AN: so this chapter takes me over the 100k mark. I can't believe how long I've been writing this for. I always wanted to write something this long, and now it seems I'm on my way to it. Please let me know what you think!
PS - I am definitely procrastinating studying, so come enjoy the fruits of my not-labours.


Chapter 20

Hermione stood above the bed, watching her friend's too still form with worried eyes. She had to force herself to blink now and then as she tried to tear herself away; anxious for any sign of recovery or worsening. Minutes ago, a distressed Blaise had caught her on her way back to the dormitories. She had almost missed him calling her name, as caught up as she was in her thoughts.
He'd explained, all while half dragging her to the hospital wing, that Harry had been taken ill an hour ago. That'd he begun screaming, shaking, and his chest was covered in a spreading blackness that both perplexed and terrified the mediwitch on call. As she arrived, St Mungos healers were on the scene. They too seemed to have little idea of what was wrong, and kept firing questions at Blaise who explained again and again that no, they had not drank any potions or been in any duels. That they had been sitting, quite alone, when he had suddenly begun to scream.

Hermione, shaken up as she was, had maintained her faculties. Harry had been put into a stasis charm, slowing the spread of whatever the insidious blackness flowing over his chest was, but not halting it. Frightened as she was, she noticed right away the similarity between what she was seeing here and what she had just seen with the Dark Lord. The paleness, the shivering, the blood that seemed to be sweating out of his pores. Her quick mind was tugging at her subconscious – the locket, it had something to do with that – the blackness was deepest around the thing, and Harry had long ago said that the thing was strange, sentient. She also knew that it had once belonged to the Dark Lord. It was not unrelated, that much she knew, but she spared little time to think on it. Instead, she whispered a charm over the dark ring that claimed her index finger. The Black family ring; a ring that gave her constant connection to her Mother. Then she waited; she half expected that Bellatrix would be too preoccupied at the side of her Lord to notice or to abandon his side. Hermione was surprised when she appeared a moment later, apparrating into the centre of the hospital wing with wild eyes and wand drawn.

"Daughter," she demanded, her voice sharp. Her demeanour was every inch the military commander she was in that moment. "What is it?" she barked.

Hermione cut straight to the point, knowing her Mother was in no mood for dalliance and the urgency with which her brain was moving would not allow it anyway. "It's Harry," she moved close to her Mother, out of hearing of the busy healers. "He's taken ill. Seriously ill, and it is the same."

She said this significantly. Hermione knew without being told that the Dark Lord's condition was to be treated with absolute secrecy. Her Mother's expression turned from irritated, to concerned to disbelief. Bellatrix hurried to Harry's side, pushing the healers out of the way as though they were merely part of the furniture. She stared with wide, enquiring eyes. Hermione's mother, although a fighter by passion, was an analyst by nature. At her side, Hermione spoke quietly.

"The locket connects him to the Dark Lord. I don't know how, but I am sure of it. He's spoken of it's oddities before."

Bellatrix's brow furrowed in concentration, before nodding. "The symptoms are the same, minus this," she gestured to the black 'rash'. "I agree with you, Daughter. You were right to call me."

Bellatrix pulled out her wand and hiked up her sleeve. Wordlessly, she pushed her wand to the Dark Mark tattooed across her forearm. Hermione blinked, she had never known that a Death Eater could use it in such a way as the Dark Lord.

The Healers around them stilled, shifting uncomfortably, pausing in their ministrations. Hermione threw them a filthy look, as Harry moaned and the stasis fluttered.

"Get on with your jobs, you bloody half-wits!" she barked.

Through the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Bellatrix's lips twitch.

