Harry woke up to find himself tied up on a chair, unfortunately not for the first time, though he doubted that he was lucky enough to have been apprehended by somebody like Nicolas Flamel again. He opened his eyes a crack. The room he was in was dark, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of starlight through sheer curtains, and sparsely but elegantly furnished.

"Winky tells me you said you could help me," said somebody. Harry turned his head to try to find the speaker, even though he knew full well that the voice had come from in front of him. He did not see anybody. There was only a stiff-looking couch, a matching armchair, and an immaculately maintained fireplace behind him. Disillusionment, perhaps, or an invisibility cloak?

"I said I could try," Harry ground out, not feeling very helpful at the moment. Then he decided that it made no sense to cling to reckless indignation when caution was far likelier to get him out in one piece. "Rosen—my elf told me you were looking for the Dark Lord. I don't know where he is right now, but I have a good idea of where he will be."

It occurred to him as he said it he had no idea why this mysterious man—for the voice was clearly masculine—was interested in the Dark Lord. Was he a follower or an enemy? Which situation would even be preferable?

"You're a kid. How could you know that?" asked the man. Harry hesitated, cognisant that what he revealed could bring considerable harm to Silviu and the whole company. What if this man was some kind of dark wizard hunter? It seemed unlikely that somebody on the right side of the law would stoop to kidnapping children, but if a necromancer like Yaxley was an auror…

He steeled himself and asked, "Are you on the Dark Lord's side?" Any moment now, he would be cursed, he thought, but the man just chuckled erratically in a way that reminded him of Leticia.

To Harry's surprise, a hand appeared in mid-air, and like a veil had fallen away, a grinning man clad in nothing but a white nightgown stepped out from under an invisibility cloak with a flourish. He threw the cloak to the ground and stuck out his arm, where Harry saw a fairly distinct, reddish skull with a snake apparently scarred into the flesh. He made the connection—Lord Voldemort, touching Quirrell's arm, Lucius Malfoy, showing Burke and Silviu something there—it was some kind of brand that the Dark Lord put on his servants. Or rather, his 'friends,' as Harry recalled from his brief time occupying the Dark Lord's mind, with more or less the same connotation used by Silviu.

Harry nodded to the man. "You're one of his friends," he said, and the man's eyebrows jumped up into his hairline, though he continued smiling, as if pleased.

"And what about you, kid?" he asked.

Harry chose his words carefully. "I don't know if I… deserve to be his friend yet, but I would like to be."

"So we're on the same side," said the man.

Harry, still tied up, did not feel like he was there yet, that there was something off. His fate had never included kidnapping by house elf, so he was sure enough that he would get out of here alive. What happened afterwards was another question, a more important one.

"If you're really a friend of the Dark Lord though, how come you don't know where he is?" Harry asked. "He had a meeting just this—tonight."

He braced himself for some kind of retribution for his insolent questioning, but the man surprised him again, looking very anguished.

"I know! I felt my master's call—it freed me—it let me take my revenge at last! But I was wandless. I couldn't go to him. When I finally arrived there, he was already gone. I didn't know what to do…" he was rambling, almost talking to himself, but then he seemed to notice Harry again.

He took out his wand, but before Harry could be alarmed, he felt his bonds loosen and then vanish.

"Look kid, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Barty," said the man, sticking out his hand. Harry bit back some kind of sarcastic comment and took the hand.

"Harry," he said. "I'll help you find the Dark Lord, but you have to let me go. That's fair, right?"

"Deal," said Barty, a wide grin returning to his face. "You could start by telling me how you think you know where he's going to be. Are your parents Death Eaters?"

Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of the question, but he managed to contain himself and shake his head. "I overheard Lucius Malfoy asking the vampires in Knockturn Alley to help the Dark Lord. They wanted to meet him in person, and Malfoy said he would ask."

There. Nothing too overly compromising.

"When was this?" Barty asked with raised eyebrows.

"What time is it now?" Harry asked. He felt a twitch in his pocket and was surprised to realise that it was his wand trying to show the time. The man hadn't even taken his wand? Then again, he supposed he was a child, and his wand hadn't done him any good yet, anyway. He restrained the impulse to reach for it. He had to wait for a good opportunity.

"Nearly four in the morning," said Barty, looking a bit peaky.

