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Chapter Fifty-Two: A View In
Snape sat with his eyes closed and his face tilted upwards. He could only imagine what some of his students would say, could they see him now. He could imagine far better what some of his students in Slytherin House would say. They would see weakness, and where they saw weakness, they tended to attack actively or look for excuses to shunt one aside. Snape could imagine the contempt in Millicent Bulstrode's eyes, the word she would pass on quietly to her parents, and then the next time Snape went to a meeting of the monitoring board or met with the full Alliance of Sun and Shadow, Adalrico Bulstrode would be considering him carefully, looking for evidence of his unfitness to be Harry's guardian.
So he came outside and sat as Joseph had suggested he do early in the morning, accustoming himself to awareness of the world again long before anyone else would be awake to see his weakness. Currently, he sat beside the lake, and the sound of the water on the shore brought back old memories, as did the frosted grass beneath him—for now, the snow had melted and not returned, though it still lay in sullen slushy piles under the trees of the Forbidden Forest—and the bite in the air.
Do not think of them.
But Joseph had told him to come out here and think of them, and what time was Snape supposed to use for that, if not now? He concentrated, and drew up the memories. Chill water and chill air and chill grass that broke with a snap—or that might have been fragile ice. He was nine, and his mother had taken him to see a ditch filled with water for one of their lessons in the dirtiness and ugliness of the world.
This was the one time Snape could remember Eileen Prince's methods not working. She had meant to show him the dirt the water carried, he knew, and compare it to the muddy blood running in his veins. She had meant to impress on him the ugliness of steep brown banks, and water too choked to reflect the sky, and grass that had died or gone brown in the wake of autumn.
But the sun had shone that morning, and caught on small gleams in the water and the frost. That was what Snape remembered, an ugly scene rendered unexpectedly beautiful, half-holy, by the sunlight.
His face flushed as he thought about that. How he could have such thoughts? How could someone who had led the life he had call anything "holy" without mockery or irony?
But he had the thoughts, nonetheless, and he knew that, five months ago, he would not have considered the beauty of this memory at all. He would have concentrated on his mother's words and blocked out the fact that, then, he had blocked them out, staring instead at the small miracle of water still running too fast to be frozen, autumn not yet surrendered to winter even though staring it in the eye.
Past and present mingled to the point where he was not surprised, and not even alarmed, to hear a step beside him. Of course his mother would be there. He turned his head and opened his eyes to greet her, certain that in this mood, not even she could make an impact on him.
It wasn't Eileen Prince. It was Harry, sitting down beside Snape with a casual air, as though they shared sunrises by the lake all the time. He clasped his guardian's hand and looked out over the water.
Snape studied him, and waited for questions to well to the surface. There were none. There was only a deep peace, which seemed to have as much of its origin in the quiet breaths Harry drew as it did in the sigh of the wind and the song of the water on edge of winter.
He turned his hand and clasped Harry's fingers back. Harry gave him a quick, grateful glance, as though this were an incredible privilege, and hesitated for a long moment. Snape could feel him debating, though not what he was debating, and he didn't think that he could have given an answer to it anyway, not with his own gulf of deep silence gripping and turning him.
Then Harry leaned his head on Snape's shoulder and closed his eyes.
It was the gesture of a boy asking for protection, not the gesture of a strong protector sheltering a dependent, but Snape did not feel pressed upon, or as though he would prefer Harry to resume the role he had adopted out of necessity when Snape was feeling inadequate to the task of caring for him. Indeed, he felt a satisfaction as deep and quiet in its own way as the peace, and he wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulders.
Harry's breathing slowed and relaxed, as he lost whatever intangible nervousness had made him come out here in the first place. Snape turned his head and watched the sun's reflection shimmering in the water, dimmed but unconquered.
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Owen lay on his bed, and stared at the ceiling, and cursed all idiots. It was better than taking his wand and cursing all the idiots.
Michael would be sulking on his bed in Ravenclaw, or perhaps talking to the Ravenclaws who still distrusted Harry and trying to find sympathizers. Owen hoped it was the former, for his brother's sake. The lightning bolt scar would bite him, according to the ritual they'd used to swear loyalty to Harry, if he tried to act against the Lord, or Lord-level wizard, he'd sworn to. Owen didn't know if the bite was literal or not. He didn't want to have to find out.