Hermione stood in silent apprehension, waiting for whatever the purpose of her Mother's actions had been. Whilst she waited, as if to do anything to divert her attention from the critical condition of her oldest friend and brother, she considered. What sort of magical object could cause the wearer to grow ill when a previous wearer did? It couldn't be that they were all connected – her Mother appeared fine, healthy even. If Harry's words were anything to go by, the thing had some level of sentience. When a healer, moments later, tried to remove the locket and jumped back screeching with burned hands, it seemed to prove her hypothesis. Nor did the next succeed in summoning it, as though it were welded with his chest. It seemed to have… bonded with him? But how. A talisman worked by restricting the function of your magical core, occasionally shocking you if you went too far, but this was far beyond such a thing. It had no spirit, no soul. Whatever this locket was, it had some shadow of free will.

Her thoughts were disrupted as three figures flung open the doors to the hospital wing, dressed in full Death Eater uniform, and almost giving the team of healers a heart attack. Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy and Barty Crouch stormed into the room and to her Mother's side, immediately conversing in low whispers. Snape moved to Harry's side, casting some sort of charm and then another, before paling considerably and nodding.

"It is the same," he said simply, seemingly to himself.

"How?" asked Lucius, his voice barely above a murmur that Hermione was close enough to hear.

For the first time since their initial conversation, Bellatrix looked to her and she did not have to muster any courage of conviction. Her best friend was dying, and she felt no fear.

"I believe the locket is responsible, and given it's connection to…." she trailed off. "And the shared condition, I believe they are linked by it."

Severus' intelligent onyx eyes became grave and thoughtful, whilst Barty and Lucius merely seemed perplexed.

"It is the best explanation we have," confirmed Bellatrix, giving weight to Hermione's claim.

"Can it help?" demanded Barty. "Can it help solve it?"

"Perhaps," said Severus, darkly. "Although I do not know how."

Hermione's mind raced, going over every conversation she had ever had with Harry. If it were merely a dark or cursed object, why would it try to protect him as Harry claimed it had? She recalled him saying that it had even transported him when he was taken by the resistance – taken him to-

"Put them together," she said suddenly. Irritated eyes met hers. All but her Mother's who looked at her searchingly. "It will help."

"Why?" demanded Snape, scathingly. His dislike for Harry an obvious driving force.

Hermione was usually a good, polite student. She was respectful of her Professors, and did not hold any arrogance or presumption with regard to her new station in life. Today was not the day for politeness, however.

"I do not have time to explain," she hissed, dangerously "Take him to the Dark Lord, or their blood will be on your hands. And if you do not, I will transfigure your guts and wear them like fucking garters."

She turned on her heel. "Mother, there's something I have to do – I will find you when I have more answers."

She sped from the Hospital Wing, her mind spinning, and the last thing she heard before the doors slammed shut behind her was Barty Crouch's low chuckle, remarking that she was 'more like her mother everyday'.


Harry stared at his environment with complete disbelief. Stood on a marble dais, he could see that over the edge he appeared to be high up in the sky, green plains below him and blue skies around him. The three women, in their white robes, smiled at his apprehension.

"Don't worry, little one" remarked one of the 'triplets' "You cannot fall off."

He blinked, his mind coming back to the present. He remembered the screaming, the pain and terror, although none of it remained now.

"Am I dead?" he asked, startled, although not quite scared in the unnatural calm of the place.

"Not in your timeline, in your particular version of reality, although that's obviously given to some level of-"

"No," another interrupted, smiling. "You are not dead."

"Am I dreaming?" he asked, confused. If he was, it was by far the most realistic dream he had ever had.

"Yes, and no. You are dreaming, although this place is quite real. You are here, and you are not."

"How did I get… here?" he asked, gesturing.

"Well that is the question, isn't it?" asked one of them, looking far too delighted.

As though it had always been there, a table and several chairs were before him and the marble dais far bigger. The three women took a seat, and gestured for him to do the same. He did so tentatively.

"It would seem Tom is far more brilliant than he understands," remarked one of the women, gesturing to his chest. "We must never tell him, his head won't fit through the door." Harry looked down, and was surprised to find he wasn't wearing his Hogwarts robes. Instead he was dressed in white – a white shirt and trousers. The only thing colouring his appearance was his locket, which was warm against his chest.

"Ex-Excuse me?"

