Chapter III
Voldemort slipped for the vortex of twisting magic, bearing - in a shrunken box - the pick of a winter feast: stuffed, honeyed meats, hot, buttery soup stoppered with a lid, crunch-skinned, over-sourced, roasted vegetables, dark, fragrant bread, and a slice of sugary tart that looked as though its goal was to bind together the teeth of its victims, attended by dollops of cream and custard.
He ate little, by habit, and certainly never such rich fair as this. Voldemort had not wished to insult his hostess, however, and asked if he might take some away with him - thinking of his Horcrux. She, relishing the chance to impress the Dark Lord, had laden him down with the best of her table, preserved by some impressive charmwork.
"Potter," he acknowledged. The boy was lounging atop the coverlet, a thick text open in his lap. He jerked to attention as he always did whenever Voldemort appeared, all the ease draining from his posture as he was filled with the tension of prey.
"Er... hello."
Voldemort took the package out of the inner pocket of his thick cloak and returned it to its proper size. It was as big as a boot box, neatly wrapped in grease-proof paper and a ribbon of twine. His subjects seemed so determined to flatter him with gifts he did not need. At least Potter might appreciate such largesse. "I apologize for my lateness," he said - not meaning it - as he passed the heavy package to the boy. "The days seem to grow busier as they shorten."
Potter stared at the box. "It's not like I've got any way to tell," he said distractedly, "You... er... you got me a present? Wow. Thank you."
"Not exactly," he explained, "I was having dinner at the home of one of my Death Eaters and his wife seemed to take offense at my gaunt figure. I appeased her by agreeing to take my portion with me."
Potter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Is something wrong with it?"
"Of course not," Voldemort sniffed, "I simply thought to take advantage of her insistence to feed you and silence her anxiety concerning my abstinence."
"You don't eat much, do you?" Potter paused, chewing his lip, and then, in a rush of words: "How come you never eat here with me? I mean," he added quickly, "it's a bit unnerving, you know, trying to eat an entire meal with someone just... staring at you like that..."
"In your case, I do it to assure myself that you do not throw your victuals away and starve yourself, still... unnerving, you say?" Voldemort laughed, "That explains much about the behaviour of my fellow guests at dinner."
"Go to a lot of parties in your spare time?" There was a hint of bitterness in Potter's voice as he tugged at the ribbon, carefully peeling away the wrapping paper.
"No," Voldemort confessed, "nor do I enjoy them, particularly. A room full of fearful witches and wizards eating and drinking too much, becoming ridiculous in their intoxication, just at the time I would prefer to be at home working on my spellbooks. We are, all of us, relieved when I depart."
"At least you get to see other people," Potter muttered, and then faltered. He had lifted up the lid of the box; any trace of scorn vanished from his face, replaced by naked shock. "Woah. Blimey... This is - is this all for me?"
"She may have been trying to impress me," Voldemort said, confronted once again with all the delicious, futile aromas of an hour before. "I suppose you might eat it over several days."
Potter looked back at him in bewilderment. "You don't want any of it? There's enough here for five people… surely you could take some with you…"
"I do not eat, Potter," Voldemort snapped, irritated. "Occasionally, I may drink a little tea or a glass of wine, but this body is not sustained by common means." Once, every season, he would journey to the Forbidden Forest of his youth and hunt a silver unicorn by moonlight.
Potter's face went very pale. "You're not some kind of - vampire or something, are you?"
"Do not be ridiculous," Voldemort scoffed, "the magic involved is completely different."
Potter opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Right. You know what - I don't want to know." He laid the box in front of him and then, without touching the food inside, looked back at the Dark Lord again, suddenly uncertain.
"Ah," Voldemort nodded to himself and took a step back. Potter found it unnerving when the Dark Lord watched him eat. "I will leave you to enjoy your meal in peace."
"No," Potter blurted out, "it's not that. I actually thought you might… sit down for a while. Instead of just, y'know, standing there. If you're not hungry, maybe you could just… have some tea?"
He did not know what to make of the invitation. Voldemort narrowed his eyes, trying to guess at the boy's motives, fearing he was being mocked. "I think not," he said loftily, uncertain, and expecting the fast return of Potter's usual insults.
An odd look passed over the boy's face, and then he scowled. "So you'll go to insufferable dinner parties but you can't spare me your company for a few minutes?"
He sighed, loathing that he felt obliged to justify his behaviour to anyone, let alone Harry Potter. "It is rather than I have just been to an extremely long, insufferable dinner party and have neither the desire, nor the patience, to sit here and endure your demands and insults. I hope you enjoy your dinner, but I simply wish to be alone."
Potter's face clouded over with outrage. He looked like he had much to say, but his mouth simply settled into a thin line. "Fine," he said tightly. "Thanks for the gift." He clearly meant this as a gibe, though Voldemort could not see how.
It left him at a loss for how to respond, so he said nothing at all and returned himself to his own dwelling, many, many miles away.
Harry spent most of the next day pacing around the walls of his claustrophobic prison in a towering fury. He hadn't eaten most of the feast Voldemort had brought him out of spite - although he hadn't been able to resist the slice of treacle tart. He hadn't had any treacle tart since he'd last been at Hogwarts, at the end of his sixth year. That seemed like a hundred years ago now.
He didn't know what to do. He was beginning to go mad. Every day was exactly the same, without even the luxury of a clock or a calendar so that Harry could keep track of his imprisonment. He was starting to feel like a ghost, uncertain of his own skin. The loneliness was crushing. The room did not even look like anyone lived there; Harry was completely unable to change anything inside of it. He'd spent several hours one day sitting on his bed, emptying the water pitcher onto the floor - just to watch it fill back up again, the puddle he'd made simply melting away. As though it had never been there to begin with.
As though he didn't even exist.
He plotted obsessively. He felt every inch of the walls and the floor with his hands, searching for a weakness, an invisible doorknob, anything at all. His second day of captivity, he had tried, unsuccessfully, to attack Voldemort as soon as he'd appeared; he'd gotten an agonizing dose of the Cruciatus Curse for his efforts. In the following days, he'd spent hours and hours trying to cast wandless spells, to Apparate, to make anything happen at all. But Voldemort must have put some kind of seal on his magic, because no matter how hard Harry tried, he couldn't find the spark within him. For all he knew, he'd been turned into a Squib during the battle; it was as though all the magic had been sucked straight out of him.
