Synopsis: AU. In a world where Sybil Trelawney is never born, the prophecy remains, but goes unheard. How different will Harry Potter's life be growing up in a world where Voldemort won? How long until a brilliant young man is noticed by the ever more brilliant Dark Lord?
Pairing: Harry Potter and Voldemort, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Grainger, Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass, Theodore Nott and Luna Lovegood.
AN: Hello everyone! I am so sorry this chapter took so long to get up. I've been doing a lot of studying lately, and hit a bit of a roadblock with my writing. Over it now though, so I hope you like the latest chapter!
Absolutely adored all the reviews, so thank you all so much for them :)
EDITED - May 2017.
Chapter 8
Harry threw himself around the first tight corner of the corridor, just as a suspiciously bright red spell smashed into the wall ahead of him. He didn't pause to assess the damage, for fear he would just be frightened into stillness by it.
Harry had no time to consider what had just happened. He didn't have time to question the revelation that he was a Parselmouth, or even why every instinct in his body had told him to run just then. He knew very little about Parselmouths, except that the Dark Lord was supposedly the last of them. A small, logical voice in the back of his mind told him that it shouldn't be possible; his parents had no direct relation to Slytherin – carrier of the gene – and he had seen a few snakes as a child, and never conversed with them. Nevertheless, he couldn't risk explaining that to Voldemort. Not now, anyway.
Harry barreled into the first room he saw. He blew open the first door on the left, incinerating the old oak frame and bolting through the room inside. He barely noticed the small lounge area, or the portraits of the Malfoy ancestors, gasping at his dramatic entrance. He merely ran through it – hopping a small table – and wrenched open another door.
Into another room he went. This room appeared to be some sort of small office, but he paid no attention. He ran through it, and into another, and another, until he ran out of doors to blow down. There had been no real plan to this method, except the plan all raw panic creates. He had merely hoped to outrun Voldemort, but of course, that was ridiculous.
In a last ditch attempt to save his skin, Harry flung open a nearby cupboard door, and sat down inside it. He waved his wand, shutting himself within and locking it. He knew there was little point in sealing the door this way, but it gave him some modicum of security. He sat, crouched in the darkness of the closet, and took quick and shallow breaths.
He was quite sure that he was going to die.
One did not run from the Dark Lord. One did not rip apart Malfoy Manor as one fled the Dark Lord. One certainly didn't suddenly learn an ancient language, and have conversations with the Dark Lord's pet snake. It wasn't as if Voldemort was known for his patience, and his enemies very rarely were taken to trial.
Harry, out of habit, clutched his familiar locket close to his chest. He was curled in on himself, running his hands over the engraved S. Over many years of wearing the thing, Harry had come to believe that it was lucky.
The reasons for this had started out small, and it had taken him a long time to notice any link the events had to his protective locket. Harry seemed to heal faster, and remember things for longer. In a duel, his wand seemed to find his opponents more easily, to anticipate their moves more readily. Now and again, hexes and curses had simply bounced off him, without even the need to cast a shield charm. Harry hadn't really attributed this to the locket though, having never really dueled or used magic before he began to wear it. The shielding was unusual, of course, but maybe the spells were just weak or badly cast.
That was, until the locket had began to speak to him.
Faint at first; incoherent whispers, and half-forgotten conversations from dreams. Harry had thought he was going crazy. He had thought he was turning even crazier when the voice became more insistent, speaking in a strange language he couldn't understand. Over time, however, the voice appeared to learn English. The conversations they had were only ever dream-like, and only when Harry was in great pain or danger, but he had grown to believe that the locket was indeed some sort of sentient being. He had also realised that taking it off would be difficult; the locket had punished him with a searing pain when he attempted to remove it. He had wondered if it were Bellatrix's idea. More often than not, he pretended not to have the strange connection with the ancient jewelry. However, he had never felt more willing to believe in the strange power of the thing, than he did now. Crouched in the darkness of the cupboard, his heart racing, he whispered hurriedly to the locket.
"Please," he whispered, quickly. He could hear something exploding in a not-too-distant room. "Please hide me."
The noises were getting closer. He heard a bang, of what he assumed was one of the few doors he'd left intact being blown to bits.