It would be best if Harry released him from the oath, but Michael had said he wanted to remain under it, to protect Draco's interests.
There's the other idiot. Owen had told himself again and again that his brother had behaved badly. He had known that Draco was their Lord's joined partner, and that no matter how Draco flirted or laughed, it was still a bad idea to flirt back, or follow him and moon after him, or let his feelings be known. One could do nothing about emotions, but one could control one's face and actions. And Michael had learned how to do that at Durmstrang, if not at home. So what had happened was Michael's fault as much as anyone's.
But the other half of the fault belonged to Draco. Draco had encouraged him. Draco had done things which the devoted partner of a Lord never should have done. Sometimes Owen wished they were living in older and simpler times, or that Harry was a Lord who would strictly follow the ancient protocols, which called for the Lord's partner to swear a similar oath to a companion. Lords and Ladies were too important and rare to be distracted by the machinations of someone bored or jealous. A slow burning pain in one's hand, coupled with the loss of fingers if the partner persisted in acting like an idiot, tended to discourage both boredom and jealousy.
Harry would never do that, and that was one of the reasons Owen and Michael had chosen to swear to him in the first place—because Harry was also the kind of person who would come to Durmstrang and rescue children tortured under the auspices of another Lord, something most of the older rulers wouldn't do unless the other Lord was a personal enemy. Harry had accepted them, as he had accepted Draco, without trying to change any of them, and his patience and forbearance were gifts. Owen knew that.
But sometimes it was all so frustrating. And it looked as if he would have to solve this problem, since no one else would. Draco was smugly confident he was right. Harry held back, trying to give both Draco and Michael what they wanted. And Michael refused to divulge whatever had so shaken him a few days ago; Owen suspected it was because he didn't want to betray his beloved.
Beautiful and cruel. Michael had plenty of chances to fall in love with someone like that at Durmstrang, if he wanted. Did he have to wait until we arrived at Hogwarts?
Owen sat up, with a sigh, and laid his hand on the lightning bolt scar that cut across his left forearm. If he thought hard enough, he could know where Harry was. It wasn't something he used often, since he spent a great deal of his time in Harry's company anyway, and the effort left him with a headache. But he needed to find him now, and remain by his side until there was the chance of a private conversation. The contingent of seventh-year boys in Slytherin was small. Owen thought his room would remain empty for at least the next few hours, so he and Harry could talk.
Someone rapped on the door before he could sink properly into concentration. Owen frowned and stood. If it was one of the other blokes come back, he had rotten timing, but one of the other blokes wouldn't knock, so it was probably his twin. Then Owen would have to listen to Michael ranting on about how wonderful Draco was, or about how bitterly his illusion had been broken, and have his own sensible suggestions meet with silence.
He opened the door, and blinked. It was Harry.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. It was hard to keep himself from adding a title. Harry's magic blazed around him in a steady lightning storm, at least to Rosier-Henlin eyes, and lately the incandescence had grown brighter and brighter as he grew more confident and careless of his power. Owen thought it only proper that someone like that should be called Lord, or vates if he would not accept that word It was the way things were done.
"Not with me," said Harry. He was still slightly shorter than Owen, but he stood and looked gravely into his eyes now, and he seemed to stand taller. "With your brother, and with Draco. I would appreciate your help on how to deal with them, so that someone will represent Michael's interests properly."
Owen blinked again, several times, and moved backward. "I didn't think you had noticed," he told Harry's shoulders, and then shook his head. He didn't mean to say things like that. His father had instructed him against damaging honesty. But Harry's magic changed things, made the air sharper and wilder. Opening his mouth seemed to have less adverse consequences then.
Harry turned around and gave him a small smile. "For most of the time, I didn't. But Michael had some reason to think he had hope of Draco, and he has a reason to avoid him as he's doing now. What are they?"
Owen sank to his bed in sheer relief. His vates had asked him a direct question. That meant Owen could tell the truth without betraying his brother.
Quietly, he told Harry about Draco's flirting, and then the incident he suspected had happened a few days ago, about which Michael refused to give any details. Owen himself thought it had to do with Draco's possession; Michael always had failed to think about what it meant that his beloved could control other people's bodies, just as he had, to Owen's mind, not thought through the implications of Harry's magic properly. Owen loved his twin dearly, but Michael had always been the baby brother, and not even the death of their father and the destruction of Durmstrang had changed that. He still had more of the boy who played at skillets with their mother than the hardened warrior within him.
