucking thing, then hang it all up again," Draco finished, sighing.

"Huh." Harry remembered his own confusing night and wondered who'd gotten the better deal. He quickly decided that anything was better than spending that much time with the greasy Potions Master. And bonus: he'd gotten to watch his Master reject Bellatrix. Remembering how her hopeful expression slowly slid from her face made him feel light again.

"What are you so pleased about," Draco grumbled, nearly tripping over Nagini. She was excited at getting back outside so she didn't notice and undulated her massive body quickly down the corridor.

"Just remembering something from last night," he said. A smile played at his lips.

"Glad someone enjoyed himself." Draco's scowl belied his words. "Forget Snape. I ran into my aunt this morning before coming to get you. Considering she won that stupid contest, you'd think she'd be happier."

"You'd think," Harry agreed.

They were coming down the grand staircase and Draco waved his hand in a wide arc, gesturing. "Look at this mess."

There were scorch marks on the wall, and a mirror which hung near the door was destroyed, the silvered glass a mass of spiderweb cracks and the gold frame melted at the base. They came closer and Draco glared at his broken image with disgust. "One angry curse, and a priceless antique completely destroyed. I wish my mother's parents had disowned her too."

"What made her so upset," Harry asked, trying not to smile or betray that he already knew the reasons behind Bellatrix's latest distress.

"She went out to get my uncle's head off its spike, but both it and the body were missing." Draco reached forward to trace a crack in the glass, then swore and sucked a drop of blood from his finger.

"What did she want with his head?" Harry asked as Draco muttered a hasty Episkey.

"The fuck I know," Draco said. He beckoned for Harry to follow him and Nagini outside. "Some Dark magic thing, no doubt."

Knowing Bellatrix and the general Black family aesthetic, Harry thought she had probably hoped to mount it on the wall. The image of the horrid elf heads at Grimmauld Place assaulted his mind, and Harry was suddenly glad that his Master had chosen Malfoy Manor for his base. The décor may be outlandish and opulent to the point of gaudiness, but he would take sneering portraits and well-polished furniture over the gothic, mouldering halls of a Black estate any day.

The Death Eaters who had been tied up overnight had been released. The maypoles, their tall bodies still festooned in silk ribbon, stood lonely guard over the empty Wicker Man. It loomed hungrily over the lawn, as if hoping to gobble up anyone who dared approach. By some unspoken agreement, Harry and Draco walked in the other direction.

"Want to go flying?" Harry asked, remembering the Quidditch Pitch he could see from his bedroom window.

Draco yawned. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

They followed Nagini, who was wandering towards the standing stones. They watched her slink in and around them, her tongue darting in and out, tasting for her choice bed. If she just wanted to sleep, Harry thought, they could have stayed inside. He and Draco wandered the edges of the circle, then down a pea gravel path which led to a small garden.

Draco flopped onto the first bench he saw. He closed his eyes for a minute, and Harry thought he'd fallen asleep. But then Draco said, "I'm glad he's dead."

Harry almost didn't want to disappoint him; it looked as if he'd topple under the weight of the smallest disappointment. But he'd find out soon enough. "The Dark Lord has planned to bring him back."

Draco's head snapped up, all tiredness gone from his eyes. "He did?" And then, with a hint of concern he asked, "Are you okay with that?"

Harry shrugged. "I guess. It's not like it matters to me."

Draco stared at him incredulously. "It sure didn't look like that yesterday. I was watching you."

Harry shifted on his seat and wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. "Well, don't."

"Your eyes were red. He didn't say anything to you, did he? He's not worth getting upset over." He shook his head then looked back towards the empty maypoles.

"Why would I be upset about it? He's your uncle, after all. Or was. Ex-uncle."

"My…? I was talking about your uncle, Potter. The Muggle." He glared more fiercely at the maypoles. "Well, it's no wonder Aunt Bella was so miffed. But why would he bring Rodolphus back? What was the point in killing him at all?"

"Honestly, I think it was for show," Harry said. "To prove he could. No one, other than me and Hermione, saw Snape die. Maybe he thought his followers didn't believe it. It's hard to argue with a head that has been reattached and is speaking again."

Draco nodded. "Fine," he said. "Fine. But Rodolphus wasn't the one who upset you. What did your uncle say to you up there?"

"Nothing," Harry said, his voice flat. Then, because it had worked all his life: "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

Draco ground his teeth but looked more frustrated than angry. He unclenched his jaw, took a breath, then repeated, "What did he say?"

"It doesn't matter. He'll never say it again." A tremor ran through his shoulders and down his spine.

Whore.

Why did the words even affect him so much? He had always had his uncle's disdain; this was nothing new. In a way, being thought a whore could be considered a step-up in Vernon's estimation. A whore had value, after all. Before that, Harry had been nothing but a worthless freak.

