Embracing His True Self
Chapter 3
Two Weeks Later
It took only two weeks for the Dark Lord Voldemort to find the answers he sought. This was amazing, all things considered, since he had so many plans being put into motion. He had gotten in touch with Fenrir, a good friend of his whom he had taught non-verbal magic to. If he knew how some of his Death Eaters treated the werewolf, they would have paid a very heavy price for it. Although that might have been something to do with his blind insanity getting to be too much for them. He had not been kind to anyone, and not even Fenrir was an exception to that. Voldemort had been unable to sleep, unable to eat, and the urge to kill the prophecy child had ruled out everything else. He knew his followers had lost a great deal of respect for him, due to his past actions. His fear of death had paralyzed him, causing a dark red cloud to form over him. At least that wouldn't be a problem this time around. After all, he planned on duelling the boy, and that was as fair as anyone could get. With all he knew about Potter, or assumed, he didn't know why the boy had used only simple spells.
He'd used the disarming spell, on him, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard alive? There was no way the boy could have predicted the events that occurred next. Even he was in the dark about that, but it would be rectified; sooner or later, he would figure out why it had happened. If he had managed to kill a Basilisk, why hadn't he shown his true power? His life had been in danger; surely he wouldn't have been bothered about seeming like a mediocre wizard? The boy was an enigma, and a mass of contradictions, from what he knew of him. For the fiftieth time he couldn't help but regret the necessity for the death of such a capable wizard, it disgusted him to the core to see someone with so much potential wiped out. Magical blood shouldn't be spilled; there weren't enough of them because of the stupid Muggle wars and those who openly defied him.
Back to his current dilemma, it was, ironically enough, the connection between him and Nagini that gave him his answer. Purely accidentally of course, he had slipped into Nagini's mind and watched her hissing about the prey she wanted to eat... well, it wasn't hissing to him, but rather English, as Parseltongue between them always was. It had hit him then like a ton of bricks, left him shocked to the core for the rest of the night. He had somehow, someway, created a human Horcrux. Harry Potter was Lord Voldemort's Horcrux. He had meant to create one with the baby's death, but his magic, seeing his intentions, must have came apart as his body was destroyed... imbedding itself in the injured child. He was completely flummoxed, nowhere did it say humans could be turned into soul containers; his biggest worry was what did it mean? What did he do, more specifically? If he tried to kill Potter, he would destroy part of his soul as well. He had no idea of the effect it would cause; what if it left him completely insane? He had so many plans he wanted to implement; he wanted to change the magical world, to make it better, safer.
He would need to confirm this, before he went any further. Which would mean bringing Potter here. Considering the fact he could slither out of trouble at every turn, he would have to make sure he couldn't get away. He wasn't sure what he would do if the boy was one of his Horcruxes. He would need to do more research, find out if it could be removed safely from its 'host' or container. He knew there wasn't, he had read the book he had from back to front, and he wasn't stupid enough to try something before understanding it completely.
How did he get Potter from within the protective wards? That was the question now on his mind. He could not get near Privet Drive, nor could anyone that wished the boy harm. Not that he wanted to kill the boy…yet. Not until he had his answers, but the wards would still view him as a threat. Rubbing his long pale fingers across his chin, sitting comfortably on his throne, he began to think of ways to get his hands on Potter. He was finding it incredibly odd that his first thoughts weren't to kill him. His thoughts on killing Potter for everything he had done had been constant since learning of the prophecy; they'd gotten worse after he had been ripped from his body. Even at that young vulnerable age the boy had been a threat to his power. He had been incredibly foolish and rash; he'd told his Death Eaters that much.
His red eyes flared as an idea hit him; a vindictive smirk flared across his face, which would have made all his Death Eaters cringe. Well, maybe with the exception of Bellatrix, who would have just cackled along with her 'Master' as she liked to call him. The others all called him 'My Lord'; as long as they had shown respect, he didn't mind. Lucius had been all too eager to spill everything, especially with the threat of being killed hanging over him.
