AN: I know it's been an eternity! My only defence here is that I had extreme writers block with this fic for quite some time, however I believe I'm over the hump now. Also apologies that this is a very Harry centric chapter, I promise we will see more of the other characters soon!
Chapter 29
It was with some relief that Harry Potter noted that not all of the gathered witches and wizards were scrawny seventeen year olds, fresh out of Hogwarts.
He'd arrived just about on time to the site of basic training; apparated from Malfoy Manor by the tender hand of one Bellatrix Lestrange. Her arrival into the large tent they'd been instructed to meet in had caused quite the stir. All of the gathered witches and wizards immediately ceased their conversations to stare at the woman. It took Harry a moment to notice, as he was still fighting down the wretched sickness that came from being side-alonged by someone not inclined to make the journey enjoyable. Even then, it took him a moment more to understand what they were looking at. He forgot sometimes that even though Bellatrix was Headmistress of Hogwarts and a teacher, she rarely bothered to get up close and personal with her students and they certainly didn't see her in her other capacity. Bellatrix appeared inclined to continue this arrangement, and promptly swept out of the tent leaving the others staring after her and sharing excited whispers.
He observed the crowd with interest. There were perhaps fifteen of them in all, a few who he recognised from Hogwarts, albeit in the lower years. Another handful appeared a similar age, but perhaps had attended one of the many other wizarding schools within Voldemort's empire, and the diverse accents mixed into the crowd confirmed this. About half seemed somewhat older. They'd likely be those who were promising in their field; potioneers and researchers, animal handlers and inventors. The oldest amongst them looked to be a man in his fifties, who appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
Harry didn't engage with them, content to keep to himself for once and listen in. There was an air of excitement to the crowd, who were certain they were about to be let in on rare magic and state secrets. They also knew, he surmised, that if they passed they would join the most respected class in the empire. Not that these were a lowly lot, Harry thought; most of the crowd had the gold bands around their cloak sleeves that indicated they were purebloods. There were a handful of silvers like himself, but as far as he could see no muggleborns. He rolled his eyes in a tired sort of contempt; though he had grown up with this system, he had grown to find it deeply distasteful.
He was broken from his thoughts by a familiar face striding into the tent.
"Silence," came the brooding, darkly-clad figure of Severus Snape. The crowd settled almost immediately into obedient quiet, and he offered them all a penetrating glare. If Harry wasn't mistaken, his eyes had narrowed slightly as they swept over him.
"You are here to be trained as Death Eaters. This is an honour without equal," he began imperiously. "However, I would be surprised if even half of you make it to the end." His eyes swept over the room once more and he sneered before adding, "A third, even."
There was an uncomfortable shifting from the crowd, while Harry merely struggled not to roll his eyes. He was treating this opportunity seriously, but the dramatics of Snape – once something he'd found intimidating – he now found faintly ridiculous.
"There are ten stages of basic training, undertaken over ten weeks. Fail in any of these stages, and your time with us comes to an end. If you successfully complete your training and the Dark Lord finds you worthy, you will be marked. You may then go on to other training, depending on your field of utility. However, basic training must be completed by all potential Death Eaters."
This wasn't exactly true, Harry knew. Sometimes those who were fairly physically or magically weak would be inducted into the Death Eaters if they possessed some other useful talent, or were particularly intelligent and thus could be put into research only duties. However, he supposed that was a rare enough exception.
"The first of these stages begins today. Occulmency. All Death Eaters are required to be proficient in this subtle art, and this is where the greatest number of you will fail-" Harry was sure this time, that Severus' eyes lingered on his in scorn. Harry merely returned the gaze with a flat, impassive expression. It wasn't a struggle, the man's opinion simply didn't concern him. "Any who cannot do this by the end of the week will fail the stage and be sent home."
Snape let this linger for a moment before continuing. Gesturing to the piles of parchment on one of the conjured tables littering the tent, he said. "There you will find a light primer on the basics of occlumency-" glancing, Harry saw the light primer was in fact at least forty feet long and snorted.
"I expect you to have read it in it's entirety by tomorrow morning, when we will begin testing your understanding of the basic principles."
He glared at the group once more. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
The group minus Harry jumped as a whole, and began to hurry over to the piles of parchment.