"Please." he tried. "Please, whatever you are, please. I don't want to die. I don't want to be found."
There was no response from the locket, and indeed, it remained curiously cold against his chest. He wanted to shout at the thing. He wanted to beg, to cry, but then he'd be overheard.
"Hide me!" he whispered, urgently.
The noise must have alerted the Dark Lord, who had evidently entered the room of the closet now. Harry heard footsteps approach, saw the shadow beneath the door, and watched in horror as the door was flung open to reveal him.
It had taken Voldemort several moments to digest what Nagini had told him about the blonde wizard. This was irksome in itself, as he prided himself on having an agile mind, and world-renowned reflexes. Yet, in this case, he would not berate himself for his slow understanding. What Nagini had said was just too ridiculous - too unbelievable - to react immediately.
There could not be another Parselmouth in existence. It was virtually impossible. Voldemort, from the days when he had been merely Tom Riddle, had searched out the myths, legends and histories attached to those who spoke to snakes. He recalled every painstaking measure he had taken to follow the genealogies of the ancient Parselmouths. Years of research; months of mapping and tracking, of old blood rituals and new spells. All of it to see if there was another alive that could claim to be the heir of Slytherin.
It had been necessary, of course. So many of his defenses, his security measures, and even his unique repertoire of spells, relied on the fact that he alone could speak Parseltongue. The Chamber of Secrets itself, where after the war he had begun storing much of his most prized possessions and most sinister weapons, could be easily opened by anyone with Slytherin's gift.
A large part of him thought that Nagini must have been mistaken. Perhaps he had left her alone too often, or she had eaten some mouse that had consumed a dangerous potion recently. But he had to be sure. As soon as he had gathered his considerable wits, he had raised his wand and began to turn towards the wizard. He had taken little notice of him before now, assuming him to be some drunken fool in need of a crucio, to be hanging around his quarters unaware. In his stupor, he hadn't noticed the man turn tail and begin to run. Voldemort cursed loudly as the man rounded a corner, and his stunning spell slammed into the wall opposite.
Voldemort had no desire to kill him as of yet. He was too curious. If the man had managed to trick his snake, for what purpose had he done so? And if he was indeed a speaker, then who was he? Who were his ancestors, to give him the gift Voldemort knew should be his alone?
Voldemort had pursued the man, chuckling to himself as he ran into a nearby room. There were anti-apparition wards encompassing Malfoy Manor, and it was just a matter of minutes before he'd trap himself. Almost lazily, Voldemort had followed, following the wake of destruction in the wizard's path.
He tsked audibly at the mess the man was leaving behind. It was hardly clever to leave such an obvious trail for him to follow, and he'd be disappointed if this man turned out to be some distant kin, as he could not even evade capture briefly. From room to room he followed, a kick of adrenaline flooding his veins. As unemotional as he was, he loved the thrill of the chase. He loved the feeling of closing in on a worthy prey. He needed to capture the man now, before he could find some way of escaping. Voldemort had seen that the man wore a glamour, and wouldn't recognize him on sight again. Such a slip would be inexcusable.
Finally, he came to a room with no exit door. He grinned lazily as he entered the room, and raised his wand. A light green light appeared before the door of a nearby cupboard. The man was trapped.
Prepared to confront the man, to punish him for trying to escape the Dark Lord, he flicked his wand and pulled open the closet door.
His grin turned to a violent grimace. There was nothing within.
1st November 1995
The next morning, Harry woke with a very dry mouth and a pounding headache. He groaned, turning over on the bed he had somehow found his way into, and stretched. His right hand came into contact with something fleshy and solid.
"Ow," muttered a sleepy, agitated voice. "Will you watch it, Potter?"
Harry groggily opened his eyes, taking in the scene around him. He was fully dressed, with just his top buttons undone, and laid beneath a pile of thick, duck-feather quilts in the huge bed that was Draco's. Next to him, a very tired looking Draco was also sprawled across the bed, but he'd somehow had the faculties to put on pyjamas. Across the bottom of the bed, wearing just boxers and a t-shirt, was the still sleeping form of Blaise.
Harry, half-amused by their current sleeping arrangements, sat up and yawned. "How does this always seem to happen?" he asked, as Blaise stirred.
