A/N: Thanks, everyone! As of whenever since posting the last chapter, Visionary is officially my most-read, most-reviewed story. I'm very grateful to all of you who made that statistic happen! Thank you! Admittedly, I have been much more emotionally invested in Pantogogue… great bloody Merlin, that's been so long ago – I feel like I'm an entirely different person now.
…but it's definitely a wondrous experience. Please, do keep on reviewing and making me feel like my effort has a point. I swear I'm bringing this story to a slow (very slow) yet satisfactory end. For you and myself. End of Harry-angst on the horizon in this chapter!
Deeply grateful for any and all encouragement and concrit,
Brynn
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Chapter Fifteen: Recurrencex
The Riverbank Hall was, technically, a Black property, but it had been in the custody of Narcissa Malfoy since the death of her mother Druella. It was a beautiful place, well-tended by a veritable commando of house elves. Its gardens were one of the best-acclaimed ones in Britain.
Harry walked along rose bushes covered under a thin layer of snow, deliberately not thinking of the fact that he was having the worst Christmas since he was ten.
It wasn't all bad. If he was the kind of person to wish for something, he would have wished for Tom's health to return swiftly and completely, and Healer Dewhurst had informed him that everything seemed to be going well, even ahead of the schedule she had predicted. That information, coupled with Antonin's unshakably supportive presence and Theo's small but vital displays of initiative put Harry into the proper mood for representing a radical political movement. If he had to dress the part – which he did, abandoning his customary doublet for a set of green and gold dress robes, with matching mousquetaires instead of his usual black leather gloves – then he might as well play the part to perfection.
The gates opened and behind them appeared Narcissa, resplendent in an elaborate garment of various shades of violet combined with pearls and white metal (and other things Harry didn't have a hope of even noticing, much less identifying). She glittered.
Harry pithily thought that it made a lot of sense, since Lucius was so very attracted to anything shiny.
"Welcome, my Lord," she said, effecting a regal air with years of practice. She showed the proper respect and somehow had the skill to make her poise not appear patronising. "I have taken the liberty of designating Clow to be responsible for your comfort and pleasure."
"Thank you," Harry said, sincerely hoping that he wouldn't need the attendance of a house elf, and then forgot whatever else he was going to add, noticing the decoration. The whole opposite wall of the hall was covered by a familiar floor-to-ceiling depiction of a chimera.
"Is it to your liking?" Narcissa inquired quietly, stepping up next to Harry with a smile that bordered on smug.
Harry stared at the beast's teeth and claws and feathers, and wondered where that all had come from. He knew, of course, the source of the original idea, made up long before the first Dark Mark had been drafted, but he had thought it had been long since forgotten.
"Where did you find that symbol?" he inquired, trying to conceal his sudden attack of inappropriate self-consciousness.
"Mr Nott – the younger Mr Nott, that is – suggested it. Forgive me the presumption, my Lord, but I felt there was a need for a symbol that would not be too tied to past unfortunate events." Narcissa's smugness gradually gave away to uncertainty. "It is you design, isn't it?"
Harry had doodled several dozen attempts at creating a symbol for then-Tom's revolution in between his Transfiguration notes in the autumn of 1944. The one Narcissa had chosen hadn't been his favourite, but he had to admit that, re-imagined by a competent artist, it did look very nice.
"Yes," he concurred. "Though I notice that you commissioned someone incomparably more artistically gifted."
"It is an Appleby-Robinson, my Lord," Narcissa said proudly, as if that was supposed to mean something to Harry.
For a moment Harry simply gazed up into the maw of the chimera and regretted that Tom wasn't there to share the moment with him. Then he recalled that Tom had dismissed Harry's idea for a symbol as unendurably cliché; Harry had promptly challenged him to come up with something he found appropriate in its stead, and the only counter-suggestion to this day had been the Dark Mark.
Right – no way.
"Theodore," Harry numbly repeated. He should have known. Who else was that skilled at finding out little, inimitable ways of touching Harry's heart?
A flute of champagne appeared in each of Narcissa's hands. She passed one to Harry, who clinked it against the one she kept in a mute toast. She took a sip and craned her neck to look up at the mural again. "That young man has surprised everyone – and angered many. His life is about to become very complicated; the least malicious are the whispers of him being possessed by his Grandfather's spirit – or, else, him being his Grandfather reborn."
"Indeed?" If he were to wager a guess, Harry would have expected the rumours to be along the line of Theodore sleeping with him – which was preposterous, because Harry obviously liked the boy too much to give Tom a reason to kill him.
"It is quite horrifying, the sort of stuff and nonsense people would believe," Narcissa remarked, fairly successful at disguising her thirst after some juicy gossip. It wasn't even the usual kind of curiosity that yearned for a scandal to talk about – it was simply the ambition to know more than others, to feel more involved, more trusted, that drove her.
At the moment Harry wasn't particularly predisposed to indulging anyone, so he countered with an arbitrary: "You don't?"
"It is rubbish, my Lord," Narcissa scoffed, and once again made Harry like her a little more than before. "Mr Nott is sixteen, with all the youthful zeal that goes with it. I would know, since my son is the same age. Unfortunately, my son does not listen to either of his parents, labouring under the impression that he knows everything best."
When Harry was sixteen, seeing the future Dark Lord vulnerable and… human had been all that he needed to grow a mad attraction, fall in love, get married and become a Dark Lord himself. He didn't want to know what seeing an actual Dark Lord vulnerable was doing to Theo.
"Young Mr Nott's dedication has surprised everyone, I believe," Narcissa suggested, returning to her objective of fishing out information.
"Has it?" Harry responded noncommittally, a little curious about what she wanted to say, but remaining reserved. If she started harping on Theodore to draw out objections, Harry was going to need all his reticence to not demonstrate his innate lack of graciousness.
Narcissa gave him a small smile to placate him. Damn woman's intuition. "The rumours would not have been so wide-spread, were Mr Nott not so obviously enjoying your favour and trust."
"He has deserved both," Harry stated simply. He wasn't going into details, even though Narcissa might have been one of the more dependable followers. "And if the rumours serve to warn all those given to envy from attempting to harm him, then I do not mind."
Narcissa's smile wavered as her eyes stopped on Draco, who was loitering around the canapés, but she swiftly turned back to Harry and did her best to keep his attention away from her son.
