Chapter 104 – Mars is Bright

A trap. It had to be.

Logic swiftly cleared clouded thoughts, cutting through the initial confusion. Voldemort had underestimated the former allies he'd shunned and now they had appeared on his doorstep, knocking by using the hands of his own people.

The burning question was whether his Death Eaters had been brought as an offering, a bargaining chip, or only as hostages. If the Dementors had merely wished to request access to him, one Dark mark would have sufficed, after all. That he felt every single one of those who'd been locked behind bars after the last war was a telling sign of a grander plan.

''Voldemort?'' he heard, and looked up from where he was kneeling, worry written all across Harry's face.

''Your wand-'' he rasped, holding out his hand. ''Give it to me.''

Understandably, his partner hesitated, but ultimately flipped over the holly wand he'd already been holding. He gingerly grasped the handle now presented to him. ''May I ask why you need it?'' Harry questioned, a question that only did not irk Voldemort as it was voiced after the teen openly showed trust by playing it safely in his care.

''I do not need it. I cannot allow you to carry it right now, considering your history of instinctive, protective displays of magic that rip through the fabric of our world.''

Harry blinked rapidly. ''I'm not quite sure what-''

''There's no time to argue about this. Later.''

There truly wasn't, as a third wave of insistent calls set his arm aflame. Nor was he about to painstakingly explain right here, in the middle of hundreds of people, that Harry had admitted to causing the death of a Dementor by accident once and instantly reacted by calling upon the realm of death in the split second they'd been faced with a pair of them mere weeks ago. There was no other explanation for the way his partner's eyes had changed to a flashing violet in that moment, which Voldemort had determined not to have been a trick of the light after reviewing the memory clearly in his Pensieve – well, Black's Pensieve, which he'd borrowed indefinitely, but that was an insignificant detail.

That threat being out of the way, Voldemort had some decisions to make, and he couldn't afford to wait long if he did not wish to risk the souls of his most devoted.

Inviting his 'guests' here had merits and demerits both. Leaving the ritual interrupted and unfinished by withdrawing to a more isolated spot was not a preferred option– setting a bad example of only honouring magic whenever it suited one – but he knew of very few here who could successfully cast a Patronus if negotiations would go awry. Most of whom were children belonging to Harry's army and who'd never practised on an actual Dementor. On the other hand, Voldemort fully admitted that having them witness the return of their loved ones from prison would be a prime opportunity to solidify loyalties. Showing that he held enough sway over these creatures to make them disobey the Ministry was useful regardless of how negotiations would turn out. It helped that Ekrizdish, the language of Dementors, was hardly useful to learn for the general populace, so any details of their discussion would remain private.

Fortuitous in more than one way, as deals with Dementors were hardly ever favourable to living beings.

''Everyone is to move to the Portkey spots,'' he instructed, loud enough for his voice to carry across the still dazed masses. In a lower voice, he murmured to Barty: ''We're about to receive company. Control the crowd whichever way you feel is best, but they are not to interrupt. I prefer a silent audience. If I signal that talks are heading in an unfavourable direction, reactivate the Portkeys of anyone not useful in a fight.''

As expected, Barty nodded grimly and set to work instantly without question, herding the crowd towards one end of the isle. He relayed instructions to the other present Death Eaters, Black, and Weasley, who all worked together in remarkable harmony.

~What company?~ his partner hissed, entirely tense and refusing to leave.

~You felt them, did you not? The cold, the despair-~

~You're inviting Dementors? Here?~ Harry's glare was wrathful as it landed on the holly wand still held firmly in Voldemort's grip.

~If I do not, ten of my most loyal Death Eaters will lose their souls tonight – and with that, their magic. Do not argue with me. Not now. Organise your own students, they're among the few who can cast corporeal Patroni. And no, I'll not return this now. Your reaction to Dementors is unpredictable. I'd rather risk having one Patronus less than our allies being ripped apart before I have a chance to speak to them.~

Without further ado, the Dark Lord set the tip of his wand to his own mark.

''I trust you to value us more than appeasing those foul creatures,'' Harry whispered in warning, then abruptly turned to join his people. An unexpected bite. He'd been aware that his partner wasn't fond of Dementors, but Harry hadn't expressed this amount of loathing before.

