Embracing His True Self
Chapter 4
Dwelling On The Past
Tom absently rubbed at his temples, where a gigantic headache was beginning to brew at the back of his eyes. He was sitting at the large ornate writing desk that sat at the left side of his room, near the roaring fire which the House-Elves had tended to not too long ago. He had intended to be writing missives to the vampire clan he was currently dealing with; since they only ventured out at night, he had hoped to get his letter out within the hour. Not that the Vampires were adversely affected by sunlight, but rather it irritated them, so they preferred roaming at night as was their nature. His dealings with the Dark forces weren't going as smoothly as he hoped. The quill dropped from his fingers as he sighed resignedly; every Horcrux he'd been able to retrieve tonight was safely ensconced in his drawer next to him.
They were secured with every single locking spell he knew, as well as one that required a spoken charm to open it, and he had naturally chosen to use Parseltongue for the key phrase. This was pretty much how Salazar Slytherin had protected his Chamber of Secrets, although Voldemort used more than just 'open', that was for certain. He didn't know what it was, but since his return to his body, specifically since touching Potter, he'd felt better than he had in a long time. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally ... but an emotional Dark Lord wasn't a good thing. Still, the idea of going insane didn't appeal to him.
1979, just a year, an inconspicuous one at that... but not completely, not to him. That was the year everything had gone downhill, when everything he had hoped to achieve had been threatened. It was the year that had pushed him over the edge, and with that everything had scattered into the winds. It was the year the Prophecy had been uttered, and apparently when one of his own Death Eaters, who had sworn eternal loyalty to him, had betrayed him. Regulus Black had so sworn, despite the fact he did not normally mark anyone under the age of seventeen. Once they were out of school, and were fully qualified, he had done so with the young Black. The younger wizard had revered him since childhood; his greatest desire had been to serve him, to be a Death Eater. Voldemort had sensed that, and he didn't need to wonder now what had gone wrong, he had realized already that planning to kill unborn children had… shaken his followers. Regulus Black had been one of them evidently; he had gotten to his Horcrux, and Vodemort realized there would be only one possibility for how that had happened.
Kreacher, the Black House-Elf he had used to enact the safety of the cave for his Horcrux; he must have somehow survived. He had underestimated not only the House-Elf, but the effectiveness of his own enchantments. Using House-Elf magic, Kreacher has clearly been able to get in and out of the cave despite the Anti-Apparation spells intended to prevent such a thing happening. The House-Elf must have revealed what they'd done, and Regulus Black must have had himself brought there. Somehow, someway, Regulus Black had died there; perhaps the Inferi had dragged him under? He didn't know, but he had realized Black was dead. Which meant the House-Elf must have his Horcrux; he hoped fervently that it was still whole, that the House-Elf hadn't managed to destroy his locket. The fact he did not know where it was worried him, especially with one part of his soul already destroyed thanks to Lucius' blunder. He couldn't afford any others to be destroyed; he refused to allow it.
Potter…the Gaunt ring…Slytherin's Locket….Hufflepuff's Cup…Nagini…His Diary…The Ravenclaw Diadem, which his House-Elves had retrieved from its hiding place; he had unknowingly actually had seven Horcruxes as he had wished all those years ago ― for eleven years. Until the Diary had been destroyed, unless the House-Elf had found a way to destroy his locket also. He refused to believe that was the case, but hadn't he already underestimated House-Elves? He refused to let it happen again. Where had the Blacks lived again? A baffled frown worked its way onto his face; for the life of him he could not remember. His red eyes flashed suddenly, the Fidelius charm―it was the only reason he would have forgotten; now why would such a charm be placed on the Black residence? Regretfully, that meant even his spy would be unable to tell him of its location. Although, his spy could look for the locket while he was there... but Severus was far too curious for his own good. The marks of a good spy, but he did not want anyone else knowing about the actual way he had been able to achieve immortality.
Regulus' betrayal hit him harder than it should have; if he had been alive the traitor would have suffered the tortures of the damned. Sane or insane, he didn't tolerate such actions; when he marked them he showed his trust in them, let them into his circle, and Black had let him down. He had been the perfect Death Eater, eager to prove himself; his own insanity had caused this…were there others who didn't wish to serve him now? Was there a way to regain that trust he had seemingly flippantly discarded in his desire to see the one potential threat that could destroy him defeated?
Two Horcruxes were still missing; he had Potter, the Gaunt ring, Nagini, and his diadem. The locket was missing, and the cup had been given to Bellatrix Lestrange. Hopefully she had been smart enough to hide it; he would get it back just as soon as he got her and the others liberated from Azkaban. If anything had happened to that cup…he would not be responsible for his actions. Losing one was hard enough, but two? Well, needless to say, someone would feel the full extent of his wrath and displeasure. Lucius had already been made aware of just how dissatisfied he was with him, but he was much too useful to permanently harm ― not that he would, really.