"The rumours question where Mr Nott learned such devotion toward your cause, my Lord. He was born years after his Grandfather's death. His Father's loyalty has never been in question; however, he is not the most outspoken of the Knights."
Harry mentally gave her props for substituting 'the Knights' for 'Death Eaters,' which was, of course, and allusion to the Knights of Walpurgis, and altogether classy of Narcissa.
Harry regarded the flute of champagne he had received from her. A discrete diagnostic spell found no magic and nothing toxic to human body inside. "Were you close with Theodore's Mother?"
She wasn't close with his Father, certainly, whether in the literal or in the implied sense, and Harry was hard-pressed to imagine another reason for why she would have been concerned about the boy.
"No, my Lord," Narcissa admitted. "As a matter of fact, I barely knew her. We have met a handful of times, as is wont for those who travel the same circles, yet I do not believe I have ever spoken more than a brief greeting to her." She looked about, confirming that none of the early guests were watching her, and drained the flute. It re-filled itself in her hand in a show of house elf skills par excellence. "The story ties in with the true reason for Theodore's devotion. Since this is not the time for long discourse, I shall be short: Mr Nott had at young age discovered his Grandfather's personal effects, including journals and several… keepsakes, shall I say, the man had gathered over the course of his acquaintance with my Lords. Following this, I assume, he would have found no sympathy at home. He had been Draco's classmate for several years before I ever spoke with him, but I… discovered that by that time someone had already nurtured his faith in the Vision."
Harry didn't ask about what 'discovered' amounted to. It could have been something as innocuous as Legilimency or something as sinister as the Unforgivables; he didn't doubt that maternal instincts wouldn't have stopped Narcissa if she thought there was advantage to be found through using a young boy. Perhaps it was lucky for Theodore that at the time this was happening, Narcissa wouldn't have had the opportunity to use him.
"Someone," Harry repeated dryly.
"She will have a mutual acquaintance introduce her soon, I am certain," Narcissa assured him. "I apologise for the discourteousness, my Lord, but she does possess the wherewithal to make my life very uncomfortable, should I cross her plans. Already informing you of her existence will have its price."
"I don't like this game you are playing, Lady Malfoy," Harry warned her.
Narcissa bowed a little deeper than strictly necessary, displaying her contriteness yet refusing to say any more.
Had Harry been in a more congenial mood, he might have been glad for the warning. As it was he merely waved his hand. "Go keep an eye on your son and husband, Lady Malfoy. If either of their egos swell any further, they might start spontaneously levitating, and imagine the amount of ridicule the Malfoy family would have to endure for that."
Narcissa flinched, and with another – much shallower – bow dove into the gradually thickening crowd to grab at the nearest familiar face and start graciously welcoming the guests to the ball.
After her departure, Harry meandered in between a lot of people he mostly knew peripherally, by reputation or not at all, trying to engage in a short, cursory conversation with each of them – commenting on the quality of the party-planning, the refreshments and, when inspiration ran dry, on the weather, too.
He remained with an older couple of Dark sympathisers for a while, listening to their recollections of the sixties' 'Muggle Mania' and the boycott of wizarding values that happened during it. It made Harry shudder just hearing about it. He knew that Hermione would have been happy in that environment, but he much more keenly realised that the traditionalists would have felt like they were fighting for their very lives and flocking to Voldemort in droves.
Selwyn, a man who was surely older than a century, regaled Harry with a grossly overexaggerated tale of a youthful misadventure. He was funny and very vital for a little stooped old man, and his mind seemed to still be razor sharp as he admitted: "To this day I am not certain whether taking the Mark was folly or prudence."
Harry briefly closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the champagne flute. "Yes – yes…" he admitted. "My Lord husband has fallen into one of the pitfalls of the more powerful magics. I am not guiltless in this instance, either."
Selwyn's wife – a small, bony witch with tortured dark eyes – pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
Selwyn himself looked at Harry like Harry was a little boy with grass stains on his knees. "Whether it be failure or bad luck, my Lord," the wizard said, "the fact is that there is no better choice. We put our faith into you."
Harry sketched out a bow. Perhaps it wasn't proper, but he felt like doing it, facing this much older, much wiser and much more experienced man.
"At least we have no reason to doubt your intentions," Selwyn admitted, smiling under his rich yet wholly grey mustache.
"Thank you, sir," Harry replied, raising his glass. "I am sorry I haven't had the chance to make your acquaintance in the past."
"Oh, we understand," Mrs Selwyn spoke, looking at Harry with compassion that humbled him.
"Indeed," Selwyn agreed with her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "While you were with the Dark Order, Rosier would have been in charge of the accounts. He started while still at Hogwarts, I believe. He became much more important in the field, and handed over his responsibilities long before he eventually died. In fact," he reminisced, "the Dark Lord asked me to take over the position, claiming that I was the only one who could see through Abraxas Malfoy's financial finagling."
'The only one who could be trusted,' Harry privately amended.
"One day," Harry said sincerely, "I would much like to hear more about the Muggle Mania."
Not ten minutes later, he was ripped out of a small talk with a group of carrier spinsters from the Ministry by McGonagall offering him a curtsey that very nearly made him blush.
"You seem to have grown into quite a social butterfly," the witch remarked with mild contempt.
Harry unconsciously smiled. Finally, someone had the same opinion of the schmoozing and the society as himself – unfortunately, he was in a position where he had to conform to some of those expectations.
"How are you, Headmistress?" he inquired, hoping to stretch out their conversation.
McGonagall disdainfully glanced at the table full of canapés, and then turned back to Harry.
"I won't lie to you, Mr Potter," she said. "I am not happy with you. I do not understand your actions and I cannot agree with you; however, I am not happy with Albus' actions either. You have put me into a position where it is my responsibility to decide what is right, and I do resent you for that."
Harry suppressed a laugh. McGonagall was always a breath of fresh air. She certainly did let him breathe more easily.
"How did Severus die if I may ask, Mr Riddle?" the woman inquired out of blue.
Harry, glad that he had yet to indulge in the golden bubbly liquid liberally provided for all the guests, paused at the address. It felt good to be recognised as belonging to Tom. He had no time to indulge, however, do he spoke: "You know he was abrasive on his best days."