One of the woman waved a hand, as though to disregard the statement. "Our dear Tom has managed a sort of magic I didn't think possible for your kind. It explains a lot, really – it's the very thread we were looking for."

"Thread?" Harry asked, baffled.

Another answered. "Imagine it as a puzzle piece that you're looking for, except you suddenly realise there's an infinite number of the pieces, and an infinite number of puzzles that make different pictures. Then you finally find the one piece that fits all of them together."

Harry frowned. "I-I'm sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about."

The three women laughed in unison. "Don't worry, my dear. Neither do we most of the time."

"You mentioned Tom," he pushed on. "And some sort of magic. Is that why I'm here? The diary?"

"Yes and no," one of them responded.

Growing irritated, though the feeling came through a thick emotional fog. "You could be a little less obtuse," he grumbled.

The women rolled their eyes in unison. Said one; "My, but I'd forgotten how fiery you are. So different to Tom's sullen fury."

"We've met before?" he asked, surprised.

"Oh many times," one said. "But not here or yet."

Harry groaned, leaning into his hands as he felt some sort of ethereal headache brewing. One of them seemed to take pity on him, and after a moment of contemplation began to speak.

"That locket you wear, Harry. You know it is special, do you not?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, you and this object, are linked. You were always… fated, as you might call it… to be linked to it. It is the darkest of magics, midnight magic of the blackest kind. It's creation, and it's link to you, scorched a mark through time and space. You were always going to wear it, bond with it, in some way or another."

Another continued, "The exact nature of the connection fluctuates, but it's connection is constant. It is a fact, of which there are few."

"And that connection is to Tom Riddle."

Harry frowned. He had known the locket special, had felt a pull to Tom – whom he had to keep reminding himself was a memory of the Dark Lord – was the Dark Lord even, but he had never considered that the locket was the reason for his connection.

"So, I am linked to the Dark Lord through this locket?" he questioned, faintly.

"More than linked, dear, bonded," responded one. "Now if this particular artefact is the product of the darkest magics, then what Tom Riddle has accidentally achieved here is it's equal and oppositve. He has created the brightest light magic, it's contrast."

"How?" he questioned, still very confused.

"Simple. He fell in love with you."

Harry blushed, spluttered and nearly fell over. "Excuse me? The Dark Lord is not bloody in love with me!"

The three women cackled, like drunken aunts at a wedding. "Yes he is, or rather will be, although not yet. Right now he is quite… divided over the subject."

"So you're saying the Dark Lord is… going to fall in love with me?" he blanched. This was definitely a dream. A bizarre dream he would never repeat.

"Quite certainly, and the magic it created has spread all over time. It made quite a mess really." replied one of them.

"And what's more, the love - plus a few complicated bits with souls and sacrifices and a war at various positions in time has shaken the very foundations of your universe."

"In short, this is why you're linked for eternity. Anyone can be a Horcrux, love, but the combination of darkness and light in you – well, he made you a bit of a fact too."

"A horcrux?"

"Don't worry about the details, dearest. You won't remember them anyway."

Harry noted this with some level of relief. This was the sort of dream he didn't want to remember the details of.

"This all brings us to the problem of you being here, little dove. You aren't supposed to be, which means someone has been fiddling about with time again – very naughty," they tsked as one. "But I imagine it will all sort itself out."

"You're quite the panacea to our Tom, it seems," they noted.

Harry, unable to process anymore of the craziness of the last hour shook his head in defeat. Time and space? The Dark Lord loving him? Darkness and light? Fiddling with time? He wondered if he'd eaten some very off cheese before he'd delved into unconsciousness.

"Now Harry," said one of the women, rising. "There is just one thing you must remember – just one little thing,"

Harry noticed that the bright sky around him was fading, he felt his attention too beginning to slip away, and he panicked at all the questions he had not answered.

"Do not let Tom Riddle consume you. You were born to be his equal."

Back into the blackness he was cast.


Tom Riddle eyed the figures in the clearing with a mixture of irritation and confusion. He didn't like people at the best of times, and in truth had no idea how to handle a room full of… himself.