Freak. Whore. Freak. Whore.

"He doesn't have to, when you're saying it for him," Draco snarled. "What did he say?"

Freak. Whore. The more he thought them, the less meaningful they seemed.

Whore.

"Only something he was told," Harry said. He looked Draco in the eye. "Perhaps you've already heard."

Perhaps you started the rumor, he nearly accused.

"Heard what?" Draco said. He shifted away. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Harry's voice sounded strange to his own ears. "Like what, Malfoy?"

"The same way the Dark Lord looks sometimes," Draco told him. He backed up further on the bench.

Harry's smile was vicious and false. "Am I? We've gotten pretty close, he and I." He raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Perhaps he's rubbing off on me."

"Perhaps," Draco said sadly. "It's not like you see anyone other than him."

He hadn't caught it. Draco hadn't noticed his (admittedly feeble) quip. If he'd been the one to feed the slander—whore whore whore—to Vernon, surely he'd have pounced on Harry's wordplay. Was it not a wizarding euphemism? Or perhaps Draco was innocent and had never said anything to Vernon.

Was Draco really trying to be kind? Was he trying to be a friend?

It would seem so. Perhaps Draco was extending his hand again, willing to forget Harry's snub on the train seven years ago and the years of animosity that followed. They weren't kids anymore. They weren't rivals anymore, either. They'd grown up, brutally, the both of them.

"I see Nagini," Harry said, his voice warming. "And I'm seeing you now."

Draco nodded. "I'm glad you get to go outside more."

Harry shrugged. This was all right, he guessed. And now that he was fairly sure that Draco hadn't been the one to give such ammunition to his uncle, Harry realized he wouldn't mind spending more time with the other boy.

"And tomorrow we'll go to the pitch and play one-on-one. A Seeker's match," Draco said, returning the smile Harry flashed him.

Voldemort forbade Quidditch.

"What were you thinking?" He roared after he'd caught Harry on a broomstick.

Harry shuffled forward, dirtying his knees. Draco quivered beside him once the Dark Lord released his sustained Crucio.

Harry lowered himself even more to press his throbbing forehead to his Master's feet in supplication. "Please forgive—"

A wave of Voldemort's wand and Harry was thrashing, too. The curse ended swiftly, but then Voldemort reached down to pull Harry up by the hair. "If you enjoy falling from heights, my dear, I can arrange a tumble off the Astronomy Tower."

"I wasn't falling, Master," was the wrong response. Swinging by his hair while every nerve blazed with fire was something he never wanted to happen again, though, so when his Master lifted the curse he started babbling: "Never again, never again, I promise, Master. I promise."

Voldemort threw him back into the mud. "Never again," he agreed.

Draco was curled around his stomach. He was breathing quick shallow breaths. His mouth was bleeding, and he was still shaking. How long had he been under the torture curse? It had seemed a long time.

Harry looked up to his Master, then tentatively stood. His Master watched his careful movements. Anger still flared in his scarlet eyes, but it was muted, and he'd tucked his wand away.

Harry knew that his Master would never toss him from the Astronomy Tower. A month ago, he had feared a dark imprisonment; for a moment, that same terror had clutched his heart. But in his soul—the same soul he shared with the man before him—he knew that his Master's threat was an idle one. It was the sort of terrified bluff a parent might snarl at their child who'd followed a ball into the street. False words, spoken in fear. The warmth that suffused Harry when he realized this pushed out every lingering Crucio-induced tremor.

Draco wasn't getting up.

"Give me your arm," the Dark Lord ordered brusquely.

Harry pulled up his sleeve and held his arm up to his Master. With one hand, he caught Harry's wrist and pulled him closer. With his other hand, he pushed a sharp nail into the Mark, breaking the skin. Harry's entire arm throbbed as Dark magic pulsed through it, though the pain paled in comparison to that meted out minutes before.

Narcissa answered the call. Her eyes went wide and she rushed over when she saw her son lying nearly lifeless at the Dark Lord's feet.

"Your son requires your attention," Voldemort told her dispassionately. His eyes were cold but no longer cruel. There was nothing in them to suggest that he'd had anything to do with Draco's plight.

Narcissa sank to the ground and cradled Draco's head in her lap. She traced trembling fingers over his forehead, smoothing out the tense lines of pain that had formed there.

"Is he going to be okay?" Harry asked her.

Narcissa started, then looked up at him. "Yes," she said. "I think so." And then she was all business, calling house-elves to bring draughts and poultices and blankets. She examined Draco's mouth. "He's bitten his tongue, but it'll be okay. He'll be fine." And she kept repeating this last phrase, quietly to herself, even as Voldemort pulled Harry away, his strong fingers still pinched round his wrist.