"It was one of his more memorable qualities," the witch replied almost fondly, like Snape had been the most problematic child but secretly also the favourite.
Harry could see this conversation go horribly wrong. Hopefully, the settings would make McGonagall bite her tongue rather than start an argument.
"You can imagine then, how he would become when cornered."
He remembered the look in Snape's eyes as he had recognised Harry. The man's first instinct had been to try and save Harry. He had clung to the memories of Harry's mother. Harry candidly believed that Snape had refused to respect Harry as his lord because he hated him, but his actions had still, nevertheless, displayed strength of character that Harry couldn't but admire. He had done his best to keep Snape alive, despite the Potions Master's many betrayals.
"I tried to convince my Lord husband to give Snape a chance to prove himself, and I almost succeeded, too. But this chance was contingent on Snape submitting to my leadership, and since I was his primary bullying target for five years, that didn't go well."
"He gave you lip," McGonagall guessed, her expression pinched.
"He became huffy with me in front of the already very, very angry Dark Lord," Harry explained. "You do not suppose it was his way of assisted suicide?"
McGonagall pursed her lips. Her brows were drawn, her forehead bisected by a wrinkle. "I… do not want to think about it. It was a bad time for many. I would rather remember him as I knew him – brave, smart and strong."
Harry huffed a subdued laugh. "You knew a different man than I did."
"And yet you tried to save him, by your own admission," she noted, giving him a curious look.
"I did," Harry agreed. He had. He had intensely disliked Snape, but the hatred had abated over Harry's time in Slytherin in the forties. "Because he may have been a traitor, but I knew why he did it, and I don't deny that in his place, I may have done the same. Still, the fact remains that he had betrayed an oath."
"Mr Potter… Riddle…" the woman floundered, and in the end sighed. "Happy Christmas, Harry. Please, do not cut me out."
Harry nodded. "There are very few who try to honestly understand where I am coming from. I trust you, Headmistress." It was somewhat exaggerated – he only trusted McGonagall as far as he could throw her – but she was still someone on whom he could somewhat rely, and her compliance would make his life much easier than her spite would.
"Back at you, Mr Riddle," the witch said. "Although it is difficult to see my stude-"
Someone bumped into her.
"Oh, I am so sorry-" the interloper said, bowing contritely.
"Not at all," McGonagall replied, although her lips thinned and the corners of her eyes crinkled in aggravation.
"My Lord," the man turned to Harry, who finally recognised one of the Montagues. To his shame, he never could differentiate between them too well. There were five generations of them, and this one was probably older than Tom but younger than Selwyn… which would have made him about a hundred years old. "My son sends his regards," he said.
"Thank you," Harry replied generically.
"Eustace," a witch much younger than the elderly Montague whispered demurely, and the pair vanished into the suddenly thick crowd.
Harry had no idea when that had happened, but he couldn't move two steps without colliding with someone who desperately wanted his attention. There was a procession of Ministry flunkies who effectively separated Harry from McGonagall, followed by a gaggle of young socialites, who survived only because there would have been way too many witnesses to Obliviate. Finally, Harry found himself sequestered in a niche and shielded by Miss Avery's spacious crinoline and a similarly spacious friend.
He took a moment to centre himself.
Manon said a few phrases and then mentioned her Grand uncle. Harry used the chance to fluently segue into the topic of the Muggle Mania, which was apparently something the pureblood families taught their progeny about.
"We were rebels. Revolutionaries," the portly friend said proudly, as if she had been there. She couldn't be more than forty years old, so she would have been barely a teen.
"Like the hippies," Harry muttered.
"Just instead of 'make love, not war' we said 'stop being blind idiots and start acting smart,'" the portly witch replied, and Harry found himself impressed.
He opened his mouth to ask her name but Manon was already speaking again: "Unfortunately, even in the wizarding world brains don't grow on trees, and you can't buy them in a shop in Diagon Alley."
"Actually," the unknown witch objected, "there is a project going on in the Department of Mysteries that focuses on the study of wizards' and muggles' brains with the objective to enhance intelligence."
Harry clenched the fist of his free hand. "Salazar protect us – genetic manipulation ala Ministry of Magic." He tried to give space to the witches to laugh it off (and Manon did so), but he didn't consider that information to be humorous. He vaguely recalled the brain-like thing in the department of Mysteries that had attacked Ron. He hadn't thought about it for years, but now that the topic had been brought to his attention, he couldn't help but worry.
This information would make it to the shortlist. Tom would know what to do with it, or else Harry would designate someone to keep a closer eye on the Department on him.
"Serpi!" a Chinese man that might or might not have been Hu Chang called out, and the plump witch was gone before Harry had a chance to have her introduced to him. Wanting to know her name at least, he turned to Manon, but Manon was on her way to the dancefloor, arm in arm with Phillip Meadows.
Harry sighed and took advantage of the opportunity to survey the New Order. For the umpteenth time he wished Tom were there, although if he had been, he would have spent the whole evening engaged in verbal battles with the other politicians. Pius Thicknesse, Portia Prewett and Griselda Marchbanks congregated around the canapé table, next to a group of young people.
There weren't a lot of Hogwarts' age wizards and witches present. Draco was there, of course, charged with paying attention to which of the guests went for the mead, wine, liqueurs and whisky offered, and which refrained from indulging. The Malfoys probably kept comprehensive lists about the party behaviour of anyone and everyone. Theo had skipped the hoopla, but that was because he had asked Harry to be excused, and instead remained at the Nott Manor with the instructions to inform Harry immediately, should any emergency arise. Draco thus predictably ended up in the company of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, because the rest of their peers weren't paid to keep him company.
Then Harry spotted Daphne Greengrass and her escort.
It was Neville.
Neville Longbottom wasn't the nebbish people usually took him for – Harry knew that since he had taught the DA in his fifth year at Hogwarts, what seemed like a life-time ago – so it didn't surprise him that the boy had the courage to come. However, Neville had suffered greatly at the hands of some of the people congregating inside the Riverbank Hall, and he was a brash Gryffindor, and this had a huge potential for disaster.
Narcissa apparently came to the same conclusion, because she slowly but steadily made her way through the crowd toward the couple, throwing them a nervous glance every once in a while. Harry cast a Listening Charm.
