15. The Free Press

The day was warm and soft. There was a trickle of a breeze through the trees and a slight ripple on the lake surface. Harry sat on the beach again, the second day in a row after the incident in the Ministry Atrium. The day before he had showed up to tea after spending most of the day on the beach on a blanket, surrounded by books and writing implements. No one had batted an eye or said a word. All Draco wanted to know was what kind of subject made him engrossed. Harry had told him that he would share if he ever learned enough to actually talk about it, and that had been the end of any and all questions.

Harry knew a lot about magical cores now, and their development and everything that could both stunt and increase them, which wasn't a lot frankly, but still he knew nothing about what had happened to Hermione and him. Not so much as a hint that what had happened was even possible, or how it conceivably could be done. Not even the extremely Dark texts Voldemort had loaned him had gotten him any closer to an answer. Except; what had happened should not have been possible. Of course Voldemort had tomes like that, of course he had tried to figure out how to become more powerful. He was the Dark Lord, after all.

A small part of Harry now feared that as Voldemort had begun to piece the bits together, he might demand that Harry tell him what had happened and how to replicate it. But that fear was just a small part of Harry, because Voldemort already knew that Harry was a lot more powerful now that he had been in his teenage years and that in itself should tell Voldemort that something had happened with Harry's magical core. Add Harry's research to that, and Voldemort already knew more than enough to demand answers from Harry, if he should wish it. Yet, Voldemort was sane now, so maybe he had a plan that made him wait before pushing for answers, with a patience that he hadn't had when he was insane. Harry couldn't know. He just knew that right now he had the freedom to spend the days outside, to read, and run and swim and enjoy the quiet, and right now Voldemort didn't push him for answers, or anything at all, really.

The cry of a bird of prey sounded above him and Harry looked up in time to dodge out of the way of a flying … something. Slowly he straightened from his crouch several steps away from his blanket and stared at what now sat where he had been moments before. It looked like a folded newspaper, of all things. The bird screeched again, and Harry realised it hadn't divebombed him, just bombed him … with a newspaper.

"Dobby?"

"Yes, Master Harry! Dobby hears you!" The little elf smiled widely and then shook his finger at Harry. "Master Harry cannot have any more coffees now. Master Harry needs water and food."

"Yes, I would like that, Dobby, but … could you check that newspaper for me, it was delivered rather unconventionally, and I don't want a nasty surprise. No, don't touch it!" He almost yanked the paper out from Dobby's hands but froze and met those big eyes.

"Dobby already check paper, Master Harry. It is safe. But bad! Very bad!" The little elf hissed at the paper and turned it around so Harry could see the front page. He noticed that it wasn't The Prophet, but a kind of newspaper he had never seen before, and then he noticed the big red letters across the front page.

Traitor!

The word was scrawled right over a picture of Voldemort and him. Harry's stomach sank when he realised it was from the Atrium incident. He swallowed hard and looked at what he could see of the picture.

"Dobby, could you … could you remove the word traitor, please. I … I would like to see the picture properly."

Dobby did and Harry's knees slowly gave out. It wasn't that he hadn't guessed that some of the photographers might have been able to take some pictures of the incident. No, he had assumed as much; it was how he looked in that picture.

It was off the first time Voldemort had turned Harry's head and made Harry look at him. Voldemort had a finger under his jaw and a hand around Harry's. Harry's eyes were huge and glued to Voldemort's face, his face slack and his body slightly leaning towards Voldemort. There was something in his face, a desperation, a fascination, a yearning, so strong, so obvious that Harry didn't wonder that someone thought he was a traitor. He looked completely spellbound while the two of them went through that same motion again and again.

And Voldemort? Harry couldn't truly remember how Voldemort had looked during the incident. He could remember the silken voice, the serene red eyes holding his gaze, the scent of him and the feel of his hand around his and his fingers touching his face. But how Voldemort had actually looked … No, Harry couldn't remember that.

The picture showed him that Voldemort had looked like Harry had felt him; a calm in the storm, a safe haven, someone that held his trust and wouldn't fail him. Someone that could and would keep him safe, and keep others safe from him.