Standing several feet apart from each other were all the configurations of his future self – the pieces of his soul he had yet to make. He was the youngest, obviously, and the original. The next was a little older, and then one a little older than that. Around his early thirties he seemed to freeze in time, they had finally been able to fix the ageing problem he had been concerned about when he'd first made… himself, he supposed. Still, each iteration seemed different from the last; darker, stronger, colder.

It seemed odd to feel somewhat intimidated by his future, but if there was only one person on earth Tom Riddle would admit his inferiority to, it would be his older self. Still, it grated on him rather. The eldest horcrux, marked out by the energy of life that buzzed around him – though erratically – eyed them all critically. Was this intended? It seemed not.

"Have we died?" asked one of them, a version he seemed to have made in his early twenties.

"No," said the eldest, eyes dark. "But we teeter on the edge."

"You require our strength?" asked one of the older ones. Tom riddle frowned in confusion, and as though he noticed, the man went on. "It became possible to make ourselves into a sort of magical network – to draw strength from each other – in order to gain power."

Tom understood. They could function as independent magical cores, recovering in strength to an already considerable maximum. He had been a powerful wizard at birth, but now he would have seven times that strength. He was not merely insurance, he was a sort of spare battery. He tried not to let that annoy him and failed.

The elder shook his head. "It would seem the network is blocked. Whatever the curse that took me did, it targeted my magical core in a sophisticated manner."

The elder horcruxes looked troubled. "That would mean you could die without passing on your current conscious. You would effectively die a truth death, unable to resurrect us."

The eldest nodded, gravely. He wondered when he would grow to be so calm about the prospect of death, his stomach fluttering and anger flickering around him.

"It is possible one of you would be able to awaken, but it would take time – some fool would have to pour their very life-force into you," said the eldest.

Into the silence, another spoke. What appeared to be the second youngest of the horcruxes, only a span of years older than him, smirked. "Worry not. Harry is coming."

"Harry?" demanded the eldest, current version. "Harry Potter?" he spat.

"If the fools can bring him to your side, he will connect us."

"That isn't possible," said the eldest, clearly angry. "In order for that to happen, he would have to have bonded his magical core with yours. He would have to be utterly consumed by my magic."

The younger smirked, a devilish knowing expression on his face. "Yes he would. How curious."

The eldest looked furious. "You bonded to him? You know exactly what sort of power that gives him. If he ever realises what connection he has, we will all be at risk!"

Most of the versions of his soul looked infuriated at the prospect, although he felt only mild surprise and curiosity. Why would one of his older selves bond with Harry?

"And I have no doubt he will realise. Alas, it was a risk I had to take. The brat is always getting into trouble, after all."

"You did it to protect him?" another in the circle demanded, shocked. "Risked us to protect some child?"

The former merely grinned. "You haven't spent the last five years in his mind. It's a quite spectacular place."

The eldest fumed. "Did I make some mistake in your creation? How could I be so foolish as to risk everything for a boy?"

"He won't be a boy forever," said the former, a little darkly. "And then I think perhaps you might understand. Until then, our connection may very well be what saves us."

He was only more curious than before. What did he mean? What sort of mind would it be worth risking everything for? He didn't get a chance to find out.

"He's there," the former remarked. "Brace yourselves. I imagine this may hurt."


The result was instantaneous, watched a stunned Bellatrix, as both her Master and Harry stopped panting – their pale skin immediately, if slowly, beginning to pinken. The flow of blood beginning to slow. Both moaned low in their throats. Severus, nearby, made a disgruntled noise in his throat at being proven wrong by a child. Her child.

Bellatrix glowed with pride. She had been unsure, but she had trusted her daughter, had put them by each other – in connection with each other. The girl was still not back from wherever she had gone, but Bellatrix would continue to trust her with whatever had call her away so urgently. Although it seemed a long road yet, the Dark Lord and Harry were out of immediate danger. According to Severus they were both, unbelievably, beginning to heal.