Not that he could ponder on this long. The moment black ink bloomed on pale skin, Voldemort had to fight doubling over from the overwhelming relief he received in answer. Seconds later, the brilliant sky darkened, the breeze stilled and even the cawing of the distant birds was drowned out by silence.

Amidst the pressing darkness, his followers returned. Though clad in tattered robes and caked in filth, their hollow eyes brightened when noticing his approach. Lord Voldemort was certain they'd be crawling to his feet if not for the three Dementors that flanked every single one of his Death Eaters, crusted hands placed on their shoulders as if the fear itself was not enough to keep his followers pinned down. Perhaps it wasn't, which only made him prouder.

Voldemort faltered.

He'd been about to address the Dementor that moved to float in front of the flock, to express gratitude for this gift so no doubt would be left about him not considering this as the threat it might have been meant as. Instead, he found it impossible to tear his eyes away from the ten Death Eaters who knelt in the now withering barley.

He knew them all intimately, had watched them grow and moulded them to become what he'd needed. Had even granted some of them blessings as rewards. Yet never had Voldemort truly felt something for his soldiers. He'd been angered by failure and pleased by success, but those were their actions evoking his limited emotions, not his followers themselves. And of course, he was able to feel more nowadays as back then, recognised both the true love shared with Harry as well as the fondness he sensed towards Barty, but that was different. They'd grown with him, been around for the gradual changes.

These ten - among them the Lestranges, Rookwood, Dolohov and Mulciber – he'd not seen since their capture, before his own death. Now, Voldemort was barraged with unwanted sensations at the mere sight of them, confronted with suddenly seeing those he recalled as useful tools, as people he wished to protect, and moreover, avenge. They had suffered in their cells at the hands of the Dementors who now presented them to him. He'd examined Barty's mental scars after a mere year of the creatures' effects and wished to pull the others close to inspect and mend the damage he found while punishing their vile jailors severely for daring to lay a hand on those Voldemort considered his.

''Master-'' Bellatrix whispered reverently, eyes bulging as her sentence was cut off, the warning claw of a dementor coming to rest at her temple to draw out that spark of energy until the woman was cowering on the ground again, releasing nothing more coherent than hysteric howls.

His fury could barely be contained, only the audience to the side a reminder that he couldn't afford to slip up lest more than only the ones kneeling in front of him would be endangered.

''You have evaded us.'' The Dementors in front rattled, accusing. ''We, who waited only to serve you.''

''Serve?'' he returned calmly, straining his Occlumency barriers to compartmentalise the whirling emotions and stow them away safely. ''Is that so? The ones you brought before me today serve without asking a price. As I recall, you did not, obeying my word only at a steep cost.''

''We offer servitude,'' it repeated. ''Not enslavement. Still, the price we asked has not been met since the day our oaths were made. We have waited for this transgression to be corrected, searched for you to remind you of the due payment.''

Voldemort bristled disbelievingly. He'd given the Dementors free reign before, set them loose on entire villages to sate their hunger, let them breed in every dark corner of Britain they had wished to settle in. That his death put them back in the chains of the Ministry didn't mean the price for their aid in the last war hadn't been paid in full. When he expressed this, however, the Dementors merely restlessly swayed, ragged breaths growing shallow.

''You did not die,'' the creature rasped. ''Thus, death did not absolve you of your word.''

It was a very simple yet flawed logic that showed why Dementors, despite their sentience, were considered creatures rather than beasts or beings. It might be true that the created bonds had technically not been broken, but Voldemort had been quite unable to uphold his end when barely clinging onto life by possessing critters in Albania.

The dilemma was that even now, he could not, exactly the reason why he'd avoided them. There was no justification to protect a fleet of Dementors wishing to feed. Decades ago, Voldemort would have complied to their demands without a second thought. Now, the Dark Lord preferred to take the route of converting light mages to accept heavy magic and wished to keep away from Muggles as much as possible to not alert them to the presence of mages living amongst them. That left no living prey to offer but scarce rebels who outright rejected striving for balance out of skewed beliefs of good and evil. Most certainly not enough to feast on.

''I shall call souls from the beyond to nurture you,'' he offered as he saw no other alternative. It would be time- and energy-consuming, but ultimately do least damage. There were plenty of Muggle souls floating in the cosmos, ones that did not contain a spark of magic. Unsurprisingly, the Dementors didn't appear too happy about the idea.