They didn't talk as they strode down the path leading to the cluster of standing stones. Nagini was, as expected, sunning herself in a coiled heap. Harry's stomach lurched as he was suddenly lifted by his Master's magic up onto the tallest stone, which stood at about eight feet. He wasn't high up, not really, but standing on the small surface put his head at over thirteen feet from the ground. He eyed Voldemort warily, before cautiously lowering to sit.

The Dark Lord uttered something under his breath and the air shimmered around Harry. "I know it's not as high up as you would like, my dear Gryffindor, but this will suffice until night falls." He smirked and walked away without a backwards glance.

Harry was too startled to call out after him. He wasn't even sure what had happened—had his Master just stuck him up here? As some sort of punishment? It was a pretty weak one, if that was the case. He wasn't high up at all. If he shimmied onto his stomach, he could get himself low enough to safely jump down.

It turned out, though, that he couldn't. Whatever Voldemort had done to the air around him had effectively sealed off his escape. He was stuck up here.

Harry shrugged. It wasn't so bad, he told himself. Better than what Malfoy had gotten. His throat tightened a little; he'd been the one to suggest they go flying. He should have known better. He should have guessed that Voldemort would react in such a way. Again someone else suffered because of his poor choices, and now Harry was stuck here, helpless.

Just for the afternoon, he reminded himself. And Narcissa had said that Draco would be okay. Harry would just be more careful from now on, and everything would be fine.

The rock seemed to get harder as each minute passed. He and Draco had headed to the broom-shed right after lunch, and they hadn't been flying for long before the Dark Lord had seen them and put a stop to their fun. It was still early summer, and the sun wouldn't set for a long while. Six or seven hours, Harry guessed unhappily.

After an hour, he began wriggling in discomfort. How could Nagini lay on her hard rock for hours on end? He supposed her long coils gave her a greater surface area, the bulk of her weight spread down her length. And she also was coiled in and around herself. She could shift, and a new part of her would be pressed against stone, the majority piled up using her own body as a cushion. All Harry's weight was settled on his arse.

He tried to stand, hoping for a respite from the worsening ache, but he got dizzy at once. Closing his eyes to block out the height only made it worse. Knowing that a barrier would prevent his fall didn't help at all, though it made it a little less terrifying to lower himself to his knees.

There wasn't enough room to relax into sleep. All he could do was keep watch over the desolate landscape. Not a soul ventured this way, though if Voldemort's followers were aware that the standing stones were Nagini's favourite haunt, that was hardly surprising. Harry supposed his loneliness was a blessing; at least no one came to laugh at his plight.

He tried, a few times, to wake his sister. She slithered a bit after he called to her, and for a moment he'd thought he'd succeeded; her eyes were open, as they always were, and she called out to him. But she was hissing in her dreams, he soon realized. He couldn't hiss loud enough to wake her, and it was making him thirsty to try.

She finally woke up as the sky began to darken and she got cold. She slithered to the ground and circled around and around his own stone. Watching her made Harry giddy.

"Brother," she hissed. "Nagini had the best dream."

"I don't care," he told her.

She stuck her tongue in and out, as if to scent the reason behind his sulky tone. "Why did brother climb up there?"

"I didn't," he grumbled before falling silent, refusing to say more to her. His loneliness had settled in too deeply.

Voldemort didn't seem to notice his sullenness when he came to retrieve them. He conjured a rabbit for Nagini to chase, dismantled whatever wards had kept Harry in place all day, then told him to get down.

Sitting in such a confined space for hours on end had exhausted Harry, and his movements were clumsy. His ankle rolled badly as he landed, and he fell to his knees. His Master didn't even wait for Harry to bend to kiss his feet, but swiftly followed Nagini into the gloom.

Harry stared at Voldemort's retreating back for a moment before hobbling after him. The Dark Lord never got too far away, no matter how hastily he seemed to cross the Malfoy lawns. Harry even stopped for a moment, had to stop—his foot was throbbing—and his Master didn't wait for him. But even as Voldemort seemed to retreat into the darkness ahead…he somehow didn't.

Harry hurried after him as best he could. With Nagini on his shoulders, Voldemort finally stopped at the steps leading up to the manor's grand entrance. He narrowed his eyes at Harry, who was steeling himself for the worst of the journey. Why did Malfoy Manor have so many effing steps?

He fell on the first one, hissing in an equal mix of humiliation and pain.

"And that was but a short fall," Voldemort commented. "Imagine if you'd been higher up. Picture the Malfoy house-elves scraping your brains from the lawn. All your sacrifices in vain, for one fleeting enjoyment."