"Not long ago then. It was around midnight. There's no way they've already had the meeting," Harry said.

"And how are we going to find out where and when they'll have it?" Barty demanded.

"We'll ask?" Harry said. "You'll have to bring us to Knockturn Alley, though."

"Ask? You really think I can just waltz up to some vampires and ask to crash their meeting with the Dark Lord?"

"I can ask. I'm friends with them," Harry said, though that was not the technically correct term. It seemed less complicated to put it that way.

Barty furrowed his brows, but by the by his face loosened. "All right. Can't say I expected that one. Do you think it would be disrespectful to intrude on an arranged meeting? Maybe I should wait until Master summons us. But that could be months from now… I have to make an effort…"

Harry frowned. This man seemed to have his priorities all out of sorts.

"You want to find the Dark Lord, but you're worried about being disrespectful?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be worried that he thinks you're a traitor?" He remembered looking so coldly at those empty spaces in the circle, the Death Eaters who had not returned.

"He thinks I'm dead," said Barty. "And I would never betray him! If I didn't care about being disrespectful, I would summon him this instant. I'd gladly take any punishment, just to see him again… but I already decided against it—he probably wouldn't come. Why would he?"

"Summon him?" Harry asked.

"A privilege and honour, not to be misused," Barty said, brushing back the sleeve of his nightgown again and gazing raptly at his scar. Closer now, Harry could see that the snake was actually coming out of the skull's mouth, like a sinuous tongue. The whole design was crude, with just enough detail that the image was unmistakable, but it still looked like it would have been agonising to have it burned on. He remembered smoke coming off the Dark Lord's finger as he marked Quirrell.

"Does it hurt?" Harry asked curiously.

"Only when it's in use," Barty said. "Hurt like the cruciatus the first time. That's the torture curse." He smiled as he said this.

"I know," said Harry. Barty looked at him askance, his grin vanishing.

"You're a strange kid," he said. "What were you up to in Knockturn Alley, anyway, in the middle of the night?"

"I live there," Harry said. "You're a strange person too. Why did you have your elf kidnap me?"

"Sorry. I told her to bring me somebody who could take me to my master. She doesn't like me much right now. I didn't think she would go after a kid," Barty said, scratching his head.

"She doesn't like you?" Harry repeated suspiciously. Rosenkol's story of how he had come not to like his old master came to mind, and it was not promising.

"Hey, you know about the cruciatus, how about the imperius curse?" Barty asked in lieu of answering directly. Harry narrowed his eyes and nodded.

"The enslavement curse," he said.

"My father held me under the imperius curse for a decade," Barty said. Harry's jaw dropped. "My master's summons freed me. I could think clearly for the first time in forever. I overpowered my father. I took his wand, and I killed him."

There was a sob from the corner, and Harry turned to see the elf, Winky, suddenly there in plain sight, with tear tracks staining her face.

"Master Barty, you bad, bad boy," she whispered, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. With no warning, she slammed her head backwards into the wall. "Bad Winky, bad Winky, Master Barty…" she trailed off into an incoherent wail.

"I don't know why I told you all that, but it felt good to say it. No, that's exactly why I told you. You're the first person I've talked to in years besides Winky. Isn't that depressing?" Barty said, after staring at Winky for a few long moments. "Winky… go and get yourself a drink. I know you don't want to see my face right now."

Winky hiccuped and apparated away with a loud pop.

Harry became suddenly cognisant of the fact that Barty had let down his guard, that right this moment, he could take out his wand, cast the imperius curse, and force the man to take him back home, and then he could cast the memory charm—actually that would probably be a terrible idea—he could ask Silviu to cast the memory charm instead.

But they were on the same side, he remembered, even if Barty had semi-accidentally kidnapped him. The man would eventually get back to the Dark Lord, Harry's help or not.

Harry's stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he had skipped lunch. Barty smirked at him. There was something strangely childish about him—he had to be in his thirties, definitely old, but his face was boyish and expressive and reminded Harry of Shy, in the sense that he too seemed to put on seriousness like an ill-fitting mask.

"Hungry? Me too," said Barty. "Let's see if I can't whip something up."