''They taste of little, tainted by death,'' one hissed. ''Deceptively bright until proving to be empty echoes. We accepted those only when nothing else was provided so as to not starve. Today, even the mages who bring us their prisoners allow us more. We want that which you promised aplenty: a feast.''

How ironic that he was now competing with Cornelius Fudge of all people in who surrendered more souls to these creatures of decay. Umbridge might have played a hand in spoiling her precious pets though, he had seen in her mind that she happily sent Dementors away to do her bidding and get rid of her enemies.

''There are no living souls waiting to be reaped early,'' he stated plainly. If only they would have kept at bay longer… Should war have broken out, he'd have gladly sicced them on his enemies. After establishing his reign and having achieved balance also, there would likely be plenty of unfortunate souls trying to thwart or overthrow him, as tended to be the nature of peasants. Alas, it was useless to speak of the future when the Dementors wanted food now. Vicious and hungry, they'd not be content to wait for unknown stretches of time. ''You will do with summoned souls. Your current masters, those you extended loyalty towards at the first promise of hunting living souls, cannot do so anymore. When was the last time you were truly fed?'' he taunted to turn the conversation around.

Umbridge was out of the picture and Fudge walked on extremely thin ice after all his missteps. The Minister could not afford to anger the public again, and his usage of Dementors had decreased in popularity after his stationing of the creatures at Hogwarts had proven to be futile twice over the span of three years.

Their silence made clear they were finally listening. Or perhaps communicating amongst each other as they were capable of doing so by more than vocal language.

''We accept the payment of recalled souls for the services we have provided. We shall not for our continued aid.''

Now that wouldn't do.

''There is nothing else,'' he stressed, growing increasingly irritated at their continued noncompliance. ''Nor have I heard how you can be useful to me in return. I have no tasks for you, no enemies to intimidate, no need for terror that I cannot conjure on my own. You will take what I give, it is more than generous for asking nothing in return.''

''We have found witches and wizards who offer us more. You did too. It shows we can find this again,'' the one who spoke for the rest rasped, intimidatingly drifting closer. Voldemort did not waver, hardly touched by their effects. The cold that seeped into his bones was no more than a discomfort, hardly worse than what he'd subjected himself to over the years. His grasp on death magic prevented their other effects from taking hold.

This greed was blinding the Dementors even more than they already had been. Spoiled by a loose leash over the past years. Once again, Voldemort wished Harry would have agreed to killing Dolores Umbridge. Having her suffer as a werewolf had brought mild pleasure, yet the more consequences of her actions were unravelled, the more he was of the opinion that it would have been better to simply end her. As long as she lived, werewolf or not, there was a chance that she found allies.

Wispy folds of skin fluttered as the Dementor raised an arm, pointing its scabbed finger over at the crowd that huddled behind a fence of Death Eaters and students belonging to Harry. Nott, Saeth, Weasley… ''We brought your most useful back to aid your goals. We ensure that none branded with your mark are behind the walls of Azkaban for long. There is a sea of souls whom you have not laid claim to by branding them. Give those to us in return.''

Had they gone mad? Did these Dementors truly believe that they were worth more than mages? Dark mages, no less, who formed the core of what he was trying to protect?

'I hope you value us more' Harry had said. Of course he did. What a ridiculous notion to think otherwise.

He briefly entertained meeting their needs by offering Muggles, long enough to calculatingly judge how many of those in would take to sate the Dementor's hunger. They had not eaten well over the past decade, so while a single one would be fed for years from a single soul, almost all of them were currently hungry. Azkaban held about two hundred of Dementors, all fighting amongst each other for as little as sapping emotions from the prisoners in their 'care'. That meant he'd have to make an equal number of Muggles disappear every couple of years and fully erase they ever existed. Logistically possible, but the chances of this coming to light were too great and the backlash – moreso from within the walls of his own home than from the public – not something he wanted to deal with. Harry would scorn him for breaking promises, for taking the easiest solution that involved slaughter.

Above all, it would show weakness: that he caved to the whims of those beneath him. Should he favour the Dementors like this, other allies would soon follow with ever-growing demands.