Safe, when was the last time Harry had felt safe? Had he ever felt that way? He couldn't remember. Not at the Dursley, surely, and Hogwarts, while brilliant, had been one death trap after another. And after Hogwarts … years and years of war. No safety there. And yet … he had felt safe, so safe, for a few moments, staring into the eyes of his worst enemy. The man behind all his lifelong hardship, starting with the murder of his parents, the man behind all the years of war and loss and pain, the man behind so many deaths … He had made Harry feel safe. No matter how, no matter how transient; Voldemort should never have been able to make Harry feel safe. Never.

Yet he had.

Harry still hadn't experienced any lingering effects of the spell Voldemort had used to spellbind him, literally, it looked like. He might be a little more relaxed around him than before, but there was no yearning or anything like that. But seeing that picture and seeing himself like that and Voldemort … not scowling, not calculating nor sneering, but actually looking like Harry had felt him … That scared Harry. Because looking back Harry realised that he had been so far gone, Voldemort could have made the foulest of faces, and Harry probably wouldn't have noticed. But Voldemort hadn't.

Voldemort looked calm, in control, completely sure of himself and his power over the situation. There was no harshness or disgust in his face when he looked at Harry. None at all.

Harry continued to look at the picture for a long time. He forced himself to do it until he felt more or less at peace with it, both that the situation had happened and that a picture had been taken. The moment in the picture was one where he was extremely vulnerable in so many ways, probably more vulnerable than he had been or felt in years. Knowing that people had seen it and judged him because of it … that made him feel uncomfortable. But really, he had known it would happen, known that a picture he would loathe would be taken and spread. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that anything, even the Dark Lord, really could keep the gossipmongers of the Wizarding World under control for long.

When he felt somewhat better about the picture and the knowledge that everyone now had seen it, or soon would, he began to read the newspaper, hoping for pure gossip and little to no news about the war and its victims. Dobby brought him food and a pitcher of water, and he sat there, reading. He found out that the newspaper, Magical News and Titbits, was completely new, this was the first issue, and that it would come out once a week, and that it would bring the public the news about the people now in control of their society. It went on to tell a synopsis of how Harry had ended up marrying Voldemort and of their marriage ceremony and reception, for anyone that didn't already know. It wasn't half bad. Some points were a little skewed, and Harry would really have liked it if no one was interested in writing anything about him ever again, but he knew that day was a long way away, if it ever happened. So, it wasn't bad, really.

Not even the article about his trip to the Ministry and everything that had happened there was bad, uncomfortable for him to read and know that many other people also would read it, but still not bad. There was a picture of him and Voldemort, shoulder by shoulder, next to The Tree of Life and Magic in the Atrium, and one where Susan Bones showed them how it worked, and comments that both of them really liked Mr. Bones' work of art and praised the artist to his wife. That little piece and the pictures were actually a bit nice. A quiet and kind piece.

He almost liked Magical News and Titbits, until he came upon one of the last articles, or pieces of gossip, as he thought of them all. Except, this wasn't the same level of gossip. It was about the exchange first Harry and then Voldemort had had with Rabastan Lestrange in the elevator that day at the Ministry, starting outside the elevator with the short conversation Harry had had with Susan Bones. The only thing that wasn't there was the name of Rodolphus Lestrange as the man Harry had admitted to killing. The words comrade in arms was used instead.

"The fucking bitch is alive!" Harry stared at the article. The elevator had been a closed space and no one there would have gone to the press unless Voldemort told them to do so, and Harry was quite certain he wouldn't, not for something like this. What was truly interesting though, was the journalist's conclusion, so very unlike her.

It calms this weary witch's heart to know that the leaders of the two factions in the war, and the two most powerful people in Wizarding Britain, have come to an agreement of peace. So many of us have lost so much. Some have lost everything, including their lives. And now our leaders have concluded as to how we will move on from here, painful as it is, by letting the past remain in the past and move forward. No matter what side in the war you belonged to. We have so much to do, so much to heal from, and old painful wounds are not going to make healing easy. But we have to try, for ourselves and the life we still can have and for the next generation, to be able to give a world at peace to our children. Peace in our future, trumps our pain today. We have to bury our grief and our rage, our hatred, and move forwards, for our children.