He gestured for Harry to follow him and led him to an adjacent room with a gleaming wooden dining table and the same sorts of chairs as the one that Harry had been tied up in. Towards the back there were some cupboards, which Barty opened with a flick of his wand and summoned things out of—tins, mostly, in various shapes and sizes, and two plates and sets of cutlery.

Harry watched in awe as Barty levitated dried pasta out of a tin, twirled his wand just so, and cooked it before his eyes, steam rising gently off the surface. He portioned it onto the two plates, and then waved his wand in a tight circle. A creamy sauce spouted from it and coated the pasta.

"Voila," he said, and shoved one of the plates towards Harry before pulling up two chairs.

"Did you conjure the sauce?" Harry demanded. "How's that possible? Doesn't that violate," he paused, trying to put his vague understanding to words, "the law that magic can't create food?"

Barty grinned at him. "Principal exceptions to Gamp's Law," he said. "Ravenclaw after my own heart?"

Harry nodded.

"Some people say there are three or five exceptions, but really the only exception to Gamp's law is magic itself. You can't transfigure anything non-magical into magic itself and you can't transfigure magic into something non-magical. That's why conjured or transfigured food will never nourish you—it's not real, in that way. But that doesn't mean you can't eat it for taste." And finishing this explanation, Barty sat down, picked up his fork primly, and took a bite of his pasta and conjured sauce. He made a face. "I forgot the salt again."

Barty sprinkled salt over the pasta with another wave of his wand and Harry dug in curiously. Even with salt, the pasta was bland—he reckoned it could use a good dash of pepper and maybe some basil. Barty was obviously proficient with cooking spells and not so much with cooking.

Barty seemed to come to the same conclusion, because he sighed and muttered, "Winky makes cooking feasts look so easy. Must be her own brand of magic."

"I think you just need to use more spices," Harry suggested gently.

"I think I need Winky to get over Father," Barty said. "I don't understand why she adores him so much. He treated her like furniture."

"You don't choose who to love," Harry said, borrowing Petri's wisdom.

"But you do," Barty argued. "Love is intentional, it's an action. What are you, twelve? Where are you getting these ideas from?"

"Almost twelve," Harry admitted, and avoided citing his source by eating another forkful of pasta.

"But you know about the Unforgivables and Gamp's Law," Barty said, eyebrows raised. "Surely they aren't teaching that to first years at Hogwarts. Who are your parents, anyway? Should I be worried?"

"My parents are dead," Harry said.

"Oh. Mine too, I suppose," Barty said. Harry wondered what had happened to his mum, but did not ask. "Your guardians then, who are they? You aren't living alone?"

"I live with my uncle," Harry told him.

"Anybody I would know?" Barty asked. Harry gave him an odd look.

"Probably not," he said, "but I wouldn't know who you know. I don't even know your surname."

"Crouch," said Barty, looking a little disappointed when Harry failed to react. The name only sounded vaguely familiar. "I suppose you haven't heard of my father, then? He's not as famous these days. Lost a lot of face after throwing me in Azkaban." His knuckles turned white as grip on his fork tightened.

"He… threw you in Azkaban?" Harry repeated, not fully understanding how that was possible.

"He was the head of the DMLE back then. The aurors. He sentenced me to life. Small mercies it wasn't the kiss," Barty said.

Now Harry was even more confused. "But… you're here now. They let you go?"

Barty let out a sardonic snort. "My mother's last wish. She was dying. My father broke me out and sent her to die in my place. So much for rule of law. Then he put me under the imperius curse, like I told you."

"Were you innocent?" Harry asked, aghast at this tragic story.

Barty snorted again. "Nobody is innocent. There are only powerful people and weak people. I was weak, stupid. It turns out, knowing more spells than other people doesn't mean you can actually duel. And knowing how to duel doesn't matter when you're outnumbered ten to one."

Harry wasn't sure what he was talking about. There was a faraway look in Barty's eye and a momentary resentful gleam that faded as suddenly as it had appeared.

"So what about you?" he asked.

"Sorry?" said Harry

"What's your story? Tell me about yourself," Barty clarified. "You said you live with your uncle. What does he do?"

"He's an enchanter," Harry said.

"What kind?" asked Barty.

Not entirely certain how to answer the question, Harry said, "Glass and crystal and such." This appeared to be the right sort of answer, because Barty nodded enthusiastically.