'I will not fight them' he'd told Harry mere weeks ago. Voldemort had not thought, then, that he would grow to resent his former allies so quickly. And yet, he loathed to outright dismiss them, fully aware of the havoc they could wreak, as well as realising that Dementors were the embodiment of the magic he wished to preserve. Their very existence was rooted in heavy magic, their nature to sacrifice the emotions of others to create a more favourable atmosphere for their own kind to thrive in.

However, making a new pact boiled down to cooperation, and they had just rejected the only deal he could make without going directly against his own carefully laid-out plans. Rejected it thrice. As subtle as possible, Voldemort pressed a finger against the Dark Mark to send a warning spike to Barty.

''You will regret asking too high a price,'' he warned. ''Take my offer or return to Azkaban in hopes that your other masters leave you scraps.''

The Dementors he had known during the last war would have considered those options, either out of carefulness or a deeper feel of knowing they should bow to their Lord. As these ones were completely overtaken by their own avarice, he both dreaded and anticipated they'd choose neither, vengeful predators that they were.

The cold intensified. Quick as lightning, the Dark Lord pulled both his own wand and Harry's, twin cores humming in his hands as he cast shields over his Death Eater's mouths a split second before the creatures could descend upon them to feed.

So, all reason was lost now the Dementors were uninterested in what he was willing to provide… That left him no choice.

''Expecto Patronum!'' he bellowed a moment later, a silver phoenix bursting from the tip of his yew wand. It flew at the screeching horde to throw them back. Through the blinding light, Voldemort noticed too late that not all Dementors attempted to linger at the closest prey, scatteringing too much to be caught by his lone phoenix.

''Now!'' yelled a reassuring voice, strong with resolve even in the face of more than two dozen dementors.

XxX

He'd known this would go south the instant Voldemort admitted to their party crashers being Dementors of all things. It wasn't difficult to imagine what they were discussing, these foul things having only one topic of interest. With all Harry had seen, all the schemes his partner had gradually developed and the reasoning that had been given as to why Voldemort had avoided the Dementors, there truly was no possible good outcome to this. Not without the man going back on his word. The entire situation made Harry's stomach do little flips of sickening worry that made it even harder to focus.

His worry wasn't lessened by not having a wand. The little feats of wandless magic he was capable of were hardly enough to protect his loved ones. A tiny part in him felt resentment for having been tricked into giving it away, but it was easily ignored, as he did understand where Voldemort was coming from. Harry couldn't even begin to explain the strange rush he'd felt when being faced with a Dementor in his partner's prison out of the blue. A terribly familiar calling of death magic he didn't fully comprehend. Magic that had, months ago in the Forbidden Forest, left Harry staring at the glaringly empty spot where one of the creatures had floated before. The teen still did not know whether he'd killed it or – how had Voldemort phrased it? – 'created conditions in which it was impossible for it to exist'.

Now too, there was a whispering in his head, though perhaps due to not having either the cloak he used to safely enter the Cosmos nor carried his wand, these whispers were easy to block out in favour of more pressing matters. Through his connection with Voldemort, he felt the man's frustration grow. The talk wasn't going well at all.

He plucked everyone he recalled having taught the Patronus charm out of the crowd and attempted to calm them down before placing the students in between his partner's Inner Circle who guarded those who couldn't fight. They were all clearly affected by the creatures' presence; some breathing harshly, some wide-eyed and looking about ready to faint, others hunched over and grasping the front of their robes near their hearts.

''Gather your strongest, happiest memories,'' he told them all, placing a comforting hand on many a shoulder. ''And don't worry about whether you can cast a full Patronus or not. We have strength in numbers, any wisp will help.''

''Ron,'' he called out when done. ''Hermione. Get ready, I'm quite sure we'll need to fend them off soon.'' There was no need to call for Sirius, who quietly appeared at Harry's side and stuck close with a grim expression, wild gaze trained on the enemy. Weathered knuckles turned white from the tightness with which his godfather gripped the black, rune-covered wand.

Only three seconds later, Harry was proven right when Barty rushed forward, commanding the Death Eaters to be prepared before he slipped into the crowd and started activating the Portkeys of anyone in reach. Most of Voldemort's marked followers seemed just as nervous as the teenagers they stood side-by-side with. Harry dearly hoped that at least some of them could cast a Patronus as well, for they'd not get far with regular shield spells, which would barely halt the creatures' advance.

A wave of anger not his own rose within him, and Harry knew that this was it.