Against his will, his mind drifted to Potter. Something was nagging at him, about the bruises and busted lip. The Order wouldn't have let anything happen to their precious 'saviour', who incidentally wouldn't be saving anyone. If something had and they'd slipped up, why leave the wounds? Why not heal him? Surely Potter would have gone straight to them to complain? Or was he too embarrassed? Having been bested by a Muggle, of all things? No, there was no way Potter had been bested by a filthy Muggle! He didn't even seem embarrassed by the fact he'd seen the bruises. The boy had been as cocky as ever, defiant, and damn it, the boy made the blood rush through his veins in fury. He knew they were guarding the boy, Severus had said as such, but couldn't tell him exactly who was. There had been obviously more than just a few punches exchanged; the boy had difficulty moving...bruised ribs? Potter was fast, skilled at moving; a seeker without a broom, he'd had no problem outmanoeuvring him just a few weeks ago. He had not expected his first stunner to hit its target, no matter how quickly he'd drawn his wand attempting to surprise Harry. Yet it had, the boy hadn't even moved from his position on the bed, so the likelihood of having damaged ribs as well was pretty high. The potion he'd told the House-Elves to give to the boy would heal most of the damage; he couldn't have his Horcrux injured, now could he? Or that was what he told himself; after all, what other reason could he have for healing a boy who had caused him nothing but pain in his fourteen years of existence? Perhaps he should get his healer to look at Potter as well as Barty, just to be sure. He suspected Muggles to have done Potter damage, if they had he would kill them for harming his horcrux.
They did not deserve to live; they were a danger to him, to wizards, and how many had died because of the blasted war the Muggles had started? Voldemort closed his mind off; he did not want to think on his childhood and his feelings of helplessness with the war going on around him... He was successful, as memories began to turn around in his mind. Thirteen years old he had been when the Muggle war had descended on them. He could remember begging Dumbledore to be allowed to remain at Hogwarts…not wishing to return to the Muggle orphanage, to the bombs, the air raids, the terror of not knowing what was going to happen any moment. Not knowing when he would next get a decent meal, since the Muggles had been on rationing. Having a wand and being restricted, not allowed to use it if anything happened…not knowing any spell that could possibly save him from the Muggle bombs. A shudder stole over Voldemort's features, regaining control of himself; he wrapped his cloak tighter around him, insisting it had been the chill. He no longer feared the Muggles; he would make sure no wizarding child had to fear for their lives once he had control over the magical world. He would do it, and his Horcrux would be kept safe and out of the war; he had found a way to ensure it after all.
Fenrir had responded to his letter; since he wasn't marked, he couldn't be summoned. Unfortunately the wolf in Fenrir would never tolerate the thought of being marked by another. Truth be told, Voldemort didn't think it was just Fenrir's wolf, but the man himself. Fenrir hated most wizards, not that he could blame him really, since nearly all Wizards and Witches were terrified of werewolves and would kill Fenrir without a second's notice. At least those in the Ministry would, the rest of the population would be frozen in terror. Purely the Ministry's fault, they'd gone too far in trying to make Fenrir out to be some vicious, notorious werewolf beast that killed indiscriminatingly. Trying to bolster the Ministry's image, it had back fired; Fenrir had grown bigger and stronger than they'd anticipated. It was wrong on so many levels, to hunt down a nine-year-old child, blaming him for things beyond his control. Stating he purposely made his way in front of people's windows and turned children, whisking them off to raise them away from their wizarding parents. It was laughable, after all Fenrir had been only nine years old when the Ministry released that information. All just because he'd sought out revenge on Lupin. Unfortunately the reputation was made complete: he was a savage werewolf, who bit innocent children, who liked biting and eating human flesh... just a bit too much.
He was one of the few who hadn't been fearful of Fenrir; he hadn't had a reason to be worried or fearful, and why should he be? He had magic; he could defend himself if it came to that. It was Fenrir's disgust and wanted status that had drawn him to Voldemort's side. Fenrir might look rather old, even if he was twenty-nine or thirty years of age, but Voldemort was actually forty years older than him. With the same ideals, it wasn't hard to get on ― it had been inevitable. Voldemort would soon be celebrating his seventieth birthday…he certainly felt that age right now. It would not last of course, his body was getting stronger by the day, a fortnight had passed already.
"WORMTAIL!" Voldemort hissed out, knowing the rat was around somewhere, and he was correct, almost immediately the wizard shifted from his Animagus form to human. "Your arm, Wormtail." he demanded, holding his hand out expectantly, it was time to call Severus again he needed more information on Potter than he'd gotten so far.