Me, myself and my daughter hope for a better future for us all.

Harry had been prepared to be rightfully furious that the beetle woman had been able to once again breach all borders of privacy and secrecy, but her last paragraph, especially her last sentence, stopped the fury. Rita Skeeter wanted peace? She wanted cordiality and a future for her daughter? War changed everything and everyone, one way or another. And motherhood on top of that … Was it really that unreasonable that even Skeeter had changed her ways? She simply had to get the gossip out there, naturally, but none of it was malicious or truly speculative and she said straight out that she approved of the message she had gathered in that elevator.

Move on, before we doom ourselves completely.

Harry read the entire article again, and then he reread some of the other pieces. None of them had the same message as plainly as the last piece, but none of them tried to rip down the tentative peace either. A lot of them focused on the people that now would make plans and implement said plans to build up the Wizarding society.

Dobby popped in.

"Master Harry wanted knowing when teatime happened. Teatime is now, Master Harry!" he squeaked, and tidied up everything Harry had used that day the moment Harry got to his feet.

"Dobby, I'm fully capable of gathering my own things."

Dobby smiled at him, bowed and popped away again. Harry sighed, but he had started to get used to it. Dobby truly liked to help and wanted things to do for Harry, things that made Harry happy and his life easier. If Harry didn't ask for help, then Dobby would find things to do that he thought would help. Draco had told Harry that it was literally how house elves functioned. They needed a magical home to work in to thrive. Dobby had not been a happy elf when Astoria had found him, something that hadn't been mentioned before. And while Dobby could have approached a magical home and asked for a place, he refused to give up his freedom. But he had still been willing to return to Malfoy Manor, the place where he had endured so much cruelty, if he could work for Harry and be a free elf.

Harry was very grateful for Dobby's presence at the Manor, and he tried to be good and ask Dobby for help, to please the little elf.

While walking back towards the big house, Harry thought about the new newspaper and Rita Skeeter and her endless curiosity and burning passion for both actual news and gossip, and her unwavering belief in her version of the free press. Draco had told him there would be no free press for a while, but journalists were not known for their reticence, everything but that. They wanted people to know what was going on, they deemed it vitally important. And Rita Skeeter was on the top of the list of curious and persistent journalists, and now it seemed that she had found a new paper to write for, or was that a new paper to write, end of sentence?

Harry sat down to the right of Voldemort's chair in the room that was now the tearoom, in his mind. He handed the newspaper over to Voldemort and looked at Draco.

"Either your wards have holes, or they don't keep out non-malicious inanimate objects. I was bombed with a newspaper. One I very much doubt is completely … legal, at least at the moment. Despite that and some of the titbits in it, it wasn't half bad. But apparently, I'm a traitor today, again. Who should have thunk? Thank you, Astoria." He received his cup after Voldemort and doctored it before taking a sip.

Draco blinked at him. "You got bombed with a newspaper?"

"It didn't actually hit me, I moved in time. A bird of prey delivered it. The worst part was the word traitor in red over the picture on the front page. Quite affable, all things considered."

"That's … affable …?" Draco stared.

"You forget, your relationship to the press and its readers comes from a place of power, with manipulations and bribes; you could often control it. I never could. And they have loved chewing me up and spitting me out my entire life, for one thing or another. My view on it is therefore somewhat different from yours. Someone dropping a paper on my head with the word traitor scrawled over my face … It's not something I have to care overmuch about. The Howlers are a bitch, though; they leave my ears ringing." Harry sipped his tea and took a chocolate biscuit.

Draco shook his head and put his cup down. "The wards aren't set to keep out non-malicious inanimate objects, no, but the bird, if properly trained, should have delivered it to the right place. We have a spell to shunt all the mail to one room."

Harry froze. "You still get my mail, don't you? That load of mail I got daily in the past month?"

"Yes …" Draco looked at him with a raised brow and a twitch of the lips as if saying: of course, what did you think?