The disgraced blonde had told him of Arthur Weasley successfully gaining entrance to his home to search for 'dark artefacts'. How he had worried about the diary being found in his possession; deciding to get back at Weasleys by planting a dark object in his daughter's school things. Of course he hadn't understood what it would do, he explained while begging for forgiveness on his knees from his Lord. How his own House-Elf had betrayed him, warning Potter and inevitably being freed by the twelve-year-old. Oh, ho, Lucius hadn't wanted to reveal that, but Voldemort knew when information was being held back. A brief stint under the Cruciatus curse wiped any pride from the blond, and he revealed how Potter had done it, then what happened afterwards. A mere House-Elf had put Lucius Malfoy, a pureblood, on his arse ten feet down a corridor. He would love to have seen it, but he refrained from ransacking Lucius' mind. After all, he had more important things to do, such as beginning the process of working out how to get his faithful from Azkaban. He had the layout and a plan in place, all he had to do now was negotiate with the Dementors and find out what wards were around the inescapable prison. Thankfully he had that information already from years ago.
"Amita!" Voldemort called, setting his face into an impassive mask. He would have to impress on her the importance of her task, if she could get passed the wards. So far they were good at doing the tasks he appointed them; unfortunately they hadn't served him long. He had taken his house-elves on two years before he was defeated. He hadn't kept them around; instead they had remained here while the manor was built. They had continued on here after his defeat, doing what they had been asked ― which was to look after his property.
"Yes, sir?" responded the female House-Elf, who was dressed in a black, closed winter cloak. They had been dressed like that when he arrived, he assumed they had made their garments themselves, or conjured them.
"I have a very important task for you," Voldemort said, his red eyes gleaming, unable to help himself. Soon….very soon he would find out if he was right or not. He knew he was, he wasn't the smartest wizard to grace Hogwarts' walls for nothing, beating most of Albus Dumbledore's scores in the process. Considering he'd known nothing about Hogwarts until he was eleven, and Dumbledore had been in the wizarding world his entire life... it had left him feeling smug, even if he hated the blasted manipulative, nosy old fool.
"What can Amita do?" she asked eagerly, proud to serve her Master in any way he needed.
"Go to number four Privet Drive, remaining unseen by all others in the house, and bring our new… guest to the dungeons. He will be the only magical wizard on the premises; bring me Harry Potter," Voldemort commanded, his voice becoming taut and even more demanding, if that was possible.
"Yes, sir," Amita said, not showing any reluctance; she lived to serve her Master and would do anything he asked.
The House-Elf Apparated directly into the smallest bedroom, finding herself staring directly into the vibrant, pained green eyes. With quick movements, she hooked her fingers into his clothes and teleported him away.
Harry lay on the bed in the smallest room in the house at number four Privet Drive. Multiple bruises were showing on his aching body; even two weeks on they hadn't healed enough to stop causing him pain. His temple and the front of his head held the worst bruises; after he gotten him into the house, Vernon in his rage had pushed him. With the big man's brutal strength, he'd gone flying into the banister and then onto the stairs. No Quidditch reflexes could have prevented the attack, couldn't have stopped him being so viciously manhandled. It didn't help that Harry was still weakened from after the tournament; the Cruciatus Curse's after-effects didn't just fade away overnight. He had been so disorientated he hadn't felt the kicks he'd gotten to the stomach, he only deduced what happened later when he woke up and found himself in his room. Vernon and Dudley were as vicious as ever, after all, Harry only had to be able to write to them. The freaks never came near the door; the bitterness that crawled through Harry since he knew the fat bastard was right left him feeling sick. That hadn't had anything to do with the kicks to the stomach he'd received either.
Other than coming into the small room to force him to write to the Order that everything was alright, he was pretty much left on his own, still locked up. Which didn't bother Harry overly much, it was the fact he felt a sense of déjà vu. He hadn't received a single letter from his friends, and he seriously doubted it was anything Dobby was doing this time. They had been distant with him ever since the night before they left Hogwarts, starting directly after they had come from the Headmaster's office. The fact they hadn't said they would write didn't help. They were leaving him alone, unaware of what was happening in his world, totally cut off. The rage he felt when he thought about it left him panting in exhaustion. He wasn't sure who he was angrier at, Ron and Hermione for going through with it, or Dumbledore for telling them not to write to him.
It wouldn't have mattered who said it to him, he would never have left them without word. It might have something to do with them being the only friends he'd ever had, though. Ron and Hermione probably had friends growing up, and Hermione might even still have friends in the Muggle world he didn't know about. She didn't talk about her life outside of the magical world... well, other than to occasionally mention her parents or where she went on holiday. She always sounded so smug about that; Ron thankfully didn't explode, which he had assumed he would the first time Hermione mentioned going abroad. It certainly happened every time his fame came into the picture― as if he could bloody control that any more than where Hermione's parents took her on holiday.