"Because when you drink, you always seem to commandeer my bed," muttered a grumpy Draco, muffled by the silky green pillows that littered the bed.
"Your bed is the most comfortable," added Blaise, also sitting up and stretching. "Although I have no idea how I got here."
Draco, seemingly giving up on sleep, also sat up. "You got here when you fell asleep on the floor of the lounge. I could only levitate you so far."
"And my trousers?" asked Blaise, a little perplexed. He wasn't often a drunk, but when he was, he was a pretty entertaining one.
"Some dare you had with the elder Greengrass. I do believe you and her hit it off last night," answered Draco.
Blaise adopted an embarrassed look, and coughed into his fist, awkwardly. Harry started giggling at this, until Blaise answered by batting him heavily with a pillow.
"All in bed together, and having a pillow fight," came an amused, feminine voice from the doorway. All three of them jumped, surprised. "If I weren't otherwise informed, I'd think I were interrupting something."
Daphne Greengrass stood in the entrance of the room, wearing a silky green robe that clung to her figure. Her blonde hair was a little mussed from sleep, but otherwise, she looked far more put together than the three of them did.
"Blaise." she said, expectantly. Slowly, the boy turned to her, looking more flustered than Harry had every seen him before. "I'm going to go get ready for breakfast now. I'd like you to join me, so be ready in half an hour. My Father will be dining with us."
Blaise nodded, and paled considerably as she left the room, his dark skin looking almost grey.
"What's wrong?" asked Harry, a little bemused by the exchange.
"I... Well, you see," began Blaise. Draco, too, was giving him an odd look. "I believe I may have proposed to Miss Greengrass last night."
"You did what?!" exclaimed Draco, obviously shocked. "How on earth? And what did she say? I didn't know you had any plans to wed the Greengrass girl."
Blaise shrugged, awkwardly. "I didn't. I mean, I wouldn't have dared with all the suitors she had, but…" he trailed off, clearly embarrassed by something.
Harry, ever the quick one, caught on. "You took one of Hermione's sweets, didn't you? The one's that cause boldness, perhaps?"
Blaise nodded, and Draco shook his head, amazed. "Well, what did she say?" asked Draco,
"She said yes," said Blaise, a wry smile crossing his lips at this.
A moment passed, before Harry clapped him on the back. "Well, that's what you wanted, right? Congratulations."
Blaise nodded, and Draco seemed to come back to himself after a moment. "Well," drawled the blonde. "She's a good match; pureblood, wealthy, well bred, and beautiful. It isn't unusual, for women of her station to be engaged at fifteen."
Blaise offered a rare grin. "I'm aware of that." The grin dropped slightly, into a worried look. "Although, now I have to ask her father."
Draco nodded seriously. With purebloods, tradition was everything. "You should speak to him alone, and be as formal as possible. Ask for her hand in marriage. Don't be alarmed if he doesn't say yes, right away. He'll have to consider your lineage, estates, et cetera. She is his oldest child. His heir if they don't have any boys, which seems unlikely at this point." Blaise nodded, a serious man by all accounts, and knew well enough that marriage was partly a business partnership.
After a few minutes of pep talk from Draco, Blaise left to get ready for breakfast with his new fiancé. Harry was still reeling at the possibility of his friend being engaged, but Draco had now taken the news in his stride. He supposed this sort of paced relationship was a lot more expected for him.
"She's a clever girl, Daphne," said Draco, thoughtfully. "Blaise is rich, sensible, and clearly dotes on her. She was wise to snap up his offer this way."
Harry nodded, although he knew Draco was mostly talking to himself. "I just hope she can grow to care for him too," said Harry.
Draco met Harry's eyes, and then nodded. "Yes. Marriages in our circles are rarely love matches, but I'll be pleased if they can grow to care for each other."
Harry nodded. There was a long silence, and Harry conjured a hangover potion, gulping it down as Draco called an elf up to the room.
"Dobby, what are the arrangements for breakfasting today?" asked Draco, as he stood up from the bed.
"It is being served in the dance hall, master. Mistress has asked that all of yous comes down for it, sir," said the simpering elf.
"The dance hall?" Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why on earth? How many people stayed last night?"