"A most unexpected plus one, Miss Greengrass," Narcissa remarked, suggesting rather than performing a curtsey in Neville's direction. He was, technically, the Head of his House, but he was still sixteen.
The boy himself bowed back, and hastily excused himself.
Daphne pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin. "I imagine, Lady Malfoy. He expressed an interest – much more so in the event than in myself, but he was unfailingly polite and candid about it, which I appreciate greatly. Also, with him as an escort, I need not watch out for any underhanded attempts to harm me."
"Well-reasoned out, Daphne," Narcissa admitted, and not so inconspicuously tried to track Neville in the sea of people. She seemed to have lost him around the time Harry did.
"Thank you, my Lady."
"Are you quite as certain that he will not attempt to do harm to any of our guests?" Narcissa asked directly.
"Lord Longbottom is the pureblood Head of an Ancient House, Lady Malfoy, and aware of the proper code of conduct."
Harry knew that to be Slytherin-speak for 'no, and I don't care' and he had to quirk his lips. Daphne did have the potential to one day be as strong a person as her mother, but right now she was a rebellious teenager who just wanted to shock people into paying attention to her.
She, admittedly, did it with style.
Harry finally decided to exit his niche and brave the company, wanting to meet Daphne, inquire after her mother (another of the supporters of the New Order whose absence hadn't gone unnoticed) and perhaps reiterate his offer of support to their family.
He didn't get to her. Just before he would have run into the Diggorys and the McLaggens (a group that didn't make an iota of sense to him, and which he would like to avoid if at all possible) he practically tripped over someone he had not imagined he would meet tonight. He hadn't noticed them before, strangely, because the red hair should have been striking from distance, and one of them was tall enough to practically tower over most guests.
"Ginny?" he said, startled. She was looking very good. Also, she was wearing a new dress that, he was certain, hadn't been paid for from Mr Weasley's pocket. Harry noticed he was finally significantly taller than she.
"Hello, Harry," she replied flatly.
"Ron?" Of course, Ron was still, and always would be, a head taller than Harry, the heels on Harry's boots notwithstanding.
"Hey, mate," the boy said, much more congenially, over his sister's head.
"I honestly did not expect to see you here."
Ginny critically pursed her lips, probably still smarting from being denied audience when she had requested it.
Ron simply shrugged. "You and me both, mate. But Gin-Gin's enough of a celebrity these days to warrant an invitation to the Malfoys. I'm never gonna get why the Hell she wanted to go, but there's no way Mum and Dad would have let her without somebody chaperoning."
And they sent Ron?
Ginny rolled her eyes and shook her head, showing off glittering earrings with pretty blue gems. "There was a bit of a debate. Funnily enough, they didn't care to ask my opinion."
"And what is your opinion?"
"I'm perfectly safe here," Ginny proclaimed dismissively.
"You're as safe as anyone else, which is far from perfectly," Harry countered. Bellatrix might have been dead, but there were still many Death Eaters and affiliates whose sanity was a little questionable even while they were sober. With alcohol involved, the Riverbank Hall became a powder keg waiting for someone to strike a spark. Harry frankly doubted that either Ginny or Ron had been honest with their parents about where they were going.
It smacked of McGonagall's kind of machination – learnt on Dumbledore's lap, but with a little less hypocrisy involved. O course the Headmistress was still looking for ways of reminding Harry where he came from and what he was abandoning by taking up the mantle of a Dark Lord.
"Ron's been to the 'fortress of the Dark' before, and came out of it unscathed," Ginny pointed out, patently unworried.
"Hey," Harry protested, already feeling a little more at ease with the two youngest Weasleys than he normally was with anyone outside of the Innermost Circle (damn McGonagall for calling that one!), "it's not that bad!"
Ron snorted. "Your boyfriend's casting Crucios on his toadies in the hallways, and that's okay?"
Truth to be told, for the first time ever Harry wished his 'boyfriend' was casting Unforgivables on someone. Anyone. It might have reassured Harry, and the supporters – probably even the tortured victim him- or herself – that Tom was finally getting better. No such luck, it seemed. Tom had yet ways to go before he could appear in public.
"That's 'husband,'" he corrected.
"Trust us," Ron muttered, "we know. It's all I've been hearing about since you came out. Hermione's trying to shut people up, 'cause, mate, we're so tired of hearing your fangirls wail about who you shag."
Ginny groaned.
For a brief moment, Harry was glad Tom wasn't there and hadn't heard that remark, else Ron would have found out that Tom had no compunctions about casting Crucios on people other than his followers. When he could, that was.
Harry suppressed a sigh and mentally rebuked himself for returning to this track of thought. He forced himself to concentrate and decided to take advantage of the fact that he had access to two people from the opposite camp. "What's the mood over there?"
"Confused, mostly," Ron admitted.
Ginny expounded: "People're waiting for the other shoe to fall. The muggleborns are scared and bewildered at the same time – like they expected to be hunted down. It feels like the Ministry is endorsing you, and it's not like it's a secret that you're continuing what Voldemort started."
Harry grimaced. It was ironic. This was the name that he had once so adamantly shouted from the rooftops in defiance of the ubiquitous fear, which he had taught his friends to say out loud unapologetically, the one that made wizards and witches flinch, shudder or scream. Now it was him who had to suppress a shiver at hearing it, if for very different reasons.
Voldemort was Tom brought so low that there was barely anything left of him, and compensating with aimless rage. It was the bogeyman under their bed.
It was, Harry was certain, one of the reasons for Tom's eating disorder that had started this entire debacle.
Harry should have seen it, but recrimination wasn't helping anything.
"May I have this dance?" a new voice asked.
Harry felt like he had blinked and suddenly Neville was there. He didn't say a word to Harry. In fact, he seemed to all but ignore Harry's existence.
"Hello, Neville," Harry said.
Neville seemed to shrink, but he remained rooted to his spot and expectantly looking at Ginny.
"I'll talk to you later, Harry," Ginny decided, and let Neville lead her to the dance floor, where they joined in some kind of dance they both appeared to be competent at, and which Harry couldn't even identify with hundred percent certainty. It might have been quadrille? Despite Tom's effort, he wasn't nearly as cultured as he probably should have been.
"Ginny's been meeting him."
