Chapter 2
"Wake up!"
Hands shook Harry so roughly, Harry's teeth clattered. He was awake at once, and he opened his eyes, confused.
Voldemort stared down at him, eyes narrowed and thin lips pursed. "The objective of keeping watch is to stay awake so you can hear any intruders enter the house."
"I fell asleep, didn't I?" Harry said, unsure.
"Yes, you worthless child!"
Harry flinched. "Shit. Sorry. Didn't mean to."
"Useless words," Voldemort said, and turned on his heels, his blue dressing gown billowing. "Find a way to stay awake from now on, or I will hex your eyelids off."
"Yeah." Harry slid his glasses up his nose and got up from the chair. He found a pair of slippers in the wardrobe, and he stepped into them before following Voldemort out the room. They were slightly too big, but it was better than nothing.
A box filled with food and drinks sat on the kitchen table, and beside it lay a copy of the Daily Prophet. They both leaned over to read the front page. Harry didn't really care he was standing right next to Voldemort. He now knew Voldemort wasn't going to kill him, and he did want to know what other lies Snape had come up with.
'PREPARATIONS FOR FUNERAL OF THE CENTURY ARE UNDERWAY'
Harry sighed, and Voldemort gave a loud snort.
"Where are they going to bury me, anyway?" Harry mumbled, and skimmed through the article. Godric's Hollow, as it turned out. "It doesn't mention your burial."
"I'm quite sure my body has already been incinerated by now," Voldemort said, and Harry couldn't argue with that. He read a few more lines of the article – all poetic waxing over how beautiful his funeral was going to be – and then he noticed a smaller article at the bottom of the page.
'AUROR AND FIANCE FOUND DEAD IN FLAT'
Harry swallowed, and read the first couple of lines.
Auror Nymphadora Tonks and her fiancé Remus John Lupin were found dead in Ms Tonks' London flat late last night. Evidence shows they were the victims of a brutal attack, which caused them severe physical injuries...
Harry couldn't read more, and he took a step back as his breath got stuck in his throat.
"Fenrir Greyback," was all Voldemort said. There was no emotion in his voice, and Harry wanted to punch him for it.
First Sirius. Then Dumbledore. And now Tonks and Lupin.
"This is all your fucking fault!" Harry felt fury explode in his chest as he turned to look at Voldemort.
"Was it my wand that struck them dead? No? Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut." Voldemort sounded impatient, but Harry was too angry to really notice it.
"These people were my friends!"
"No, these people are casualties of war," Voldemort said, eyes narrowing as he took a step closer to Harry.
"You don't know anything about friends. You only have servants who stab you in your back the first chance they get." Before Harry could say more to vent his anger and grief, Voldemort grabbed the front of Harry's pyjamas, raised Harry off the floor, and smashed him against the invisible barrier. Voldemort mumbled something, and Harry felt fire burst through him, right before his body went slack.
Voldemort stepped back and, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, walked towards the refrigerator.
And Harry tried to move, tried to pry himself off the barrier, but his body refused to do anything he wanted it to. He couldn't even talk. Voldemort had magically glued him to the barrier, his feet dangling in the air. Glancing to his side Harry saw Voldemort take eggs, bacon, and butter from the fridge and make his way to the stove.
"You have to understand, Harry," Voldemort said as he reached for a frying pan, "that I need you alive to help break the spell. But I can keep you alive in many different ways. It's up to you how you're going to spend your time in this house."
Harry blinked.
Not looking at him, Voldemort lit the fire on the stove, and broke three eggs in the pan. "I'm more than willing to set our...differences aside for the time being. However, if you're going to behave like an uncontrolled teenager, I'll gladly keep you immobilized for as long as it takes me to find a way to end that spell." Voldemort reached for a spatula, and glanced at Harry. "Is that clear?"
Harry blinked a few times in a row to say that yes, it was perfectly clear.
"Then I'll release you," Voldemort said, replacing the spatula on the counter. "Behave like that one more time, and I will make your life here miserable." Voldemort pressed his hand against Harry's chest. Heat seeped into Harry, and Harry got control back over his body. He slumped to the floor, reaching for one of the chairs to keep himself upright.