Snape cursed quietly as the Mark flared to life, just as he was in the delicate stages of a potion. Pursing his lips, he wondered if it was worth the potential punishment. The Voldemort he had known best wouldn't have tortured him for being late, at least not after he got into the inner circle, which was quite quickly thanks to his abilities. Not only could he brew potions and duel, but he created his own spells, and that was something his Lord had admired. Then came the year two years before his defeat, when the Dark Lord had demanded that he gain Dumbledore's trust. If there was one thing he regretted, and not just because of Lily's death either, it was telling the Dark Lord that prophecy he'd overheard. He'd noticed an immediate change in him. Lucius hadn't, and he'd been with him. He didn't think there was a Death Eater out there who hadn't been praying for something to happen. They all knew the Dark Lord had gone down a darker path than they were capable of. At least most of them couldn't, he thought to himself, remembering Bellatrix Lestrange. He had no doubt she'd been the one mostly responsible for the fate that befell the Longbottoms. The Lestrange brothers were more laid back, and had agreed with many others that things needed to change. Bellatrix, however, seemed to revel in their Lord's madness, his bloodthirsty nature.
Relaxing slightly, Snape realized that he had time; if he had been at Hogwarts he would have only just begun to walk out of his Quarters. It would take him ten minutes to get OUT of Hogwarts itself, and a further ten minutes to get off the grounds. Albeit the Dark Lord probably knew he wasn't at Hogwarts. He preferred the solitude that he could get here, away from Dumbledore's prying eyes. The old fool never ventured to his house. In fact he rarely left Hogwarts; if he did leave it would be to go to Hogsmeade or Grimmauld Place, and he got there by going through the Floo Network. He never walked or went anywhere unless he absolutely had to.
He'd known he would be busy but Dumbledore was taking things too far. It had been three weeks since his Lord had returned, two since the holidays had began, yet he had been at five Order meetings. He was at the end of his tether; they did nothing but procrastinate, worry, and uselessly blab whatever came into their insipid heads. Mostly about Potter, finding new members, keeping the secret, and trying to get word out about his Lord while the rest of the world was content to think Potter was lying. They had succeeded in gaining a few new Order members: the younger yet eldest generation of the Weasleys, Bill and Charlie; two new Aurors, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks. Bill and Charlie were powerful, so that was concerning, as was Kingsley Shacklebolt―he was a very shrewd man. Tonks was an idiot as far as he was concerned; even under disguise he'd know her the second she moved. She couldn't keep on her own two feet, without knocking something over or tripping up her own feet. If there was anyone that made him need to curse and scream, it was Alastor 'Mad-eye' Moody. How he wanted to kill that old man, and nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to take him down. Perhaps his Lord would give him the opportunity to do as such if it arose.
Nobody listened to Moody when he said 'once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater', and it would be their downfall... he hoped.
Stirring the potion, he removed the rod, then cleaned it before placing it on the table. He cast a stasis charm on the cauldron, freezing it at the correct time. Snape allowed himself to nod in satisfaction, knowing it would be fine when he came back to it; he certainly wasn't going to waste the ingredients that had gone into it already. Grabbing the potions that had already been made for his Lord, he shrank them and placed them in his cloak. Not even pausing from one movement to the next, he Apparated to where the Dark Mark was guiding him, to the quiet, tranquil, small but elegant manor (at least compared to Malfoy Manor) before him. It was truly something he wouldn't have expected his Lord to have.
His impassive masks went up; so far the Dark Lord had seemed patient, and more like his old self, but Severus did not want to get his hopes up. How long before he began obsessing over Harry Potter? Before it was all he would think about? He hoped the way his Lord was being was how he would remain. Perhaps he was hoping that being nearly defeated, practically dead for thirteen years would have given him patience.
Walking forward towards the meeting room, the doors automatically opened for him; he stalked through. "My Lord," Severus said in his dulcet tones.
"Sit, Severus," Voldemort stated, watching his spy closely; was he one of those who had wished for his death? Had he been glad when his downfall had been met at the hands of Harry Potter? Or had he bided his time, praying he returned? He would never know unless he managed to get through Severus' mental shields. Unfortunately he didn't even think such a thing was possible, Severus was admittedly brilliant at what he did; everything he did he mastered beautifully. Even the ability to fly; like himself, all it had taken was three lessons and Severus was flying like a duck took to water. Severus had impressed him, he had to admit.
"Thank you, My Lord," Severus said, sitting in the allotted seat. The Dark Lord had forgone his usual throne; instead he was sitting at a table with chairs―like an equal. Something he hadn't done for nearing two years before his defeat. It furthered his hope that his Lord wouldn't obsess over Harry Potter. Of course Severus had to think that and have his Lord ask…
"Has Potter left the vicinity of Privet Drive at all in the past two weeks?" Voldemort demanded, his red eyes noticing a flash of something he couldn't decipher in Severus' eyes.
"From what they've been saying, no, he hasn't even left the vicinity of the house," Severus admitted, displeased that his Lord was once again becoming obsessed with Harry bloody Potter. "They've even complained that the letters don't 'sound' like Potter, then they get into an argument about how witnessing the death of a fellow classmate would change him." Severus couldn't help himself, he had to roll his eyes ― it was absurd.