"Oh, no one has told you where the mail room is," Astoria said. "Get Dobby to show you. It's on the top floor in the main wing of the Manor. Don't worry about Howlers and other physical threats, the elves take those out. If you want, we can get them to open the letters too, and get rid of any that isn't … convivial. Or at least store them out of the way, I wouldn't burn them or anything, in case someone actually tries anything that they threaten with it first. Not that I expect them to sign their threats …" She frowned.

The paper rustled and Voldemort put it down on the table, frontpage picture up.

"This does not bother you?" He made a gesture at the picture.

"It bothers me that it happened, it bothers me that someone took the picture and spread it this way, but … ultimately, no. I have had worse, a lot worse."

"That doesn't mean that this is right! May I, my Lord?" Astoria looked at the paper and Voldemort gave it to her.

"I concur." Red eyes held Harry's gaze steadily, vividly reminding him of the Atrium incident, as if he needed the reminder. "The reporters could not help seeing what happened, as they were there, but they could, they should, have halted before taking pictures."

"They are reporters, reporting is what they do. Did you read the last titbit on the last page?"

The paper rustled hastily, and Draco sighed while Astoria read.

"I honestly thought that we had control over all the media at the moment," he said. "What paper is it, I don't recognise it?"

"It's new, probably the reason why you don't control it; you didn't know it existed. Typical reporters. Tricky of them, I know. It's like they dislike being muzzled or something. By the way, I'm certain Rita Skeeter survived and that she wrote some of the articles in that paper. The last one I know is her."

"How?!" Astoria growled and gave the paper back to Voldemort. "How did she know about that? No one in that elevator is stupid enough to reveal something like that! Not even Rabastan!"

Harry smiled, emptied his cup and held it out. Astoria waved her wand and the teapot filled Harry's cup again. Draco looked inquisitively at his wife.

"She reported on the conversation that happened in the elevator," Astoria told Draco.

"How …?" Draco said, and then scowled at Harry. "You are smiling!" he accused.

"As if I would ever make contact with Skeeter! No, I just happen to know how."

"Then do inform us, please, Harry." Voldemort gave the paper to Astoria who gave it to Draco. His voice was calm, with a hint of silk, and no threat whatsoever. Harry looked at Voldemort. No, no threat in those red eyes or the rest of that handsome face either. If anything, there was a touch of curiosity there, and when he raised a perfect eyebrow Harry gave in.

He had said please, after all.

"I'm half tempted to get a guessing game going, but fine, because you said please. Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus. She's a beetle."

"A beetle!" Astoria whisper-hissed.

"Yes, that's why she always knows things she shouldn't know anything about. Chances are, she sat on the wall of that elevator. Have you read the last article in its entirety?"

Astoria nodded. Harry looked at Voldemort who also nodded. Harry opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

No one had asked for his opinion or his advice. He took a sip of tea and finished his biscuit, not sure if he should try to say anything about his thoughts on the matter. Of the four people at this table, he was the least experienced when it came to governing, control and politics. He sucked at it and while he was better now than as a kid, he still sucked at it.

"You had an idea, Harry?" Voldemort asked, with a lot of silk in his voice.

Harry leaned back on the sofa and made his face blank to hide the shiver that ran through him. Neither Astoria nor Draco reacted in any way to that voice. Why did only he react? Was it the recipient and not the source that made the difference? Was he particularly weak to that voice, to Voldemort?

He didn't like that thought, because he already had memories of how he had reacted to that voice when he was upset, unstable. He really didn't want Voldemort to know how he responded to it, even when he was calm.

"The way I see it you can find the source of the paper and put a muzzle on that too, as you have done with others, like The Prophet … And maybe that is what you should do while the peace is this fresh and tempers are this high.

"From my point of view, Skeeter is pretty much made up of flaws. Her main drive is an intense belief in the freedom of the press and the right for people to know what is going on in their society. That is apparently not an actual flaw, or so Hermione argues. Which is saying something, as it was she that figured out that Skeeter is an Animagus, back in our fourth year. She captured Skeeter in a jar and threatened her to not write for a year, or Hermione would set the authorities on her for being an unregistered Animagus.