Peering at his partner in the distant darkness, he saw pale hands move in a flash. What looked like glowing bubble-head charms appeared around the mouths of the kneeling figures, followed swiftly by the soaring flight of Voldemort's pearly phoenix.

Harry couldn't afford to show how terrified he was, not even when the Dementors split up in mid-air, half of them crossing the distance far too quickly and menacingly swooping down. ''Now!'' he shouted, focusing on keeping his tone steady so as to not cause more fear.

Despite the only incantation that could protect them being uttered by dozens of voices at once, only three animals sprung forth: A doe, a horse, and Ron's Jack Russel terrier. Sirius' wand produced no more than vague mist as he stood frozen – eyes empty as he stared in terror at his tormentors descending on them. Praying that all of Voldemort's theories about Dementors generally not attacking Necromancers still held true in this instance, the teen refused to budge. Had anyone ever tried to physically tackle a Dementor before? He'd try if need be.

Harry stood his ground wandless and unprotected as the first of them saw the obvious gap in the barrier– at least most of his students managed to produce some sort of shield – and went straight for it. At least until a vicious little dog jumped in between them, baring its fangs.

''Harry!'' Ron yelled, running up to him and digging heels in the gravel to throw the Dementor back with a decisive sweep. ''What's wrong mate? Cast your Patronus!''

Realising that perhaps not everyone had seen the quick exchange – Ron had been sitting further away because Harry had shared a cauldron with the Malfoys – he explained: ''I don't have my wand. Don't worry about it, they won't suck my soul out. Death Magic and all that.''

He hoped this theory wouldn't be proven wrong today.

''You- you didn't bring your wand? What, are you nuts?''

A sharp sting of fury made his vision swim. He did not answer in favour of turning his attention back to Voldemort, who was still fending off multiple dementors that were attempting to reach the mostly unresponsive former prisoners who could do little but crawl towards their Lord, unable to defend themselves. It was an impressive sight, but Harry feared for the result: the isle was an open area in which the Dementors could fly towards their prey from all sides and no matter how fast the bird was, it couldn't keep them away from so many different targets. Harry's stag having protected him and Sirius years ago on the shore of the small lake in the Forest had only worked because the area the Patronus had needed to protect had been small enough for a single guardian to cover.

Behind him, he kept hearing more and more pops of Portkeys being activated, but there were hundreds of people and Barty was the only one besides the Dark Lord himself who could override the set enchantments and send people away early. The sheer number was too great for a single man to handle while the feeble shining barriers that kept the ravenous Dementors at bay broke one by one far too rapidly.

Another animal at last joined the fray, a large serpent which he recognised to come from Draco. They couldn't celebrate their bolstered numbers for long though, as in that same moment, the galloping horse faded. Whether from broken concentration of exhaustion, Harry could not tell as he had no clue whom it belonged to. The only student of his whom he could recall with a horse Patronus was Ginny, who certainly wasn't here.

It couldn't go on like this. They were getting nowhere, walls breaking faster than they could be cast again and Voldemort being occupied holding off so many Dementors by himself.

A scream sounded, and he turned to see that one of the creatures had broken through, catching hold of the first person in reach – Theodore Nott – and lowering its hood.

''No!'' Harry yelled, feeling helpless, instinctively patting his empty pockets as he wanted – needed - to do something. The silver doe, which he now saw was being controlled by Snape, threw the Dementor off, but in the panic that ensued, a couple more of the bright shields dissipated, leaving those who'd huddled behind them vulnerable.

''Potter!'' A terrified shriek he couldn't identify cut through the icy darkness. ''Potter! Kill them! Please!''

But he couldn't kill them, even now he desperately wanted to. Neither instinct nor the whispers growing louder in his head could help when his wand was in Voldemort's hands instead of his own. He did not have enough power.

''Harry, catch!''

Something soared through the air, and before he knew it (he never learned, did he? Not even after grabbing the venomous blade of Gryffindor's sword with his bare hands had he learned not to reflexively catch thrown objects) there was a ridged wand in his right hand.

A surge of warm magic permeated his body, one that rivalled in magnitude with the first time he'd held the holly wand he'd bonded with at eleven years old.

There was no time to marvel at the perfection of this new connection. They were still amidst a crisis, one he was all of a sudden able to solve.