"And your opinion?" enquired Voldemort, his voice cautious now.
Severus snorted in derision, "None of them even know the boy, never mind well enough to send letters to. Black is the only one that might have a clue, but he hasn't said anything at the meetings. Merely complained about being stuck indoors and not being able to write to his godson." Here his lips curled, he loathed Black.
"And why wouldn't he be able to write to Potter?" Voldemort was quite frankly baffled, but he didn't show it.
"I believe Dumbledore has asked them not to. If what I overheard was correct, he believes they might be intercepted," Severus said sighing in vexation. He was very good at listening in on conversations, especially when he stuck to the shadows and was overlooked.
"Severus…do you still hold to the eternal loyalty you promised me upon becoming one with the fold?" Voldemort demanded, trying to catch Severus off guard. He knew though that it would take a lot more than just that question to catch Severus out.
"Always, my Lord, I do not discard my word so easily," Severus said, his exasperated posture no longer present. Instead he was sitting facing his Lord with a serious expression on his face, his eyes never once wavering from the red ones before him.
Voldemort stared straight into Severus' eyes; could he trust him with such a momentous task? After all he had assumed he could trust Regulus Black as well as Lucius; both of them had hurt him in different ways. Would Severus react the same way as Regulus had upon finding the lengths he'd taken to achieve immortality? He had no other way of achieving the goal, which was to retrieve his real Horcrux. Since he couldn't remember where the property was or what it was called, he had to rely on someone who knew where the property was. Severus wouldn't be able to tell him; he had no other option.
"I have a very important task for you," Voldemort eventually stated, having no choice but to trust his spy. "It will be tricky as well, since nobody can know about it."
"Of course, my Lord," Severus replied, waiting patiently for what his Lord would ask of him.
"There is a Slytherin locket I require somewhere in the Order headquarters; Regulus Black took what did not belong to him," Voldemort hissed, his anger still brewing dangerously under the surface. "You can leave this duplicate in its place; it can be summoned and is not a danger to you. I want you to come here as soon as you have retrieved it." That said, Voldemort removed the piece of jewellery from his robes, his long, thin, almost skeletal hands passed over the large locket and thick heavy chain that was attached to it. It didn't look like much, but it was Salazar Slytherin's pendant, once owned by one of the most powerful wizards ever remembered. Something that was, by right, his and his alone! He was the last descendant; he had made sure of that. Everyone that had left him in that orphanage thinking he had no family had paid dearly: his uncle…his filthy Muggle grandparents and father, even though they weren't the Slytherin descendants, at least not by blood.
Severus accepted the heavier than suspected Slytherin pendant, his mind whirling a mile a minute. Why would Regulus Black steal the locket? He couldn't say his Lord had killed him, since he too had been disconcerted by his continued absence, in the rare moments he wasn't obsessing over who had the potential to destroy him of course. Could he still be alive but in hiding? A body had never been recovered, if he remembered correctly. His family hadn't even known what had happened, but the general consensus was that he'd gotten in too deep and wanted out. That he had been killed by a Death Eater on his Lord's orders. Which wasn't true; the Dark Lord hadn't ordered such a thing, and Regulus had been an avid supporter, he'd hung on to the Dark Lord's every word. Admittedly he had been like everyone else by the end, wanting his Lord back to how he was before the Prophecy interrupted their strategic moves. Had he been more desperate than the others? More shocked and disgusted? Not that he had seen, but he hadn't been close to Black; they were merely acquaintances if they could actually call them as such. It was a long time to remain in hiding, without money and without being spotted even once. No, there was no way Regulus Black was alive, so what had happened to him, he wondered?
"Your potions, my Lord," Severus said, placing the locket in his pocket and removing the shrunk crate of Potions and returning them to their normal size.
"Any news on the Order?" asked Voldemort, refusing to dwell on Potter and the implications until he was alone. Or as alone as he could get with Pettigrew skulking around somewhere.
"They have a few new recruits, and from what I understand they have an additional two considering their proposal," Severus grimly stated. "Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Charlie and Bill Weasley have joined, and those they have considering is a disgusting thief― Mundungus Fletcher― and Sturgis Podmore. They are doing nothing more than guarding Potter, trying to convince people you are back, and getting to those whom they consider worthy of joining their Order." Yes, their Order, he didn't consider it as his. They were just a bunch of idiots trying to play hero, for a cause they did not understand. They were basically, in his opinion, running around like a bunch of headless chickens. They brought nothing worthy of note to the table, only he did, or so they should think; he only revealed what his Lord wished him to.
"I see," Voldemort replied, he would have to get Lucius to do a background search on all of them; he wanted to know every little detail about them. "You may go, Severus," Voldemort added absently.