He was going mad. The only thing anchoring him to reality, ironically enough, were Voldemort's visits. Unpleasant as they were, it was the only time that Harry felt as though he had a tangible presence in this strange, timeless space. He spoke, and Voldemort responded; it wasn't much, but it was enough to keep him from losing it altogether.
He could see that it was time to go about this in a different way. He wasn't getting anywhere with his magic, and it was clear that there was no one out there looking for him. There was only one person who could get Harry out of this room, and that was Lord Voldemort. Which was why, when Riddle arrived the next day, Harry was ready and waiting for him.
Voldemort didn't even Apparate like normal people. It was almost soundless: a smooth transfiguration from air into person. Long fingers placed what looked like a flask of pumpkin juice on the sideboard. The red eyes were darkly livid, gleaming with rage, but then he blinked and the emotion was gone. "I have brought you some juice to make a change from water," he said in that cold, horrible voice, stating the obvious. "I did not think you would require feeding."
"Thanks," Harry said politely, biting back his anger at being treated like an animal. Feeding. "How are you today?"
A low noise came from the back of Riddle's throat, ending in a drawn-out hiss. He shook his head and drummed his long nails on the polished wood of the sideboard. "Because you care so much about how I feel," he spat Harry's own words back at him.
With great restraint, Harry kept his temper at a reasonable level. "Sorry," he said with exaggerated courtesy, "you just seem a little… uptight."
"Uptight…" Riddle echoed Harry, wrapping his forked tongue around the word. "Uptight… as though I were a bow strung taut with fury. Yes. Yes. Would you consider it an imposition if I took a sip of your water?"
As if he had a choice. "Go ahead, I've got plenty," Harry said lightly.
The Dark Lord did not conjure himself a glass as Harry expected, but poured a splash onto his hand and drank from his palm, smoothing the residue slowly across his pale face. "You have Lord Voldemort's thanks," he said when finished.
"Right…" Harry shifted uncomfortably. Voldemort looked to have calmed down a little, but his flat serpent's face had a false, mask-like quality. Harry was beginning to regret having asked him to stay.
"Forgive my manners," Riddle sighed, "I have been dealing with the mistakes of fools all day."
Harry was sorely tempted to point out that just one of Voldemort's mistakes had ruined Harry's entire life, but he bit his tongue. "Why should that matter?" he said conversationally. "I thought you just killed everyone who gets in your way."
"Oh, I killed one of them to serve as an example to the rest, but if I resorted to the Killing Curse whenever faced with stupidity, I would have almost no one over which to rule."
"Er…" Harry blinked. He hadn't expected Riddle to be so honest. "Right. But surely the others weren't quite so - um - stupid after that?"
"I have my doubts, but I am hopeful that they will no longer assault and torture persons in my name - with whom I have no quarrel - as a way of resolving their own greed, inferiorities and petty concerns."
"Hang on. You're angry because people are getting tortured?"
The red eyes flashed, "My servants represent me in all their dealing with my subjects! I do not give them leave to force themselves on young witches, steal the possessions of others, or place the Dark Mark above the homes of those loyal to Lord Voldemort!"
"So those things are only all right when you do them," said Harry.
"I kill my enemies. Killing those who do not resist me, or allowing my servants to do so, is both wasteful and foolish."
"Maybe you'd have better luck if your servants weren't a bunch of bloodthirsty lunatics," Harry said casually. For the first time, Riddle smiled at him. The thin, colourless mouth stretched into a wide grin and he gave a wry half-laugh. Harry felt unexpectedly pleased with himself. It had been a long time since he'd made anyone laugh.
"Perhaps… if I were not one of said lunatics thirsting for blood, is that what you are saying?" He laughed again, cold and high, but he did not look angry - the opposite, in fact.
"Well… er…"
The bright, feline eyes slid him a sly look of teasing amusement, "And why not? There is nothing quite so lovely as the sheen of blood under the pale light of the moon… as prancing in naked bacchanal around corpses bathed in lunar rays…" Voldemort gave a heavy, theatrical sigh and laughed again, grinning madly.
Harry forced a nervous laugh, even though Voldemort was seriously starting to freak him out. "Can't say I've had the pleasure."
"Oh, it is splendid, especially in summer, when the mood takes you, and you feel the urge to dance and ululate in the small hours of the morning."
Was Voldemort making fun of him? Eventually, the Dark Lord stopped chuckling and noticed Harry's expression.
"I will not bite," he said softly, and then gave a small, hissy snigger.
"No, I reckon your nails get the job done well enough."
Riddle's amusement dulled a little, but he didn't seem to take offense. "And look at yourself Harry, a regular boxer."
He snorted. "Well, I was absolute rubbish at duelling you, wasn't I? Had to learn how to defend myself somehow."
"You have clearly found your calling," Voldemort said teasingly, "I did not remember to heal it before I slept that night, and I awoke to a cheek the most fascinating shades of purple and yellow."
Harry grinned despite himself. "You've just got to let me have a go at these Death Eaters and they won't give you any more trouble."
"Oh, you would enjoy that, would you not, Potter?" Riddle grinned back. "But you see, they are my Death Eaters." His voice became a mockery of a petulant child, "Only I get to play with them. If you want peons to abuse you will have to find your own."
"Well, I s'pose you're my peon, in a way," Harry said slyly, before he could stop himself, "bringing me food every night and all that."
"Well…" Voldemort said, and for a moment Harry thought it was over and he was about to find himself at the end of a curse, "I have always been rather self-serving."
It took Harry a second to realize what he was talking about, and then he scowled. "Oh, very funny."
"I thought so," Riddle said, smug as hell, and turned around to pour two glasses of pumpkin juice from the bottle he had brought, "here…" he offered one to him. After a moment of hesitation, Harry slid over on the bed, making room for Voldemort to sit. He was Harry's only way out of this room, after all - and Harry would never get out of here if Riddle only hung around as long as he needed to every day. And besides, it had been so long since Harry had last talked to someone. He felt that small, persistent voice - you don't matter, you're dead now - ease its grip on his mind.
"D'you maybe want to - stay for a while?" He only needed to fake half the sincerity in the question.
Voldemort gazed at the empty space beside Harry, taking a sip of pumpkin juice and tilting his head in consideration. He looked confused, as though no one had ever asked him such a thing before. "I have been careful," he said eventually, "not to intrude upon your person."
"Aside from locking me in here all alone for months on end, you mean." Harry looked away, gritting his teeth. "Sorry. It's just - difficult, being confined in one tiny, windowless room, with no one to talk to… Sometimes I feel like I'm going a bit mad, you see," he added with a harsh laugh.
