Now that any evidence of my ever having done anything potentially dangerous is gone, I feel slightly uneasy. Could the people I care about be in danger from the things I've told him? And why am I just now considering that? I didn't hesitate in writing about how they've mistreated me, and took his assessment of my supposed "family" at face value. He has several good points. Ron rushes into the room, as per usual, to drag me downstairs. Usually it's a lot of spying on whoever's come to visit, extendable ears, and nicking mail. But tonight,

"They'll let us into the meeting for tonight," Ron says excitedly, "but we should hurry before Mum changes their minds."

The meeting isn't too interesting, mostly everyone speaking around any actual subjects and Mrs. Weasley yelling that we're too young and sensitive for this type of thing, because I'm fucking five, or didn't you know?

"They're all my children, all of them, and I don't think any of them should be here," she says.

I just manage to keep my scoff internal. Strange how I didn't notice it before, how even for a family too poor to afford a wand, Ron always managed to have spending money. I wonder if he knows. He looks over at me and smiles. He couldn't, could he? He was my first friend, my best friend. Is. He is. The words I was planning to let tumble from my mouth in angry protest falter.

Who can I trust? Can I really trust the man who's tried to kill me so many times? My.. I cough. What is he to me now? Am I a Death Eater? The Dark wasn't so bad when explained properly. Maybe Death Eaters aren't horrible. Just the crazy ones. Like Bellatrix Black, surely she's wrong. But.. I look to my left. Snape doesn't seem like he could kill a million Muggles. As terrifying as he is, I doubt he could kill one.

"They'll have questions, all I'm saying is it's better they hear it from us than from other places than other places, where the information might be less than accurate," Sirius says.

A reasonable statement, but none of the questions I have can be answered by anyone here. Perhaps Dumbledore, if he was ever around. Maybe...maybe I could ask Voldemort. He said that he would answer my questions, within reason, and he has.

"They ought to go to bed. There's no need for that kind of talk right now," Mrs. Weasley says.

"Then when?" Sirius asks loudly.

He looks at me expectantly. I can see that he's trying to get me to take his side, and one week ago, before Voldemort's letter, I probably would have. But now I want to keep to myself. I need to be alone. I need to understand.

"I am a bit tired," I say.

Ignoring the wounded expression on Sirius's face and the confused expression on Snape's, I stand and walk through the door. Mrs. Weasley beams at me and I fake a smile.


Having been abandoned, Ginny and I sit in a compartment with Neville and a fourth year Ravenclaw named Luna Lovegood. She'd reading a magazine upside down but seems to be enjoying it.

"She's strange," Ginny whispers, "but there's nowhere else."

I shrug. I'd rather sit with this girl than Ginny. After Neville shows us the plant his grandmother gave him, and a Scourgify, I set about answering the latest letter from Voldemort. I unroll the parchment and catch the heavy silver ring as it tumbles onto my fingers. It's warm to the touch. The band is thin and I can tell it will mold perfectly to my finger. It's an unobtrusive thing that somehow still commands my attention. A black snake encircles the ring of metal, curling up until its head peeks out behind an emerald jewel.

It matches my eyes. This is surreal.

"What's that, Harry?" Neville asks.

I slip it onto my finger quickly.

" A birthday present. It's of no consequence,"I say.

I turn my attention to the letter itself.

There's no need for need to address myself in this, as I know whom I am writing to and you know who is writing to you.

I snicker to myself. You-Know-Who is writing to me, indeed.

In addition, the risks involved if it were discovered who you are writing to are too large to be considered collateral damage. I suggest that since you feel the need to address me, you choose a moniker, something no one would associate with my true identity. As for your asinine request, I accept. Simply to aggravate you, advance our cause by tying you permanently to the dark, and to teach you to watch your words. You are required to wear the enclosed ring at all times. Every moment. You are not to question this directive. Simply assume I protect what's mine. And you, brat, are mine. For better or for worse, to parrot you.

Include a detailed account of every instance Dumbledore placed you in harmful situations.

Represent me well. Do not disappoint.

Accidentally engaged to Voldemort. Only me. I fold the parchment into a square. The train comes to a stop.


"Potter," Malfoy says.

I stand still in the hallway. First his father, now him. I suppose Lucius Malfoy is the trusted advisor Voldemort spoke of. I nod.

"Malfoy," I say.

"Don't hesitate to call upon me," he says stiffly, "and Malfoy is my father."

I smile to myself. I seem to be very valuable suddenly.

"I'll remember that, Draco," I say.

He nods, dismissed.

I make my way up to the common room and pull out my quill.

A nickname for a man like you. That is certainly something I never pictured myself doing. I'm tempted to pick something sappy and embarrassing. I'm tempted to call you by your given first name. But… for some reason I won't do that unless you give me permission. For some reason I care.

You aren't putting potions in your ink or anything, are you?

No, I trust you. Funny circumstance, isn't it? I trust the most dangerous man I know of.

I have you to thank for the Malfoy brat attempting human interaction. Thank you very much.

Phoenixes are nice. They're a powerful symbol as well. Birth, rebirth, life, immortality. That's what you want, isn't it? I translated your name. Flight from death, isn't it? Phoenix in its own right.

That isn't what I'll call you, though. The Phoenix istheir symbol. They've claimed immortality for themselves, the ones I used to believe in. Is it strange that I don't hate them? They're misguided and corrupt. But I don't hate them. Do I hate you? I wonder. I'm not sure anymore. You listen and understand. You treat me like I'm 15 instead of perpetually being that one year old child helpless in the glow of green.

I know what I want to call you. Dorian. Oh, he's my favorite literary character. And for all my limited knowledge of you, you're just like him. I plan to be your Basil Hallward, if you'll let me, but I won't let you kill me. As convoluted as it might seem, I plan to save you.