Two hours later and Harry found himself bored. Around him, everyone was busy reading through the parchment provided, many making notes in the margins. Some of the quicker readers had evidently already moved onto the exercises, their eyes closed as they attempted to clear their minds. They had been instructed that bunks had been erected for them in another tent nearby; the 'barracks' they'd be sleeping and 'relaxing' in for the next ten weeks, but none had moved from their places on the conjured chairs and tables.
Harry had long ago given up his pointless perusal of the parchment and instead had drawn out a book he had been reading previously to pass the time. It was an interesting exploration of the nature of magical language, something Hermione had recommended to him a couple of days ago after revealing in confidence the nature of her brilliant new potion. There was, of course, no mention of Parseltongue or creature-based languages at all, but as he read about the subtle differences between Arabic and Aramaic incantations, he lost himself in the tome. So much so that he barely noticed as the shadow of a tall figure loomed over him.
"Potter," said his old professor in the familiar tone of derision. "Were my instructions unclear?"
Harry shut his book, and looked up at the man with a cheerful, polite smile and only delighted a little in the way it made Snape tense. "No, Snape. They were not."
He saw him bristle a little at the use of his surname, but then he couldn't expect Harry to call him professor anymore.
"And yet you have elected not to bother reading the material provided. My Potter, so keen to fail at the very first hurdle?" he said, his mouth curved into a cruel smile.
"No Snape, it's simply unnecessary." Harry kept the polite smile in place, as if unaware of the other man's sheer animosity, whilst inside he cackled. "I am already an Occlumens."
Snape's brows furrowed for a moment, before his eyes narrowed. Harry could see the mental calculation there; Harry had been the most promising student at Hogwarts in a generation, and had been mysteriously missing for the last couple of years where the fact that Hogwarts certainly didn't teach Occlumency wouldn't matter. On the other hand, he absolutely despised Harry and despite all evidence to the contrary had held onto a deep-seated belief that Harry was an idiot that had somehow cheated his way through every test, duel and demonstration in the last decade. Apparently, the latter won.
Snape's lips curled. "Occlumency is a discipline that requires self-control and subtlety; a mastery of one's emotions," he looked Harry up and down and once again Harry was reminded of the cheer juvenility of this man. It was a shame really, given Harry had always found him to be quite clever, to be so blighted by his own emotional immaturity. "I strongly doubt you have come to possess the traits you once so sorely lacked."
Harry, more amused than irritated, simply shrugged and smiled. "I could demonstrate, if you prefer."
Snape eyed him for a moment more and once again failed to use proper judgement, evidently too transfixed by a desire to see him humiliated.
"Everyone," he barked, drawing the full attention of a room already eavesdropping. "Potter here has volunteered to demonstrate his complete understanding-" the words dripped with sarcasm, "of Occlumency. If you would all like to take note of what happens when one fails to occlude properly, this may be useful."
Snape drew his wand and, rather rudely, pointed it in his face. Harry didn't move nor say a word, and yet the quick spell was absorbed into a shield. Snape looked puzzled for only a second before smirking.
"Change your mind, Potter?" he spat.
"Oh," Harry said, lowering the protego he had cast wandlessly and wordlessly, all the while keeping his posture relaxed. "I didn't realise we were beginning. Excuse me."
He had realised. He was just showing off. After all, Severus was being quite a prick. He shook himself a little and Tom's past words rose unbidden in his mind. "Anger is not an emotion for your obvious inferiors; merely displeasure. They do not deserve the honour of so raw a feeling." He'd always found this to be an incredibly arrogant statement and one Tom himself rarely lived by, but still he got a hold of himself and simply said:
"You may begin."
Snape, looking positively furious at this calm invitation, and once again thrust his wand into Harry's face and cast.
"Hello," Harry said, equally cheerfully. He and Severus were in the centre of a circular courtyard, completely formed of stone. Around them rose high walls; so high in fact they seemed to stretch up to meet the clouds.
Snape wasted no time in approaching said walls,
whilst Harry simply watched.
"Actual walls, Potter?" Snape sneered. "Unnecessary. They will not protect your mind. A true legilimens knows how to overcome such rudimentary defences with ease."
As if to demonstrate, Snape approached the walls and his brow furrowed slightly as he concentrated. Then he began to walk, passing straight into the wall as if to move through it. Harry snorted at the triumphant expression on the man's face and only wish he could have seen it as the wall once again solidified. There was a short cry of alarm, before they were once again back in the tent.
Severus looked furious, a vein pulsing in his forehead as Harry remained sitting with a polite smile.