"My Lord," Severus respectfully said, inclining his head before he stood up and departed, hope blooming further. The Dark Lord did seem much better; it relieved him greatly.
Voldemort however, wasn't relieved, he was perplexed. If Potter hadn't been out of his damn house…how the hell did he end up all black and blue? He had always been extremely smart, and it didn't take him long to come to the only natural conclusion one could reach. Abuse; his red eyes flashed in fury― how he hated Muggles. Why would Potter fight for the light side if he had been abused? It made no sense to him whatsoever; why fight for the Muggles who hated and hurt him? The boy was a conundrum. He would get Grant to run a full history diagnostic on him, that way he would have his answer for sure.
Grant would be here today again, so he had to do something with Potter before then; either way the boy wasn't going to cooperate. Nothing he did had ever cowed the boy; threatening, torture... it was as if he was completely fearless. It would be such a Gryffindor trait if it wasn't so damn Slytherin. He would find out for sure, although if his suspicions were confirmed he honestly didn't know what he would do.
He let out a frustrated breath, everything was taking forever; patience had never been a virtue that he possessed. That and he was very easy to anger, he had often wondered if it had anything to do with the strength of his magic. He hadn't been curious enough to investigate; he had other things more worthy of his attention. Plucking two potions from the crate Severus had brought, he downed them in one go before eating his breakfast. He had some research to do; he couldn't allow his Horcrux to escape.
Harry murmured quietly, as the Dreamless Sleeping potion began to work its way out of his system. His face was peaceful, something that anyone rarely got to see. Harry's dreams were normally plagued with nightmares; thankfully for most part he wasn't vocal when he was asleep. So most people didn't even realize Harry had nightmares, which was fine by him, the fewer weaknesses they knew about, the better, in his opinion. The Daily Prophet had already ripped him to shreds this year, including the fact he had 'seizures'. Harry's peaceful green eyes blinked open, a yawn breaking loose until Harry sat up abruptly, ignoring the pain igniting in his ribs, the serene mood vanishing like a boat in the Bermuda Triangle. He'd been bloody drugged! He knew he shouldn't have eaten that food, although he had to admit it had been delicious.
Why was Harry's main concern right now; why had he been drugged? What had they done to him? Nothing made sense anymore; why wasn't Voldemort trying to kill him? The unknown was quite frankly freaking him out. His encounters with Voldemort usually only lasted a little while. Go somewhere, be threatened, be nearly killed, thwart him, get to spend time with Poppy in the Hospital wing. After a few days, depending on if he had been unconscious, go to a feast and be patted on the head like a 'good little boy'. Harry's lip curled just thinking about it; if Dumbledore thought he didn't know about his manipulations he was an idiot. He was meant to be sorted into Slytherin for a reason; his self-preservation had kicked in, and he'd done what he'd had to ― to blend in amongst everyone. Just then an urgent need made itself known; ―oh, he shouldn't have drank all that juice―, and he badly needed to pee. Grimacing at the toilet he groaned, cursing violently; if he didn't do the toilet he would pee himself and that was the last thing he wanted. Who knows how long he'd be down here? He'd rather not sit in his own soiled clothes.
Harry listened for any sound whatsoever, before edging towards the toilet. They were doing this to torture him before he was killed, he just knew it. Gritting his teeth, he hastily did the toilet, sighing in relief as he did so, before climbing back on the bed. When he did, he felt something on his leg; confused, he hoisted his leg onto the mattress and arched it to the side. His heart pounded desperately in his ribcage at the sight; what the hell was it? First prodding at it cautiously, he then yanked at it. Nothing happened. The green and silver band just refused to budge. His fingers trailed around the length of it, looking for an opening but he found none. His mouth was dry; closing his eyes briefly, he opened them again, fire burning in their emerald depths as he continued to try and remove the thing around his ankle.
His head jerked up when he heard a loud clanging; he held his breath wondering who it was. It obviously wasn't Voldemort, otherwise his scar would have been burning by this time…so who was it? Death Eaters? Surprise flashed through his green eyes when the snake-faced git made an appearance; why hadn't his scar burned? His brow furrowed in confusion, even as his hands continued to try and remove the band. He glared fiercer at the red eyes that lit up in amusement, at his expense no doubt.
"What the fuck did you do to me?" Harry snarled, unable to keep his mouth shut. There was no golden boy pretence to put up here. Neither did survival seem to be a thing he cared for, as he spoke to the Dark Lord with a bite nobody else would have gotten away with. Especially if the way the wizard beside Snakey reacted, he'd inhaled sharply, in shock no doubt, at his words. His green eyes sparked with feral amusement when the red eyes flared with anger, as he sat watching as Voldemort's hands clenched in an attempt to keeping his calm.