Harry blinked, but managed to not show any more of his surprise. He had not known. Granted, he and Tom had been having their rough patch when Tom wasn't telling him much of anything… and it wasn't as though Harry had some sort of right to Ginny. She could meet whomever she wanted. Harry had known she had wanted to meet Tom, and that they corresponded.
"But not lately. Like there's something wrong." Ron shifted from foot to foot, and finally gathered his resolve to ask: "Is there something wrong? Will we be killed?"
"Absolutely not!"
There was something wrong, certainly, but it was not Ginny incurring such displeasure that either she or her family would be in danger as a result. If someone tried to endanger the Weasleys (without them inviting such endangerment by attacking first), Harry would be settling the matter personally and permanently.
"Good to know." Ron slumped with relief, but a moment later he was standing ramrod straight again, grimacing and poking at the stitching along his side, where concerned mothers, or seamstresses paid by concerned mothers, usually applied the Stopslupming Spells that supported correct postures in unruly youths.
"Will I be seeing her around the Manor?" Harry inquired, glancing toward the dance floor. He thought he might have seen a redhead migrate from dancer to dancer, which seemed to be a part of the dance. He couldn't see Neville anymore.
"She needs to finish school before she seriously decides anything," Ron said with such an air of responsibility that Harry was briefly amazed. The boy frowned. "But I'm not sure she will. She's as stubborn as Mum and Dad put together. Maybe more. She did make them let her come here, after all." He blinked and raised both hands, one palm-out, the other not quite so because he was holding his wand in it. "Not that I don't like your party, Harry, but the company could have been better." He grimaced at Draco, Vincent and Gregory, who had moved on from loitering around the drinks and were bothering the young socialites Harry had earlier managed to escape.
"Au contraire, Monsieur Riddle," spoke a newcomer, cutting into the conversation with confidence he believed excused his behaviour. "Splendid do. Splendid. Yvonne justement said to me 'ow marvelous she finds it."
The woman standing a half-step behind the speaker blandly smiled.
"Oh, Yvonne doesn't speak pas Eenglish."
Harry didn't know either of these people. He didn't even have any idea about who they might be, and he had conscientiously read through the list of the invitees that Miss Avery had provided for him. He didn't want to insult someone who might be useful to Tom, but at the same time he wasn't going to tolerate rudeness.
"I shall relay your appreciation to Lady Malfoy," he lied, and turned to Ron.
"I've got to go and find Gin-Gin…" Ron preempted further conversation. "Harry, if you ever need to escape, our door's always open to you. Unless you come to kills us. But after Mum calmed down, she started raving about feeding you again, because apparently rich people can't cook. Though the food here's awesome. Don't tell Mum I said that – she'd disinherit me."
Harry didn't get a chance to respond. Ron was swallowed by the crowd, and the French couple stood in Harry's way, preventing him from following if he had been so inclined.
"Ah, we wanted to sank you, Monsieur-"
"Master Lord Harry…" a thin house elf voice spoke insistently. Harry looked down.
Clow would not interrupt a social gathering unless there was an emergency requiring Harry's attention. He turned to the French couple. "Please, excuse me for a moment. I'm afraid this cannot wait. Clow, come with me."
He made his way through the crowd, which practically parted when they saw him striding toward them with a grim expression. Once Harry and Clow were out in the corridor, and there was only minimal chance of any guests overhearing, the elf explained: "Master Lestrange is being drinking too much in the gallery."
That was nothing new. Harry guessed this was Rodolphus, because Rabastan didn't drink enough for it to be worth mentioning and Tybalt was an abstaining former addict to psychedelic potions, so he knew better than to touch alcohol. Rodolphus was very good about only letting himself go when he was not expected to be needed to perform any duties, so Harry didn't consider his tendency to be a problem. On the other hand, getting drunk at a Malfoy social gathering was at best unwise.
"Thank you for alerting me, Clow."
The elf bowed mid-step and disappeared with a soft pop, clearly uncomfortable with the courtesy. Blasted Lucius and his complete lack of regard for anyone he considered beneath himself.
Harry didn't particularly rush to the gallery, and thus he wasn't the first person to find Rodolphus. When he arrived at the top of the staircase and surveyed the length of the gallery lined with portraits and sculptures, there was the brocade-clad back of Neville Longbottom blocking his view.
"I hate you," the boy said in a low voice.
Harry palmed his wand. He didn't want to hurt Neville, but he was going to protect his supporters even against past friendly acquaintances, especially when said supporters were intoxicated and possibly unable to defend themselves.
"Look, kid…" Rodolphus slightly slurred, pulling himself upright in the armchair and setting an empty tumbler on a richly engraved and gilded empire tripod table next to it. "I'm fuckin' sorry, but that was such a shitty day. We're all sick an' doped up on potions 'fter the backlash from the Marks when the Dark Lord got blown up. Rabastan Apparated an' just collapsed, gibberin'. Ne'er even entered the 'ouse. Barty'd been half-crazy, tryin' to find out what 'appened to the Lord. Bella… just wanted to torture someone. She's always been off, but back then we all 'urt like buggery an' she wanted to inflict that hurt on the rest o' the world."
"Am-"
"I fuckin' got you out o' there before they turned you into vegetable, too!" Rodolphus snapped.
Harry almost acted; what stopped him was the realisation that Neville was confronting the Lestrange empty-handed.
"Am I supposed to be grateful?" the boy asked with a bite in his tone that Harry didn't recall having ever heard from him.
"Fuck, no, kid," Rodolphus protested, shaking his head and letting it fall against the backrest of the armchair. "Ne'er. I guess I'm just drunk 'nough I wanted to say sorry."
"Are you asking for forgiveness?"
"I'll leave you alone." Rodolphus staggered to his feet, extending a hand to brace himself on the wall.
"Wait!" Neville cried. "I… I never understood it. The why of it, I mean. I tried to imagine – what could have been the purpose? What the heck did those Death Eaters want? Why my parents? Why me?" He spread his hands wide in frustration. "So, that's it? Wrong time, wrong place?"
"There was a prof'cy, 'bout a brat with the ability to defeat the Dark Lord bein' born. It could've been you or Harry Potter. Maybe Barty believed that the Dark Lord was alive, and we oughtta be eliminatin' the threat." Rodolphus sank back into the armchair and hid his face in his palms. "'s that better?"