Harry recognized that, Owen saw as he listened. He was, of course, an elder twin as well, and one trained to protect his younger brother—though he had been told to elevate Connor, while in Owen's case he had been told it was his duty because he was his father's magical heir, and stronger than Michael, and one duty of the magically powerful was to shelter those who were weaker. Owen should not have feared that Harry wouldn't understand.
He nodded when Owen was done, and said, "I'll talk to Draco, and make him apologize to Michael—properly. I also have a punishment in mind for him." He smiled grimly. "And then I'll release Michael from his oath. That may be dangerous, because it could mean that he'll attack me or Draco, but I would much rather see him free like that than bind him close."
"It will be better for him," said Owen at once. "He should not have taken that vow in the first place. He didn't really know what it meant."
Harry considered him, head tilted to the side. "What about you, Owen? Will it hurt you, to know that your brother and I are essentially on opposite sides?"
Owen bowed his head. "I am Michael's brother," he said. "And I am your sworn companion and the head of the Rosier-Henlin family. Those two allegiances to proper courtesy and custom pull against the other."
Harry smiled. "Thank you, Owen."
He left, then. Owen let himself sag back on the bed and close his eyes. He should still be vigilant in the future, he knew, because there would be problems he could notice and Harry never would.
But it was so refreshing, so relaxing, so different than anything he could ever have imagined, to know that Harry would notice at least some problems, and take steps to solve them as only he could.
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Draco felt Harry's stare on the back of his neck like a blade.
It went on throughout dinner, which Harry had been late to. Draco had trouble eating. It wasn't so much that the food turned to ashes in his mouth or sat poorly in his stomach; it was more that the hand which held his fork shook badly enough that he had trouble holding a piece of food on it consistently. When Harry stood, caught his eye, and jerked his head towards the entrance of the Hall, Draco was almost relieved.
He made his way there neither too slowly nor too quickly, giving anyone who had decided to watch him a free lesson in grace, should he want it. When Harry's hand clasped his arm, he had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from wrenching away in shock, but at least it didn't actually happen.
"What is it, Harry?" he asked, as casually as he could.
"You possessed Michael," said Harry. "After flirting with him in the first place."
Draco's eyes widened before he could stop himself. Then he cleared his throat. "Harry, whatever tales he's been telling you—"
"It was Owen who told me."
Draco closed his mouth. Owen was a Slytherin. Harry had less reason to doubt his powers of observation.
"You did that on purpose," said Harry, his voice even and low. "I can understand your wanting to be admired, Draco. Most of us do." But not you, Draco thought, half in a rage, mourning, and not for the first time, the lack of that common link that would have made Harry understand this so much better. "But flirting with someone you knew couldn't really respond to you, since you're closer to me than he is, and you have a commitment to me in the form of a joining ritual—why did you do that?"
Draco tried a few times to answer, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had just clearly seen the emotion in Harry's eyes for the first time. It wasn't anger, which he had expected and prepared to weather.
It was disappointment.
Harry looked at Draco as if he had left him alone in a perfectly neat room and come back to find that Draco had destroyed it. His eyes were weary. This, too, would pass, his stance said, of course it would, but he could wish that Draco had done something more productive with his time than create a mess he would have to clean up.
"I wanted to make you jealous, a little," Draco whispered. "And he was there, and already obsessed with me, and willing to give me the stares I craved. I saw no reason not to take advantage of that."
He'd done what a good Slytherin would do. He'd done what a neglected boyfriend would do. Why did he feel so bad now?
"I could have understood that perfectly if you were a normal adolescent," Harry said. "But, for better or worse, this is more like a court, Draco. I've had to grow up lately, and realize that I was hiding from my responsibilities and some of the implications of Lord-level power. I think you need to realize what it means when you flirt with someone else, what can happen, what kinds of destruction it might encourage. What if Michael had grown so angry during the rebellion that he betrayed us to the Ministry, for example?"
"He wouldn't have done that—"
"Are you so sure?"