"Was that sufficient, sir?" he asked, his words dripping with a sickly sweet venom. Snape was already sweeping out of the tent, perhaps because if he'd said anything further to Harry, it would likely have been accompanied by a flash of green.
He enjoyed his victory for only a moment before shaking himself; he wasn't here to engage in the trivial goading of a school teacher for Morgana's sake. With a light sigh, he cast a look about the room and found some still regarding him curiously. He took out his book and continued to read.
They settled into a pattern over the next weeks. Each Monday a Death Eater – sometimes Snape, sometimes Bellatrix, but more often than not someone Harry did not know would introduce a new stage. They'd spend a couple of days reading theory and a couple of days watching demonstrations and then the remainder of the week being tested and refining technique. For Harry, most of it seemed rather… rudimentary. They learned how to protect an area with enchantments, how to brew various anti-venoms, how to deal with certain magical creatures, basic healing, some uncommon but hardly rare curses and shields, and even how to duel an opponent casting in a language you were unfamiliar with. Of course, Harry didn't already know all of the material covered – Tom, for example, had been terrible at healing magic and owned scarce books on the subject. However, he applied himself with alacrity to each of the phases and was always one of the first to complete each section, usually only behind those who had previously had a specialism in the area. He couldn't say he felt particularly prideful about this however, given most of the others were younger than him and certainly hadn't had his advantages.
Still, Harry was pleased enough. After the first week of awkward politeness from some and disgruntled grumbling from others, the recruits had gotten to know one another better. The older wizard Harry had noticed on arrival was called Graham. He had been encouraged to enrol due to his distinction as a healer. They'd struck up a fast friendship when Harry had lost several galleons in a card game to the man and he had offered to help Harry with his healing. Neither of them had much desire to get to know the others overmuch. Harry found the grandstanding amongst the younger recruits somewhat tedious. Graham was simply rather introverted; he had been born a witch and the wizarding world's intolerance of this had lived on somewhat into the new world, making him rather reserved. They'd found each other to be interesting and pleasant company however, and spent long hours in the evening discussing their interests. Often – Harry admitted – Graham's interests. Yet the man made the subject of healing come alive in a way only someone who truly loved their craft could, and Harry didn't mind listening to him explain the complexity of the magical cores reaction to a bezoar or rant about the undue prevalence of sub-standard products like Skele-grow in the industry.
"Corruption," he'd said one night, boldly. "Pure corruption. It's got a lot more to do with the shareholders pockets than the efficacy of the product, and then people wonder why you've got kids limping more than a week after a quidditch injury!"
Another night, after the two of them had shared a little firewhiskey – they were permitted to drink on Saturdays if they had already passed the given phase, and neither of them had any trouble casting the various concealment charms on themselves – Harry had made a bold assertion of his own.
"You know, in the muggle world they can protect against certain illnesses by injecting a modified version of the illness into the person and letting their bodies produce the necessary..." he struggled for a moment, trying to recall the word. "Well, what ever it is that prevents a body sickening twice with the same disease. I've often wondered if we could do the same with spattergoit or dragon pox. Seems likely, given people don't often catch those twice either."
It wasn't until he was done speaking that he realised Graham had stilled and a grave expression had come over the man's face. They were certainly alone, sat at a table far to the back of one of the large tents, but still he glanced around anxiously.
"You should be careful what you say, Harry," the man said in a lowered, furtive voice. "I think you've had too much to drink."
Harry frowned, puzzled for a moment about what the wizard he had become so comfortable with over the last couple of months could be talking about, before realization dawned and he nodded seriously. "You're right, I'm sorry. I- It's been a while since I've had to think about such things."
The man eyed him for a moment, seeming more curious than upset. "How old are you again?"
"I'm nineteen, as of our first week here," Harry said with a wry smile.
Graham responded in kind. "Oh? You should have mentioned your birthday to young Severus, I'm sure he'd have baked you a cake." They both barked out a short laugh at the mental image, before Graham abruptly grew serious once more.
"I'm fifty-six. That means I'm old enough to remember what it was like before," once again his eyes travelled the room carefully. "Not that it's done to talk of those times, of course, but back when I was a young healer fresh out of Hogwarts I pushed and pushed for us to start trying to incorporate muggle medical science with healing. I wasn't listened to then, and now- well. Now you can't even suggest it."
Graham took another drink, and as if realising he may have said too much, grew even more somber. He added in a tense tone. "Not that I'm saying we should deal with muggles of course, or that their ways aren't obviously inferior-"
Harry snorted. "I'm not going to report you Graham, I'm the one who brought it up."
