Chapter 3-
Harry didn't know how long it was that he lay there. It could have been hours it could have been seconds. It didn't matter. All that he knew was that pain was his constant companion. It filled every though, every part of his mind. Every crevice he thought that he had kept protected were filled with agony. He couldn't move, could barely breath. All he knew was pain.
"What ya doin?" a voice drawled, interrupting Harry from the pain. He couldn't look up. The only response he could give was a low moan that cased further pain to ignite in his throat. His head began to swim as the suffering became too much to bare.
Harry felt hands on him, pulling him from his crumpled position on the floor. Even as Harry's vision became hazy he could still make out the form of a man kneeling before him.
"Oh I see" the man said with a grin that Harry could not see. "An overdose of the cruciatus, it would seem." The man rummaged through the scruffy robes that covered his muscular figure. "You must be new" he said with a small chuckle, before handing uncorking the vial that he'd removed from his robes.
"Bottoms up. This should help." he said as he pressed the vial to Harry's lips. Harry, with very few other options, let the potion slip down his throat. Even if it did kill him, at least his suffering would be over. However even as this thought crossed his mind he began to feel better. The shakes stopped, his muscles ceasing their endless screams of pain. Harry's head slumped back, his exhaustion catching up to him. However for the first time his vision was clear. He could take in the appearance of the man that now knelt before him.
The first thing Harry noticed were the large scars that marred the man's face. Several ran the length of it, from hairline to chin, while other smaller ones littered his cheeks, nose and forehead. However beneath the scars Harry made a note of the fact that the man was still rather good looking. His face was that of a thirty year old, the blue eyes filled with experience and knowledge. Harry could tell his life had not been an easy one. The man was made to look older by the silver hair that littered both his head and his face. His beard was ragged, his hair tied back in a messy pony tail. Harry's eyes were drawn to the pink lips as he spoke again.
"It never feels better, but you learn to carry some of these babies about with you. They'll fix you up in no time" Harry could only nod, wide eyed at the man before him. "Fenrir by the way." the man said with a wolfish grin. "First time?" the question was clear, but the twinkle in the man's eyes and the tone of voice lead Harry to see that the man was joking with him.
It was refreshing. Harry had not had a normal conversation with anyone in what felt like years. The only thing talked about had been the wedding. The impending doom that had been the only thing he could think of. It was nice to hear words that weren't about Lord Voldemort and Harry's role as his husband.
"Harry" Harry managed to croak out in response. He thrust his hand out. He had been brought up with manners; ones that he could not rid himself of, no matter the situation. The man before him grinned. Taking the hand in his own. He pulled the boy up. His hand steadying Harry's tottering feet.
"Come on then Harry. You look like you could use a drink"
The rest of the evening followed as awkwardly as the previous one had. Harry had, however, cared less about that, due to the warm fuzzy feeling that had encompassed him. Fenrir had taken Harry for a walk in the forest, occasionally handing Harry the bottle of fire whiskey, laughing at the disgusted look that graced Harry's features with each sip that he took. Harry, having eaten nothing, was quite heavily effected by the alcohol. He had spent several hours with Fenrir, laughing at nothing, attempting to sing and dance, badly, around the trees, as well as attempting to climb some of them. Fenrir's grinning face had egged Harry on.
By the time Harry had returned to the manor and entered the dining hall his head was slightly clearer, the walk having sobered him up some. However he was still feeling unsteady, his mind swimming slightly, not fully connected with reality. He sat at the table, ignoring the man that sat by his side. Harry was more interested in the food before him. For the first time in weeks Harry actually felt hungry. He rapidly wolfed down the food on his plate, followed by the dessert.
Harry then followed his husband as the man returned to his bedroom. However, unlike that morning, there was no physical contact. Instead Harry was forced to trail after the Dark Lord. This must be what it felt like to be a minion. Harry skirted around the Dark Lord, managing to avoid speaking any words to the man as he made his way into the shower. Harry's alcohol idled mind encouraged the notion that sleep was his mani concern. Harry shrugged off his robes, letting them fall to the floor before he slumped onto the bed. His eyes were closed before his head hit the pillow and soon soft snores filled the room.
Harry woke the next morning to a darkened room, his head was thrumming, a dull pain radiating throughout. His neck hurt with every breath that he took and Harry's muscles ached. It was not a pain, but the feeling you get after strenuous exercise. A feeling that makes you walk funny and causes you to wince at random intervals.
However it seemed that it was still early. The Dark Lord still lay beside him, his back to Harry. Harry gave a sigh, it seemed that the pain was too much for him to get back to sleep. Much more quietly than yesterday he made his way from the bed. This time he did not wake up the man, his husband, that lay beside him. Harry looked down at his fully clothed form and winced. He didn't think that he'd ever fallen asleep fully clothed before.