"Do you want breakfast?" Voldemort asked, walking back to the stove.
"No. I've lost my appetite." Harry glanced at the newspaper, and felt his stomach turn. "But why? Snape got what he wanted already, didn't he?"
"These were members of Dumbledore's Order, were they not?"
Harry wasn't sure what to say to that. He didn't want to tell Voldemort anything about the Order, but then again, Tonks and Remus were dead, so it didn't really matter anymore what he told Voldemort about them. "Yeah," he whispered, his throat dry.
"Then this is a perfectly logical strategy," Voldemort said, and continued scrambling the eggs over the fire.
Harry got a carton of orange juice and a glass, and sat down at the kitchen table, feeling numb and defeated. "How so?"
"Because Dumbledore's followers could argue the tale Severus told the world. They could discover the truth. Severus is merely eliminating any possible threats to his scheme. A clever strategy indeed."
Sipping his juice, Harry considered that. And he didn't like the direction his thoughts were taking one bit. "You mean, he'll try to kill others, too?"
"Yes. Anyone who can debunk his version of the story. He'll pick them off one by one, or as in this case, pair by pair."
Closing his eyes, Harry leaned back in his chair. "Everyone close to Dumbledore? Everyone in the Order?"
"And everyone close to you, Harry." Voldemort looked at Harry over his shoulder. "It's the only way Severus can ensure the truth will never come out."
"God," Harry gasped, because there were a dozen names and faces swirling through his mind. Snape was going to kill them all. His friends. Everyone in the Order. Harry's stomach turned again, and Harry shoved his chair back and fled the kitchen. He ran upstairs, burst into the bathroom, and fell to his knees in front of the toilet. His stomach heaved, but not much came out, and Harry sat like that, hands curled around the toilet seat, for a long time.
The shower didn't wash away any of the names or faces that kept intruding on Harry's thoughts. Nor did the hot water drive the chill from Harry's bones.
Snape was going to kill them all. Each and every one of those faces in his mind's eye. And there was nothing Harry could do about it.
Harry dried himself with a fresh towel, scrubbing so hard he left most of his skin reddened. But that didn't stop the despair from coiling inside Harry, either. Towel wrapped around his hips Harry walked back to the bedroom, where he found Voldemort selecting a black robe from the wardrobe.
Ignoring Voldemort, Harry stood in front of the window and stared outside until he heard Voldemort leave the room. Then he gathered clean clothes for himself and got dressed. His arms and legs felt heavy, and it cost Harry a lot more energy than usual to pull on boxers and jeans and a shirt.
The clothes fit a lot better than Dudley's hand-me-downs had ever done, but that tiny comfort did nothing to easy Harry's thoughts. Sighing, he glanced around the room and decided he might as well make the bed.
It seemed strange he and Voldemort had shared the same bed. Just like it still seemed strange he and Voldemort could actually be in the same room together without any attempted murder.
They needed to find a way out of the house quickly, or Harry wouldn't have any friends left.
And when the bloody hell had he and Voldemort become they?
Voldemort was the enemy. Voldemort had killed his parents. Voldemort had tried to kill Harry, over and over again.
But Snape was killing Harry's friends.
Harry stared down at the sheets, and ripped them off the bed in a burst of furious helplessness. He threw them to the floor and slammed the pillows against the far wall, and then he stood there, panting.
Snape was going to kill his friends and there was nothing Harry could do to stop him.
Harry stood there for a long time, numb and exhausted and terrified. Then the door creaked open, revealing Voldemort in black robes. He smelled like shaving lotion, and that spicy scent was strangely comforting. It reminded Harry of Sirius and Lupin, who'd smelled like that in Grimmauld Place.
Sirius and Lupin were dead.
"Make that bed," Voldemort said. "Then join me downstairs. We need to test the spell again."
Harry didn't have the energy to protest, to tell Voldemort he could bloody well make his own bed. Voldemort closed the door, and Harry stared at the heap of crumpled sheets.
He made the bed again, though this time it was a half-hearted attempt, but when he was done at least the pillows were back in place and the sheets were spread out across the mattress. If Voldemort wasn't satisfied by that, he could make the bed from now on.