He took three steps forward, ignoring the charging Dementors in front and the panicking horde behind him. Raising the Wand of Destiny, he vividly pictured the same diagram he'd used to call the artificial souls that had drawn that one unfortunate Dementor in. He wasn't sure whether doing so was necessary, but it felt like a good step to repeat. The wand hummed in agreement.

There'd been logic to this, once. At the start, Harry had attempted to make sense of Peverell's texts describing the rules of the Cosmos. He'd quickly learnt that those rules were but the barest of frameworks, waiting to be draped with the bright fabric of creativity. It was no wonder that so few people mastered the Art. One had to be either arrogant beyond belief about one's skills or reckless enough to take leaps of logic to follow gut feelings.

Which made Voldemort and Harry rather perfect for this type of magic, each in their own way.

Without the invisibility cloak to safely wrap himself in, Harry turned inwards, relieved when sensing Tom in the back of his mind. The Horcrux, tied to Voldemort, was his lifeline to keep from falling apart. Probably.

''Brandeum, dona mihi initus,'' he whispered, asking for entry once blood was dripping from his hands. With one last look at his battling partner, Harry followed the stream of voices and the deafening rushing of waves, plunging into the abyss.

The Black Cosmos was brighter than the isle had been after the Dementors' arrival. Still in a rush, Harry did not halt at the overwhelming sight of the four menacing moons, mind racing to formulate his question correctly. Last time he'd snuffed the life of one of the dark creatures out, he'd been in the middle of a ritual and followed something unnameable that had lingered in the back of his head. There'd been no specific requests, only impulse. His eyes flickered between Glory and Ruin, aware he'd have to appeal to one of them.

Now he was here, Harry's uncooperative mind did suddenly speculate about why something in the Cosmos had enabled him to get rid of a Dementor in the first place. Necromancy supposedly was the art of bringing life back from the dead, in whichever form it could re-exist. Forcefully pulling something still living beyond the Shroud was quite the opposite of the powers Harry had asked for when first being found worthy.

The hazy threads of colour that emanated from the large, red moon of Ruin started vibrating strangely, pulsating like veins that responded to the rush of blood following each heartbeat. It felt as if it were trying to communicate, insofar as a concept could.

He decided to worry about the how and why later, when safely back in the realm of the living, preferably curled up on the sofa with his partner and a pot of late-night tea.

Bracing himself, Harry improvised: ''I call upon you, Ruin, to overhaul the order of being itself. Grow sediment into skeletons, compress life to contain in them and guide my hand to make a sacrifice in return.''

As Harry fell back into his own body, he got a flash of deja-vu. A memory was pulled to the forefront, of an archway with a tattered curtain. A gateway, from beyond which something had watched him.

The Death Stick burned against his palm.

XxX

Even Occlumency barriers and being in the middle of fighting off a persistent fleet were not enough to fully ignore the deepened link he'd formed with Harry. Without allowing himself to pause, the Dark Lord shared in the distant joy that came with being chosen by a wand. Not that he felt particularly joyful himself about Harry being the one to carry the elusive wand so soon, but he could not deny that the establishing of a bond between wand and mage was most sacred. Especially when it felt so right. Strange, for one supposedly not truly loyal to any.

''Master-'' Travers groaned, and Voldemort changed the direction of his phoenix to chase away the Dementor that had been attempting to sneakily drift closer to the man. Busy as he was, Voldemort only flinched for a moment when feeling a slight sting to his left hand and continued on when seeing no apparent cause.

It was easier to protect his followers now they all huddled close, putting their full trust in him to shield them. It also left time to think about options. He could not kill or truly hurt the Dementors and even his Patronus only held them off temporarily. If he had no means to subjugate them, he'd have to capture and starve them until they did surrender. Having them here, in a fully closed-off dimension, was a promising start.

Voldemort looked at those standing at the edge of the island some fifty yards away, expecting to see a bright stag wrangling with the Dementors who dared attempt to prey upon the crowd, which had already shrunk significantly due to Barty's quick work.

There was no stag. Instead, two of the corporeal Patroni, a tiny dog and a serpent, protected the kneeling form of his partner, whose left hand dripped with blood that splattered on the straight lines that had been cut into the ground below. There was a notable lack of the invisibility cloak that should protect Harry from returning safely from the place he'd clearly decided to pay a visit in desperation.