Riddle moved to the bed and sat down next to Harry, a strange sadness in his crimson gaze. Long fingers brushed up the back of his neck and carded gently through his hair; Harry tensed in surprise but did not pull away. "And you forget the sound of voices, as the passage of time erodes into circular thought, what you were before dissolves even in memory, and you cry out merely to assure yourself of your continued existence…"
Harry glanced at him sharply, the strange comfort of those fingers momentarily forgotten. "You've been locked up before?"
"It was never being locked up so much as being locked out. I was removed from all that I knew: my hands, my voice, my magic, every certainty I had ever possessed was stripped away and then, as the years passed, the only thing which remained was my determination to endure long enough that so that, somehow, someone would seek me out and rescue me. I have never been so desirous of another in all my life."
"Then why would you trap me here? Are you trying to drive me mad?" He hated how his voice shook, engulfed by sudden fear.
But something in the Dark Lord's face broke in that moment. Riddle was clearly appalled by his words, and he suddenly seemed too young for his gaunt, hideous face: a small, frightened child in an adult's body. "I… such was never my intention." Long, skeletal fingers stopped just short of Harry, clutching the air. "I have to keep you safe. I cannot let you go."
"You can't keep me here," said Harry, fighting with the desperation in his voice, his chest very tight - but the words wouldn't stop now that he'd started, now that someone was listening - "I can't even tell if it's night or day - it's like I'm drowning in a lake, and I can't figure out which way is up… I walk around with nowhere to go, and when I sleep I can't tell if it's just been for a few minutes or for - for days… I'm… beginning to hear things, I think..."
Thin, bony arms suddenly pulled him into a tight embrace, so close he could feel Voldemort's ribs jutting into him through their clothes. A hand stroked his hair and a hollow cheek pressed against his own. "You will not go mad," Voldemort whispered, "I promise you, Potter, I will not let you go mad."
Harry swallowed harshly, squeezing shut his eyes. It was just proof of how close he was to losing it, that Lord Voldemort's arms around him could bring him any form of comfort. "You can't keep me here," he repeated hoarsely, full of shame and self-loathing, "please…"
"I… I must…" Riddle gasped out in a terrified rush, thin chest heaving, "someone will see you, or you will escape, and you are all I have left - six Horcruxes and you - you are all I have left…"
Harry ripped himself away. A penetrating sense of despair plunged over him. "I had my entire life ahead of me! And now all I've got is this bloody room - and I swear it's getting smaller every minute, I can feel it! You can't keep me here! I'll - I'll -" He could feel himself rapidly losing control of the situation; his hysteria was spiralling within him, now that he was faced with the certainty of it all, watching his last hope slipping from his grasp, "I'll dash myself to pieces!"
"You will not!" Voldemort hissed furiously, leaping to his feet, towering over Harry. "I have bewitched this place to alert Lord Voldemort should you attempt such a thing and, by the time I finished with you, you would be begging for death!" But then his anger seemed to lessen and his voice became soft and tentative. "Perhaps I could… let you out under close supervision, on occasion…"
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He was ashamed of how pathetically eager he felt, hope fluttering madly in his chest. "I…" He didn't know what to say. There was no backhanded remark, no spiteful words that could shield how desperately he had yearned for this opportunity. "Anything. Please... I just…" His voice was very small. "I can't live like this…"
"Take my hand, Potter," Voldemort held out a bony claw and Harry's heart seemed to stop. Slowly, as though he thought Voldemort might yank away at any moment, Harry slipped his smaller fingers into Riddle's long, white ones.
And he was falling through a whirling of magic and then into a dark, starry sky. They wrapped around him, glittering in the blackness, and he was flying - flying beside Lord Voldemort through a vast, clear, empty night, encased in a bright cage of stars that had once held Nagini.
He sucked in huge gulps of cool, fresh air, eyes streaming in the sharp wind. There was a bubble of hysterical laughter and several exhilarated heartbeats before Harry realized it was coming from his own mouth. He'd forgotten what the wind felt like - what it was like to look up and see nothing but the sky, stretching on and on for eternity - as Voldemort spun and dived, flying faster than any broom, his hand still clutching Harry's.
Eventually, Riddle set him down, letting go of his hand in the long grass atop a high hill looking out over fields far below and the distant lights of a city, but his feet did not touch the grass. He floated in Voldemort's cage as though underwater.
Harry looked out at the world through the thin veil of magic, struck by sudden sadness. You're dead, that voice whispered to him again, and it certainly felt that way. Things had moved on without him. People were continuing to live their lives - he thought, with slight bitterness, of Ginny - and it didn't make one bit of difference to them whether Harry moved among them or not.
He tore his eyes from the twinkling skyline in the distance and looked over at Voldemort. "Let me out," he said softly. "I won't run away, I swear."
"I…" he could hear Voldemort's thoughts as clearly as if the man had spoken them aloud: I let her out, I let her out for one moment, thinking her safe...
"There isn't anyone else here," Harry pleaded. "No one's going to attack me, we're completely alone, please, I - I'd just like to - walk around, for a bit…"
Voldemort regarded him carefully, his pale, pensive face pearly in the moonlight. "And you will not run?"
Harry's stomach clenched. This was his opportunity… but how far would he get on this empty hillside with nowhere to hide? How far, before Voldemort caught him and never let him outside ever again? No, now was not the time to try to run… "I won't."
"Very well," Voldemort gestured and the cage suddenly vanished as Harry's bare feet hit the soft earth and he was free.
Another frightening, broken laugh escaped him. He knew how he must sound - mad, you're going mad - but he couldn't find it in himself to care. There was long, tickling grass between his toes, and a cold winter breeze swept over him, washing his arms in goose bumps... but it was so nice to feel, to be anywhere that wasn't that room with its stagnant air and unchanging walls...
He bent down to the ground and pressed his fingers into it, smelling the dirt. He wanted more than anything to run around, simply to get his heavy limbs moving again, but he knew Voldemort wouldn't allow it. The moment's impermanence hung over him more effectively than any magical cage; Harry was unable to shake the lingering sadness that had descended upon him as he gazed out on the distant city.
"It's strange, how nothing changes," he said quietly. "I feel like the world's stopped sometimes... it's hard to imagine everything going on as usual, while you're..." He faltered and shut his eyes, trying not to think of Ginny, trying to think of nothing but the air and the grass and the sky and this fleeting moment of freedom.