Harry trudged down the stairs and found Voldemort in the living room, standing in the same spot as the previous night, in front of the high windows.
"Come," Voldemort said, and Harry went willingly, no longer uncertain what Voldemort wanted of him. He placed one hand against the barrier and offered his other hand to Voldemort, who took it, and then hot, welcome fire burned all Harry's fears away.
Harry welcomed that heat, that mind-numbing magic that made his knees buckle and his skin tingle.
It was much better than the numbness he'd felt before.
Closing his eyes, Harry leaned against the barrier and kept his fingers closed around Voldemort's, and he just absorbed the magic, because it was all there was.
"Harry, do you know any snowy owls?"
Harry snapped his eyes open and stared at Voldemort. "What?"
Releasing Harry's hand, Voldemort nodded his head towards the yard. "There's a snowy owl in that pine tree, staring at us."
"Hedwig!" The idea of Hedwig having found him filled Harry with such relief, he hardly missed the magical heat now that Voldemort had broken their connection. "That's my owl!"
And it was Hedwig. She spread her wings, and soared towards the house.
"Hedwig!" Harry tried to bang his fist against the window, but all he felt was the barrier.
"Tell her to turn back now," Voldemort said, narrowing his eyes.
"What?" Harry briefly glanced at Voldemort. "Of course not. I'll try to tell her to go to one of my friends."
"Don't be stupid!" Voldemort snapped. "This house is most certainly not only protected on the inside!"
"Oh." Harry's eyes widened as he saw Hedwig flying closer and closer. "Oh, shit. Hedwig! Go back!" He tried to pound his fist against the window in sheer desperation. "Go back. Go to Hermione. Please!"
But Hedwig didn't seem to understand what he was saying, and she flapped her wings and flew closer still. When she was only a few feet away from the window, a green flash lit up around her, and she dropped straight down to the grass.
"Hedwig!" Harry tried to claw his way through the barrier, ice-cold fear gripping his heart. "Hedwig!"
But Hedwig didn't move. Her body lay still on the grass, her head tilted back and wings spread out.
"Hedwig!"
"She's dead," Voldemort said, and Harry wanted to scream at him that she couldn't be dead. But if she wasn't dead, then why wasn't she moving?
Inhaling ragged breaths, Harry slumped against the barrier, eyes fixed on Hedwig's lifeless body. Why wasn't she moving? Why wasn't she flapping her wings to try to get up?
Voldemort stood still beside Harry, his thin lips pursed. But all Harry could do was stare at Hedwig and hope she'd only been knocked out for a little while.
"I can only imagine what Severus has done to Nagini by now," Voldemort said, and then walked out of the room.
And it took Harry a few moments to realize Voldemort had spoken those words in parseltongue.
Harry spent the rest of the day in front of the living room window. At first he stood, staring at Hedwig's body, but as the day went on, his legs grew heavy and his back started to ache, so eventually, Harry slid to the floor.
Drawing his knees up and hooking his arms around his legs, Harry sat and stared outside. He watched the sun sink in the sky, the shadows move across the lawn, and the summer wind dance through the soft feathers on Hedwig's chest. She didn't move, and when flies started gathering around her body Harry was forced to conclude that she was dead.
The emptiness that swallowed him did help Harry evaluate the situation he was in. Feeling numb kept his emotions, the grief and anger and fury, at bay, and Harry examined every possibility there was to dealing with the strange, horrifying twist his life had taken.
He could kill himself. If he killed himself, Voldemort would be stuck inside that house forever, and Harry would save the world. Sort of. But if he killed himself, Snape would still be out there, hunting his friends. If he killed himself there was no one left who knew the truth and could stop Snape.
So killing himself wasn't an option.
He needed to escape. He needed to find a way to stop Snape, and he could only do that if he got out of that bloody house. And to get out of the house, he needed Voldemort.
Voldemort wanted to kill him the moment the spell broke. And Harry wanted to kill Voldemort, too.
But if Voldemort tried to kill him, and Harry tried to kill Voldemort, Snape would still be out there. Killing Voldemort just didn't seem as important anymore now that there was a new enemy lurking around the corner, set on killing everyone Harry cared for.