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and leaning back in his chair. "Well, forgive an old man his paranoia. These days things are a bit calmer I'll admit, but there was a time a man could disappear for talking too much about the muggle world."
Harry nodded, his face turning a little grey at the thought. "Yeah… I have heard that."
The conversation had stilled after that before one of them had changed the subject. Neither brought up the subject of the muggle world again, but Harry and Graham were only firmer friends after that evening. Both of them half-bloods who's ideas amounted to sedition, though Harry was willing to bet his ideas were a damn sight more alarming than Graham's.
Lord Voldemort paced his study with the restlessness of a caged cat and on multiple occasions had grown so irate at his own lack of self-possession that he had blown apart a cabinet or a window, only to repair it again with a vague gesture of his hand. Part of him railed that his lack of composure in this was only a further humiliation, but a much greater part of him was pre-occupied by the thought of what the evening would bring. For the first time since the boy had appeared in his gardens, Voldemort would be laying eyes on one Harry Potter.
It shouldn't bother him. No, the boy's presence shouldn't affect him at all. What was he to the Dark Lord but another follower? A potential Death Eater to aid in the construction of his empire? Yet the more he went over the events of that day the more he couldn't understand one thing.
Why hadn't he killed him?
It made no sense. The boy had disobeyed him on several occasions, that in of itself would be enough to warrant an execution. He had once disobeyed him in a way that could have compromised one of his most vital secrets in front of a crowd of thousands, for Salazar's sake. Beyond that, the boy was the closest thing to a threat he had encountered in the last twenty years. Not that Voldemort believed the boy could truly threaten him of course, he had little doubt he could best the boy in a duel with little more effort than one would swat a fly, but still. The boy was a Parselmouth, he knew of the horcruxes, and knew many other things he should not.
When his mind returned to how he had learned many of those things, his fists tightened on his wand. He couldn't even begin to describe how… discomfiting the revelation about the boy's whereabouts these last years had been. That - above all else - he couldn't fathom.
It was not that he begrudged that sixteen year old shadow of himself a lover. Salazar knows he had enjoyed his fair share of wizards and witches when he had been at Hogwarts, but he'd never kept them. Even for longer than a single evening. People and their fawning after the throes had always irked him, perhaps more so then than even now. What had made his horcrux keep the boy around for so long? So long even that, if the boy was to be believed – and unfortunately Voldemort did believe him in this – that they had made the arrangement partially permanent. What was so fascinating about the Potter boy that he kept proving himself to be an exception?
And more importantly. More importantly than all of that. Why hadn't he killed him that night?
Curiosity, he justified. It was merely the curiosity at an oddity that had long been his weakness. It was a poor habit that had to be rectified. It wasn't worth the risk. He sat down at his desk, feeling resolve come over him. He would deal with the problem tonight. Harry Potter would be eliminated and would no longer pose a risk to him. He would simply kill the boy, track down the diary and be done with this whole business.
Yes, he thought with a smile. Then he could forget all about those impossibly green eyes for good.
Harry woke up early on what would be his final day of basic training. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his gut; a trepidation that had sat for too long and turned sour. Pulling himself out of his bunk, he took his time washing his face and donning his robes in the privacy of the changing facilities. He wasn't sure what was bothering him more, the fact that they had been informed yesterday that Voldemort himself would be there to witness their final test, or the test itself.
The former was a complicated emotion; when he thought of the man his chest writhed with a heady mixture of confusion, fear and longing. There were few relationships that could be more convoluted than his with the Dark Lord. On the one hand he was the reigning monarch of the world Harry had been born into; so detached and aloof in his near omnipotent power that he scarcely seemed human at all. The Dark Lord was the most powerful wizard in an age, the prime mover of a new epoch in wizarding history. On the other hand, Harry knew everything there was to know about the man up to the age of sixteen. He had laughed and - on one memorable occasion – cried with his teenage self. Tom had been far from an open book, but with several years of no one but each other, even he had opened up many of the secret parts of his heart and mind to Harry.