Harry knew the 'luncheon room' the Malfoys usually used for breakfast could adequately fit thirty people. The dance hall was much bigger, and not typically used for meals.
"About fifty or so, sir," said Dobby, in a small voice. "Master Lucius's Master has said that no one is to be leaving the Manor yet."
"The Dark Lord?" asked Draco, paling. "The Dark Lord has prevented people leaving?"
Harry, who had been only lazily watching the interaction, suddenly stood up. He too, had turned very pale.
Last night, after the unlikely chase with the Dark Lord, Harry had sat alone in the cupboard for a while. He had listened to his own rapid breathing until it calmed, considerably. The Dark Lord had looked at Harry – looked directly at where he was squatting in the little cupboard – and yet his eyes had seemed to look through him entirely. The powerful Wizard had cast many a spell on the cupboard; spells that would have stripped away any charm or device designed to hide his presence, and yet, Harry had remained undetected. By the time the Dark Lord has stormed away, his aura visibly darkened with rage at Harry's evasion, Harry was staring at his locket in amazement. It had worked. It had hidden him. This was by far the most complex magic the thing had ever done to protect him, and it both fascinated and terrified Harry.
When the locket had first begun to behave strangely; when it had began to whisper to him at night, talking disjointedly of strange things, Harry had begun to research the protective amulets that could control magic. He had dug into ancient texts, and complex magical theories, all in the hopes of finding out why the thing seemed to have a life of it's own. No matter where he looked, however, there was no indication of a talisman ever behaving as his did.
The things the locket spoke of varied wildly. Sometimes, it spoke of a forest. Sometimes about spells, ancient magic, people. Once, it even muttered incoherently about a cave, an orphan, and a ritual gone awry. These mutterings were infrequent, perhaps once every few months, and only in the dead of night when Harry was alone. The only time the locket had ever seemed aware of him was when Harry had been gravely injured in a duel with a particularly brutish seventh year Ravenclaw. Harry had been a third year at the time, and the Ravenclaw had caught him unawares in a corridor. The boy had been jealous of Harry, of his prodigious skill, and had been ready to exact bitter revenge. It was the locket that had told him how to wandlessly break the bonds; told him the exact spell to use as revenge. The boy had never been quite the same again, after that. This had unnerved Harry, but the locket had gone quiet for a long time after, and he had put it to the back of his mind. He chose not to think on the strange object; there were many weird happenings in the Wizarding world. Last night, however, had been something else entirely. Harry had vowed to research the talisman more thoroughly than ever, once he was back at Hogwarts.
His most pressing concern now, was Voldemort. Before he had left the cupboard, he had removed the glamours that changed his hair and eye colour, and darkened his skin. The potion that had aged him had worn off soon after, and gone was the broad, handsome man in his early twenties. Harry Potter was back to his slightly scrawnier, slightly lankier fifteen-year old self. He had made his way directly back to the party in Draco's room, only to find Krum and his entourage had already left for bed. Draco had demanded to know what had taken Harry so long, but he had claimed to have gotten lost. Draco was too drunk at the time to question it. Harry had thrown himself back into the spirit of the party. He didn't want to think about his newly discovered ability, or the anger of the Dark Lord. He did what Harry did best – pretended it wasn't happening.
Draco, upon dismissing the elf, turned back to Harry looking deeply concerned.
"He must be angry. This isn't good. Not at all." Draco began digging through his drawers, looking for something to wear. He tossed some robes at Harry, which Harry changed into without question. He just hoped that there was no way Voldemort would guess that he was the man from last night.
A tight knot of dread developed in the pit of his stomach, and anxiety brought the headache back with a vengeance.
Lounging across a plush armchair, Lord Voldemort scowled at the ceiling. He was alone in the small sitting room he had chosen for his inquiry, and an untouched breakfast of steak and eggs sat on the table nearby. It was his favourite breakfast meal, which the Malfoy's always prepared for him upon his visits. Today, however, he had absolutely no appetite.
He had been up all night, rifling through books on magical ancestry in the Malfoy Library. They had a well-stocked collection, but he was already familiar with every book they had on the subject. Voldemort had checked again, just to be absolutely sure that there was nothing he had missed. There wasn't. There had not been a Parselmouth outside the Gaunt line in over six hundred years. Frustrated and unable to get a moment of sleep, he had spent the night pacing his rooms.