Snape had already killed Dumbledore, Tonks and Lupin. And Hedwig, Harry's second real friend in the wizarding world. A present from his first real friend, Hagrid.
And Harry didn't want to have to add names to that mental list. Harry didn't even want to consider the possibility of Snape going after Ron and Hermione and Ginny, and everyone else.
The sun slowly disappeared behind the trees in the distance, and Harry heard vague sounds coming from the kitchen, followed by the smell of supper cooking. But Harry wasn't hungry or thirsty. He was too numb to care about food.
When darkness had set completely, and Hedwig's body had disappeared from Harry's view, Voldemort walked into the living room. He stopped beside Harry, and without saying a word, he drew the curtains shut. And Harry didn't object, but he didn't move either.
"You've been there long enough," Voldemort said, staring down at Harry. "Go to bed."
Harry snorted, and wondered if he should tell Voldemort he sounded like a bloody parent scolding their child. But that thought was too foreign and too painful, so Harry only nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He made his way out of the room and up the stairs with slow, tired steps, and Voldemort followed him up, turning off the lights behind them.
Inside the bedroom, Voldemort settled in the leather chair and poured himself a drink from the bottle of whisky he'd left there the previous night. Harry turned his back to Voldemort, changed into his striped pyjamas, and crawled under the sheets. The moment he pulled the sheets up Voldemort switched off the light, and Harry heard the leather creaking as Voldemort made himself more comfortable.
The darkness seemed soothing, easing Harry's mind towards voicing the decision he'd already made.
"I want to make a deal," he said, glancing at the vague, dark-blue figure near the window.
Voldemort turned the light back on and stared at Harry. "What kind of deal?"
"That when we find a way out of here, we won't try to kill each other until after we kill Snape."
Voldemort's eyes widened for a second, and then he gave Harry a thin smile. "But what about the prophecy, Harry? You can't expect me to ignore fate itself, now can you?"
"About the prophecy," Harry said, sitting up in the bed. He thought of Dumbledore, of all the things Dumbledore had told him over the past year. But Dumbledore was dead now. "It's bullshit," Harry whispered, and he closed his eyes, feeling as though he'd just betrayed Dumbledore even in death.
The chair creaked, and a moment later, the mattress dipped. Voldemort sat down beside him, leaning back against the headboard, glass and bottle in his hands.
"Talk."
Sighing, Harry snatched the bottle of whisky from Voldemort's hand and took a gulp. The liquor burned away his reluctance, and Harry was grateful for it.
"The prophecy only means something because we act on it," Harry said, and took another gulp.
"The prophecy spoke of the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord," Voldemort said, frowning at Harry.
"Yeah, but if you hadn't acted on it, I never would have become what I am." Harry made a vague gesture towards his forehead.
"According to whom?"
"According to Dumbledore."
Voldemort leaned his head against the wall, and downed his glass in one gulp. Then he held it out to Harry, who refilled it and took another swig of whisky from the bottle.
"But that was only part of the prophecy," Harry continued, his voice soft. "The rest is about one of us having to kill the other. But the strange thing is, we don't have to act on it. If we don't act on it, if we decide not to kill each other, the prophecy will simply be a worthless prediction. That's how Dumbledore explained it."
"So you're saying if I hadn't tried to kill you all those years ago, the prophecy wouldn't have come true? And if we decide not to kill each other now, there will be no consequences?"
"Yeah," Harry whispered. He sipped the bottle again, and started feeling warm from the alcohol. "Of course, I'm quite sure that once we get out of here and we continue to do the things we do, we will come to a confrontation eventually. But we can postpone it as long as we like."
"And you wish to postpone it?"
Harry nodded, and looked up at Voldemort. "I want to see Snape dead. I want to kill him. So I want to make a deal with you. We get out of here, but we don't go after each other. Not right away. We go after Snape first."
"Hmm." Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "And simply having my word I won't kill you right away is enough for you?"
"Er..." Harry hadn't actually considered that part of the deal yet. "No."
Chuckling, Voldemort sipped from his glass.
"Perhaps we can make an Unbreakable Vow?"
Voldemort choked on his whiskey, and coughed. "An Unbreakable Vow? Are you mad, child? I will not put my life at risk for your desire to get revenge." He inhaled a deep breath. "Besides, you need a wand and a Bonder to cast one."