Grant watched the Dark Lord out of the corner of his eyes, extremely surprised. Never in all the years, when he had served the Dark Lord, when he needed it, had he seen such restraint on his part. He had expected the boy... no, teenager... to be writhing under the Cruciatus Curse by now. By Merlin, the boy had more guts than the entire Dark Lord's army combined. Never had he seen such blatant disrespect spat at him before. Everyone trembled and bowed before Lord Voldemort; it seemed this young boy was an exception to that rule. Keeping his face impassive, he waited, on what he wasn't sure.
Voldemort opened the cell door, his red eyes never removed from Harry's, his wand held loosely in his fingers. Harry however, wasn't fooled by the seemingly calm display of casualness. Voldemort could strike lightening last; he had reflexes that, even if it burned to admit, that Harry was envious of. Harry remained on the bed, his eyes never wavering from the pair, keeping them in sight which was easy to do from where he sat. Was this it? Would he be breathing his last here and now? It was unlike Voldemort, he liked an audience, and he'd proven that just a few weeks ago. Unless he didn't want to be embarrassed again, but Harry couldn't see how that would happen; he didn't have a wand or any means to protect himself. Why bother with the band? What fucking game was Voldemort playing? Well, he refused to play along; he wouldn't act like a kicked pup! He wasn't scared of death; he'd almost died in the Chamber, had felt himself dying, poisoned by the basilisk.
Jutting up his chin defiantly, the urge to cross his arms against his chest was strong but he didn't want to leave himself vulnerable in case he was attacked. No, he would put up a fight, even if it was a useless one, just like it had been at the graveyard, again surviving by sheer dumb luck.
Harry arched away slightly, defensively, when the unnamed wizard knelt on the floor. Harry gave him a quick confused look before he scooted back on the bed a bit, so he could keep a better eye on the pair of them. What the fuck was going on? His gaze switched back to the wizard watching him remove... a potions bag? The stranger unrolled it and left it sitting there on the floor before sitting on the bed next to him.
"Drink this," Grant said, his tone as soothing as if he was speaking to a reluctant child. He couldn't help but grin slightly, seeing the look of incredulity that passed over Harry's face. Oh yes, he knew who the boy was, and was very surprised to find that he was still breathing. To make matters even more curious, he was being asked to do a full check-up on the boy? Well, at least his job was never boring it seemed. "It will not harm you; surely you've taken it before?" the healer questioned.
Harry's lips disappeared, his nose flared in anger; he did not like being played. Yet his mind whispered to him why would they give him a choice? Why not just do what they'd done before? Put it in his food and be done with it? He had no idea what the bloody potion was, and he didn't want to find out. The thought of being bound and forced to take it was even less appealing. He knew that whatever happened, he only had the illusion of willingness. Gritting his teeth, he looked ready to rip someone's head off.
"You've never taken this potion before, have you?" Grant said, becoming quite alarmed; all children going through Hogwarts was supposed to get this potion. It seemed his lord might have other motives about this entire thing. He wasn't stupid enough to ask any questions about it, which was putting it bluntly. "I am a healer, Harry, I am oath-bound never to harm another, and this potion will not hurt you in any way."
"I only have your word for that," Harry sneered, pondering inwardly if it was true. The Muggles had something similar, a Hippocratic Oath; it didn't stop them from murdering people. The news showed horrible things doctors and nurses did, but with magic…was it truly binding?
Seeing that his Lord was losing patience, he uncorked the potion and took a sip of it himself, showing the boy that it wouldn't harm him. Nobody would be stupid enough to take a sip of a potion that could potentially harm them. "See?" added Grant, holding the potion out.
"You could have taken the antidote before coming in," Harry stated, still not trusting them; he never would.
"Just take the damn potion," Voldemort hissed, his red eyes flaring as his patience waned. The urge to curse the boy was stronger than ever, in fact he was fingering his wand, ready to cast the Cruciatus curse. "Or I will have him pour it down your incapacitated throat."
Grant winced even if that anger wasn't directed at him; the magic pouring off the older wizard was terrifyingly dark in its nature. He glanced at Harry to find him not even slightly bothered. He was beginning to think the boy had a death wish; how could he sit there calmly with this wizard's ire so intently focused on him? The others would be prostrating themselves at his feet by now, begging for forgiveness, doing whatever they had to just to make it better.
"Cr―" Voldemort started to snarl, but not getting to finish before the boy spoke.
"Alright, alright, fuck, I'll take the damn potion!" Harry snapped, thinking, give in today, fight and live for tomorrow. If he was going to be in pain he'd rather not have the Cruciatus Curse's after-effects thrumming through him too. The pain he remembered had been intolerable. Like the time his uncle and Cousin had stamped on his arm and leg, kicking him in the stomach and head and rendering him unconscious within minutes. That had been before Hogwarts, when his accidental magic had Apparated him onto the school roof. Grabbing the vial from the wizard, he glared at everything, furious that he was being backed into a corner. His hand clenched around the vial as he gritted his teeth again. He'd rather lose the battle than lose the war; he would find a way out of this damn place. To do that he needed to be as pain free as possible. If he could accidentally Apparate when he was younger, maybe he could do it again, or do some sort of accidental magic to get him the fuck out of here. A snide voice reminded him he'd just end up back in another prison: the Dursleys'. It was better than dying... no, no it wasn't, really; he was tired of constantly fighting, constantly defending himself, and exhausted from being betrayed and hurt by everyone around him.