After the man's impossible disappearance, Voldemort had been forced to accept that there was some strange magic at work. Who had the talent to escape from him, right beneath his nose? He had seen in Nagini's memory, that the man had indeed spoke Parseltongue. He had also seen, however, that the man appeared to not know he was speaking it. This, he knew from the ancient books in the Chamber of Secrets, was common in young speakers. Before Parselmouths reached their majority, they often found it difficult to differentiate between it and their mother tongue, especially in the company of another speaker or snake. This was doubly unusual, given the young man appeared to be at least twenty-five.
Before dawn had even broken, Voldemort had summoned Lucius to his quarters. He had read his servant's mind, and found no memory of the man. Of course, the wizard had been wearing a glamour, so this was expected. After this fruitless mind reading, he had ordered Malfoy to close down the wards around Malfoy Manor. No one would be leaving the vicinity without being subject to his questioning. No one had left it since last night, either. Whomever had evaded capture last night would not manage to do so again. Or at least, he hoped so, given he had no idea how the man had disappeared the first time.
He allowed the people to breakfast in peace, while he considered his approach to the matter. He knew his hosts were very tense, concerned that his dark mood might result in pain or bloodshed. It might. He finally decided to interview the people at the party individually, possibly using leglimency if they seemed a likely candidate.
He instructed Lucius to bring him the males first. While a gender-changing potion was a possibility, they were notoriously unstable, so it seemed unlikely that his wizard was a witch.
Two hours later, and Voldemort was growing incredibly frustrated. Not only was delving into the minds of these nitwits proving to be numbingly dull, it was also completely futile. Not one of the adult wizards he had questioned knew anything about the events of last night. Voldemort, never a patient man, had ended up cursing a few of them for their bumbling idiocy and insolence.
He had no further luck with any of the more promising women, either. All of them had spent the entire night in the parlour with Lucius and Narcissa, never being away from the group for longer than a few minutes.
Voldemort sat back in his chair, dismissing the simpering society bint at his feet. He growled, shattering a nearby crystal glass with the weight of his anger. He called Lucius back into the room.
"Is there no one else?" he demanded, barely concealing his rage. Lucius seemed to be favouring one arm, so he could certainly feel his mood through the mark.
"Just the children, my lord." Lucius responded, bowing his head subserviently.
Voldemort scoffed, about to dismiss the man, before reconsidering. "Children?" he questioned silkily.
Lucius seemed uncomfortable with this line of questioning. "My son had some of his friends stay, last night. But they would never do anything traitorous against you, my Lord."
Voldemort waved his hand, disregarding the man's concerns or opinions. "And how old is your son now, Lucius?"
"Fifteen, my lord."
Voldemort nodded. It didn't seem likely that it was a child in disguise last night, and he almost disregarded the idea completely. But he remembered his self at that age, remembered how often he was able to escape notice for his crimes, because people assumed a boy of that age wasn't capable of them. It was a very long shot, but he could spare some time for the possibility.
"Fetch me the children. We'll start with your boy."
He doubted that it was the Malfoy boy, who'd never been of noticeable talent as far as he was concerned, but he liked the way the statement made Lucius squirm. He obeyed, of course. He always had.
Harry stood awkwardly with Draco, Blaise, Theodore, and Viktor. They were in one of the many lounge areas that the expansive manor offered; they had been shepherded in here half an hour before by a flustered Lucius. Unaware of what was happening, the group had sat in anxious silence as Draco was escorted away. Draco had returned moments earlier, and Vladimir – Krum's friend from last night – had been taken in his stead.
"What's happening?" asked Blaise, barely disguising his concern.
"I'm not sure," said Draco, seriously. "The Dark Lord called me into the sitting room. He asked me questions about last night, about anything suspicious I might have heard or seen. Of course, I couldn't think of anything…" At this, Draco shot Blaise a guilty look. Blaise raised an eyebrow at this, nonplussed. "Well," continued Draco. "He read my mind. All I could think of was your confession last night, and the subsequent announcement."