"Oh," Harry said. Perhaps Voldemort was right. It seemed a bit much to put their lives on the line to swear to kill Snape before they tried killing each other.
"However, I think we can manage a simple Magical Vow."
"What does it do?"
"It will prohibit you to do the things we'll agree on. If I agree not to kill you before we kill Severus, I will be unable to raise my wand or any other weapon at you with the intention to take your life."
Harry nodded. That sounded like the sort of confirmation he needed to make a deal with Voldemort. "We need magic for it?"
"Yes, but I believe we can use the barrier for that. And we'll need our blood to seal the bond."
Swallowing, Harry stared at his lap. A voice in his mind, which sounded a lot like Hermione, told him taking a vow like that with Voldemort, one that involved blood, perhaps wasn't the best of ideas. Harry quickly took another gulp of whisky to silence that voice.
"Come," Voldemort said, and rose from the bed. He stood in front of the window, drew the curtains back, drained the last of his whisky, and then smashed the glass on the windowsill. Harry joined him there, and accepted the shard of glass Voldemort offered him.
"Like so." Voldemort cut across the palm of his right hand, creating a large, bloody gash. Harry mimicked him, and winced as the glass cut into his flesh. Then Voldemort offered Harry his bleeding hand, and Harry took it, pressing his bloodied palm against Voldemort's.
Nothing happened until Voldemort pressed their hands against the barrier. Familiar heat flushed inside Harry, hotter around their clasped hands, which glowed a faint pink against the night's sky.
"Now what?" Harry asked.
"Now you name your conditions for the Magical Vow."
Harry inhaled a deep breath. "You will not try to kill me in any way before we kill Snape."
"I swear I will not kill you or try to kill you before we kill Severus Snape," Voldemort said carefully, and their hands glowed bright pink for a moment. "You will not try to kill me, or take any preparations or actions to end my life before we kill Severus Snape."
Harry swallowed. Did Voldemort suspect he knew of the Horcruxes? It sounded like it. But Harry decided it didn't really matter. "I swear I will not try to kill you, or take any preparations or actions to end your life before we kill Severus Snape."
Again, the pink light around their hands glowed brightly, and Harry trembled as more fire burned inside him.
"And thus I, Lord Voldemort, born Tom Marvolo Riddle, take this Magical Vow," Voldemort said, and nodded at Harry to repeat those words.
"And thus I, Harry James Potter, take this Magical Vow."
A bright pink flash enveloped their hands, and then the glow disappeared entirely. Voldemort pulled their hands back and released Harry. Turning his palm up, Harry stared at the large pink scar now marking his flesh.
"It's the evidence of our vow. It will not disappear until we've killed Severus Snape," Voldemort said, and showed Harry the similar pink scar on his own palm.
"Okay," Harry said, lowering his hand. "So now we really can't kill each other?"
Voldemort's lips curved up in a sly smile, and before Harry could stop him, Voldemort reached for one of the shards of glass and made a slashing motion towards Harry's throat. But before the glass touched Harry's skin, Voldemort's arm stopped abruptly.
Harry inhaled a startled breath, staring into Voldemort's narrowed eyes. Voldemort looked amused.
"Try it," Voldemort said, and handed the shard to Harry.
Gritting his teeth, Harry made to slice Voldemort's throat wide open, but before the shard could cut through Voldemort's flesh Harry's arm stopped, as though invisible hands were holding him back.
"Wow," Harry said, staring at his own arm with wide eyes.
Voldemort smirked, and pushed Harry's arm down. "Satisfied?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Now go to bed. We'll continue to try to break the spell tomorrow."
Harry crawled back under the sheets as Voldemort reclaimed his seat near the window, and the combination of the lingering heat from their combined magic and the warmth of the whisky inside him lulled Harry quickly to sleep.
"Wake up, Harry."
This time when Harry opened his eyes he remembered where he was and who he was with.
"I'm up," Harry said, blinking a few times. Voldemort's tall figure, wearing the blue dressing gown, slowly came into view. Harry sat up, reached for his glasses, and saw it was four in the morning. Then he forced himself out of bed, and he slipped past Voldemort before the dressing gown fell to the floor.