The vial must have been unbreakable; since he was clutching it so hard it should have shattered the glass into his hand. Was he really going to do this? He must be off his rocker; sitting there clutching it in his hand he realized he couldn't do it. He'd refused to bow to the Dursleys; he refused to truly mould himsef into the saviour image everyone wanted. He damn well wasn't going to bow to Voldemort, he could curse him if he liked. He twitched and was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a murmured spell, and then he felt it, the alarming sensation of something suddenly hitting his stomach.
Looking down he noticed the vial was empty; he sat glaring at the wizard, seething with fury. He hadn't realized there was a spell that could put potions into his stomach, even after all his time spent in Hospital wing. Then again he wouldn't be, would he? They would have been administered that way when he was bloody unconscious. Why hadn't he done that to begin with? His scorching glare didn't let up, not even when the wizard began chanting; that just made him tense up even further, coiled ready to strike. If he thought he could get out of here, he would have struck out, but with Voldemort there he knew he'd be on his back quicker than lightening. If he wanted to get away, he would need to do it when he was alone. He didn't care about the consequences anymore, he would do magic if it saved his life... even if he was expelled.
Then just like that both wizards began exiting the cell. Voldemort didn't let him out of his sight until the door banged shut and was locked with magic again. His hands clenched as he watched them, the urge to punch that smug look on Voldemort's face was strong. Once they were gone, Harry punched the mattress repeatedly, screaming his frustration, taking it out on the only thing there that wouldn't hurt him in the process.
"My Lord, do you think the boy has taken the potion before?" Grant asked, sitting himself down on a seat in the Dark Lord's study. It was dark, not because the curtains were closed but because the room itself was done in dark woods, and dark green colours. It worked well together, he certainly wouldn't have used those colours together but he had to admit it was a sight to see. It was much nicer than the other place his Lord had, in the Muggle mansion. It was a genius move; the light side wouldn't think to look for him there. He had no idea of course that by birthright the mansion was actually his Lord's.
"From his unwillingness to take it, I would assume not," Voldemort replied, the appearance of being unbothered by the events that had just transpired evident on his face. However, Voldemort was far from unbothered, but he wasn't about to let anyone in on that annoying fact. Even he remembered the potion; it was one of the first ones he'd ever taken that first night at Hogwarts. All children were required to take it at some point in their lives, and the information revealed was stored in their files. Not only did it give them a past history of all injuries, treatments, and illnesses, it also let them know what the children were allergic to. Purebloods or half-bloods raised in the Magical world didn't need to go through it at school, since their records were automatically sent to Hogwarts when they were eleven. As far as he knew, Severus still insisted that all his Slytherins get the treatment; he wanted to make sure they were being looked after. Considering all the abuse the wizard had gone through, Voldemort didn't blame him.
"He's Muggle-raised isn't he?" Grant frowned, quite frankly unsettled.
"He is," Voldemort stated, twitching as he remembered something Potter had said weeks ago. He didn't know why he hadn't remembered it before this, but he was remembering a lot lately; it was as if close proximity to his Horcruxes was helping him. The boy had said, 'Oh, please, like you're the only one who's had a shit childhood.' Could he be referring to the loss of his parents? Or were his assumptions right and the boy had been abused? It seemed inconceivable to him; the boy was too sickeningly light, sticking to Dumbledore like a loyal puppy. Then there was Dumbledore… would he really risk his saviour by allowing him to be abused by Muggles?
Grant swished and flicked his wand in a long complicated motion, then a scroll began to materialise in front of him. He expected it to be long, after all, the boy was fourteen years old, but it was much longer than he'd anticipated. He'd seen patients decades older with fewer results than this. Eventually his wand stopped producing the results and Grant could snatch it out of the air. Dark or not, the results on the parchment enraged him beyond comprehension. Nobody, not even Harry Potter, deserved this! Yes, the Dark Lord made examples of those who betrayed him, but they were adults and had willfully done it knowing the consequences. The boy had been a child; having children as he did, just made the matter worse.
"Well?" Voldemort demanded impatiently.
Grant quickly looked up at the Dark Lord, pausing briefly, aware that he could be cursed any minute. His Lord wasn't known for his patience; his hubris was that he wanted too much too soon. Of course he would never come out and tell him that. His mind drifted to what had happened earlier. If it had been Death Eaters they would have been under that painful curse; he obviously had no desire to kill Harry Potter anymore. Why? And why had he wanted him to run a full diagnostic on him? Better yet, how would he react when he saw these results? He obvious had his suspicions. Instead of saying anything, he handed over the scroll, letting the results speak for themselves in all their grave certainty.