"If there is one thing I have learned," Voldemort mused, staring up at the constellations, "it is that change is the only constant in the universe." Robes rippling in the cold wind, Riddle's gaze lingered on the moon, almost in accusation. Then he turned abruptly to Harry, as though suddenly remembering he was talking to another person. "Oh, run about if you wish. But stray too far and I shall give chase and that you will not find so enjoyable." The red eyes gleamed in cruel warning.
But Potter did not run. He walked slowly across the wide field, in silent rejection of Voldemort's dismissive offer. The Dark Lord watched him carefully, fingers itching to sweep the stubborn boy back under the protection of his magic. Potter sat and stretched out in the long grass, perhaps contemplating his strange destiny. He ought to be grateful to be Lord Voldemort's Horcrux when the alternative had been death in that silent, firelit clearing. Potter would never have revealed so much to him had he not desired to live.
How strange it was to think that the child he blamed for his long years of exile was now in fear of that same, slow degeneration of thought and feeling that had plagued Lord Voldemort. Yet the irony brought him no triumph. Rather, it made him want to comfort Potter – a mirror of his own past agonies. As though he might reach out and touch the hollowed-out, despairing creature - less than a ghost – who haunted a lonely forest for so many years, and whisper what dominion, what glories awaited him.
He glanced at Potter again: a sprawl of robe, wild hair, and grass. Well, if the boy had no desire to exercise, perhaps he would. Voldemort had not practised his duelling stances for a few days and it did not do to neglect such a thing. He had scant respect for the European styles of his youth, always too much the chivalrous duel, and extremely vulnerable to multiple opponents.
Voldemort preferred the more demanding forms of eastern warlocks; a deadly, shifting elegance with which British duellists could never compete. He stretched out, beginning with his hands, holding his wand as lightly as a quill, working his way through a series of feints before moving on to the more strenuous leaps and spins of the Fifteen Turns of the Hawk. Then, without allowing himself a moment to catch his breath – for no such opportunity was to be had in battle – he began the now-forbidden Shadow Dance. Or, as the cheerful, Australian wizard who had studied at the same dojo had described it: Six-Ways-To-Splinch-Yourself-Six-Ways-To-Sunday.
He rushed headlong into the movements, stepping in and out of the crushing, whirling darkness – faster and faster – until it he whirled with it – out and in and out and in, on a tide of furious, deadly force that might rip a less experienced wizard to pieces. And, once he had the smooth blink-blink-blink rhythm of racing, exhilarating apparition, he began the dance proper.
It spilled and curved like wind-whipped water: acrobatics that hit the vortex of apparition and kept going, spinning with deadly ease, to emerge a half-second later to complete the gesture; a dance with one's shadow, the darkness, and death. He rose off the ground, twisting the air into knots as he flung himself through the final forms mercilessly, imagining four opponents flinging deadly curses.
And then he slid out of the final move and he was done, descending slowly to the ground, panting with exertion and excitement and holding back the urge to expel the contents of his stomach. It had been too long.
Potter seemed to have forgotten all about the wonders of the universe above; he was staring at Voldemort instead. His mouth dangled open, face colourless in the pale blue light of the moon. "Are you… um... threatening me? Because, in case you haven't noticed, I'm just… sitting here. Y'know. Not running away."
Voldemort returned the stare: he had not even considered the intimidating effect his exercises might have on Potter. He opened his mouth to answer the boy, to tell him that he had no need to threaten his Horcrux with such a display - and promptly threw up the what little pumpkin juice he had drunk earlier.
The boy continued to gape at him from his seat on the grass, and then he began to laugh. "Oh, wow, you'll have to work on that last bit… kind of ruins the effect, I'd say…"
"Advanced Apparition is strenuous, both physically and magically," The Dark Lord said, before adding, a little self-consciously, "and best practiced on an empty stomach. In truth, I merely sought a way to usefully pass the time. It does not do to neglect such things. A true warlock must seek to perfect his form every day without fail."
"Go on, rub it in," Potter said bitterly, looking away. "It's not like I'm wasting away in a stuffy room all day and night."
Voldemort raised his brows, "Why, did you practice regularly?"
Potter shut his eyes, looking as though he were making a great effort not to rise to the bait. "I play Quidditch. I get out on the pitch every single day. Used to, that is…"
"Quidditch," Voldemort repeated. "Well, it would hone your reflexes, if nothing else."
Potter eyes opened and he scowled. "Quidditch isjust as strenuous as duelling, and it requires just as much practice! Not just anyone can be a decent Quidditch player!"
"But it is hardly useful," Voldemort argued. "Perhaps it would aid in an airborne battle and allow swift escape, but there are far more effective ways to achieve such things. Besides," he added, as though it were the final, damning straw, "it is a team sport."
"Of course it is," Potter frowned at him. "It wouldn't be any fun if you played it on your own, now, would it?"
"I prefer activities which do not require relying on the talents of lesser wizards," the Dark Lord sniffed.
Potter shrugged and looked back up at the sky. "Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. It's about working together so that you become something greater than you could be on your own."
"And for that one has servants to achieve one's greater vision," Voldemort replied immediately.
Potter began to laugh. "Your servants are much too afraid of you to tell you when you're doing something wrong. And that's the whole point of teamwork, isn't it - to help each other be the best you can possibly be. How are you supposed to do that when you're afraid of being tortured for speaking your mind?"
"I am the greatest dark wizard alive," Voldemort snapped, furious at the suggestion that his servants ought to be encouraged to contradict him, "I teach my Death Eaters both fear and reverence for their lord, as is my right."
The young man lay back against the grass, folding his arms beneath his neck. "Have it your way. But you'll eventually get stuck in one place with that mind-set. Everyone's got weaknesses, and I s'pose you'll just never get past yours because you won't let anyone tell you what they are."
"You seem fairly willing," the Dark Lord remarked dryly.
Potter raised himself up on one elbow and gave him a sharp look. "And why should I want to help you?"
"We are speaking of help? I was merely pointing out that you enjoy discussing what you refer to as my weaknesses."
"I'd have a lot more to say if we were talking about those," said Potter smugly. "I was talking about Quidditch. Which you would probably be rubbish at, anyway… a victory doesn't really count if you've Crucio'd everyone to get it."
"You have seen me fly," Lord Voldemort was indignant - who did Potter think he was to lecture him in this way?
Potter settled himself back in the grass again. "Flying is only half of it."