Blaise flushed with embarrassment and anger. "You told the Dark Lord about me and Daphne?" he hissed.
"I couldn't help it!" responded Draco, indignantly.
"Announcement?" questioned Viktor, confused.
Harry was only half listening to the conversation. He was too busy panicking; his mind racing to find a solution where he wouldn't have to face the Dark Lord. He knew nothing about occlumency; he'd tried to learn it in his fourth year, but was abysmal. Even his Light Arts professor, Professor Crouch, had told him to give it up as a bad job. He considered his options, as Blaise explained his haphazard proposal and was largely congratulated.
There was nothing. There was no way he could get out of this. The best he could hope for was that the Dark Lord would get bored before it was his turn, or Lucius would forget about his insignificant half-blood guest. It didn't seem likely.
Mere minutes later, Lucius returned with Vladimir. Vladimir immediately shot Harry an apologetic look. Harry's blood turned to ice. Of course, Vladimir had seen Harry in his glamour last night. He'd known who he was beneath it.
Confirming his terrified suspicions, a very dark looking Lucius summoned Harry. Draco, not noticing Harry's obvious fear, wished him luck. Like a man going to his death, Harry followed Lucius. He resolved to lie. It was a terrible plan, but it was the only option he had. Maybe if he was convincing enough, Voldemort would not read his mind.
Moments later, Harry was gently pushed through the doors of the sitting room, and before the Dark Lord.
With thick brunette hair, startling blue eyes, and aristocratic features, Voldemort was an incredibly handsome man. There were books written on his flawless beauty, his charm and his grace. Perhaps if he were any other man with that face, Harry – who had always been drawn to powerful men – would have been attracted to him. As it was now, the face was eliciting such an animal feeling of terror, that he couldn't begin to think on his beauty. He merely stared, doe-eyed, at the man who had conquered the Wizarding world.
"My Lord," he said, respectfully. He approached him, and bowed, but did not meet his eyes. Said eyes were currently surveying him with a hungry interest. Harry resisted the urge to shiver.
"Harry, isn't it?" he asked. "Harry Potter?"
"Yes, my Lord," he responded, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. On any other day, it would be an honour for the Dark Lord to know his name. Today, it was merely gut-wrenching.
"I've heard of you," said Voldemort, sitting back, and observing him like he was a prize hippogriff. "You're quite the dueller. You were mentioned to me a few times, in reports from Hogwarts."
Harry didn't say anything, but his eyes flicked up to meet Voldemort's, before going back to the floor. Voldemort seemed to be daring him to speak, but Harry wasn't stupid. He was struck by the sudden image of being confronted with a snake that was ready to strike.
"I've heard of you too," he said weakly, after a tense moment. It was an attempt at humour, but it came out too strangled to be funny.
Voldemort considered him for a moment longer, and then stood up suddenly. The tall wizard towered above Harry, even more so than he had last night.
"Where were you yesterday evening, Harry?" asked the powerful wizard, his voice low and serious.
"With my friends, my Lord," he answered quickly, never taking his eyes from a point on the floor.
"The entire evening?" questioned Voldemort.
"Yes, sir," he lied. "Except when I went to get something for Krum."
He imagined that Vladimir had already revealed this information, and didn't want to cause more suspicion.
"I see. And did you take any interesting detours?" hissed Voldemort. Harry glanced up to see his eyes were flashing dangerously. This time, he couldn't follow his compulsion to run.
"No sir," answered Harry, knowing that the Dark Lord didn't believe him.
"I see. So you're not the man who had a conversation with my snake last night? You're not the mysterious little Parselmouth that ran from his Lord?" The question was angry, as if Voldemort already knew the truth, and just wanted to make him say it.
"No, my Lord." Harry quaked. "I… I'm not a Parselmouth, my Lord." He tried to say this earnestly. He'd had no idea that he was until last night, after all.
"I find that very hard to believe, Mr Potter." Suddenly, the Dark Lord seized Harry by the neck, grabbing the hairs at the base of his skull and forcing Harry to look into his eyes. The blue was flashing an eery red, and Harry couldn't help but whimper at the intimidating sight.
"You see, my little traitor." Voldemort hissed. "We are speaking Parseltongue right now."
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