Had the Ministry acknowledged Voldemort being back? He somehow doubted it, and that probably made Voldemort happy. How had Voldemort survived that night? Did the reflected Killing curse not have enough power to kill him? And more importantly, why the hell did Voldemort want to kill him? He was fourteen-years-old…had been only one when the older wizard first came to kill him. It couldn't be just because he survived, surely; he'd wanted his blood for a reason. It wasn't just because of his mother's blood protection; there were millions of ways to kill someone in the magical world. He could have used anyone's blood, come back and laid low, without anyone being the wiser, and killed him without him any trouble. After all, he wouldn't have known; how could he have defended himself from something he didn't know was there?
No, there had to be reason; Dumbledore and Voldemort both knew that reason, and it disconcerted him. After all, one was trying to run his life, while the other wanted to make sure he didn't live to see his next birthday. He was completely at their mercy, until he was old enough to live on his own. That day couldn't come soon enough; he didn't care what Dumbledore said, as soon as he hit seventeen, he was out of here. Although he could get a house of his own at sixteen in the Muggle world, it wouldn't be safe; he didn't know enough about warding to afford himself proper protection.
Harry continued to stare at the yellow ceiling. His room was all faded and peeled, and it had never been decorated. He didn't dare put anything to do with the magical world up. He was deep in thought, so much so he didn't even become distracted by this stomach growling loudly. It cramped occasionally, but Harry was used to this. His entire life he had gone without proper meals and nutrients here. The summers nowadays were the worst, since he was used to getting meals at Hogwarts. At least on his birthday he got some food from Mrs. Weasley; her care packages at birthdays and Christmases always had food in them. They saved him from imminent starvation. The cold tin of soup the Durseys pushed through the cat flap on his bedroom door every now and again didn't really help him much.
He may not have twitched when his stomach grumbled, but he did become startled when a House-Elf he had never seen before popped into his room. It would have been hard not to hear it arrive, since it sounded almost like Apparation, but without the more backfiring-car sound. There was a reason it was called 'popping' instead of Apparating, it sounded as if your ears had popped really loudly. Before he could open his mouth to ask who he or she was, she'd hooked her hand on his too large jumper and they disappeared.
Harry grunted when he landed on his backside, his green eyes wide as he looked around his new surroundings. Swallowing thickly, he realised that he was in a dungeon; whatever would happen soon, wouldn't be good― he knew that. The question was where exactly was he? Malfoy Manor? Draco Malfoy had gone on about it often enough, or rather bragged about his home. As if nobody else had Manors in the magical world; seriously, he was an idiot. He got up to explore the confines of his latest prison better. Three stone walls and one cage wall with a door, locked, he realized as he pushed against it for confirmation. Surprisingly there was a bed at the side, a small one to be sure and a toilet. Harry screwed up his nose, the thought of doing the toilet in that was humiliating. There was a window ―barred, of course― above the toilet; he could open it if he wanted to, he realized as he climbed up to investigate it. He did so. leaving it open partially, and walked back to the other side of the cell.
Craning his neck to see down the corridor, he found he couldn't do that and keep his glasses on. There certainly wasn't any point to doing it with them off, since he couldn't see squat without his glasses. They might not be the right prescription for him, but it was better than not being able to see at all, so he didn't complain. Nobody cared enough to do anything about, so why waste his breath? Listening intently at the bars, he heard nothing; where had that House-Elf dumped him? Sighing in agitation he stalked up and down the cell, worry churning in his gut. It didn't escape his notice that the damn cell was bigger than his bedroom at Privet Drive - irony abounds, he thought chuckling bitterly.
Dumbledore obviously hadn't thought about House-Elves kidnapping him from Privet Drive. Which should have dawned on him, really, since Dobby had been in his house, even performed magic there. A frown worked its way onto his face; had the House-Elf Apparating into Privet Drive tripped the underage wards? No, it couldn't have, otherwise the Ministry would have been alerted the second Dobby appeared, but nothing had happened until Dobby had actually levitated the cake onto the Masons.