"Ah yes. You have to be coordinated whilst still focusing on your own, most important objective: hunting the snitch," Voldemort treated Harry to a taut, wicked smile; the boy would be dead if it were not for their fraternal wands, when the Dark Lord had hunted him across the night sky.
"You've also got to be able to listen to your teammates," Potter informed him sagely. "Catching the snitch ends the game, after all - and if the other team is too far ahead while you're focused on chasing the snitch, you might end up losing - even if you catch it."
Voldemort's lipless mouth became a thin line of annoyance, "You take your allegory too far, Potter," he hissed.
"Allegory?" Potter rolled over and stared at him. "What are you on about?"
The Dark Lord peered at him suspiciously, "I have caught the snitch regardless of the other team's- I have won, Harry Potter, and you have lost!"
Potter gaped at him in sudden outrage. "Hang on! Am I supposed to be the snitch in this scenario?"
"Of course," Voldemort replied, "catching the snitch ends the game, is that not what you said?"
"I was talking about Quidditch!" Potter cried. "That's what I said! God, I haven't been outside that room in five bloody months - d'you really need to spend the entire time reminding me how miserable I am?"
"You may recall that time was also devoted to descriptions of Lord Voldemort as staid, weak, and undoubtedly rubbish at Quidditch - that last being the only one to which I do not take offense."
"I am nobody's snitch," Potter muttered angrily, and rolled over again to glare up at the stars.
The silence extended. Potter did not look at him again. Voldemort felt that he ought to fill the void and regain control of the situation, but he could not think how.
The answer, as ever, was magic.
Harry stared up at the sky and tried to pretend that Voldemort didn't exist. Leave it to Riddle to offer him a breath of fresh air - and then remind him at every possible moment of just how bleak his situation really was. He tried to focus instead on the small details of that moment - the hard earth beneath his head, the soft, wet grass under his fingers, how cool and sweet the air was against his face. Little things that he could recall later in the long, unending nightmare of his prison. He tried to count the stars - reminded himself that, for every one of the thousands glittering in the sky, there was another of a thousand suns, surrounded by millions of other planets, none of which Lord Voldemort would ever reach. This thought was very soothing to him.
One long, lean finger tapped him on the shoulder.
Harry squeezed shut his eyes in irritation, and then sat up calmly. "Yes?"
In Voldemort's outstretched palm was the most beautiful snitch Harry had ever seen. It seemed to be made of starlight rather than gold, its fast-beating wings delicate and glittering silver. "I did not mean to ruin your excursion," the Dark Lord said, holding it out to him, "here…"
Silently, Harry reached out and took it from him. Dark, velvety energy pulsed in his palm as shimmering wings stretched and fluttered. He realized that this was what Voldemort's magic must feel like - that Riddle had made this for him. A lump was forming in his throat; he did not know what to say. He felt inexplicably afraid and uncertain. Why was Voldemort offering him this? Would he truly be allowed to fly? "Thanks," he managed, tearing his gaze from the beautiful token of freedom in his fingers (magic, lovely magic, his first taste of it in many months) to blink, disconcerted, at his captor.
"I am pleased you like it," hissed the horrible, lipless mouth. "Now come, Potter." And the ground fell away beneath Harry's feet, sealed away by that same glistening, powerful magic, entrapped in a sphere of light, floating like Nagini or Dudley's ill-fated goldfish.
Panic swallowed him utterly. Flailing, he cried out, blind with sudden terror - not-again-not-again-not-again - arms swinging and beating wildly at his cage; but the glittering walls of his prison leapt beyond his reach and he could do nothing but roll helplessly in the air, suspended above the ground. "No!" he shouted but his voice was muffled and the snitch, slipping from his grasp, began to bounce repeatedly against the ceiling of the sphere, "no, please, not yet - I can't go back yet - let me out -!"
"I regret it," Voldemort said softly, and with a flick of the Elder Wand they were back inside the agonisingly familiar walls of Harry's cell. But Riddle did not let him out of the orb of magic. Those merciless, slit-pupilled eyes stared at the cage thoughtfully - like Harry was an animal at the zoo - utterly unmoved by his pleas.
Harry fell still all at once, breathing harshly. Voldemort's travesty of a gift continued to ricochet relentlessly off the shimmering walls of the magical sphere, an ironic staccato that mirrored Harry's frantic heartbeat. His stomach was beginning to knot with nauseous fear; his hands shook so hard that he balled them into fists, but the tremble simply ran up his arms instead; his eyes, huge and hollow, couldn't stay still.
"Please," he said hoarsely, his voice tinny and far away as it struggled through thick magic. "Please. We're - we're back... you can let me out now, can't you?"
"I could," Voldemort murmured speculatively, predatory gaze flicking back and forth from Harry to the fluttering snitch, "but I do not think I will."
There was no air. "NO!" Harry tried to scream, "but why -?!" but barely anything was coming out; he was floating, helpless, completely out of control - and the thought that Voldemort might leave him like this, existing only within his own head, was enough to make sharp bile rise in his throat, his thoughts spinning and tearing away from his grasp. He was drowning, thrashing in the heavy, cold waters of the lake, going nowhere and feeling nothing - completely at the mercy of a total madman.
"You are mine, Harry Potter." Riddle hissed, "And, if on occasion you are so privileged to be released from the confines of this room, it will be at Lord Voldemort's sufferance. This orb, Potter, is not your enemy. You will beg to be encased within it, to leave this room secure it its embrace. You will be obedient, and you will not complain when it is time to return. Do you understand?"
The world began to bleed. "NO -!" Kicking and screaming, he started thrashing violently again, forgetting in his panic that it was useless - his chest tight with such terror and helplessness as he had never known, "I WON'T - I WON'T - NOW LET - ME - OUT!"
"You will," came Voldemort's terrifying whisper, "if you ever want to see daylight again."
Utterly savage, Harry spat at Voldemort's leering face; his saliva sizzled and vanished in the Dark magic confining him before it could reach the Dark Lord. "FUCK YOU!" he shouted, swinging with all his strength at Voldemort and getting nowhere, "I'LL ROT IN THIS BLOODY PRISON FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE BEFORE I EVER CALL MYSELF YOURS!"
"Really," Voldemort said silkily, crimson eyes gleaming as he took a step back, putting his wand away in the pocket of his robes, "for the rest of your life? Very well, it seems we are in agreement."