Harry paled at the imagery. After so many mishaps and near-misses during his Quidditch years, he knew that his Master wasn't exaggerating. One wrong move, one reckless error, and he'd be dead. A Horcrux was destroyed along with its vessel; he'd be worse than useless without his Master's soul piece. Perhaps his Master would bring him back just to feed him to his former sister…

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Voldemort said, rolling his eyes. He came closer and held out a hand. Harry grasped his fingers and was Apparated back to his bedroom. "I suggest you get some sleep, darling. You have another big day ahead of you tomorrow."

Harry's foot was swollen when he woke up. It wouldn't take his weight at all. He called for his house-elf, but it refused to fetch him a healing potion or even a cane. Harry had to stop the poor thing from ramming its head against the bedpost in penance.

"It's all right, Flippy. And you are right to obey Master's orders over mine." He managed to calm it down by asking for a more generous breakfast than normal, which was waiting for him once he'd crawled back from the washroom.

The pain worsened as the morning went on. This had never happened at the Dursleys, and Harry had definitely been hurt just as badly there, if not worse. He usually tried not to dwell upon his time at Privet Drive, but now he remembered his uncle giving a particularly harsh blow to his shoulder one evening when he'd not been quick enough getting to his cupboard. With half of his left arm throbbing in pain, he'd had trouble finding sleep on his thin cot. But come morning, the soreness and swelling were gone and his arm as good as new.

What was different now? The pain had most definitely not gone away overnight. It seemed to be worsening, in fact. He wasn't sure what to do; the house-elf had been no help and Nagini was unsympathetic. Then again, she only appreciated feet when she was playful and hoping her prey would run before she could strike them down.

He tried to read to distract himself, but it didn't help at all. In the end, he crawled back to the bathroom and filled the tub with icy water. His foot quickly numbed. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but he was desperate.

Voldemort sneered at him when he found him propped on the tub edge and his foot immersed in the frigid bathwater. "Why aren't you dressed?" he demanded. He didn't wait for his Horcrux to answer, but swiftly levitated Harry to the other room and dropped him on the bed. "Surely you don't wish to venture outside in your nightclothes?"

Voldemort transfigured Harry's soft black sleepwear into a scratchier version of his day robes. Nagini was already slithering up their Master's body, and then Harry found himself side-Apparated back to the standing stone circle.

"Master, please don't leave me here," he begged as the Dark Lord deposited him back on the same stone as the day before.

But the Dark Lord was unmoved. "Narcissa tells me that Draco will need several more days rest before he can resume his duties. Until then, this is were you shall spend your afternoons. Both you and Nagini need the sun, and you are safe here. You cannot harm yourself, and Nagini will keep watch over you"

"She does not," he argued, pouting. "She slept all yesterday afternoon on that stupid rock of hers. And besides, I'd be just as safe on the ground. It's not like I can run off anywhere."

For a moment, Voldemort's sharp look softened. He drew his wand, and Harry's heart soared, until he realized that his Master was only reconstructing the wards preventing him from jumping down—not that he'd have managed that with his ankle so swollen.

"Not only are you safe here, but there is another benefit to this arrangement. You see, I rather enjoy this—" The Dark Lord gestured at Harry and his stone prison with his wand,"—tableau. A Horcrux on a pedestal."

Harry looked away, blinking back tears. "Your Horcrux is damaged," he said. He wasn't sure that he was strictly speaking of his ankle.

"It will be mended soon," his Master told him. He strode closer. "Consider all this a natural punishment for displeasing me. You will think more carefully of your actions in the future."

Harry gave a slight nod. He sighed, then said softly, "I don't know why my foot still hurts. It's just a stupid twisted ankle—it should have mended overnight."

"I didn't want it to," Voldemort said. "Your magic is now directly bound to my will, or had you forgotten your pretty words at your Initiation? Well, darling, consider this a subtle reminder."

He had forgotten, Harry realized. It had been easy. Without his wand he'd not thought much about his magic at all, except to miss the comforting presence of sleek holly in his palm. But now his Master had taken away the innate magic that would more quickly heal him.

"Can I have it back?" he asked desperately. Without his magic, was he even still a wizard?

"It's not exactly gone, Harry. Think of your magic as on a choke-chain."

Harry closed his eyes, tentatively searching for any hints of remaining magic. There. He could feel it, bound uselessly within himself. It felt thin, taut, and completely outside of his control.

At least it wasn't gone.

"I would never take it from you." Voldemort stepped back. His eyes never left Harry's. "Not unless I wished you dead. A wizard cannot live if deprived of his magic. They can, however, suffer the loss of so many other things: comfort, freedom, sanity."

A reminder, Harry told himself.

"I won't displease you again," he whispered.

Voldemort looked at him carefully. "I would be a poor Master if I held you to such a promise, darling," he finally said. He shook his head. "I will retrieve you at sundown."

A/N The above verse is from Goblin Market and Other Poems by Christina Rossetti. Laura is one of the two sisters in the poem, the one who tastes (then lusts after) the goblins' forbidden fruit.