Would the Order know of his disappearance? Or would they only realize once he failed to write them? Three days then, before they would know he was gone. That was if they even bothered to check up on him; they were probably too busy doing stuff to try and stop Voldemort... he assumed so anyway, he wasn't sure. He knew nothing of what was going on, since his friends hadn't written to him yet and probably had no intentions of doing so either. The Order watching over him outside the Dursleys' house wouldn't realize anything was wrong either, since he rarely made an appearance outside. He'd done all the gardening his first day back, before his uncle had laid into him, leaving him so badly bruised. He wouldn't have let the Order see him until the marks had all disappeared even if he hadn't been kidnapped.
Instead Death Eaters were going to see him like this; his only consolation was that they wouldn't automatically think it was caused by his family. They weren't watching him as closely as the Order was, which irked him something rotten. Voldemort had said he was watched closer than he thought; unfortunately, the bastard hadn't lied about anything yet, as far as he knew. He had no reason to lie, unfortunately; the bloody git hated him and wanted to see him dead as soon as possible for reasons he, Harry, didn't even know.
Exhaustion made Harry sit down on the bed. He was still injured after all; the pain from his ribs was almost making him double over. Hoisting himself further onto the bed, he leaned against the wall, ignoring the grumbling complaints that his stomach made for food. Well, at least he was looking at four different walls here; Hedwig had been out, so she wasn't stuck in her cage. He didn't want to imagine what his Uncle would have done to her if she'd hooted at all hours to be let out. He hoped she had the sense to stay away from here; he didn't want her getting killed. Hedwig was really smart, and had been able to find him anywhere; hopefully here wasn't one of those places.
Inhaling sharply, choking as he realized exactly what was happening, his scar began prickling ominously. Oddly, it wasn't the same burning agony he'd experienced weeks ago at Voldemort's rebirth. Rather, it was the same prickly feeling he'd had when he was eleven and had met Quirrell's eyes at Hogwarts after the Sorting ceremony. What Harry did not realized was the Horcrux was reacting to Voldemort's intentions, so during his first year it hadn't hurt because killing him hadn't been Voldemort's primary objective. No, getting the Philosopher's stone had been his primary goal, the fact Quirrell had tried to strangle him aside, and that was why the scar had begun to burn so badly lately. Harry's blood protection had killed Quirrell, if anyone had thought to wonder about it… why would his blood protection cause him so much pain when Quirrell touched him? Simply put, it shouldn't have ― and it didn't, it was reacting to Voldemort trying to kill himself, or at least a part of himself.
Voldemort was here, and without his wand ― Harry knew he was a sitting duck. It seemed at long last as if his stubborn luck had run out. Harry's heart pounded steadily harder with each step he heard Voldemort taking; surprisingly, the scar didn't flare up again, other than continuing with the earlier prickling. It was as if it was just letting him know Voldemort was close now. Not that it would matter, surely he couldn't survive another Killing Curse? He didn't relish finding out.
"It looks like I'm not the only one you piss off, Potter," Voldemort said, gazing at the teenager who was so beaten and bruised. He was slightly surprised; after all, the Order kept an eye on the boy, surely they wouldn't allow him to come to harm? Evidently that wasn't the case, and it was obviously Muggles that had done it― no wizard would bother using their hands in such an insipid display.
"Miss me?" Harry grinned cockily, quite successfully changing the subject and avoiding it. His grin was slightly lopsided from the swollen red sore on his mouth, courtesy of a punch by his uncle earlier that week.
"For a boy who could be killed any second, you are either stupid or think too highly of yourself," Voldemort hissed, glaring at the boy in warning through blood red eyes. Potter didn't need to know that, as of right now, he had no intentions of killing him.
"Might as well go out with a bang, don't you think?" sneered Harry, watching Voldemort like he was a poisonous snake ready to strike... a fair comparison right now, especially considering he looked like one.
Quicker than lightening, Voldemort had his wand pointed at the teenager and uttered "Stupefy!" and Harry, hindered by his injuries, couldn't move out of the spell's path in time. The red spell hit him full force, stunning him and leaving him at the mercy of Lord Voldemort ― knowing what was going on around him, but not able to move or defend himself.
Voldemort unlocked the cell door and approached the teenager, irritated that he had the boy at his mercy and couldn't kill him. He was so irritating, and damn it, he wasn't used to people talking to him that way. He was the most powerful wizard in the world and he deserved respect. Every other teenager would wet themselves if they found out they were standing before Lord Voldemort! With the exception of this one, it seemed; he was too damn mouthy for words. There was obviously more to him than met the eye; the way he acted directly contracted everything he'd learned about the boy so far.