"No -" Voldemort couldn't leave him here - it was bad enough being trapped in this tiny room, but if Voldemort tried to keep him permanently in an orb, in this terrible, spaceless thing that stripped him of body and movement - he was afraid the threads of his already fraying sanity would come loose altogether. Fear devoured him, quashing his pride. "Don't do this to me - you can't do this to me - please - let me out…" The last words came out in a sorrowful moan, and tears pricked shamefully at his eyes.
And Voldemort smiled - a mad, awful smile - and long, pale fingers reached through the glittering cage and took hold of Harry's chin, sharp nails digging into his skin. "Better," he hissed, his cold voice strangely fond, "what are you, Harry Potter?" Harry snarled and tried to yank out of his grasp, but Riddle held firm. Then the Dark Lord laughed and let go, and Harry drifted helplessly back to the centre of the sphere. "It has been a long day for both of us," Riddle said quietly, "perhaps you would prefer some time to reflect upon your predicament?"
"You're mad," Harry spat, "utterly mad." He squeezed shut his eyes, blood roaring in his ears, and tried to slow his breathing. Panic still hummed along every line of his body like electricity, threatening to spark and swallow him again in blank fire at any moment. But Harry wouldn't beg - he wouldn't give in - the entire world would have to be on fire before that bastard would ever hear Harry say that he belonged to Lord Voldemort.
But Riddle was still smiling, "Good… you will need that resolve when you can no longer remember what it is to touch or be touched, to fly, or see beyond the confines of these walls… I think I will keep you in this cage, Potter." He laughed, "I think I shall enjoy seeing your eyes grow dull with despair."
Harry's breathing grew erratic with that hysterical vein of panic, thumping harder and harder within him. With effort, he forced down the terrified denial that threatened to rip out of him. "You'll regret this, Riddle," he hissed, trembling and holding back furious tears so that they would not give Voldemort further satisfaction. "You will live to regret this, I swear."
"It always amazes me," Riddle said lightly, those crimson eyes gazing somewhere beyond Harry, "that you do not simply bow to Lord Voldemort's wishes," Harry got the impression that Voldemort wasn't just talking about him anymore, "so much useless struggle when it is clear from the start that you are destined to lose."
"I'm destined to kill you," Harry informed him, snarling and straining against the magic imprisoning him, "and you can believe that I'll find a way to do it. I'm most of the way there already."
"You are nothing!" Voldemort screeched, "I am the greatest wizard who has ever lived!"
"You're a mad old fool!" Harry bellowed right back at him, "and I'm thestudent who's hunted down and destroyed six-sevenths of the so-called greatest sorcerer in the world! And if there was ever anything great about you, it must've gotten lost in the parts I've already finished off - because the part that you've got left is nothing but a bloody sadistic lunatic!"
"Crucio!" And every time Harry expected the pain to get easier, to get used to it, but it was as though there were a thousand needles pressing into every muscle in his body at the same time as iron claws were ripping his flesh away, layer by layer, as he screamed in rage and agony. "I am Lord Voldemort!" came the furious shriek as the curse lifted and, sick and dizzy with pain, Harry realised he was right, Riddle was insane. He actually believed everything he was saying. He really didn't understand why people didn't just roll over and worship him.
"I know… bloody well… who you are," Harry panted, licking his lips. "You're a fucking coward."
"Am I now?" Voldemort whispered softly, "Well, perhaps Lord Voldemort shall pay a visit to Paris… perhaps that will curb your insolence..."
No. Harry's thoughts came screeching to a halt. That would not happen. He would not let that happen.
"No," Harry gasped out before he had time to change his mind, mouth burning with pain and battered dignity. "No - please - you're - you're right… you're… you're Lord Voldemort… and you're the most powerful wizard…" he swallowed dryly, "the most powerful wizard… that ever... lived…"
His pride ached with it, but he could not let that happen. No one else would die - Ginny would not die - on his account. And then there was the thought of remaining locked for even a day in this suffocating, magic-suspended hell, struggling to feel his own body, trapped, while Lord Voldemort hunted down Harry's few friends that still remained alive - it was enough to make his insides writhe with fresh panic. It's not so bad, he told himself, it's not so bad because you know it's not true… "You're right…"
"Of course I am," the crimson eyes were wicked, smouldering embers. "And what are you?" Riddle was practically glowing with foul satisfaction.
"I…" He couldn't say it. "I'm…" He couldn't say it.
"Yes?" Voldemort's forked tongue was stretching out toward him, repulsively eager. Harry shut his eyes and remembered vividly the smell of Ginny's hair, her delicate jaw.
"I'm… your prisoner," he whispered.
"You are my Horcrux," a cold, spidery hand brushed gently against his cheek and Harry flinched, "you are mine…"
The freezing touch of Voldemort's fingers made insects crawl and wriggle beneath Harry's skin, but he was afraid to pull away - afraid of inciting Voldemort's anger, afraid of doing anything that might put Ginny at risk. So he shuddered and closed his eyes, trying to pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere far away… "Yeah," he whispered. "Yes. I'm… I'm yours."
And, suddenly, the glittering orb vanished and Harry crumpled to the floor. "You see?" Riddle hissed, "I can be a generous lord, Potter. All you need do is obey."
Everything ached. Harry dragged himself to the wall and slumped against it, his newfound freedom overshadowed by the weight of his humiliation. He felt filthy, even though it had been a lie - even though he'd been forced to say it… "Right," Harry said hoarsely, shutting his eyes. "Thank you for your… generosity…"
"My pleasure," Riddle breathed, flat nostrils quivering, "do you think, Potter, that you deserve a reward for your obedience?"
Harry's mouth went dry. He didn't want anything else from Voldemort - he wanted Riddle to leave. "I… I s'pose that'd be up to you," he said, trying to sound grateful.
Voldemort smirked, "Quite right." He glided across to where Harry was slumped. "In this instance, I am inclined to generosity, in order to demonstrate the merits of good behaviour." There was a blinding bolt of power from Elder Wand and suddenly sunlight streamed into the room, dawn painting Voldemort's serpentine face golden. A window… Harry staggered to his feet, his anger and fear that this might be another trick eclipsed by shining relief.
He exhaled slowly, peering through the glass, staring out at the sun rising over a dark forest and vast battlements of black stone far, far below. It all felt vaguely familiar. "Where are we?"
"This," Voldemort gestured toward the sprawling, grim fortress, "is Nurmengard."