Neville gaped. "What kind of question is that?!"
"I'm drunk, kid," Rodolphus pointed out. "Barty's been Kissed and Bella's dead, if that makes you feel any better." His voice cracked when he spoke of his wife.
Harry shuddered at the idea of killing his spouse, regardless of it being a mercy killing. Such a thing would have been impossible for him and Tom, but he had a shadow of an idea of how that must have felt for the man. He felt guilty for the first time.
Neville ran his fingers through his hair. "I hate this. I hate wanting to hurt you, but I can't stop it."
"I'd let you, 'cept that I'm on duty tomorrow, so I don't've the time. Sorry." Rodolphus glanced up and his mouth stretched in a parody of smile. "You grew up well."
Neville eyed the man's empty tumbler. He went over to the table, took the decanter of whisky and poured Rodolphus as much as fit into the glass. He set the decanter back onto the table and, before walking away, said: "I hope you choke on that."
Harry put his wand away. He didn't need it for an encounter with Neville.
"Harry," the boy spoke when he noticed the resident Dark Lord standing in front of him. "I was looking for a water closet."
"It's downstairs," Harry replied blandly. "Out the ball room, to the right, first door."
Neville nodded. He set out toward Harry, passed by him without another word, without even another look, and continued down the stairs.
Harry spent a few seconds just breathing. Then he reminded himself that there was no way he could win them all, relaxed a bit, and went over to Rodolphus.
"I fucked up," the man muttered, staring into the tumbler of whisky Neville had poured for him.
"Everyone does, sometimes," Harry dismissed his concern. "I don't think you're a bad man, Rodolphus – although I'm not sure how much that helps, coming from a Dark Lord."
Lestrange laughed shortly, the kind of sound that took the place of tears, which were beneath his dignity to display.
"Maybe next time you should make your excuses and take any closer encounters with bottles of liquor into privacy," Harry said dryly. He didn't have the heart to discipline Rodolphus. At least the man had given him a reason to escape from unfamiliar French people.
"I really should," Rodolphus agreed, possibly forgetting whom he was addressing.
"Clow!" Harry called out.
The house elf popped in, bowing low and trembling.
"Take Rodolphus home."
He still had to go back and schmooze.
x
Feeling wrung after the most exhausting ball he had ever had to attend, Harry grimly surveyed the vacant Green Suite in the pale glow still being issued from his wand
He felt his throat tighten. He had to get the Hell out of here, away from the deceptive familiarity, from the memories of intimacy that burned his emotionally hypothermic mind. He unsatisfactorily slammed the Silenced door behind him and roamed the Nott Manor looking for followers that hadn't been felled by too much socialising, standing around, dancing, eating or drinking.
The corridors were empty. He knew that, if he wanted to, he could find young Theo in the portkey chamber. However, he was feeling too angry and tired for that. He wanted… He wanted whom he always wanted, but if he couldn't have him, he wanted Antonin. Antonin hadn't been at the Riverbank Hall, but he might not have been invited, seeing as he had been sent out of the country for a while.
Harry didn't find Antonin. He happened upon Tom, who was sitting in the Open Study, ensconced in the armchair in front of the fire, reading reports. By the look of the parchments, one stack was from the Aurors and the other from the Taboo-response teams.
Still, his presence was a statement on Tom's part – that he had managed to get around Harry's measures designed to keep him inside their chambers and recuperating.
"Doge remains Dumbledore's most feckless flunky," Tom remarked, without turning to look in Harry's direction. "To the point of repeating his mistakes."
"The Little Hangleton blow-up?" Harry guessed, somehow antsy. He had read about it in the Prophet, but hadn't gotten around to the reports yet – and this was at least the second time this had happened to him, so it was probably good that Tom would take over again soon.
Still, right now it was too soon.
"It was a well-known base. Any halfwit would send curse-breakers first, not run in with his whole entourage and have a casual look around waiting for the time-delayed explosion."
Harry shivered. There was something frigid, bitter and painful trickling through the otherwise inert bond. Tom was trying to lull him into a sense of safety, so that whatever he had to say would come out of the left field and hurt that much more. Harry had seen him use the strategy on his followers in the past – this faux casual chat was a personalised form of it, specifically for Harry, but it was the same thing nonetheless.
"Oh," Harry said as lightly as he could, even though his throat was tight. "So your house is now a smoking hole in the ground. Congratulations on that."
"Careful, Harry," Tom warned him, still not looking up from his parchment, "your defensiveness is showing."
"So are your bones," Harry retorted. "All of them."
"So I gathered from the metaphor covering my walls."
"You don't notice the similarity?"
"It was so indistinctive next to your melodrama."
"I've got two words for you, Tom: anorexia nervosa."
Even though Tom literally couldn't scare Harry, his glower and snarl set him on edge. Realising that he was not helping his cause by getting angry, but quite past the point of being able to control himself, he sneered: "Yes, I did just tell you that you were suffering from a muggle girls' mental disease." It was a lie, of course, but its point was simply to strike home, to pick at Tom's weakness – and that it did.
"I won't take this from you-"
"Like you ever took anything from anyone," Harry snarled. "Except potions from Tannenbaum – those you did take. And vomited them right up, I'd bet. If you were a muggle, you'd be dead by now-"
"But I'm not a muggle."
"No," Harry agreed, shaking his head. It was becoming quite a struggle to keep himself from tearing up. "No, you're the greatest wizard I've ever known…. And you've almost died because you let your own fucking mind kill you."
Tom scoffed, setting down the parchment he had been reading. "I won't die," he stated with the certainty of a man who had created six Horcruxes – like he had forgotten that he was mortal again.
"Well," Harry said tonelessly, "if you do die, I'll follow you. I'd have thought that I meant more to you… but, hey, I'm hardly the first man disappointed by his lover." He rubbed his face and decided that it was the highest time to get away from here.
He walked out, straining his ears, for his foolish heart hoped that Tom would call him back, even if only to continue arguing. What he heard instead was: "I preceded you on that list." He closed the door and hugged himself against the cold and the torchlight shadows.
A Manor was never truly quiet. The ghosts, confined to the Northern Wing, despised silence, house elves never came to a halt, plus fauna, flora, even weather – that all created the background cacophony that made Harry feel his solitude all that more harshly.