Staring into the blazing green eyes, he began to realize this boy didn't fear death. Harry was the exact opposite of himself; he feared death more than anything else. Perhaps that was why the boy had been destined to defeat him, not something he could do if he was one of his Horcruxes. He would need to keep the boy safe, out of harm's way. One piece of his soul had already been destroyed; he couldn't risk any others. If he was one, which the older wizard was about to find out for sure.
"Praecantatio summa subrigo sanctificavi te exhibeas nobis!" chanted Voldemort, keeping his hissing to a minimum, not wanting to interfere with the spell he was casting on Potter. Almost immediately after he finished, he saw a halo representing Potter's magical core; even just at the age of fourteen the boy was powerful. He'd known that, but to see it for himself…to know Potter was equal to him in magical strength burned him strongly. Then another halo emerged, just as strong but definitely not showing Potter's magical signature… no, it was one very familiar to him, since it was his own.
Such results were never immediate, unless this spell had been cast on him once before. Which meant someone had cast this on Potter in the past, which could mean someone might know he was already a Horcrux, unless they assumed he'd just gotten some of his magic. He could only think of one person who would want to do it: Dumbledore. Which meant it was bad news for him; the diary and now this…His Horcruxes were in danger; he had to move some of them or risk losing them. That was not something he wanted to allow, he had no idea what would happen to him if his remaining Horcruxes began to be destroyed.
Staring at the boy, Voldemort found himself almost wishing he could just end the boy's life while he was defenceless. This chance wouldn't ever come again; no, the boy was as sneaky as they came. He would try and get away, and there was only so much he could do to prevent it. Perhaps it was time to find out everything about Potter that he could, even the rumours, and build upon it. Try and get the boy to join his side. It wouldn't be easy, after all he had killed the boy's parents. The chances were slim to none but he had to try, the boy was too slippery. He could get out of the most impossible situations completely intact. Cursing under his breath, Voldemort turned and stalked from the boy, slamming the cell door closed and locking it with three different charms. Purely as an afterthought he flicked his wand at the boy and left, non-verbally casting 'Finite Incantatem' at him.
Harry jumped from the bed so fast it almost left him light-headed. Confusion the most prominent feeling in him right now; why hadn't Voldemort killed him? He'd lain there, unable to move, completely defenceless, and he hadn't killed him? Harry shivered with foreboding, feeling as though something was crawling up his spine. What the hell did Voldemort want from him if he wasn't going to kill him? Was he just playing a game? But why? What would he get out of it? Or was he simply waiting for his Death Eaters to get here and 'duel' with him again. If that was the case, it would be a pretty quick duel since he didn't have a wand on him. He felt like he'd had his arm cut off, not because he was in pain but because he was without his wand. It was still beneath the loose floorboard under his bed, keeping it safe from the Dursleys and but still keeping it nearby if anyone attacked. A lot of good that had done him, he'd been bloody kidnapped by Voldemort's House-Elf.
What had the dark wizard done to him? He'd seen the halos surrounding him; he'd never heard of that spell before. In fact he couldn't even remember half of what Voldemort had said. Biting his lip, he winced as he caught the sore spot; pressing his fingers to it he realized he'd caused it to bleed again. Wiping the blood down his clothes, he saw he had on Mrs. Weasley's red jumper, which was the warmest thing he had. His trousers were far too big though, since they were his cousin's cast- offs. What if that spell had affected his magic? Cursing quietly, he wished he knew what Voldemort had done, although it was obvious he wouldn't find out any time soon. It was odd, there had been no taunting, not really anyway, no stories or trying to make him feel sorry for the git ― he'd come to use that spell and that was it, Harry acknowledged quietly to himself.
Sighing softly, he climbed back onto the bed, feeling very lost; it made him feel vulnerable, and he did not like that. Voldemort had always been predictable, and the fact he wasn't able to predict his actions now left him highly agitated. He should just be glad the wizard hadn't tortured him really… but he felt wrong-footed. Looking at the window he observed that it was still light outside, but he couldn't tell how early or late it was. Was this going to be his last day? Would he soon be killed by Voldemort? The unknown had him quite frankly worried.