Nurmengard. The prison that had detained a Dark Lord. It was nearly as bad as Riddle giving him a snitch simply to torture him with a cage. Here was a window that would remind him every day of how hopeless his situation truly was. Of course Voldemort would lock him up in a prison in Germany, of all places. No one would ever find him here.
It was a long moment before Harry realized Riddle was waiting for him to speak. "Thanks."
"In truth, it has not been used for many years." Voldemort explained, seeming not to notice Harry's sarcasm. "Except, of course, for this cell. Nurmengard has no need for Dementors, it turns the very magic of its prisoners against them."
Harry could not tear his eyes away from the window. Freedom was so close to him, set apart by only a thin layer of glass… "How convenient," Harry said quietly.
"One has to admire the design," Riddle went on, "though I certainly had to make improvements. The guards still imagine themselves to be guarding Lord Grindelwald." He laughed, high and cold.
Harry wanted to scream, to throw things, to punch Voldemort across the nose again. But he simply stood, sick with despair and wishing that Riddle would just leave him alone already, or at least go across the room again and stop standing so close. Generosity his arse - the only reason Voldemort had so charitably given him a window was to further reinforce his imprisonment. "A castle full of people you've driven insane," he said roughly. "I suppose I fit right in."
The Dark Lord laughed again and ruffled his hair; long, loathsome fingers brushing across his scalp in a parody of affection. Harry couldn't help it - he wrenched away. "Don't bloody touch me," he spat, but he shrank against the wall like a wretched, trembling dog.
"And why should I not touch what is mine?" Voldemort asked silkily, the undertone of threat horribly clear in that high, icy voice.
I'M NOT YOURS! he shrieked silently, furiously, and bit his tongue until he tasted metallic blood. "I'm not an object," he said, voice shaking with leashed fury, "and I'm not a snake - I'm a person - and you don't - you don't pet people!"
"Nonsense," Riddle stroked his fingers up the nape of Harry's quivering neck and into his hair, curling it into knots with his awful nails. "I see it done all the time." The crimson eyes shone with malice.
Harry's mouth was very dry. He reduced the world to the slow, measured expansion and compression of his lungs, the rush of oxygen through his nostrils, and tried desperately not to feel Lord Voldemort's long, spidery fingers stroking the back of his head. "That's different," he said hoarsely, swallowing, "that's between men and women - between people who are - together, not…"
"Not what, exactly?" came the quiet his, talons grasping his hair all the tighter.
Fever-bright fear shivered through him, Harry's head pulled backward to stare up into those cold, unforgiving eyes. Riddle didn't mean that - he couldn't mean that… "I'm not -" yours, "like that," he said, and he hated the sound of his voice, so small with terror, almost pleading, "we're not like that - I - have a girlfriend."
And, mercifully, the awful hand fell away as though scalded. "That is disgusting, Potter," Voldemort sniffed, stepping away, "As if Lord Voldemort cared for such lewd pastimes."
The air seemed to come back into the room; sweet relief rushed through him. Harry rubbed unconsciously at the back of his neck, as though he could scrub away the shadow of Voldemort's fingers crawling across his scalp. He stood with hunched shoulders against the wall and did not take his eyes off the Dark Lord, as though Riddle might leap at him at any moment and touch his neck again. "You're the one trying to stroke my bloody hair."
Voldemort took another step back. It seemed ridiculous to him that Potter should have taken his gesture as a kind of sexual advance. He wanted nothing of the sort - had seen the boy as a child to whom such affections would be seen as threateningly paternal. His thin lip curled in distaste at Potter's implication, deeply offended not only by the assumption but also the images implicit in such an accusation. Potter touching him. The boy was cowered against the wall like a hunted animal. His soft hair was in disarray, cheeks still flushed from the Cruciatus; he had grown thin and weak from his imprisonment. Only his eyes, darting wildly from Voldemort's face to his hand, had not lost their fire. They were as bright and fervid as ever.
He had merely been playing with Potter, that was all. He refused to acknowledge that part of him had enjoyed touching the young man in any way. It had been a mere game. He had not, he realised, meant to take it this far. He wanted Potter pliant - not brittle with misuse. "It was only cruelty," he murmured. "I have no interest in such activities."
Potter let out a hysterical, miserable laugh. "Yeah, so I'll just count on you not to be cruel, then."
"Of course you may." Voldemort said icily. "Provided you are obedient."
Potter said nothing, sulking furiously, but in his glaring green eyes Voldemort saw his answer: the Dark Lord instructing the boy not to run, and Potter sitting compliantly in the grass - the fleeting joy of the snitch engulfed by blinding terror at being so utterly trapped for the mere sake of the amusement glittering in terrible crimson eyes- Potter fighting down bile and pride around the words I'm yours. The young man's eyes burned with loathing as they stared up at him: I was obedient.
The crimson eyes stared at Harry as though he suddenly did not make sense then, in an instant, flickered back to Voldemort's usual gleaming blankness. "Obedience is not merely action, Potter," he said quietly, "it is attitude. Of course, a certain amount of impudence can be amusing, but too much can become… dangerous."
"Then how come you don't just - Obliviate me?" Harry demanded in a snarl, unable to help himself. "Empty me out! Surely I don't need to be alive to be a Horcrux. If it's a walking, brainless corpse you want, then why don't you just - go ahead and make me one already?"
Voldemort gazed at him for a moment and there was a strange, speculative glitter in those cat-like eyes. "Now, now…" he whispered, "...what kind of wizard do you take me for?"
"I've already said that you're the greatest wizard in the world," said Harry, "I would think you could manage a simple memory charm."
The Dark Lord laughed, high and chilling. "So brave…" he murmured.
"It's not funny!" Harry snapped suddenly, shaking off the ghosts of his better judgement to scowl thunderously at Lord Voldemort. "Make up your bloody mind! Do you want me to be brave, or obedient? Will you find it amusing today, how I've got nothing left to live for, or would you rather I simper about on my knees a bit for you and feed you lies about how brilliant you are! What do you want from me?-!"
Voldemort said nothing, hairless brow furrowed, red eyes narrowed - yet the air between them did not seethe with dark magic waiting to be unleashed. "I am brilliant," he said at last, and there was something pathetic in the way it was hissed as though it were the only thing that mattered.
"Yeah, brilliantly self-obsessed," Harry muttered, and wrapped his arms around himself as he turned back to the window. It was dawning upon him that trying to talk to Riddle was useless. Voldemort was clearly living in a world woven of innumerable delusions of his own making - and he'd been living there for seventy years. There wasn't a chance he would step outside of it now, and for Harry's sole benefit.