"Glass, that's impressive," he said. "I remember spending Merlin knows how long practising how to charm mirrors for the Charms NEWT, and then it didn't even come up at all. It was all plants and metals."

"Is it harder to charm glass?" Harry asked. "I've never heard that." Petri had certainly never mentioned it, though he supposed it was the man's speciality, so perhaps to him there was no difference, or it was easier.

"It's harder to get spells to stick to some materials than others. They tend to bounce off stone and glass. I expect you wouldn't notice it for first year charms, though," Barty explained.

"Why is that?" Harry asked. Barty wasn't put off by his questioning—on the contrary, a manic glint entered his eye and he leaned forward.

"So you know that there's magic everywhere, right? But it doesn't interact with non-magical things at all. It only starts doing that when it gets bunched up, like when a wizard gathers it to cast a spell," Barty began. Harry nodded. He could have guessed as much. "Well, how much magic you need to build up for it to start interacting depends on how big the atoms of the material are. You know about atoms?"

"They're like tiny building blocks for everything," Harry said, unable to produce a better formulation from his vaguely remembered science lessons in primary. Barty looked surprised, but he nodded.

"Right, so each material is made of a different sort of atom, and they're different sizes. The bigger they are, the less magic it takes to touch them, and that means spells can't go into them. That's why you can't transfigure gold and silver, because they're so big—people call that one of the exceptions to Gamp's Law, but in my opinion it's just again that you can't transfigure non-magic to magic. Goblins can transfigure gold and silver, and I reckon it's because they use far less magic to do it. Of course anything that completely blocks magic is also easy to grasp with magic, so it's no trouble to charm metal. It's the mid-size stuff that's tricky."

"How do you know all that?" Harry asked, wide-eyed. Did Hogwarts teach all this theory? He certainly had not seen even a hint of it in his first year.

Barty broke out into a radiant smile and leaned forward, propping his chin up with his arm. "My master, the Dark Lord—he's taught me so much about magic, infinitely more than the stodgy fossils at Hogwarts ever could have. People don't realise how brilliant and revolutionary he is, how much further he's gone than any wizard before him in testing and challenging the boundaries of what we know. And he is so generous with his knowledge, too—amazingly didactic. People don't understand, even some of my old… colleagues, they don't understand him the way I do, they think he's just interested in stamping out mudbloods. Never mind mudbloods, who cares about mudbloods when you could be learning to harness the fundamental forces of existence?"

Harry nodded slowly, speechless at the enthusiasm and sheer reverence that laced Barty's every word. The fact that the Dark Lord called his Death Eaters his friends while they all called him their master had seemed very strange to him, but out of Barty's mouth it suddenly made sense, as a title of genuine respect.

Barty's expression softened, and he laid his arm on the table, tracing his skull-and-snake scar with his gaze. "I miss him so badly. When I heard he was gone, I gave up the will to live. Dementors didn't help, I suppose. I probably would have really died in Azkaban if it hadn't been for Mother. Even after that, I didn't care, I didn't want to think or feel ever again. I let Father keep me prisoner. The imperius curse… it feels very nice, you know?"

"I know," Harry said, shuddering. Barty gave him a piercing look.

"Someone's cast it on you before?" he asked.

"Only for practice, for resisting it," Harry said as casually as he could, shrugging. Barty relaxed deliberately and nodded.

"That's good. That's a useful ability. I wish I could have done it, thrown it off and gone to look for my master myself, to help him." He looked away regretfully, and then back at his mark, reaching out his right hand and framing it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Do you want me to go ask Sil—the vampires, now, if they've heard back from Malfoy yet?" Harry asked. "Actually, hold on, can't you send a letter or something to Malfoy? Wouldn't that be easier?"

Barty snorted and clenched his fist. "Malfoy is the world's most untrustworthy bastard," he said. "I'd sooner off myself than ask him for help. The same goes for most of my colleagues. Scum and bottom-feeders, false friends, denying our lord the moment things started to look difficult. Only we few who went to Azkaban rather than renounce him are truly loyal. He'll free them, soon enough, and they'll be rewarded."

Harry watched him uncertainly for a few moments. Barty seemed to have lost himself in staring at his arm again. Then he shook his head and stood up, waving his wand to clean the dishes and clear them away.