Bunching up the pillow he lay himself down, staring at the ceiling like he would do at Privet Drive. He might as well rest his aching body as much as he could; no doubt someone would be down to torture him sooner or later. The fact that it hadn't happened yet was beside the point, this was Voldemort he was talking about. He pressed his hand carefully to his ribs, knowing that despite the fact nothing was broken it would take weeks to heal them properly. He hated it, it was hindering his movement, and Voldemort wouldn't have been able to hit him with that first stunner if he had been in perfect health.
Jerking out of his stupor, Harry looked around, quickly noticing the House-Elf in his cell, a different one who definitely hadn't brought him here. He then saw the tray of food and he laughed, and laughed, and continued to laugh even after the House-Elf squeaked and disappeared. The amusement didn't fade as he lay wheezing on the bed, trying to regain control of his equilibrium. His face was red as he tried to breathe through the pain in his ribs, until he lay there panting in exhaustion. Gulping nosily, he finally began breathing evenly; at last he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Staring at the food, his stomach grumbled nosily as he shook his head.
His own relatives refused to feed him, yet here he was, a captive of Lord Voldemort's, and he was getting food? Poison wasn't Voldemort's style; if anything, the man wanted to be the one to kill him personally. Although there might be something more nefarious in the food; did he dare touch it? Taking a deep breath, Harry turned to the little window and noticed that darkness was beginning to creep up. It was nowhere near black outside yet, but he'd guess it was around six, maybe seven o'clock at night right now.
His gaze couldn't help but wander back to the tray of food, which was still piping hot, if the steam coming off it in waves was anything to go by. It had been over two weeks since he'd had anything substantial to eat, just the occasional cold tin of soup being pushed through the flap, a lot of which he gave to Hedwig to keep her fit and strong. He would have never forgiven himself if anything happened to his familiar, his most faithful companion. It was little wonder his stomach felt like it was trying to rip itself out of his body to get to the food on the floor.
Warily Harry slid off the bed, and eased over to the tray, touching it tentatively as if he suspected it would vanish as soon as he touched it. When nothing happened he slowly picked it up, grunting as he did; would his ribs just hurry up and heal already? Sitting down in the middle of the bed, he placed the tray at the bottom. Sweet and sour chicken with rice, a goblet of orange juice, and what he suspected to be Jam Roly-Poly in custard. Suspected only, since he'd never been allowed it, but he'd watched his cousin pig out on an entire trayfull in one sitting. Hogwarts had never served anything like that, he suspected it was a bit too Muggle for their tastes; the fact Voldemort had it made him wonder. WHY!? Why the hell would Voldemort want such a Muggle food item in his house? He hated Muggles, didn't he? Didn't he? He'd killed that old man…but that might have only been because he'd discovered them and could have told everyone. No, he could have simply Obliviated him; there had been no reason to kill him.
Harry prodded at the food with the plastic fork provided; what, did they think he was going to hurt himself? Or use it as a weapon? Well…the second one would have been a good idea. Harry picked up a bit of chicken and nibbled it slightly, before placing the rest back on the plate and tensing as if he suspected he would be in a world of pain. Yet nothing happened, if anything his stomach grumbled more fiercely at having the smell of food so close, yet nothing in it. Obviously it wasn't poisoned or drugged; he was still hesitant about eating it though, and why would Voldemort feed him? Unless he wanted him in perfect health when he killed him?
There was nothing for it really; did it matter if it was poisoned? He was going to die either way, right? He had no wand; he was stuck down in Voldemort's dungeons with no means of escape. Nobody would find out for days yet. Plus he was so hungry... no, that wasn't accurate, he was completely ravenous. Picking up the goblet he took a sip, wetting his parched mouth at the same time waiting to see if anything happened. It didn't taste like it had anything in it, and the only tasteless and odourless potion he knew of was Veritaserum. Poisons had a distinct smell to them, didn't they? He wished he'd paid more attention to Potions now, since it would have given him his answer.
Throwing caution to the wind, he decided to eat the food; he hadn't even eaten half of it when his stomach began to cramp violently. He was still starving, yet his stomach was protesting the influx of so much food. Harry didn't stop eating, he'd put up with a grumbling stomach and sore ribs for more than two weeks, so he could handle a cramping stomach. It was the same as every time he went back to Hogwarts after being deprived of proper food for near enough three months during the summer.