Draco frowned and studied the ground, uncomfortable. No, he wasn't sure, damn it. Michael was sworn to Harry, but there were ways around a sworn companion's oath, especially if he managed to convince himself that he was doing it for Harry's own good. And some people in Woodhouse, especially those werewolves who resented their condition fiercely, might have listened to him if he sought for allies.
He had thought he knew Michael. But he hadn't known that Michael's obsession for him would grow.
What other things did I miss?
And then shame sank its claws into him, because dancing with and defeating those too weak to know any better was one thing, and not anticipating the waltz of another and making himself look like a fool was another. Draco felt his cheeks heat up. This was wrong, if only because of its consequences. Yes, hindsight was perfect, but his foresight needed to be perfect, too, as much as it could be. He knew Harry would forgive mistakes, unlike his father. If he had gone to Harry the moment he realized something was wrong, then he could have avoided this. Or he should have guessed the consequences and never started this.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Harry didn't say anything. Draco looked up to see that Harry had waved his hand, and letters of fire were stitching themselves across the air.
You'll be apologizing to Michael, and not just to me. I'll be keeping silent and away from you for two days, one for the original flirting you did and one for the possession of Michael.
"Why?" Draco demanded.
Your punishment. There's not much that I can do to punish you as you acted, Draco, since I'll hardly be flirting with someone else. But I can and will refuse to share myself with you for that little while. It's two days, and then it ends, and then we'll put this aside. I only hope Michael can do so as easily, once he's released from his oath.
Harry half-closed his eyes, and then Draco felt as if a glass barrier had descended in front of him. It took him a short time to realize what it cut off. He could no longer sense Harry's magic, nor hear his breathing, nor feel the warmth of his skin.
"Harry," he said, and knew his voice sounded desperate.
Harry gave him one more of those disappointed glances, and turned away. Draco tried to reach after him, and his hand halted an inch from Harry's shoulder, refusing to move any further.
"How long does this last?" Draco whispered. "Two full days, or forty-eight hours from this moment?"
Forty-eight hours from this moment.
Draco swallowed, glad that he would not have to sleep alone more than two nights, but dreading the thought of those he would, and dropped his hand. Harry nodded at him and walked away.
He started to turn away himself, but Owen Rosier-Henlin stepped up to him then and clapped him on the back. Draco eyed him warily.
"I've come to conduct you to my brother, and make sure you've properly apologized," Owen explained.
Draco concealed a groan, and stifled the urge to turn his head and watch Harry go. He had not expected Harry's absence to tear at him so much. They had spent long hours apart in the past few days, after all.
But that was different, because he had always known that he could go to and touch Harry as much as he wanted to if he became bored or lonely.
He followed Owen along dully, hoping Harry wouldn't choose to use this punishment often. It was horrible.
Of course, perhaps he wouldn't have to if Draco didn't do things deserving of it, either. Draco concealed his flinch and his frown, and decided he could try to act a little better. Sometimes.
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The wards around the Manor were all relaxed. His wand lay on the table, a good distance from him. The auditory glamour around him, which concealed the voices from Narcissa's spell that continued to murmur and natter on about the states of his emotions, was thick and tight. Lucius sat back in his chair and nodded to the house elf next to him, who bowed and vanished.
He looked up when he heard the light footstep cross the threshold of the study; with the wards down, he had no way of hearing or seeing her before she arrived. Narcissa paused when she saw him, her head high and her blonde hair curling around her neck. Her eyes were placid as a lake in winter.
Lucius inclined his head slightly. "Welcome, Narcissa."
His non-use of a pet name would not go unremarked, he knew. Narcissa sat down on the padded bench placed at the far end of the room, a safe distance from him. Besides the distance, it provided a straight flight of escape out the door, while Lucius sat in a corner between bookshelves, hemmed in if he tried to dodge. With many visitors, such small disadvantages would not have hurt him, but Narcissa was too nearly his equal for them not to matter. Lucius knew it, and she knew it, and he knew she knew it, and she knew he knew she knew it.
They regarded each other in silence for a long time, before Narcissa stirred and asked, "Have you decided to repent yet, Lucius?"
The term repentance would have galled him. In some corner of his soul, it did still. But Lucius had prepared carefully for this meeting. He needed to handle Narcissa differently than either of those rash and impulsive boys. Narcissa had much less to lose from his antagonism, and she had agreed to a meeting whilst neither Harry nor Draco would come near him.