He knew when the Dark Lord had finally taken in the results; Grant barely dared to breathe as the room became unbearable hot with his anger. Merlin, thought Grant, would he be leaving here without being hurt? He couldn't help shrinking back into his seat; pride be damned, the wizard was fucking scary.
"FILTHY DISGUSTING MUGGLES!" Voldemort spat, his rage expanding exponentially. He would find a way around the wards of Privet Drive and he would kill the sons of bitches! Nobody hurt a wizarding child and got away with it, and people wondered why he wanted Muggles put down like the filthy animals that they were? They didn't deserve to live; they were the ones that were depraved. Dumbledore had to have known, there was no doubt…which had him wondering if his precious Order knew. If they were watching as closely as he'd been told, they probably did. Calming down slightly, his red eyes were still brighter than ever, filled with raw hatred. Hopefully Lucius would be back with something he could use to get through to Potter. It oddly enough didn't fill him with malicious glee at the thought of breaking him, making him see that nobody cared about him, just about the weapon that he was to them. Perhaps it was because he knew Potter had been through enough shit to last him a lifetime. Why should he care? As long as his Horcrux survived... yet he was beginning to see the boy, not the vessel…was that why? Was Dumbledore doing this to see how far he could push the boy, not caring because his, Vodemort's, soul was inside him? No, that wasn't like the old fool, but he did often have others do his dirty work for him. How could the boy be so naïve? He'd seen right through Dumbledore from the beginning!
"My Lord?" Grant carefully questioned, still remaining stiff and as far back in the chair as he could possibly get, hoping to distract him from the Muggles and his fury. "Do you wish for me to repair the damage?" Although getting the boy to drink the potions he'd prescribe would apparently be the biggest challenge of his life.
"Yes," Voldemort replied, his answer immediate and stern. "List the potions, Severus will brew them." He trusted nobody else.
"As you wish, My Lord," Grant said, his voice still careful. "Will I add one to correct his vision, or shall I see about getting him a pair of glasses more suitable?" The ones he had on were causing untold damage; they weren't the correct prescription and they were making his eyes worse. His eyesight wouldn't be as bad if he hadn't been wearing them, that he knew from experience as a healer.
"Correct it," Voldemort stated flippantly; he didn't like weaknesses and glasses were one. If they were removed you would be blind, unable to see any assault coming your way. Grant would know better than to talk about anything they discussed, including the fact he was helping the boy. Yet it didn't matter, all his Death Eaters would soon become aware that the boy was to be untouched; anyone that did would die a horribly painful death.
"Yes, My Lord," replied Grant, eyes slightly wide. He had expected an outright refusal but just thought to cover all the bases like he always did. That potion was expensive, extremely difficult to make; not a problem for a Potions Master like Severus, but nonetheless hard to brew. It was said to be even harder than the Wolfsbane potion; if he knew Severus he would be salivating over the challenge, he was immensely fond of brewing difficult concoctions. Especially if they were forbidden by the Ministry for being 'dark', which was basically anything that required blood. Dark and grey magics were dwindling, soon there would only be a handful of spells you would be allowed to cast, all very sickeningly 'light' in nature. Yes, he was a healer, which actually made it worse; there were potions and spells deemed 'dark' by those fools that could save people, and he was forbidden from using them. Although he had a more personal reason for joining the dark….after what that cowardly Muggle had done to his child.
"My Lord, if I may be so bold…why are you helping the boy? Do you not want him dead?" asked Grant, risking his wrath on the off-chance he might get even a cryptic statement to think on.
"I despise every drop of magical blood spilled, you know this," Voldemort said, his ruby eyes regarding Grant cautiously. However, he wouldn't let the idiotic fools fighting for something they had no clue about bring him down either, so he killed when he had to.
Grant blinked at the wizard, surprised. "You are going back to your original goals?" Then he stiffened; he had not meant to say that out loud.
"I never wavered from them," Voldemort answered, his voice deceptively mild. Well... that wasn't strictly true, he would never admit that, but he realized he would need to reassure his followers somehow. He would not, could not allow anyone else to betray him, he already had to deal with traitors in his midst. Karkaroff was one of them; he had all but imprisoned a number of Voldemort's followers himself. His end wouldn't be easy; he would be dealt with by the very people he had betrayed.
Grant dipped his head in respect, slightly apologetic for questioning him.
"You may go check on Barty," Voldemort replied, adding, "You are free to go afterwards."
"Very well, My Lord," Grant said. "I shall leave the list of needed potions with a House-Elf before I leave."
"Indeed," was all Voldemort said, waving his hand and dismissing him silently. Grant was barely out of the room when he decided he go to the boy and directly get an answer (which he already knew the answer to.
R&R please.