Looking down he could have sworn his stomach looked bloated from the amount of food he'd eaten. Guzzling down the last of the juice, he watched the goblet filling back up in amusement. He left the dessert, at least for the moment, giving his body time to adjust to the large amount of food it had just ingested. The urge to eat the dessert was strong…uncommonly strong. He knew his own limits, but for some reason that was being overridden with the need to eat the sweet treat.
Picking up the plastic spoon, he dug into the dessert; it was sort of like the strawberry tarts he liked so much. "Ah, shit!" cursed Harry, his voice slightly slurred as the spoon fell with a thud into the nearly empty bowl. He had been drugged after all, not poisoned; no, this was a sleeping potion if he had to guess…it certainly acted like the one he'd been given in the hospital wing. This was his last thought before he fell into the arms of Morpheus, not even able to get worked up or worried.
The dessert had been spelled to make him eat it.
A sadistic smirk stole across the Dark Lord's features; if anyone had seen it, they surely would have been running for the hills. The old book he had on his desk was laying there innocently enough, but the words on the page were way less than innocent. They were not meant for pure intentions, at least they hadn't been created for that. No, they had been created by a Roman leader, who happened to be a wizard of course, wanting to keep track of his people within his estate. Of course he wouldn't put half of what Claudius had put into them.
"Armillam!" Voldemort murmured under his breath, flicking his wand in the movements dictated by the book. He watched as pure magic created a strap of what appeared to be bendable plastic, but he knew it would attach itself like a second skin. Un-removable and impenetrable, nothing would remove it, not even all the Wandless magic in the world. He smirked at the colour it had chosen to come out: green and silver, Slytherin colours. He wondered what Potter would think of that.
"Confidunt in vicibus suis," Voldemort chanted, watching as it glowed gold before settling once more. "Limes motus!" Again it glowed gold. "Sensus," he added for the final time, gazing in satisfaction at his finished masterpiece. Once it attached itself there would be no removing it... well, not unless he did, which he wouldn't.
Looking at the time, he realized he had spent longer than he'd thought on it. He had other things to do tonight. Potter was not going to be happy, but it wasn't his job to make him as such. If his home life had been as bad as he suspected, well…this was probably paradise to the irritating slip of a boy. Not that he wanted it to be paradise for the boy; it was his and his alone. Damn it, why did Potter have to be his Horcrux? Why did fate like screwing with him? Anyone else would have been preferable; Potter should be happy at least ― it had saved him from death. Now all he had to do was attach it to Potter's leg and it would be done.
As soon as he'd finished his dinner and taken his potions, which invigorated him and enabled him to be able do what he needed to without getting exhausted. He felt infuriated with his constant need to rest; he just wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible. Unfortunately that was going to take a while, his new body was… fragile, but at least he had a body and hands, and the ability to move and eat by himself. It still horrified him that he'd had to rely on Wormtail for help, when he could sense in his mind that all the rat had wanted to do was run. Part of him would have liked nothing more than to kill the rat; he was useless, but regretfully he couldn't do such a thing without cause.
No, he had someone in mind just perfect for his little trip. A vicious grin spread across his face; there was nobody more deserving, he thought, striding though to the main room, which housed his throne and where his Death Eaters would stand when the time came to call them all once more.
"WORMTAIL!" Voldemort hissed, causing Peter to jump high in the air at the unexpected summoning.
"Yes, Master?" snivelled the wizard, cowering before Lord Voldemort, clearly terrified of him.
"Bring Crouch here immediately," Voldemort demanded, his red eyes flashing at the sight of the disgusting wizard. The rat would know which Crouch he was talking about, since Barty was already here. The House-Elves would ensure that Potter wasn't disturbed by either of his Death Eaters. He didn't trust Pettigrew not to harm his Horcrux, or Barty, come to that, but the time would come where he would need to tell them all that Potter was off-limits. They would listen to his House-Elves as if they were him; he knew that because Wormtail and Barty both knew the House-Elves couldn't lie about orders they had been given.
"Yes, Master," Pettigrew said Apparating away immediately.
Voldemort waited impatiently for Pettigrew to return with the older wizard. Barty had wanted to kill him, but he had demanded otherwise. There was no telling when he might be useful, and here he was, being just that. At least being transfigured into something else meant Crouch Senior couldn't get to anyone and blow his plans. Which he had nearly done, time and time again, as he adapted to the Imperius Curse, fighting it off. Just like his son had, admittedly a lot later than Crouch Senior had, but Senior had been in much better health than his son who had been debilitated by his stay in Azkaban.