"Damn you," he hissed. Working up enough anger to deal with his fear and helplessness, he strode down to the Entrance Hall, aiming for the fountain. He could just as well sit and brood (and secretly break down) in an aesthetically pleasing place.
Halfway there he felt a lurch near his heart. He took an about face and strode back. It didn't seem like Tom needed immediate aid, but Harry's whole self felt like it was being pulled, and he didn't have the obstinacy to argue.
Theo the Third was kneeling in the centre of the hall, both hands pressed to the floor. "My Lord!"
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, hoping that they weren't being attacked. After Doge's 'mishap' in Little Hangleton, there would be next to nothing left of the militant part of the Order of the Phoenix, but there was still the off chance that a part of the Ministry might have gathered the wherewithal for an assault. Also, many Ministry pen-pushers had been invited to the Yule Ball, so the location and time were public knowledge – it would make sense to attack now.
"The wards are fluctuating, my Lord," Theo admitted helplessly. "I don't know why. Father would, but he has not returned yet-"
"There you are," Tom spoke over the boy's anxious report.
Harry came to the conclusion that there was no attack on the wards – it was Tom misusing the magic he had leeched from Harry to project his aggressive disposition.
"So you can't survive with me after all. You're gone two minutes and already you're calling to me like a toddler who had wet his nappy cries for-"
"You're the one who's pulling me-" Harry protested, but even as he was saying it he realised that the sensation they were experiencing was apparently mutual.
Theo scrambled back, automatically kneeling next to Harry, moving away from the enraged, hissing Dark Lord.
Tom sneered at him. "So that's how it is. They want you to lead them rather than me. They were in on it-"
"Have you gone insane again?!"
"Crucio!"
Theodore screamed.
Harry knew that the Cruciatus was meant for him, except that Tom did have enough rationality left that he would have known that casting harmful magic at Harry directly would be futile. It certainly wasn't any decency on his part, and Harry knew that Theo unfairly suffered for his own lapse in judgement.
Tom stopped only when Harry forcefully, for the first time ever, cut off the flow of magic between them. The action sent a jolt of literal pain through his body.
The curse failed and Tom staggered.
"Enough!" Harry shouted, perfectly aware that he was making himself into the target of Tom's ire once again – and happy about it. "Theodore, leave if you can."
The boy didn't need more encouragement: he struggled to his feet and, once there, ambled toward the exit.
Tom was momentarily taken aback by his inability to cast spells, as if he had forgotten he was essentially living on borrowed life force. His eyes strayed from the wand in his hand to the one on Harry's belt.
"That magic-"
"Is mine," Harry filled in. He dissolved the block a moment later, because he was afraid Tom would plant his face in the floor otherwise.
"Like the Death Eaters?"
"You mean the New Order?"
Tom sneered. "Whatever you like to call them. It's not like it matters. You can call them your Knights or your slaves, it comes down to the same thing. You want them to belong to you." He pulled himself as tall as he could and his eyes flashed red when he looked at Harry. "How do you imagine you will lead anyone anywhere, if you can't even stand in front of the Wizengamot to vote? Your incompetence set us back months."
Harry abhorred public functions, and the idea going into Wizengamot made him nervous enough to want to chew his nails, but he would have gone if he had known about the Black seats. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Last time you were angry with me for being too fast, now I'm too slow-"
"You're just unable to follow a plan," Tom summarised.
"You don't tell me half of your plans," Harry countered. "And what are they even? To drive yourself into the ground to show me I can't do this without you? Because, newsflash, darling, the Order hasn't fallen apart yet."
"This was your plan all along, wasn't it." Tom scoffed. "Of course. I always new you made a great Slytherin. So cunning. You rushed the victory so much that I got buried under the Ministry's shit and then, when I was distracted and tired, you put me out of commission to take over. But I'm not dead yet, darling."
"I would not do anything of the sort," Harry replied, icily patient on the surface, "and you know it. Or you would, if you did not let your wrath control you."
The level of rage – and confusion, and injured pride and agitation – Tom transmitted through the bond assured Harry that there was nothing he could say that would help. He wondered if this would result in them killing one another; Tom certainly seemed like he was capable of it right now.
The front gates crashed open and Harry spun, hoping it wasn't Theodore returning. Tom would have killed Theo. Or attempted to.
"My Lords," Antonin spoke, glaring at them.
Harry was horribly certain that Theodore had called him.
"Another of your converts? Has he sworn to follow you like a good dog? I hope you rewarded him accordingly."
That implied suggestion struck Harry mute. What in Merlin's thrice-damned name?!
"My Lord," Antonin said to Tom with shocking pity. "Being loved by such a man as your husband is a blessing most of us cannot dream of experiencing. However, if you take him for granted, you do not deserve him!"
Tom's face contorted in rage that abolished all sanity. Harry knew him well enough to launch himself forwards into magic-supported supersonic motion. Ironically, it was Tom's specific way of using magic to give himself superhuman abilities – the only way he could have survived with such a frail frame. Tom had learnt to utilise it long before Dumbledore had deigned to reveal the existence of the wizarding society to him. Harry was the only one who had ever managed to emulate it.
"Ava-"
Harry's hand clamped around Tom's wrist and forced his wand aside, but the shock was enough to stop Tom from uttering the rest of the curse. He whirled around, breaking Harry's hold on him, sending waves of their shared magic all over the Hall. He ignored Antonin, who remained frozen with his eyes closed and an impassive expression on his face, waiting for the death blow in absolute submission.
Harry reflected Tom's murderous glare back at him. "Don't you dare!" he hissed, taking a step backwards, because the Darkness emanating from Tom was turning his stomach. Tom spun on the spot and stalked away as, Harry was grimly aware, it took all his self-restraint to not attempt to slay Harry in that instance.
Harry's throat was tight as he watched his husband's back, and it was only the height of his own anger that allowed him to speak despite it. "Do you want him to kill you?" he asked Antonin in a voice more than metaphorically icy. The man's lips were already turning blue with the chill as he smiled.
"What better death could there be than that at the hands of my Lords?" His eyes briefly strayed to the departing figure of Tom, before he boldly recaptured Harry's gaze. "And I know you will not kill me, Lord Harry."
"Is this your way of driving another wedge between us?" Harry snarled, rather tempted to prove Antonin's last statement incorrect.