On the nightstand in front of the window stood a mug and a thermos, and Harry recognized the strong scent coming from the steaming mug.
"You made coffee?" he asked, surprised.
"Well, yes," Voldemort said, sliding between the sheets. "It was either that or staple your eyelids to your forehead. I would have preferred to do the latter, but I couldn't find a stapler."
Harry stared at Voldemort for a moment, and then released a nervous snort of laughter. Voldemort shot him an amused smile, and lay his head on the pillow.
"Thanks," Harry whispered, and sat down in the chair.
"I hope for your sake that it'll work," Voldemort muttered, and shifted under the sheets one last time before his body stilled.
Harry sipped from the mug. The coffee was hot and strong, and while Harry had never really liked coffee, he did think it would help him stay awake until morning. Or at least he hoped it would, because he did not want to test Voldemort's patience with him.
Harry did stay awake throughout the night. He drank the entire thermos of coffee, and tried not to become bored out of his mind. Which was difficult, so Harry turned watching Lord Voldemort sleep into his new favourite activity.
There wasn't much else to do besides taking the occasional trip to the bathroom, which proved the highlight of Harry's sleepless night.
Voldemort looked very peaceful in his sleep. He hardly moved, save for a turn of his head or his shoulder, his breathing stayed deep and even, and his smooth skin was almost as white as the sheets. And every now and then his eyes moved behind his eyelids, and Harry wondered what he was dreaming about.
Harry's own dreams had been both promising and surreal. He vaguely remembered standing in front of Hogwarts, Voldemort by his side, and they held hands as they raised their wands at Snape. Harry supposed it was simply his subconscious dealing with the Magical Vow he'd made with Voldemort.
What was that saying again? The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Right. Harry didn't think of Voldemort as a friend, but he was forced to admit that with the Magical Vow in place, Voldemort had become an ally. A powerful ally, one who could and would help Harry kill Snape. And that was all that mattered to Harry at that moment. After they dealt with Snape, Harry would focus on his fight against Voldemort again.
The sun rose outside, and Harry wondered when Voldemort would wake up, or if he should wake him. But Voldemort hadn't asked him to, so Harry figured he'd best let him sleep all he wanted.
A few minutes past nine, Voldemort stirred, rolling on his back and blinking his eyes open.
"I'm still awake!" Harry threw his arms up in a victorious gesture.
"So I hear." Voldemort's voice sounded raspy, and Harry chuckled at how bleary Voldemort looked.
"And now I have to piss. Again." Harry rushed out of the room and into the bathroom, and relieved himself for the umpteenth time that morning. And just as he rinsed his hands in the basin, Voldemort strolled in, dressing gown hanging open around his thin body. And as Harry glanced at him, he noticed that despite its slightly inhuman appearance, Voldemort's body still seemed to function like any other male in the morning.
Feeling his cheeks flush Harry fled the bathroom, but he halted at the top of the stairs. He wasn't sure what he'd find in the kitchen that morning, and that thought scared him. But before Harry could gather enough courage to dispose of that sudden fear Voldemort walked past him, and Harry followed him down the stairs, pleased to notice Voldemort had closed his dressing gown.
Inside the kitchen, they found a new box with food and drinks, and a new copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry lingered in the doorway while Voldemort stepped up to the table and read the headlines.
"They're burying you today," Voldemort said matter-of-factly.
"Ah." Harry shuffled closer to the table. "Any other news?"
"Two Aurors were killed."
Harry's heart sank, and he glanced around Voldemort at the small article on the front page.
'TWO AURORS DIE IN BATTLE WITH FUGITIVE DEATH EATERS'
Aurors Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt were killed yesterday when a team of Aurors discovered the hideout of five fugitive Death Eaters. Three Death Eaters – identified as Fenrir Greyback, Alecto Carrows and her brother Amycus Carrows – were killed in the fight as well. The other two Death Eaters fled before they could be apprehended, and their identities remain unknown...
"Clever Severus," Voldemort said, and Harry looked up at him in confusion. "Greyback and the Carrows were there at Hogwarts the night Severus killed Dumbledore," Voldemort continued, sounding displeased. "I'm certain Severus led them straight to those Aurors. He might have even cursed them in the back himself after he disposed of Moody and Shacklebolt."