Bellatrix was going to buy Hermione a fucking pony.


Hermione spent the next three days in the library, ignoring anyone and anything that attempted to wrench her from the books. Now and then she would leave to mechanically eat, shower and snatch patches of sleep – but she did not ever leave the kind of trance that allowed her to read book after book, page after page of every ancient text she could land her hands on. She was consuming information at an alarming rate, even by her own standards. When Hogwarts library ran out of pertinent information, she had flooed to Black Manor and began devouring the far darker library there. She did not even bother to tell anyone that she would not be attending her classes – they didn't even cross her mind.

Now and then Blaise would come, bringing her refreshments and encouragement, and she thanked him and waved him away. That was the extent of her human interaction. She was delving deeper and deeper into darker and darker texts; only the thought of her friend pulling her from it's enticing call. Blaise's periodic, half-heard updates that Harry's condition was apparently improving and that Bellatrix had told him to pass on a message that he ought to be awake within a day or two was a small comfort. It was good that Harry was recovering, but what if this happened again? What was causing it?

It was on the third day that Hermione realised she was left with three possible options, any one of which was as damning as the last.

Either Harry was Voldemort's bastard son and they were suffering a bloodline curse, or Harry and Voldemort were both creatures that shared uncannily similar presentations of their unique bloodline, or Voldemort had made a horcrux which was somehow draining Harry's life force. Neither option boded well, and none quite fit. She kept reading.


Draco sat in the centre of his drab, grey room on the single sturdy chair a little way from his simple, standard issue desk. He had been in the middle of an essay when he had quite suddenly grown frustrated, throwing his 'pen' (they used those here, blasted things) down and kicking back from the desk. He couldn't stop thinking about that bloody witch – his bloody witch – and all that had transpired over the last month. It didn't help that all he had to distract him in the these hours devoted to individual study were dusty tomes and difficult work. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, unable to force himself back to the work that was by now just a mass of crossing out and crumpled paper.

He wondered what she was doing, if she was well. The distance would not be nearly so bad if they had not left things so broken between them; he wanted to apologise, already had in a way, but he wanted to make it right. Yet he knew that it wasn't the correct time to make it right; as brash as his decision to come here had been, as miserable as he felt, he was sure it was the right one. Three years was enough for things to cool down, for him to figure out what he wanted from life and where he was going and be something more than a second fiddle to his fiancée. She was brilliant, he would have it no other way, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he was never anything but a shadow at her back.

Still, the thoughts of her played on his mind relentlessly. Replaying the moment he had told her of their engagement, and everything he could have done differently. A quiet knock at the door snapped him away from his baleful pondering.

As he stood to open it, puzzled given there was supposed to be no interaction during this block, the door opened and a girl slipped inside – grinning like a cheshire cat. He scowled.

"Varsey," he said, tone clipped and formal.

The girl shook her head, as though amused. "Oh Drake, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Mackenzie?"

"About as many times as I have to tell you not to call me Drake," he growled. The girl laughed, as though he had been joking, which he certainly had not been.

"I was bored. I figured I'd come see you for some entertainment," she announced, flopping down on his bed. Draco blinked rapidly, shocked at the sheer impropriety. He barely knew the girl, and yet she was increasing informal, seeming to see his irritation as her amusement.

"I have no desire to amuse you, Varsey, now if you would please get off my bed and piss off," he grated.

"Now I don't have many men making that request," Varsey chuckled, but stood nonetheless, watching him with a calculating eye. "What's wrong, Drake? Do you not think I'm pretty?"

Draco scoffed, as if the mere idea was shocking. Although of course, the girl was beautiful. Blonde and slim with pretty hazel eyes, always dressed in well-tailored clothes. She wasn't his type, however. He liked his women with a little more substance than the ever coquettish American before him. At his derisory sound, she merely smirked. She knew she was beautiful and needed no confirmation.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me later. It's sunny out," she said, without an inch of apprehension. Now Draco would not usually be rude to a girl fostering unrequited feelings for him, it wasn't good manners, but Varsey clearly had no such feelings. He was a plaything to her; she was bored here. Men flocked to her side like loyal pets, and her interest in him was born of his reluctance. He had no desire to play such a game.