"Right. Let's go then. We'll have to go outside to apparate. I should get dressed." Barty pointed his wand at himself, transfiguring his nightgown into more appropriate dark blue robes and his slippers into loafers. Harry wondered why anybody ever bought clothes, before he remembered that if somebody asked him to transfigure robes, he wouldn't even know where to start. At Hogwarts, they had never transfigured anything that wouldn't fit in the palm of his hand.

Barty led him back through the parlour, which was now forbiddingly dark without the benefit of the stars, and through an arch on the opposite end that opened into a short vestibule. They exited the house through the frosted glass front door, stopping on the top step of the stoop to stay under cover. It had started to rain in earnest, rendering it impossible to make out anything more than a few feet into the gloom.

"Hold onto my arm," Barty said, and Harry reached out to grasp it. As he did so, however, his forehead split open with pain and he immediately let go to slap his hand to his scar. Barty had leapt back with a yell and was staring at his arm in bewilderment and horror.

The watery, distorted silhouette of the garden and the pitter-patter of rain cut off suddenly into a stiller, more complete darkness. Harry blinked rapidly, puzzled, then enraged, then curious, and finally indifferent again about the gentle tugging, the strange location blossoming in his mind's eye. He lay there, eyes darting momentarily to the window to confirm that it was pitch dark, certainly still deep in the night. Who dared summon him at such an odd hour, or indeed at all? He had given them no leave to do anything of the sort. Curiosity came back, insistent, along with a flash of excitement at the thought of somebody screaming under his wand. Who would it be?

He rolled over and in one sinuous movement righted himself and landed on his feet. The floor was frigid against his skin, but he warmed it pleasantly with his next step, rolling his shoulders and raising a hand. His robes wrapped themselves around him and his wand settled between his fingers, already lit with a soft blue glow. There he paused, halfway across the room, wondering if he should perhaps return to his meditation after all instead of indulging in this foolishness. He considered the destination that had been given to him again—the front porch of a modest house, outfitted with narrow white columns and decorated with hanging planters full of summer flowers.

It was Barty's house, Harry realised. He narrowed his eyes in confusion. Barty's… house…? How had he known that? He had no cause to believe it. In fact, it made absolutely no sense, but he knew it nonetheless as if it were fact. Curiosity overcame his reservations.

Never one to deny himself for long, he closed his eyes, destination firmly in mind, and disapparated.

Harry came back to himself with a strangled gasp, finding himself on the ground. Barty was leaning over him, wand out, eyes darting back and forth in fear and confusion.

"He's coming," Harry whispered, wheezing as he tried to sit up. He coughed. His throat was on fire—he must have choked on his own spit.

"Anapneo," Barty cast, and Harry gasped as he felt a firm punch to his chest. His airway was suddenly clear, though, and he managed to stumble to his feet just in time to see the Dark Lord apparate soundlessly right in front of them. He was tall and thin, so pale his skin was almost translucent, and completely bald.

Green eyes met red and Harry pitched forward, his scar erupting in agony again, almost blinding him. Pressing his hands to it did nothing to soothe the pain. The skin beneath his fingertips was damp and clammy, from sweat or blood he couldn't tell.

"Harry," a high, raspy voice whispered, cutting through the roaring of his blood in his ears. A cold hand brushed his fingers aside gently, and the pain somehow intensified, as if a battering ram were being smashed against the inside of his skull. He keened through his gritted teeth, trying not to scream. "Look at me."

Though he wanted to clench his eyes shut and never open them again, Harry forced his eyelids to part and stared into the Dark Lord's gleaming red eyes, their slit pupils just inches from his own. Something cool and slippery seemed to sink into his head with a splash, and suddenly the pain was gone. Only the dull ache of too much air passing through his heaving chest remained. He sucked in a last deep breath and held it there.

"Curious," said the Dark Lord. He looked down, and Harry's eyes flickered to the side to see Barty prostrated on the steps, heedless of the rain pelting his visibly shuddering body. "Also curious. A second dead Death Eater, come back to life in as many days. Get up, Barty. Won't you invite your lord inside?"

Barty sprang to his feet in a blur. The door slammed open without him touching it and he rushed into the house, dripping on the linoleum. He bowed low. "Master, please come in. I'm so grateful that you're here, thank you Master, thank you…"

The Dark Lord held up a hand as he entered and Barty stopped speaking instantly, like a paused record. Harry hurried after him, heart pounding with some unknown cocktail of social anxiety and fear for his life.