"For not telling you beforehand? Yes, of that I repented long ago. For asking you to come here? I do not see that I need to." Lucius paused, studying her. Narcissa shone in the sunlight through the study window as if she were made of glass. He found that he was very glad to look at her, as he had not been glad in a long time. She was beautiful, and the house had been without her too long. Two months was two lifetimes too long. "For fighting with you?" he added softly. "I cannot be, my beautiful one. We have not fought in too long."
He saw an answering spark, almost unwilling, in her eyes. She would know, as he did, that the last duel that had been that serious between them was when Lucius had wanted her to take the Dark Mark. She had won that one, and given how mad Voldemort was when he returned, she was right. She would be wondering at the insinuation that she was also right this time.
Lucius did not think she was. But with Narcissa, he could be almost honest, certainly closer than he came to honesty with anyone else. He knew her strengths, her weaknesses, her defenses against those weaknesses, and she knew his. They had spent long years coiled together like two drowsing serpents.
It was not deception when another serpent offered a show of its lovely scales to the other. The second snake must be wise enough to know the fangs were still there.
"I will not be returning to Malfoy Manor at this time," Narcissa announced, as they moved through several silent steps of a dance conducted by the expressions on faces and the minute gestures of the body.
Lucius inclined his head.
"I will come again on Midwinter's Day," Narcissa added, standing. "It is appropriate that we should be present at Draco's Declaration to the Dark, whatever our personal feelings on the matter are."
Lucius concealed his shock and dismay deep. He had not known Draco was Declaring. He had not thought it possible when Draco received the gift of empathy from Julia Malfoy, and he had never known how much that gift had altered. That was a weakness that Draco, of course, had never revealed to his father.
"I will await you then," he said, and tilted his head to the side so that she could see his throat and his collarbone.
Narcissa waved her wand, and tried to dismiss the glamour that hid the voices speaking about the state of his emotions. Lucius had made it too strong for such a simple spell, though, and the room around them stayed silent. Narcissa's lips curved in a small smile, and she made him a tiny curtsey, hands dropping her robes almost before they gathered them.
"I do hope that you provide interesting company on the twenty-first, my dear husband," she murmured, and turned for the door.
Lucius let her depart before he went to the bookshelves. He would use the ancient texts and his knowledge of Draco's mind to guess what ritual he would use to Declare to the Dark.
He was confident he could guess, and turn it to his advantage. Draco was yet a snakeling with fangs, not a serpent full-grown.
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"And Harry, if you would."
Peter watched closely as Harry came to the front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and stood patiently waiting. His magic was a good deal calmer than Peter had seen it in a week, and he glanced about now and then as if wondering why in the world people stared at him. It was amazing, Peter thought, how quickly one got used to the lack of a left hand at his side; his Levitation Charm compensated well enough for that.
"Now," Peter said, "this particular lesson is in skill and creativity on the battlefield. Varying a spell can cause an enemy much more trouble than casting one he doesn't know." He saw a hand move from the corner of his eye, and turned his head. Skills he'd developed as a spying Death Eater helped him notice the kinds of subtle signals that a teacher needed to recognize. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Professor Pettigrew," she said, lowering her hand and frowning at him, "how can that be? If you throw a spell at an enemy that he doesn't know, wouldn't that mean that he couldn't grasp what would happen next? It might make his shield explode for all he knows."
"There is that," Peter acknowledged calmly. "But a variation of a spell he knows well can produce overconfidence, you see. He will not seek to fight you because he thinks he knows the effects." He watched Hermione's mouth widen in an O of understanding, then nodded at her and turned to Harry. "Would you care to demonstrate one of the modifications on a spell you know, Harry?"
Harry studied him back. His eyes asked as clearly as words could, You're sure that you want my magic at full strength?
Peter inclined his head a tiny bit. Harry visibly took a breath and stood up straighter, extending his hand in front of him. He probably should have brought his wand so he could practice the movements for the rest of the class, Peter thought critically, but Harry rarely carried it any more.
At least he did say the spell aloud, instead of thinking it. Peter had started them on nonverbal spells, but he wasn't going to try that with a variation the first time off. "Praestigiae," Harry said, enunciating the word on the first syllable instead of the second.