"So he's erasing his tracks on both sides?"
"Precisely."
Sighing, Harry stared at the article again, though the letters blurred. Two more names to add to his mental list. Two more people he knew were dead.
No. He couldn't afford to have grief overpower him again. He had no time to give into the emptiness he'd felt the day before. He had to keep himself focused.
Harry shoved the Prophet away and instead busied himself with unloading the box of food. Voldemort opened the fridge and carried several things to the counter.
"Do you want breakfast?"
"Yes, please," Harry said. He was quite hungry, even though his stomach had filled with grief. He hadn't had anything to eat the previous day. He took milk and orange juice out of the box, and then wrinkled his nose.
"Yuck. I hate broccoli."
Voldemort glanced at Harry over his shoulder. "I don't much care for it, either. Throw it out."
Harry laughed, and it seemed wrong to do so with two more deaths to mourn, but laughing about broccoli at least kept his mind from chanting Dumbledore, Tonks, Lupin, Moody, Shacklebolt over and over again.
"And here I thought we'd have nothing in common," Harry said, throwing the broccoli in the bin. He felt pleased when Voldemort gave a snort of laughter. Talking and laughing about bloody broccoli was good. It kept the pulsing pain that tried to settle inside Harry's chest away.
After breakfast, Voldemort announced he was going to get showered and dressed, and he left Harry to do the dishes. Which wasn't an unfair deal, Harry thought, since Voldemort had cooked. Of course, when Harry went to fill the sink, he found the dirty dishes from the previous day there as well. It seemed Voldemort thought it was Harry's job to clean up after him.
But Harry didn't complain and just did the work, because it kept him busy, and keeping busy was better than letting his mind slip into a state of continuous thoughts of his dead friends.
When Voldemort came downstairs a while later, Harry was finished in the kitchen, so he decided to go wash up.
It was a simple morning routine, perfect for keeping busy. And as Harry took a shower and brushed his teeth and brushed his hair, he refused to think about Tonks and Lupin and Hedwig and Moody and Shacklebolt. There was no use in thinking about them while he was locked up and couldn't do anything about it.
Best to just keep busy.
Harry got dressed, then made the bed, and then checked the hamper in the bathroom. There was enough laundry to run a load in the washing machine. So Harry gathered it up and made his way to the small laundry room. Aunt Petunia had made him wash his own clothes since he was old enough to press the right buttons on the machine, so it only took Harry a few minutes to figure out how to work this washing machine.
There was a vacuum cleaner tucked away beside the dryer, he noticed. Harry dragged it to the bedroom, figuring that the floor could do with a bit of vacuuming. The repetitive movement and the dull noise made it easier not to think of those names and faces that wanted to take over his mind.
Patronus lessons with Lupin in his third year. Tonks helping him pack before Harry moved to Grimmauld Place for the first time. Moody showing Harry a picture of the original Order. Kingsley fighting bravely at the Department of Mysteries. Hagrid buying Hedwig for him, his first real birthday present. All the times Hedwig had nipped his fingers.
Harry gritted his teeth, and forced the vacuum cleaner around faster. He was not thinking about those things. Because it was no use. He was no use.
No use. No use. No use.
After he'd vacuumed their bedroom at least twice, Harry moved to the hallway and vacuumed it, too. Then he made his way down the stairs, the vacuum cleaner following him obediently as Harry cleaned every step. The downstairs hallway was next, followed by the kitchen, and then the living room.
Voldemort stood in front of the window, one hand on the invisible barrier, and he glanced at Harry over his shoulder. Harry ignored the curious look Voldemort gave him, and set to vacuuming the room with a vengeance. But he didn't go near the window. Not because Voldemort stood there, but because Harry knew what he'd see on the other side of the glass.
Hedwig. Dead.
No use. No use. No use.
Harry vacuumed the dining room next, and then the conservatory, even though neither of them had really used those rooms. And then there was nothing left to vacuum.
He carried the vacuum cleaner back to the laundry room. The washing machine was halfway through its cycle. Harry sighed, and decided that the bathroom could do with some cleaning.