Barty ushered the Dark Lord to the armchair in the parlour and then knelt in front of him. He leaned down momentarily to kiss the hem of his robe, before sitting back with his hands clasped and head bowed.

Harry sat on the ground some distance away but not out of reach, half-hiding behind the tea table. The Dark Lord paid him no mind and reached out to tilt Barty's chin up. They stared at each other in silence for about a minute—legilimency, Harry supposed. Barty looked increasingly tense, as if he were in pain, and when the Dark Lord broke eye contact he slumped slightly in relief, gasping.

"Barty, my dear friend, my faithful servant," the Dark Lord said almost fondly, taking Barty's face gently in both hands, "how you have suffered for me all these years. You are not like the others. Your faith in me has never wavered. I recognise it. It pleases me. What can Lord Voldemort grant you, so that you will not have suffered in vain?"

"Master…" Barty's breath hitched, and he paused, as if overcome. Tears glistened at the corner of his eyes, though they did not fall. "It was never in vain. All I ask for is to serve you again, to stand at your side and bask in your glory. I need nothing else."

"Naturally," said the Dark Lord, releasing his face to clap Barty firmly on the shoulder, like a proud father. "You were always useful to me, and I know you will prove yourself most useful again. Know that you have my favour."

The Dark Lord gave him a light push, and Barty got to his feet with a lax grin on his face and retreated to sit on the opposite couch. Now the Dark Lord turned to Harry and beckoned for him to approach. Harry stood up too quickly, smashing his knee into the tea table. Holding back a wince, he hobbled over, sure that his face was flashing colours as fear and embarrassment warred with each other.

Should he kneel, as Barty had done? He wasn't exactly one of the Dark Lord's followers, but when he was finally standing there, just a little above eye level, it felt too awkward and he lowered himself onto the rug, ignoring the smarting in his bruised knee.

"Barty, did you know that your guest is none other than Harry Potter?" the Dark Lord asked conversationally, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Yes, Master, he did say his name was Harry," said Barty, sounding uncertain. The Dark Lord smiled thinly, his eyes darting down to Harry.

"Fascinating. I noticed something of this at Hogwarts too, that nobody seemed capable of truly recognising you except for me. Why is that, I wonder?" he murmured.

"There's a fidelius charm on my name. Sir," Harry managed haltingly, trying to think of it like he was speaking to a professor. Nothing to be afraid of.

The Dark Lord made a sort of lilting sound in the back of his throat. "Dumbledore's handiwork?"

"No, sir, my uncle's," Harry said.

"The false uncle, yes. I remember," said the Dark Lord. "I confess, I have never heard of the fidelius charm being used to hide an identity. Such a complex thing to be made secret. But no. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, is not your identity, is it? As you said, it is merely your name. Yes… you told me, before, that you think of yourself as 'Just Harry.'"

Harry nodded.

"Very well then, Harry. I know that we parted in less-than-ideal circumstances last time, with no proper farewell. I want you to know that I have not forgotten your help in restoring me to my body, and that I consider us… even," the Dark Lord said. "Perhaps you even deserve a reward for your admirable initiative. Ah, yes, first, I owe you your book."

He raised a pale hand and a familiar book shimmered into existence. Harry received Secrets of the Hieroglyphical Figures numbly and clutched it to his chest, too blindsided to say anything.

"It was instrumental in my restoration," the Dark Lord told him.

"That's… good. Thanks for giving it back," Harry said, a pit forming in his stomach at the confirmation that it must have helped the Dark Lord figure out whatever trick there was to the philosopher's stone, as Dumbledore had hoped he would not.

"Certainly. Is there anything else you would like? You have Lord Voldemort's attention. Take a minute to think."

This must be what dealing with the devil felt like, Harry thought. His first instinct was simply to refuse anything else beyond perhaps some help getting back home. Actually, no. Harry remembered that he could call Rosenkol to help him with that, if need be. So he didn't need anything.

But he had Lord Voldemort's positive attention, something he might never have again. The Dark Lord had already said that they were even. It couldn't hurt to get confirmation, could it?

Harry licked his dry lips, and then said, "I know you said that we're even. Does that mean you won't try to kill me again? That's all I want."