A few moments later Pettigrew returned with the 'bone' which he placed on the floor and backed away from shakily. Lazily putting his wand hand out, Voldemort summoned the 'bone', having no intention of turning him back until he needed him. After all, only one person would be able to get across in the boat.
"Remain here," Voldemort hissed, glaring at the wizard and daring him to defy him, before Apparating away to the cliff beside Crystal Cave. This was a place he had come during his bleak childhood. A feral smirk appeared on his face when he remembered the looks on the idiot Muggles' faces when he Apparated them here. Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, fifthly Muggles who had dared to call him a freak; after that trip…needless to say, they hadn't once spoken or looked at him cross-eyed again. Even now, fifty years later, it caused him immense satisfaction knowing he had put them in their true place.
Jumping from the cliff, he didn't do as everyone else would have and fall into the water; instead Lord Voldemort flew across the water and landed gracefully at the cave entrance. He didn't waste a second before going inside the outer, obvious cave and over to the 'hidden entrance', then piercing his thumb with a needle he had brought for just this occasion. One drop of his blood fell against the rocks, causing the entrance to give way.
Wandering over to the edge of an underground lake, his hand blindly sought something. Once he had a grip on it, he began to pull on the chain, which shortly afterwards became visible. Magic did the rest as it began to pull the boat towards him; once it had 'docked', so to speak, he stepped down into it, and began his journey to the tiny island that sat out in the middle of the hidden lake. Unlike any other who might have travelled along here, he did not fear the Inferi within the depths of the dark water, since he had created them. Once he was beside the podium which stood on the islet, and the font that contained his Horcrux, he returned Bartemius Crouch Senior to his normal self. Thankfully the man was still alive, but not for much longer; Barty would be disappointed not to see his father's death. Voldemort wasted no time before casting the Imperius Curse on the weakened wizard, to make sure he didn't receive any unsavoury surprises.
Flicking his wand, Voldemort conjured a goblet out of thin air, then he began to dunk it into the potion in the font and feed it to the willing wizard. Well, in this state he was willing; with the Imperious curse on him he was guzzling it down greedily, not feeling any of the potion's effects. He wouldn't remain that way for long. Goblet after goblet of the poisonous potion was poured down Bartemius' throat until at long last Voldemort was able to retrieve his Horcrux from within the font's bowl, placing it safely within his cloak pocket. Removing the Imperius curse from his victim, Voldemort watched with great amusement as the wizard began to show the effects the potion had on him. Moaning in agony, he began screaming and pleading that he shouldn't have done it, wheezing and grasping at his throat as he became increasingly thirsty. The driving need for water caused him to dive into the only available source, the lake; hands immediately began to drag the wizard under. Crouch's wild scrambling for the side of the islet was for naught as the Inferi had too good a grip on him, and he was soon submerged under the sea of water, never to return. Bartemius Crouch Senior was now one of the un-dead, an Inferi; unbeknown to Voldemort or even the currently dying Bartemius, Regulus Black had fallen prey to the lake's dwellers as well.
The goblet was dropped with a clang as Voldemort calmly began to make his way out of the cave. A short boat ride later had him at the entrance, and then he was flying over the intervening sea, since he had placed wards to prevent Apparation from the cave's immediate vicinity. Once he was at the cliff top he Apparated back to his Manor. He would need to retrieve all of his Horcruxes; he didn't want them out of his sight. He couldn't risk it, if there was even the possibility of Dumbledore knowing about their existence.
Sitting on his bed, he removed the locket from his cloak pocket... then a frown worked its way onto his face. There was something missing, he couldn't feel his Horcrux or even his magical signature on the locket. Baffled, he opened it before really thinking and his red eyes widened in shock at the parchment embedded within. Hissing in fury, he opened up the parchment, then he leapt up and a scream of rage tore out of him. He had been betrayed! Regulus Black had better be glad he was dead! His wand in hand, he began to blast everything around him to smithereens, unable to contain the lava-like fury bubbling inside of him. The urge to kill and curse everyone within striking distance of him was strong. Where was his Horcrux? Who had it? Who had Regulus Black told?
Terrified, he quickly Apparated from his Manor again, going to the former Gaunt residence to check up on another of his Horcruxes.
R&R please.