"I am brilliant!" Voldemort hissed again, louder this time, and now magic crackled around him, everything thickening with strange, writhing shadows. "I, Lord Voldemort, have achieved that which other wizards cannot even conceive! I am the master of the Elder Wand! I sit upon the throne of Wizarding Britain! My knowledge of the arcane is unparalleled! My obsessions have brought me glory, they have brought me power, and they have brought me you. Everyone shall kneel before me, Harry Potter, even - especially - you. I am Lord Voldemort and I deservesuch worship. I have won, as I always," his breath caught slightly, "always knew I would."
"Worship," said Harry darkly, "is more than action, Riddle. It's attitude. And there may be people kneeling for you, but I can promise that they aren't worshipping you. There's nothing to worship about you. They hate you."
"They fear me!" Voldemort shrieked, "They cannot even bear the sound of my name without quaking. Small, quivering creatures in awe of my wrath, my servants, and my power. You think to mock me with their hatred? I know they hate me, as they despise all who are more powerful than themselves. They cannot bear to meet my eyes, nor hear my voice, without feeling that which all prey feel for the snake who devours them."
"That's because everything about you is repulsive," Harry hissed. "There have been plenty of powerful men who have also been respectable - men who were adored even as they were admired." Like Dumbledore. "But you - you will never know that kind of reverence, Riddle, because everyone will always see you for the monster that you are."
It was true, of course. Lord Voldemort had cast aside his humanity, had become far, far more than a man and - in doing so - had sacrificed the camouflage of Tom Riddle's handsome face. And what a relief it had been, how splendid to be free of the restrictions of his youth and bask in the fear that clotted the very air around him, feasting upon its scent. Everything about you is repulsive. They shuddered, flinched, and he saw the revulsion in their eyes - in their minds.
"I do not concern myself with the opinions of my inferiors," he said. It was a lie.
"Yeah, I'm sure that's why you went through so much trouble to take over Britain - just so everyone could revile you."
"I warn you, Potter, do not test my patience." And that was meant to be all. but somehow the threat - which sufficed for everyone else - was not enough for Potter: "I have always known myself to be reviled. Even at Hogwarts, all anyone found admirable was the shell I constructed for their benefit. At least, now that everyone knows what lay behind that mask, I am no longer required to lie." It was only that sometimes, sometimes he had enjoyed the praise, the admiration that came with his deceptions.
"But you still crave it, don't you?" Something shifted within Potter's expression, and he stepped forward, an almost predatory glint in his green eyes. "You're lying to yourself now, but you can't lie to me. I see you for what you really are, Riddle. You want them to worship you. It kills you that instead of wanting to bask in the brilliance of their blessed lord, they would all rather run as far away from you as possible."
"They are weak," Voldemort whispered, and his face ached with the weight of containing his emotion.
"You crave it, Riddle," Potter breathed, standing directly in front of him. "But reverence isn't something you can force into a person, is it? The only thing that ever gave you the worship you wanted was a snake that was too stupid to know any better. You failed with your Death Eaters, you're failing with Britain, and you'll fail with me, too."
Voldemort cried out, a long, gasping, wail. He turned away from Potter, too wounded to even think of his wand. Something was slithering up through his stomach and into his chest and throat, pushing aside his organs, pressing the breath from his lungs: the grief he had banished to the edges of his mind, into dream and disbelief. Nagini was gone. Potter's eyes bore silently into his back.
Sharp-nailed fingers snagged against the stone wall and Voldemort tried valiantly to quell such weakness, but it continued in shallow, helpless breaths that hissed and spluttered as though they were not his own. Tears were pricking his eyes like needles and he drove his sharp canines into his meagre lip until blood flowed alongside salt. Nagini. Nagini. Nagini. But he was not crying for his dear snake, shattered across the void, but for himself alone.
"So this is what it's all about?" Potter's soft voice drifted across the depths of his despair. "You think you can just… come here and take out all your anger over your dead pet on me?"
"I…" that was not it at all, just… there's nothing to worship about you - they hate you… No one had come looking for him. So many oaths, declarations of loyalty, and no one had seen fit to seek him out - the foolish had gone to Azkaban and the fearful had hoped him gone forever. Only a regretful, snivelling coward, seeking nothing but revenge on the friends who had spurned his pathetic offer of a second betrayal, and only after thirteen long years. That was the difference between them. Harry Potter's supposed death had been greeted with defiance and grief. His had merited only desperation and fireworks.
A small hand brushed his cloak.
"How about… we make a deal?" Potter's words were tense with poorly disguised hope. "Let's say… you don't put me in that cage. Ever again. And - you'll bring me outside sometimes. Once a week, at least. And in return I'll…" Potter inhaled. "I... can worship you. The way your snake used to." Another pause. "The way you'd like."
"You forget, Potter," Voldemort said, attempting to rein in his heaving breath, "I can read your mind. I know. I always know." Nothing was ever hidden from him, no measure of horror or revulsion escaped his notice.
Desperation surged within the young wizard beside him, and Potter struggled despairingly to hold it down, away from Voldemort's sight. "Please. I'll… I'll learn. I'll do anything. But I can't stay in here anymore - and I can't go back to - to that…" The boy's fingers touched his robes. "I know how much you crave it still. I saw it just now, in your eyes - it eats away at you, doesn't it? It's killing you… but I'll… I'll do whatever you need me to. I'll give you what you need."
Voldemort laughed - it can never kill me - but it was neither high nor cold, but a cracked and wheezing cough as he reached a hand up to touch the clammy fingers that clung to his robes. They twitched under his, as though they longed to pull away, but Potter closed his eyes and did not release him. The young man's cheeks burned with displeasure as he knelt slowly to the floor, hope a wild and frantic thing which danced and skipped along the heartbeat beneath his fingers.
"I'll learn," Potter said softly, head bowed. "Please. You've got to promise."
He hardly knew what to do, or what to say. It would not be real. It would be little but false comfort, in the end. But he yearned to say yes, as alone as he had once been when he first drifted across the mind of his dear snake. "I promise," he whispered with soft, slow wonder, sinking down so that he knelt on the floor opposite Potter, as magic coiled between their fingers and sang with the truth of Lord Voldemort's oath. "Obliviate."
Authors' Note: A big thank you to all our wonderful reviewers. It means very much to us to know you're enjoying the story. The next chapter of Yew and Holly will be up shortly. Thank you again for reading!