"Working on from that, you would have to do something drastic to keep Skeeter in check. Why not encourage her to keep to some rules, but not as strident as others, and let her write? Magical News and Titbits are strictly speaking, not bad. There is little speculation going on and only a few mistakes, and her last comment speaks of a wish for this peace to last. She, apparently, has become a parent, and wants her child to grow up in peace. That is a very good reason to temper her words and think about what she is spreading, and the consequences of those stories. That's what I think, at least."

Astoria was nodding slowly to his words, but no one said anything until Harry looked at Draco, who now was finished with the paper.

"Susan Bones, was she part of your tally when you told me only fifteen from our year had survived?"

"No, she wasn't," Draco said, almost a bit shocked himself. "I had heard she had gotten back, but I had been thinking fifteen for such a long time, I forgot to revise my number. Sixteen then."

"I guess we can't hope for any more of that kind of revelations …"

"We can always hope, but I wouldn't put too much into that hope, Harry. The number of dead is … truly horrendous."

Harry swallowed and nodded. He knew he should ask for the number of survivors in the magical society in total, but he had a feeling that would make him feel even worse.

"I wondered; do you still like to fly?" Draco looked hopefully at him.

"It's a very long time since I last flew for fun, but yeah, I like to fly."

"We have some functioning brooms here, and an overgrown Quidditch pitch, but anyway … room to fly. Would you like to fly with me, maybe try a game of Catch-the-Snitch? Tomorrow after lunch, perhaps?"

Harry didn't hesitate. "Yes, I would like that."

Being on a broom again, zipping about, not bound to the earth, free. The thought made him smile a bit.

Draco gave him a grin.

In the meanwhile, Voldemort and Astoria had had a whole conversation with their eyes alone and now Voldemort gave a nod.

"We will try this your way, Harry, and see if Miss Skeeter is willing to follow some rules, in return for not having to fear a complete muzzling. I did not appreciate the frontpage picture nor the fact that she snuck into an elevator and listened in on a private conversation, no matter the fact that her final comment in that article tried to encourage peace. That kind of encroachment will not do."

"If we want to be fair, we don't actually know that she is behind that frontpage picture," Harry replied.

"Do we want to be fair in this case?" Voldemort wondered aloud, his gaze on Harry.

"I'm afraid we might have to."

Voldemort nodded. "The Prophet did mention the same incident, but only shortly and without pictures, but I am certain you already know that."

"No, I didn't know that," Harry stated slowly.

I didn't know I was allowed news, and he makes it sound like a matter of course. Why is that?

"You don't subscribe to The Prophet?" Astoria asked. "But then, why should you, there are three subscriptions to the Manor already. I read mine first thing in the morning, would you like me to send it to you when I'm done?" She leaned back and called in an elf to clean the table.

And then Astoria acts the same. Hmm …

"No, thank you. Me and the news don't really mix well."

Both Astoria and Draco looked astonished at him. Voldemort just gazed at him, waiting.

"Hermione usually read the paper and gave me the news she thought I would like to know, and could handle, without … without ripping the paper to shreds." He didn't know why he told them, but the words slipped out.

The instances where he ripped the papers to shreds had happened often for a long while, because Harry thought there were things he really should know and that he couldn't not know about them. Until the day when Hermione told him that he really, really didn't need to know when it took what little peace he could get, from him. Then their deal had begun, she read the paper and recounted the important parts to him, or showed him the specific articles she thought he should, and could, read. When she lost her voice, she started blacking out the articles he shouldn't read. It had worked.

Astoria's beautiful face fell. "Do you want me to do the same? I can, if you want to read some news. Just tell me where your boundaries are."

"No, you don't need to do that. But thank you, I appreciate the offer."

She nodded to him, and he nodded back.

"My Lord, I have had the responsibility for the press, and the rest of the media, thus far, do you want me to get in touch with Rita Skeeter and her newspaper?" Draco asked as Voldemort got up.

Astoria and Draco got up too. They didn't jump up like Harry had seen some Death Eaters do while dining with them, but they were still fast. Harry remained seated while Voldemort stood. A small defiance. He would change when they gave him reason to. He leaned over the table and grabbed the paper from beside Draco's place.

"Come to my main study tomorrow after breakfast, and we will talk," Voldemort said.