"As long as you do nothing to oppose me," the Dark Lord agreed.

"I won't," Harry said quickly.

"Consider it done," the Dark Lord said, with almost suspicious alacrity. He continued, "I am curious, however. Did Dumbledore tell you anything interesting after I left?"

This question was extremely vague, and yet if Petri's hypothesis was right, Harry could guess exactly what the Dark Lord was asking after. There was no knowing, however, if that was really the case, so he said, "He refused to tell me when I asked him why you tried to kill me as a baby."

He remembered that the Dark Lord had been cagey about the subject before, but Harry did not know how else to answer, so he met red eyes with as much challenge as he could muster.

"Unfortunate," said the Dark Lord, betraying no emotion. "Tell me. Why do you think I tried to kill you?"

Harry was thrown by this question. What was he supposed to say? "I don't know."

"Humour me," the Dark Lord said, his voice suddenly clear and smooth, like a river, and ever more threatening for it. Harry realised after a beat that he had spoken in Parseltongue.

He couldn't lie, Harry reminded himself, because he was pretty sure the Dark Lord was a legilimens, and breaking eye contact would be as good as admitting dishonesty. That was a known danger. Telling the truth brought on an unknown one. He steeled himself and, thinking of Shy's runespoor, he said, "I tried divination." He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, perhaps at the sound of Parseltongue. "Everything I tried said that my fate was to die at your hand. So I looked for the reason, but there wasn't one, except that it was fated. So I thought, you and Dumbledore must have done divination and seen the same thing, or there was a prophecy."

The Dark Lord looked genuinely surprised for a moment. "I see that you have been up to plenty of extracurricular studying, as always. Your guess is correct. There was a prophecy. Would you like to know what it said?"

Harry stared for a moment in disbelief. "What's the price?" he finally asked. The Dark Lord smiled.

"You will have to retrieve the recording yourself, from the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry," he said.

"I can just go there and ask to see it?" Harry asked, confused.

"I am afraid not. You will need to break in. I will, of course, provide assistance," said the Dark Lord. Harry realised suddenly that this meant that the Dark Lord, too, did not know what exactly the prophecy said, only that it existed and that it implied that he and Harry would duel to the death. From the shift in the Dark Lord's expression, it was clear that he knew what Harry had deduced. Harry thought quickly.

"Am I allowed to say no? If I find out what the prophecy said, and it's bad, then we could both be worse off than now. Right now, we've agreed not to fight already. Isn't it better if we don't know?"

The Dark Lord looked pensive. But then he nodded once. "It is your choice not to know. But I shall not cease my own efforts in obtaining the prophecy. And if you change your mind in the future, I shall not aid you."

That seemed fair, Harry thought, but it meant he would inevitably be the only one left ignorant. And that was almost certainly a poor position to be in. If that was the case, "Never mind, fine, I'll help—we can get the prophecy together," he said.

The Dark Lord smiled coldly. "Very good," he said, switching to his raspy English. "One month from now, on the twenty-ninth of July, at sunset, you will wait before the gateway to Diagon Alley, alone. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, not entirely certain what he had just agreed to, or whether he had really had a choice after all.

The Dark Lord nodded and then stood up abruptly, Barty mirroring him almost immediately. Harry tried to stand, but his legs felt like jelly, and he had to push himself up against the tea table.

"Await my call, Barty," the Dark Lord said. "Do not summon me again."

"Yes, Master, of course I won't, not without your leave. Good night, Master," Barty said breathlessly.

The Dark Lord disapparated, and it was as if the air itself gave a sigh of relief and lightened. Harry certainly felt as if some heavy drape had been lifted from his shoulders. A mild headache that he had not even noticed became clear in its absence. He stood up a little straighter.

Barty turned to him almost immediately, looking utterly bemused. "You're a parselmouth, like my master. And you summoned him with my mark! And—is it true, you helped to restore him?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry said. His fear had been all used up for the Dark Lord, but his awkwardness still remained in generous measure. Come to think of it, however, the Dark Lord had not mentioned anything about his using Barty's mark. From the way Barty had reacted, it was clearly abnormal and unexpected.

"Are you… his son?" Barty asked. Harry choked on his involuntary snort.