He had to keep busy. Because if he didn't keep busy he'd go mad.
Lupin, Tonks, Hedwig, Moody, Shacklebolt.
No.
Harry filled the basin with water, and wiped the porcelain and the mirror. He cleaned out the shower stall and ran his cleaning cloth over the toilet. If he hadn't hesitated that dreadful night in his fourth year, if Cedric and he had taken action when they had the chance, Voldemort would have never returned and none of this would have happened.
No. No use.
And then the bathroom was clean, and Harry was at a loss as to what to do next.
He checked the washing machine. It wasn't done yet.
He returned to their bedroom, and smoothed the covers on their bed a few times. Then he rearranged the clothes in the wardrobe. If he hadn't left the Dursleys' on his own, none of this would have happened. If he'd kept his promise to Ron and Hermione, to not go searching for the Horcruxes without them, his friends would still be alive.
No. No use.
He checked the washing machine again. It was done, and he stuffed the damp clothes into the dryer and turned it on.
And then he couldn't think of anything else to do.
Harry stood in the hallway, staring at the stairs. He felt twitchy, as though his body demanded he do something, anything, to keep his mind from caving. He wished he had his broom. He wished he could go outside and fly for the rest of the day, fly until the sun set and then fly some more until it was time to go to bed.
His body started moving as though Harry had no control over it. Harry ran down the stairs and through the hallway until he reached the invisible barrier in front of the door. Then he turned around and ran back upstairs, all the way to the end of the hallway. He turned around and ran downstairs as fast as he could, his feet banging down the steps.
And back up again.
And back down again.
Faster.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
And then just as Harry rushed down the stairs, Voldemort stepped out of the living room, knife in one hand and something glittering in the other. Harry couldn't stop, and he crashed into Voldemort. He lost his balance and stumbled to the side.
Something cracked beneath his left shoe.
Harry slumped against the wall, and blinked as he slid his glasses up his nose. Voldemort stared at the floor for a few seconds, and then raised his narrowed gaze to Harry's face.
"You incompetent, useless, little halfwit!"
Harry flinched at the pure fury he heard in Voldemort's voice. He glanced down at the shattered pieces of something that looked like glass.
"I just spent an hour prying that crystal from a candlestick, and you just managed to ruin perhaps our only chance of escape from this house!"
Swallowing, Harry glanced up again. "Can't you just fix it? You know wandless magic."
"No, I can't just fix it, you ignorant fool! A crystal needs to be pure for it to concentrate magic! It can't be tampered with!"
"I – I'm sorry," Harry whispered.
"Oh, you will be." Voldemort backhanded Harry across his face, and again, and again. Harry's glasses flew to the side, and fell to the stone floor, one of the lenses cracking in three pieces. Harry tasted blood in his mouth and his cheek burned. And then Voldemort raised the knife he was still holding and made to jab it in Harry's throat, but his hand stilled just before the metal touched Harry's skin.
The Magical Vow.
Voldemort had wanted to kill him.
Harry stared into Voldemort's blazing red eyes for a few moments, and then turned on his feet and fled upstairs. He rushed inside their bedroom, threw the door shut, and leaned against it, much as he'd done the first night.
Voldemort had just tried to kill him. Because Harry had broken a crystal. A crystal that would have helped them escape.
His eyes falling shut, Harry leaned his head against the door. He wanted to hurt himself. He wanted to hurt himself like Voldemort had done. He'd ruined a good chance of escape.
And why?
Because he wasn't able to deal with the deaths of his friends? Because he'd allowed himself to lose control?
Voldemort was right. He was incompetent and useless.
Harry licked his lips, and felt blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He touched it with the tip of his finger, and then examined the red stain on his pale skin. He turned towards the wall beside the door, and traced a bloody line down the white wallpaper.
That was for Lupin.
He swiped more blood from the corner of his mouth, and added another line. For Tonks. And another. For Hedwig. One more. For Moody. And the last one. For Shacklebolt.
Five blood sacrifices for five friends Harry hadn't been able to help. Five smudges of blood on a pristine white wall, five admissions of Harry's impatience and incompetence.
Harry stared at them, licking across his lips and tasting salt and copper on his tongue.