"Not a chance," he said, controlling his tone into a mild, though irritated tone.

She pouted. "Oh really? But we could have such fun, you and I. You might even grow to like me," she tittered.

He rolled his eyes, sitting back down. "Get out, Varsey. I'm studying."

Varsey approached the desk, eyeing his work and snorting critically. "Is that what you Brits call studying?"

He only just managed to prevent his cheeks flaring with colour.

"You know what I think?" she began, watching him with mocking eyes. "I think there's some girl back home. And your gentle heart can't take the distance."

Draco's hands tightened into fists. He wanted her out. He was moments away from raising his wand. "Fuck. Off."

Varsey shrugged, and as was typical of her seemed to realise she had reached the line she was unwilling to cross. She drew a piece of crumpled parchment from her pocket and tossed it onto his desk.

"For you. Consider it a belated welcome present."

She left the room with nothing more than a smile and a wave.

Draco would have been content to ignore it, but after a minute of trying to return to his work he realised his concentration was only more frayed now than it had been. With a sigh, he picked up the thing and unfurled it.

Disenchanting the Enchanted – Have a break from heart break

Resisting the urge to crumple the thing anew, he read on. The potion claimed to be able to make you unable to feel anything towards a person of your choosing for exactly a month at a time – new moon to new moon.

Draco put it down, scornfully. And yet it played on his mind long into the night, as his Hermione danced into his dreams.


Harry woke up with a start. He was confused; why did he feel like he had just slept in through something important? Thoughts came trickling back to him piece by piece; he had seen Michael, gone to the marauders room, spoken to Blaise and then – pain. Excruciating pain. He had gone to a white place, a dream he guessed, and spoken to some women. It was fuzzy now, what had they said? Something about time and… Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle loved him, in this strange dream. He blushed deeply, but shook it off fast. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

He opened his eyes and was confused to find himself in a bedroom he did not recognise. It was a four-poster with unfamiliar drapes, and the room was too large. It was in semi-darkness, as though it were either dawn or dusk outside. He had no conception of time, could not tell which was which.
He became aware very suddenly, that there was a warm body next to him. A person. Surprised and a little unnerved, he leaned over to see who it might be. Blaise perhaps? Hermione? No, the breathing was all wrong. When he caught sight of the face, his stomach dropped.

"Fucking Salazar!" he cursed involuntarily, preparing to bolt from the bed.

Although he had seemed quite asleep, the Dark Lord spoke without opening his eyes. "No. Voldemort, although close enough. Go back to sleep."

Harry stilled, watching the man with careful eyes. As always, he felt like a deer in headlights. The insanity of the situation was enough to make him actually pinch himself, hard.

"Mmph," he winced, as he most certainly felt it.

The Dark Lord, seemingly reluctantly, opened his eyes and Harry drew in a breath. The man appeared as his usual self; dark tousled hair, a defined jaw and intelligent, deep red eyes. It was only now he noticed all the similarities between Tom and this man; could recognise that this was the adult version of his younger 'friend'. Unlike his usual self, the Dark Lord did not seem as threatening as he had on previous occasions. Doubtlessly, the powerful aura around him remained, but he also looked… tired, and curious. His red eyes did not blaze, but merely took in. It made Harry feel an entirely different out of sorts. It took him a moment to realise that the Dark Lord seemed to be wearing pyjamas. A slightly hysterical laugh escaped his lips.

"What the fuck happened?" he asked, a little manically.

The Dark Lord's lips twisted into a light smirk at Harry's reaction, before drawing himself up in the bed and sitting against the headboard. He did so in one lithe, fluid movement. Harry moved away slightly, nervous.

"You are a strange thing, Potter," remarked Voldemort, without context. From his side drawer, he took a strange packet, and drew out what Harry recognised as a cigarette.