"No, no!" he hacked out between coughs. Barty looked relieved.

"But then, how could you be a parselmouth? It's a Slytherin family trait," he muttered.

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. "I'm pretty sure I'm not related to him."

Barty didn't look like he quite believed him. "All right, Mr Harry with the secret name. I shan't pry. I suppose I owe you a thank you. I really didn't think he would answer a summons. And he didn't even punish me. I suppose I'm a fool and a coward," Barty looked down at his mark again. It had turned charcoal black.

Harry wanted to protest, to tell him that he was right, that the Dark Lord wouldn't have come. That moment when he had recognised the house, Harry was sure that that had been him and not the Dark Lord. But of course, he couldn't say anything. He'd missed his opportunity to reveal his connection. Now it was by necessity another secret.

"It was really unexpected," Harry said lamely. "I suppose you got what you were looking for though. I should probably be going now."

"You can use the floo," Barty said, gesturing to the wide fireplace with his wand. A spark flew out and the logs within ignited, crackling merrily. "Powder's in the jar up top."

Harry grimaced. He had forgotten about floo, but he supposed Barty didn't want another incident happening as a result of attempted side-along apparition. Clutching his book to his chest, he took a handful of powder and tossed it in the fire. He took a deep breath, stepped in, and said, "Sixty-six Knockturn Alley!"

Dizzy and sooty, he emerged in the darkness of the owl shed, immediately struck by the dank smell of droppings and old hay. Wrinkling his nose, he hurried outside, only to be nearly barrelled over by an elf-shaped projectile.

"Wizardling is safe! Why didn't he call for Rosenkol?" Rosenkol demanded, teary black eyes glistening in the dim starlight.

The coppery scent of blood struck him at once, stark and discordant against the damp grass and petrichor. "You're bleeding?" Harry asked. Rosenkol showed him his bandaged arms, and Harry followed the stained linen down to the elf's torso, where it disappeared beneath the pinned funeral shroud. He looked like a mummy.

"Rosenkol could not find Wizardling anywhere! He could not keep him safe, so he had to punish himself," the elf explained, somehow managing to look reproachful about his self-inflicted torture. Harry was unimpressed.

"Sorry," he said, anyway. "I got knocked out for a while, but then I convinced, er, Winky's master to let me leave." He felt a little muddled, like he'd stayed up all night after staying up all day, which of course had not been the case. Perhaps this was the crash after the constant nerve-wracking tension of the Dark Lord's presence.

Rosenkol teared up again. "Rosenkol is sorry he could not find Wizardling, Winky was hiding well. He searched all around for who was Winky's master, but nobody would tell, they laughed at Rosenkol and did not help," the elf cried. "It is all Rosenkol's fault, he took you to Winky, he did not stop her."

"It's all right," Harry said, patting Rosenkol on the back. The elf flinched, and Harry withdrew hurriedly, realising that he was probably aggravating injuries. "Can I heal you?"

"No!" Rosenkol almost screamed, jumping back. "Rosenkol is deserving this pain."

"Look, no harm done, I'm fine," Harry said. "I don't think you could have done anything. I should have called you to let you know I was all right. Sorry."

Rosenkol nodded, and changed the subject. "Wizardling is coming inside, and staying there," he said, tugging Harry toward the coffin house. "Rosenkol is telling Master Joachim that he is being found."

"Wait, what? You told Master—of course you did," Harry muttered. "Is he here?"

Rosenkol shook his head. "He is still being in Norway," he said, and ushered Harry down the steps, before popping away.

Harry figured he was going to be in for it when Petri came back, even though none of this had realistically been his fault. Should he tell Petri about the Dark Lord? Barty? Everything he had seen and said tonight seemed impossibly illicit. The Dark Lord hadn't told him to keep his mouth shut, but at the same time, Harry did not want to try a new flavour of cruciatus curse.

And what was he supposed to do with the book? Rosenkol hadn't asked him about it—thank Merlin elves were discreet. Reading it was out of the question, as he was sure it would still make almost no sense to him, but at the same time he had now learned the hard way that it contained priceless information for those who could understand it.

He shoved it in his cauldron under his bed. It was a good thing Petri didn't know legilimency. But Silviu did, and so Harry resolved to spend as long as he could avoiding the vampire. One month, the Dark Lord had said. Sunset.