When Harry looked at Voldemort it was like seeing an old friend after many years, except Voldemort had no memory of said friendship. As though it had only existed in Harry's mind, some distant dream. His attraction to the man was also undeniable. He was far from the first to be attracted to the Dark Lord; the man was classically handsome in the fiercest sense of the word. However, he doubted any other could claim to know the man well enough to justify the sort of intimacy Harry craved. He had never planned to pursue Voldemort when he had left the diary, had separated Tom and the Dark Lord into two different entities in his mind. That fantasy had shattered entirely when he'd first seen him in the gardens of the Riddle manor. Those eyes and lips, the high cheekbones and quirks of his brow had been too utterly familiar. Tom and Voldemort were both different and similar; Voldemort was undoubtedly more dangerous. Dangerous in general, and dangerous to Harry. Harry and Tom had at least been on a roughly equal playing field, but Harry had no delusions about Voldemort. He outclassed him in every sense of the word. The boy Tom Riddle had been a childhood affection; a love borne between two orphan boys desperately needing one another, though loathe to admit it. The thing that kept him awake at night now, tossing and turning in his bunk was, what could it be between the Dark Lord and Harry, an adult wizard who could hold his own? Not yet, perhaps. Harry strove to cast the thoughts and the feverish dreams of Voldemort away. The Dark Lord had to respect him first, Tom had been nothing if not dismissive of his inferiors.
His worries about the test itself were comparatively much simpler. They were being tested on their ability to use Avada Kadavra. This was no problem in of itself for Harry. He'd been thoroughly trained in it's use even before he came to basic training, and knew he could cast it as effectively as he cast every other spell. His concern was what they would be expected to cast it on. They hadn't been informed of the exact nature of the final test, but he was hoping against hope that it would be a simple dummy.
The feeling in his gut told him it wouldn't be.
A voice in the back of his mind told him he ought not to act as though he had scruples when he had murdered twice before, but he cast the thought away with a detached irritation. The first kill had been an accident, the second had been someone so utterly deserving that he'd been unable to summon any guilt over it; which was good, given that was one of the many necessary components to producing a horcrux. Harry was not a monster. He would kill in battle, he would kill to defend himself and those he loved, and he would kill those so utterly despicable the world was better without them. He wouldn't kill just anyone, though. Which is why his stomach continued to gnaw at him, because he had heard the odd rumour about basic training before and deep down he knew it wasn't going to be a dummy.
It was the early evening by the time Harry was told to go to the tent where the test would be taking place. He was one of the last to be called and the large tent they had been gathered in on that first day was almost empty. Graham had spent some time trying to distract him before he too had been called up, but to no avail. Harry had kept off to the side, sat on a wooden chair on the bare grass trying to get his thoughts in order. It shouldn't be so hard for a man with a horcrux to get his emotions in order, but nonetheless he was struggling. He didn't know whether he was grateful or not to have had the most time to prepare; it seemed the extra time to contemplate only made it worse.
By the time Bellatrix arrived and gestured for him to follow her, he had managed to school his expression into a relaxed apathy. He'd drawn himself up confidently and offered the witch a small smile; perhaps her frostiness towards him was thawing because he saw for a moment a fondness in her eyes before she barked at him to hurry before the Dark Lord grew impatient. Harry had nodded and gone with her. Bellatrix took him to the tent and gestured him inside. When he'd looked at her questioningly, she'd rolled her eyes.
"Scared to go in without me, Potter? I thought we were a big boy now?" There was no venom in her voice however, and perhaps a little playfulness. If he wasn't so worried about the impending interaction with Voldemort, he might have been pleased. The witch gave him a gentle push, and Harry entered the tent with dignity.
Not a dummy.
That was his first thought as he entered the tent. Incredibly, his eyes were not drawn first to the Dark Lord, who was currently sat in a large armchair that was almost reminiscent of a throne in the centre of the room, but to the bound, crying figure of a woman on the floor off to the side. Harry felt his throat tighten with misery. He had expected this, but still it was jarring. He pulled his eyes away from her after a moment, directing them at Voldemort.
"My Lord," he said, giving the wizard a tight bow. "I'm here for the final test."
Voldemort considered him for a moment. If Harry wasn't mistaken he looked almost… agitated. It was a difficult call of course, outwardly the man was relaxing back into his chair, his expression disinterested. Yet there was something about the set of his jaw, the tightness of his limbs. Something was… off. It only set Harry further on edge.
"Indeed," Voldemort said finally, raising an eyebrow at him. Curiosity, Harry thought, and something else. "You are required to demonstrate the 'killing curse' on this muggle. Success will mean I consider your induction into the Death Eaters, failure will mean you leave in disgrace."