He quietly crept toward the wardrobe, stripping off his clothes and dumping them into the laundry basket. Dressed just in his boxers Harry pulled the wardrobe door open and crept inside. With only little light to guide his actions Harry slipped off his boxers before quickly pulling on a fresh pair. He pulled on whatever clothes he could find, wincing at the rapid movements. He was sure that the clothes didn't match. He was certain that he did not care.
Harry dumped his underwear on top of the rest of his dirty clothes. He made his way toward the door. He needed to get out of this room. The atmosphere was stifling, the tension in every muscle. Harry was sure part of the pain he was feeling was merely from the pressure of being in the Dark Lord's company. Even if the man was asleep.
The door opened without a sound and Harry crept through the small gap that he had created, before closing the door behind him. A slight click was the only sound that could be heard as Harry made his way down the corridor.
Harry took his wand from his holster casting a tempus before him. The numbers flashed before him in bright white lights, casing Harry's tired eyes to squint.
'5.15' the numbers read. Harry let out a sigh as he read the numbers. It really was far too early to be awake. Harry continued to walk aimlessly along the corridors, down sets of stairs, passing darkened windows and closed door. Harry soon found himself outside, the sun was rising over the horizon; the light of a new day banishing away the darkness of the old one. For an inexplicable reason it made Harry feel better. Even through the pain that radiated through his body, through the fear, the pain, the worry, the heartbreak; he still managed to feel better. Harry could feel the damp grass beneath his bare feet, he could feel the sunlight on his pale face. He felt better.
Harry continued his walk; uncaring of the mud that covered his feet. He set one foot in front of the other and carried on his trail, walking with no end in mind. He walked into the forest, his feet becoming nicked by rocks and thorns, his hair collecting twigs and his arms becoming numb from the cold air. But he didn't care. A smile was on his face. It refused to move.
Harry didn't know how long he had walked. However after an indefinite amount of time he reached something that disturbed his silent footsteps. A group of people were gathered around a fire, talking, cooking and warming themselves around the pit that was submerged in the ground. Harry watched in fascination as the orange, yellow and red sparked. His feet moved without his consent; his eyes drawn into the twinkling lights that shimmered several paces away.
However as Harry neared the wave of heat, the voices stopped. All the eyes were on him, watching with suspicion as his bare feet padded toward them. Harry continued. His mind was too empty, his thoughts too suppressed. He felt nothing; not the wet of the grass on his feet, or the cold breeze that rushed past his cold arms. He didn't feel the fear that should have been rushing through him. The desire to run far from these unknown foes was absent. Harry only felt numb. Although even that was a feeling that was slipping away the longer he walked.
Harry sat by the fire, ignoring the looks that were directed at him promising pain. All he could focus on were the flickering lights. They were beautiful.
"What are you doing here boy?" a venomous voice spat out. Harry didn't look up. His eyes focusing only on the flames. It was obviously not the right thing to do. With a growl echoing through the clearing Harry was thrown to the floor. A set of hands were on his shoulders, legs pinning his own down. Harry still didn't look up. His head hit the floor and his eyes instantly sought out the dancing orange, watching as it trickled into an angry red.
Another voice interrupted the rant that the man above Harry was spewing.
"Silas. Get off him." A quiet voice called out. However, no matter the volume, the voice was still filled with authority. Harry continued to watch the fire, taking little note as the weight of the man above him was removed. However soon his eyes were dragged from the flame, just as his body was.
Harry's body was forced into a sitting position. His chin was grasped in a rough hand and Harry forced his eyes to look up to the man before him.
"Harry. What are you doing here?" A scarred face met Harry's eyes. The familiar face seemed to snap Harry out of the exile from reality that had overtaken him. Harry's smile returned as he saw the man before him.
"Fenrir" Harry said softly. "How did I get here?" his head was still fuzzy. His memories were unclear. He felt as though he had been underwater and was only now coming up to breath. Water had clogged his airways, his ears, his eyes. He was only just now starting to clear his senses. He was only now managing to realise how close he had been to drowning.
A huffed laugh was all that answered Harry's question. Fenrir slumped next to Harry with a thump, his arm resting Harry's shoulders.
"You really are green kid" the man chuckled. "How old are you anyway?" he queried. Harry looked up into the blue eyes. The question was clear in them, but also a tingle of concern. It flittered at the edges of the man's vision. A light in the corner of his eye that seemed to dance away right before you saw it. It was the first genuine concern that Harry had seen in a long time. It was a look that did not promise pain or manipulation.
"Seventeen" Harry managed to choke out. His eyes only just holding back the tears. No one had ever looked at him like this before. People never gave even the slightest inkling that they cared. This man did. This man cared.
"Shit" was the response Harry got. His quite voice barely above a whisper. "Your parents?" Harry gave a nod.