Peter observed in interest as several misty gray balls formed in the air and began to whirl around each other. The spell usually produced an illusion, but adding a second word to the end of the incantation often specified what sort of illusion the caster wanted. Peter suspected that Harry had left off that second word on purpose, and also played on another meaning of the Latin word, that of juggling.
The balls gained speed and focus, and Peter realized each one spun on a brilliant white axis, going so fast that it seemed as if the gray should dissipate in every direction. But that didn't happen. Instead, the white axis sharpened and brightened, spearing into lightning, cracking in half in front of Peter's eyes. Beyond lay a wide green vision that split open to reveal a deep blue one, and beyond that—
Abruptly, the visions vanished. Peter blinked and shook his head, and turned to see Harry looking rather embarrassed.
"Er, sorry, sir," he said. "I didn't mean to enchant you and the others like that. I let my magic go too much."
Peter acted at once. Harry was finally permitting his power to stretch its wings, and achieving a balance between uncontrolled danger and the kind of restraint he'd practiced lately, which made Peter want to shake him. He would not let Harry become mortified that his incantation had worked too well and shut his magic up again.
"That did exactly as it was supposed to do, Harry," he said firmly. "Bewilder and hypnotize an enemy, correct?"
Harry peered at him from beneath one black lock of hair, as if wondering when the axe would fall, and nodded slowly.
"While the regular Praestigiae simply creates illusions that may or may not baffle a foe, depending on how good they are, correct?" Peter drilled him. He could see Hermione and several of the other students scribbling down notes on their parchments.
"Yes, sir," said Harry.
"A useful variation," said Peter. "And exactly what I asked you to do. Ten points to Slytherin, Harry. Please do sit down."
Harry retreated to his seat looking somewhat puzzled, but the puzzlement turned to consideration as he sat there. Peter hoped he was thinking. His magic had hurt no one, and if anyone felt humiliated about how easily Harry had bound them, at least they only needed to think that their professor had been bound in the exact same way. That ought to prevent quarrels.
Good. Peter wanted Harry to think about this, not hide from it. His magic was different from the other students', and he ought to follow where it led him, not refuse the road because it was too long or turned in unexpected directions.
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He was awake again, and if he did not feel quite alive, he was in good company. The fragment pulsing in the cup did not feel quite alive, either.
"Indigena."
She was at his side at once, summoned less by his voice, Lord Voldemort thought, than the pulse of pain he radiated through her Dark Mark. He gazed at her approvingly through his snake's eyes. Her eyes had gone completely green now, without pupil or iris. She had given herself to her magic, and only her commitment to him was deeper. That ought to be the regular practice of wizards, not shunning their magic no matter how ugly it turned them, but following where it led.
"My Lord?"
Lord Voldemort stirred thoughtfully, flexing his fingers. The cup lay clasped in one hand, always; as he uncurled one, he curled the other close. He was vulnerable, and with the wound in his magical core, he knew the power would still drain away from him.
But that was why he had been wise. He was always wise, Lord Voldemort. If he could not use magic in his body, he would go to a place where he could, and wield others as his hands and limbs and feet.
"The use of the two proceeds apace," he announced aloud. "I will require you to make ready for the first test soon. Fetch Odi et Amo again, and read me the eleventh chapter."
"Yes, my lord," Indigena murmured respectfully, and went to fetch the book.
Lord Voldemort directed his snake to stare at the ceiling of his earthen refuge and, very slightly, smiled. Soon he would leave this place and travel to the one that had been prepared for him. With the hand he could wield, he would have enough magic to protect him and keep him safe during the journey.
And then he would commence his new war.
Harry Potter was not only the one marked to defeat him. He was not only a personal enemy who had stolen thirteen years of Voldemort's life, lost to bodiless suffering and pain. He was also the one who had hurt Voldemort so deeply that what Albus Dumbledore had done to him looked like the fumblings of a hedge wizard.
Lord Voldemort was still going to live forever. He was still going to conquer the wizarding world and rid it of the taint of Mudbloods forever.
But first, he would destroy Harry Potter.
It would be done carefully. Simply killing him would be too easy, as would torture of those he was close to. The tortures had to be different from each other, or at least sufficiently different to punish Harry. And Lord Voldemort must be careful, must be precise, must strip from Harry all that he had loved, which in the end would include his magic and his morals and his sanity.
He would have to think on this. He had time.
He would always, he thought, caressing the cup, have time.