Antonin's impassiveness finally broke, and he incredulously stared at Harry. "That," he said after a moment, "is utterly ridiculous, my Lord. You are one entity. There is no 'between you'."
The statement took wind from Harry's sails. His shoulders fell and he hung his head, sparing but a glance at Tom, who was nearing the door by now, still in the Hall only because he was less than subtly listening in.
"There obviously is," Harry replied, sounding as hollow as he felt. He was past bitterness, fighting only on momentum from before the point of resignation. Odd. He hadn't noticed when he had given up.
Unexpectedly, Tom stopped in his tracks. He pivoted and set out in the opposite direction, back to Harry, who had to turn away, afraid he would start bawling any second now. What the Hell could have been so important as to cause this… this loss of trust, loss of understanding?
"If I'll walk to the end of world…" Tom said out of blue.
The words echoed from all sides, and something inside Harry broke. He hugged himself, and his tears finally spilled over. So foolish… Such a stupid, banal poem. In the end, so meaningless.
"Only with thou by my side," Harry whispered, not quite certain why, as if something briefly took over and used his mouth to create that sound, which the echo magnified so that it could be clearly heard.
How quaint, though, was the idea of Harry or Tom going anywhere without the other? What would they do there? Why go? Where find the motivation? The Vision had existed before them and would continue to be after they have died, but they – together – were what made it come to life.
Tom grasped onto the whisper, never minding that Harry hadn't wished to speak. "The secrets kept so long untold, I never shall from thyself hide."
Harry shook his head in denial, but he was too weak to not turn around and look at his husband.
Tom was glowing.
Faced with that sight, Harry understood the futility of his struggle. They could never be estranged even if, by some cruel twist of fate, they decided they wished it. The reason was simple: "My magic is thine – thine is mine."
There really was no way to deny it, considering the halo that surrounded them. They were bound together by magic, and magic took it upon itself to remind them why. In a way, it was comforting to know that Tom didn't spout the rhymed drivel spontaneously.
"I pledge my very soul to thou."
Ah. Perhaps it wasn't all drivel. There were some very real oaths in it, and apparently Harry and Tom had come precariously close to breaking some of them. They had lost the cognizance of all the promises since the problem of the Horcruxes had been solved. They belonged to each other, in the most intimate sense, and that should have overshadowed any minor differences of opinion and abolished any major ones.
"To me thou brighter than stars shine," they spoke in unison and Harry giggled hysterically, because they really were shining like two fledgling novas. "To thou I'll remain true, I vow," they finished together.
Like years ago during the Priori Incantatem, the light enveloping them separated into number of strands and formed a cage, effectively cutting off any escape routes: for two people literally unable to kill one another, it was rather a failsafe mechanism of reconciliation.
"This brings back none too pleasant memories," Tom remarked, once again in the possession of his own vocal chords.
Harry shuddered at the amount of spite coming through the bond.
Tom simply went on: "It is fitting, though – this happens when you stand against me. The same thing happened in Godric's Hollow when you were one, only then I didn't know enough to stop pushing."
As Harry presumed, there had been a Harry-shaped hole in Voldemort's memories. What was left of Tom after his soul had been split five times recalled that there had once been a 'second Dark Lord,' but he had no shape and no name past the title bestowed upon him post abitem. However, what shocked Harry was that now, with his memories intact, Tom believed him inimical.
That angered him, which was fortunate, because Harry had always used anger to fuel him. "I promised you I was going to stop you from making mistakes if I could – killing Antonin would have been a mistake," he insisted. "Apart from the regret you would be feeling once you calmed down, Antonin is one of the most able and trustworthy of our supporters. Who would we rely upon daily?"
"Aurelius," Tom suggested absurdly.
"He would not abandon his post willingly," Harry countered dismissively.
"I would order him."
"Way to make him keen on serving us in that position." Harry shook his head. "Tom, you were always great at making your followers want to do your bidding – that is true power. Anything else would be just intimidation and extortion, and that can never last." He glanced toward the gates. "Theodore would lay his life down for either of us, without hesitation. He is but a child, and it's easier to inspire the young, but he is all the example needed to show why you are the leader, and not another extraordinarily powerful wizard."
Tom followed his line of sight. "He pledged himself to you, Harry. It's easy to see who of us inspires more loyalty."
"I am loyal to you, Tom, which makes this argument pointless."
Tom rubbed his temples. He appeared to be shrinking in front of Harry's eyes, losing the aura of power and becoming a sickly, undernourished human being.
"What is it?" Harry inquired.
"I never thought I would be jealous of you. Don't get me wrong, I am proud… but a part of me wishes they would feel that way about me, too."
"They do." Oh, Merlin, as if that hadn't become patently obvious in the past minutes. "Antonin does. There could be no other earthly reason for him to sacrifice his life to save our relationship."
"I almost killed Antonin."
"Yes."
"Like Theodore… exactly the same way. For all I know maybe for exactly the same reason…"
"And that is why I stopped you."
There was a while of silence as Tom mused, and eventually a soft yet distinct: "Thank you."
Harry blinked away a fresh wave of tears. "You are welcome. I see from this paradigm shift that you have calmed down. How do you feel?"
"Bad," Tom replied honestly. His eyes, once again teal yet framed with deep bruising and dominating his face, implored Harry to reassure him that everything wasn't lost. He had never looked more vulnerable, more fragile.
Harry wanted unbearably much to promise him that everything would be alright, that Harry would make everything alright, but there was still a metaphorical bleeding wound in his heart. He knew thanks to the bond that Tom wasn't setting him up for another fall, that the contriteness was genuine, but he needed a promise. "Will you listen to me now?"
"That might be difficult," Tom admitted.
Harry nodded. At least they weren't starting with lies. "Come with me. You'll sleep tonight, for at least twelve hours, and eat tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll be managing your budding empire."
"Our empire."
Tom was on the verge of falling asleep, and Harry decided it would be easiest to simply Side-along Apparate him. He locked his arms around Tom's emaciated shoulders and, for a moment, met Antonin's eyes.
In the heat of the argument, Harry had almost forgotten the wizard was still there. He couldn't find it in himself to smile, but he mouthed 'thank you,' and before he disappeared he caught a glimpse of Antonin bowing, deep, with reverence so great that it had to be love.