"Yes, my Lord." Draco bowed.

"How many offices do you have?" Harry asked, looking up at Voldemort.

"At Malfoy Manor, two. My private study is in my suite, and the main one is on the ground floor. I use the main one for work. I do not want people traipsing through my personal space."

"I'm glad. If you hadn't, then I probably would have met a lot more people a lot more often."

"Yes, that was a consideration too. I will see you for dinner, Harry?"

"Yes, of course."

When the room was empty and the table cleaned, Harry got up on shaky legs and went to his suite. He didn't know why he had said that about him being glad that he didn't have to run into people. But while sitting there and listening to Voldemort's answer ring of truth, he had a horrible, horrible feeling that Voldemort truly had considered Harry's feelings when he decided against giving a lot of Death Eaters the right to walk outside his door.

Harry went into the bathroom, put the paper down, the frontpage with the picture up, and looked between himself in the picture and himself in the mirror. It was hard to see the similarity in the eyes and the look and how he acted, but he knew it was him, of course it was him, but …

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool mirror, feeling one tear slip free.

"This is too soon, isn't it?" he whispered to Hermione. "If this is all me, this is too soon. You said it would happen, you said it probably would happen no matter what I did, but fighting it would only make it harder for me. But this is too soon. Too soon to sit closer to him than I ever have before, without even noticing before he got up. Too soon to tell him of course he would see me at dinner, too soon …" he looked at the paper and his own spellbound face, "for that. This is too soon.

"Something has been done to me, before the Atrium incident. Maybe during the wedding ceremony. And I can't fight it, because fighting it will only make it harder in the long run. But Hermi, what is going to happen to me? Is he taking my will? A kind of Imperius that I can't shake off?

"I knew I consented to this, but I hadn't considered that he would make a true puppet out of me, by stealing my will, little by little. Hermi, I'm scared. Dying is one thing. Torture is another. But this … will I even notice when it happens, when it's over? Will I see my body moving, see myself living, without any power to do anything by myself, or will I be driven out or locked in … or just be gone?"

Hermione wasn't able to answer him, but he knew that when she saw that picture, she would know like he did, that something wasn't right, that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. And that he most likely wouldn't be able to make use of the plan they had made for his survival among what was supposed to be former enemies, but still enemies. Lifelong enemies, that he now had to live with for the rest of his life.

Slowly Harry's knees buckled beneath him, and he sat down on the warm bathroom floor and cried. Because dying was one thing, torture was another, but losing oneself and watching it happen, that was a whole lot worse. And there was nothing he could do. No way he could fight it. He didn't even know exactly what was happening. Hell, nothing would change even if he told Voldemort that he knew something was happening, except, maybe the security around him would be intensified and his relatively unrestricted days would be over before they had to be.

He was scared.

He was so, so scared.

Tears ran down his face, sweat trickled down his back and made his hands clammy and it felt like his heart would beat itself out of his chest. His stomach cramped, threatening to expel his tea. In weeks, maybe days, he would be gone. And the whole while he would notice the little changes in himself, unable to stop it. Sitting closer to Voldemort without a second thought and answering him so amiably; those things were surely only the beginning.

He was so very, very scared.

And his head hurt from the crying and Dobby showed up to tell him that it would be dinner soon.

And he was so scared, and he begged Dobby not to tell anyone about his tears. Because if he was going to lose himself, he wanted his few days of freedom first. Maybe he would dare send Hermione one message, one last message of goodbye and tell her not to ever trust him again.

And he was scared, so, so scared.

He couldn't remember being this scared in a long time. He was trembling while washing his face and trying to get presentable for dinner. He wished he could skip dinner, but now more than ever he had a reason to show up, to not hurry along what was coming.

They were only four at the table that night, much to Harry's relief. No one commented on Harry's red rimmed eyes or his trembling hands, or the fact that he hardly ate and hurriedly excused himself because he feared the food would come right back up, in spite of every intention to act as normal as he possibly could.

He was scared. So very, very scared.

And so extremely alone.

A/N:

Thank you for the likes and the comments! They are much appreciated!

Hope you liked this one too! Please review!
Thank you to Ladylillalove for beta reading!