There was no particular inflection in the Dark Lord's voice as he said this. He neither seemed derisory like Snape, nor excitable like Bella. His voice was almost too flat. Perhaps after so many of these tests he was growing tired of them.
Harry nodded, acknowledging the words. He once again looked at the woman. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face sweating with the exertion of her fruitless effort to break through her binds. She had clearly been silenced. She paused in her struggle and looked at him, her eyes pleading with him.
Flat eyes, he thought. Empty.
"Why?" he said the words before he'd realised what he was even speaking, but as the words left his lips his resolve hardened. If not now, when?
Voldemort hesitated for only a moment and was apparently unable to keep some of the surprised indignation from his tone. "Excuse me?"
"Why kill her? I doubt she's a threat, or of any importance whatsoever," it was Harry's turn to speak without inflection now. Only a dull curiosity colouring his voice.
"She's a muggle, Potter. Her life matters nought either way," Voldemort said, a frustrated anger seeping into his tone as he recovered from the surprise of defiance. He still didn't move from his relaxed posture, but his knuckles tightened perceptibly on the chair.
"Then why bother?" he asked, his daring only redoubling as he'd decided his course. There was no going back now. He turned entirely away from the woman, pinning Voldemort with a serious look. It was only his horcrux that stopped him from being cowed under the man's heavy, venomous expression.
"Because I am ordering you to, Potter," he said finally, his voice all threat and menace. There was no doubt in Harry's mind he was crossing a line he couldn't uncross. He was well aware with a startling clarity that his next words might be his last.
He hesitated, before saying in a tired sigh. "No."
"No?" Voldemort for his part seemed to have expected that. Finally he drew up from the chair, though he had yet to bother drawing his wand. "You dare to refuse my order, boy?"
Harry drew a breath, drawing the courage that formed the foundations of his being from some deep part of his chest with it. He kept eye contact with no effort now. If he were to die here he would die like a man. He switched to Parseltongue consciously, though he could not say why. "I have no desire to kill an unarmed muggle. Put me in a battlefield and I will make it sing with blood for you, my Lord. But this is not who I am. I will not be maddened with bloodlust or distracted by sadism. I will not kill for the sport, or to prove I can kill when you know well that I can."
That Voldemort allowed him to finish was surprise enough, and Harry found himself bracing for the end. Voldemort regarded him quietly, none of the fury leaving his eyes.
"You're simply a coward, boy. Kill the muggle, or die here and now. I have no use for a blunted sword in my ranks," something in his eyes told Harry that Voldemort had left reason behind. Fury had given way to a feral expression. He'd seen it before on Tom, knew nothing he could say would help now. Before he died, however, he wanted one final thing to be entirely clear.
"Fine," he said, shortly.
Harry turned back to the woman, who had returned to her desperate struggle. He noted that Voldemort seemed to be drawing his own wand now, no doubt to finish Harry for his insubordination.
"Finite incantatum maxima," Harry cast the spell with a sharp flick of his wand, and as the blue light hit the woman she abruptly returned to her natural state. A dummy.
Voldemort had stopped moving abruptly, his hands still on his wand. "You knew?" he spat. The Dark Lord was off-kilter now.
Harry turned back to him and said simply, "I am not a coward."
Then Voldemort struck. Like a snake in his predatory grace, one moment he was stood several feet away and the next he was right by him. Harry didn't resist as he felt his jaw seized savagely. Voldemort was close, so close Harry could smell his skin; woodsmoke and meat and honey, familiar and unfamiliar. He was being turned towards him roughly. Would Voldemort kill him with his bare hands?
When he looked up into those eyes the expression was utterly incomprehensible, something between rage and delight; possession and hatred. "Fine, Potter. Let's see how far that bravery takes you."
He was being held in a vicelike grip, intimate and intimidating, but he had little time to dwell on it before he heard it.
"Mosmordre," came the spell, a whisper in his ear, so close he could feel Voldemort's breath on his cheek.
His neck and shoulders exploded with pain, fire eating through his skin. Seconds, minutes maybe and the feeling finally ceased. Voldemort released him, dropping him to the floor when his knees buckled. By the time he recovered, the Dark Lord was gone.
It was only later, when he'd finally gathered himself enough to limp back to the changing facilities that he saw what had been done. He had been marked after all.
The skull that represented the Dark Lord's legion was branded on his collar bone, and the snake. The snake was wrapped around his neck.
The first thought Harry had as he recovered, dazed, was that he had never seen such a beautiful threat.
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