"You smoke?" Harry demanded, amazed. Cigarettes didn't exist in the magical world, and to see Voldemort with something so obviously muggle took him aback.

The thing lit instantly as he lifted it to his mouth, and the Dark Lord, unusually genial grinned. "Now and then. A memento of my misspent youth."

Something about it sparked a flicker of irritation in Harry. The Dark Lord swore against all things muggle, and here he was smoking a muggle cigarette.

"You look like something out of a french film..." Harry mumbled with annoyance. It was only a moment later when he realised who was speaking to that he looked away quickly. The Dark Lord merely laughed.

"My Lord..." Harry began carefully. "Why are we in bed together?" He trailed off ominously.

Voldemort levelled a dangerously amused look at him. "Do you imagine I stole you from your sick bed to have my nefarious way with you?"

Harry blinked owlishly. "Well. Did you?"

The Dark Lord reached out and smacked him over the head. It was almost good-naturedly, and the lack of threats and terror and violence were discomforting.

"And why are you so- so- normal?" Harry demanded, not a little hysterically.

Voldemort gave him an incredulous look, before shaking his head in exasperation. "For all your supposed genius, I see you won't be any great political mind, boy."

Harry was too puzzled to be flattered at being called a genius by the currently benevolent dictator, but he stored the praise away for later.

Voldemort shifted, finishing his cigarette and peering over at Harry. Harry's pyjama shirt was open, exposing his chest, which made Harry feel particularly vulnerable as the Dark Lord's eyes raked over him.

"Don't blush," Voldemort remarked dryly. "I'm just looking to see how your 'rash' is doing."

Confused, Harry looked down, only to see a pale greyness spread over much of his chest. Concerned, he looked up.

"It was much worse before. You'll recover fully, and quickly by the looks of it."

Harry nodded vaguely, still very confused. At his look, Voldemort's expression adopted an impatient, resigned air.

"You and I were taken by the same illness. You were brought here because it was simpler to treat us together," said the Dark Lord, easily.

Harry frowned, thoughtfully. "An illness? An illness that only affected you and I? And they thought the solution to this was not only to treat us together but to put us in bed with each other?"

Voldemort gave him a sharp look, as if an idea had been confirmed to him. "Yes, quite strange, is it not? But you won't concern yourself further with the matter. You will recover quickly, and you will repeat this to no one."

"But-"

"Potter," Voldemort snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "Do you have at least the guile to understand what I am saying?"

Harry blinked rapidly again. "That you're threatening me and I ought not to ask questions?"

With an almost flabbergasted look, Voldemort leaned back, looking to the ceiling as though beseeching it for answers.

"Not a political mind at all."

After a tense moment, Harry felt it prudent to shift the subject. "How long were we out?" he asked.

After a moment, Voldemort answered, his tone once more calm and factual. "Nine days, I believe."

"Nine days – but then "

"Yes. In nine days you will be competing in the British Championships," Voldemort was getting out of the bed, drawing on a dark floor length robe. Harry's eyes followed him, full of questions. Voldemort at once reminded him of Tom, and yet seemed a totally different animal. Tom did not have the quiet, encompassing self-assurance this man did. "Get dressed. You're going back to Hogwarts today; the last stage of your recovery is merely rest and food, I'm told."

Harry stood up, finding his clothes easily on the dresser. He waited as Voldemort departed the room, absolutely not willing to undress before him and wondering what kind of curse he'd expect if he had. When Voldemort reached the door, he turned to regard Harry for a moment.

"I mean it, Potter. Speak of this to nobody; consider it a bad dream that need not be repeat," he paused, as if needing to see Harry's reaction. Harry merely nodded awkwardly. "And don't use this as an excuse to fail the championships – I expect your new wand will help. Interesting thing, that wand."

Before Harry could even process the comment, the Dark Lord swept from the room. Harry had never dressed faster in his life.


There you go, two chapters in one week. Review and encourage the behaviour ;)