"That's tough kid. It's never right to force one so young into something that they don't understand. But you'll get there eventually. You'll see that following is not too bad." The hand that rested on Harry's shoulder came up to ruffle the already messy midnight locks.
Harry's look must have shown the confusion that he felt as the man spoke again.
"Being a Death Eater is hard Harry. But as long as you keep your head down and follow orders you'll be alright. The Dark Lord may be harsh, but he's striving for a better world. If a few people die or get hurt in the process…well that's war."
It clicked. Harry gave a sigh. The man did not know who he was. The man that sat at his side thought him to be an ordinary Death Eater. A young man, forced by his family to join the ranks of the Dark Lord without his consent. He thought him a sufferer of a misfortune of a much lesser magnitude than the one that truly befell him.
Harry supposed that he did look different from his wedding day. His hair was unrecognisable from the smoothly styled silk that had adorned his head. His clothes were far bigger than the tight fitting white robes that he had worn and his glasses hid his glittering green eyes. Harry must look like a different person. However even with him looking so different, he did not even know whether or not the man next to him had attended the mock festivities.
"It'll all be alright kid" the man said, sensing unease from the young man beside him. In an attempt of comfort, he ruffled the mop of hair.
The Dark Lord woke from his slumber, expecting to see a young man before him. He was ready to start anew with him.
Voldemort knew that he had been quick to anger, knew that his temper getting the better of him was not productive. Not if he wanted, no needed for the young man to fall in love with him. Love. The very word made the Dark Lord sick to his stomach. He did not need love, had never needed love. Not through his childhood nor through any of his adult life. However it seemed that fate disagreed with him on this front.
The only reason that the Dark Lord had married the Black brat was due to a prophesy. He was the only one that fit with the words that he had heard. He was the only person he had found that seemed to be applicable for the verse. One that had already changed so much of the Dark Lord's life already and so much of Hercules'
The Department of Mysteries had lax security at best and when an all powerful Lord wanted to know something he wasn't about to let a few rules stop him. The man had, of course, gone on an exploration of the hall of prophesies, for mere curiosities sake. He had however, come across something that related to him. His name was emblazoned in bright letters and as he had picked up the glass a hushed voice had been issued from the clouded orb.
"The one with power to equal the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those of three, one of alliance and one of defiance... And the Dark Lord will need to take him as his own…For both must love one another, for neither can win without the other…the one with the power to ensure their victory will be born as the seventh month dies…."
In a show of unprecedented emotion the glass had slipped through his fingers, shattering onto the stone. The Dark Lord, it seemed, had the need of another. However, love being as foreign to him as a life without magic, the man had made a decision. He would not become controlled by the will of his heart; not now, not ever. No, Voldemort's plan was to make the person in the prophesy fall in love with him. The boy was the one that he had found.
Hercules was weak. Voldemort could see that in the boy. He was starved of affection. The Dark Lord had been sure that he would be able to make the boy fall deeply and irrevocably in love with him, with little effort. However, he had lost control. At the sight of the young man, little more than a boy, standing in his bedroom, he had snapped. With near sadistic glee and a childlike fascination he had stripped the boy down, watching him squirm. Wanting to mark the boy as a possession. The boy was his after all. Even if he did not love him, he would claim him as his own. No one else would touch him. He would make sure of that.
However as the boy pushed him away, he came to his senses. This may be what he wanted, but the boy would never love a man that had raped him. He had lost control. Something that had not happened to the Dark Lord for many years. Yet, it appeared that the same thing were to happen again within a number of hours.
He had choked the boy, enjoying as the hope trickled from his eyes. Wanting to watch as all life finally faded from the beautiful green, and yet. This was not what he needed to do. He let the boy drop to the ground with a thump, cursing his own lack of self control. So when the boy had appeared at dinner, smelling of alcohol and barely managing to walk straight, the Dark Lord had said nothing.
He had only watched as the boy had eaten in an ungainly fashion before staggering back to the room; trailing the Dark Lord's footsteps like a scalded puppy. Voldemort supposed that that's what the boy was. That was how the Dark Lord had treated him.
Voldemort had returned to the room to see an unconscious Hercules and realised his mistake. He endeavoured to fix it. He did not care for the boy, did not value his wellbeing in anyway, other than that of a tool. However his tool, it seemed, needed a more gentle touch. Voldemort would need to treat the boy more delicately. He would need to create a facade of caring. He would need to prove to the boy that his feelings, no matter how fake, were to Hercules, real. He needed to affirm the certainty of his uncertainty.
So, as the Dark Lord woke up to find the bed empty and any sigh of Hercules gone, he was not pleased, to say the least. In fact, not pleased, was an understatement. It was more realistic to say that the Dark Lord was ready to torture anyone that came within ten feet of him.