''No-'' Voldemort breathed, panic catching his throat. Roaring in anger, he hauled his Death Eaters to their feet and used a wave of pure magic to make them stagger forwards, towards the one he had to reach, had to save.

The ground trembled. An air reeking stale with death magic wafted from it, invading his nostrils. Earth, iron and rot that strengthened by the second. With fascination, he watched as the stone became alive: shells burrowed out of the ground, warped skeletons of tiny birds, mice and critters shone brightly as they formed and enclosed around pinpricks of artificial souls, compressed life that was just enough to allow them to move. They had no mind and no will, but lived nonetheless.

Deceptively bright, the Dementors had called that which returned from beyond the Shroud. 'Souls' created like this could not sustain them for even a second, but they appeared entranced nonetheless, hovering hungrily and gliding closer to the ground. Moths to flames indeed.

There were whispers. In the air or in his head, he couldn't determine. Frantic, nonsensical things that pushed and pulled like ebb and flow. Uttered in a language so ancient that even he, Lord Voldemort, could not decipher its meaning.

Could Harry? Violet eyes shone with hidden knowledge that sparked desire in Voldemort, a craving to uncover it like every other detail, an itch to peel away this exceptional being layer by layer. To dissect and inhale, to explore all hidden crevices with every means in his grasp, invasive magic or wandering mouth.

He knew what was about to come, had specifically told his partner to prevent exactly this. It was still possible to halt it with a precisely fired stunner.

Feeling vengeful over having been slighted by his former allies, he raised neither holly nor yew, observing the spectacle that was about to unfold in anticipation. Deliberately, he dropped the Occlumency barriers he'd build up over the day for the purpose of concentration.

His partner's mind was akin a cold flame that burned the way frostbite did. Blackened night illuminated by something beyond the edges of their vision. Harry's eyes were wide open, and yet the entirety of his being was held still in the grasp of the dimension of the dead.

The silver light of the hundreds of lures dimmed; the created corpses having served their purpose of drawing the Dementors in. The light was quickly replaced as the first Dementor who dared move burnt up white.

Chaos ensued, a second and third Dementor following the fate of the first while the rest attempted to escape, racing into the sky only to meet the invisible walls of the bubble dimension Voldemort had created here. A fourth and fifth fell apart, shining tatters of wispy skin raining down like stars. Pain burned behind his eyes now and he and Harry swayed at the same time. He reached out mentally seconds before crossing the remaining physical distance to catch the heavy-breathing teen. One Black, two Weasleys and all three Malfoys were instantly on them like flies.

''Is he alright?'' Ronald and Draco simultaneously asked, whereas Black only knelt by his godson's side in silence. He too must feel something through the bond that tied him to Harry. Narcissa pulled her wand, perhaps in an attempt to help, which Voldemort put a stop to by holding up his hand as she had no experience with Necromancy.

''Evan,'' Voldemort hushed, stroking sweat-drenched bangs out of his partner's feverish eyes. ''Can you kill them all?'' When the teen mutedly shook his head, he pressed: ''Can you teach me how to?''

''I-'' Harry rasped. ''I don't think so. Don't really know- what I'm doing beyond following threads of magic. Hey… we open portals.''

''What?''

''Necromancers,'' the other breathed, obviously struggling to form words. His lips were turning grey. ''We're portals.'' Behind them, another Dementor exploded.

''You're delirious,'' Voldemort responded, all the while recognising that there was an eerie feel of truth to his partner's words. ''Come back fully into the land of the living, or so help me I'll drag you out by force. You've sown enough fear amongst them that they'll not dare attack. Look- they're only focused on escape.''

Harry gasped, a rattling thing as he gazed into the distance. The moment purple eyes landed on another of the wraithlike creatures, a whisper slipped from his lips like a sigh. With a screech, a seventh was dragged out of existence. More colour drained from Harry's skin. ''I can't stop-'' he mumbled. ''Tell me how to stop-''

Having seen enough, Voldemort pressed two fingers to his partner's right temple. He was strong enough, experienced enough to make the foolish teen cease. Trusting in his Horcruxes and the threefold connection with his partner, he used his nails to make a shallow cut on his own arm and asked for entry.

He floated alone in the Cosmos, taking note of the concerning way that the space was filled with a network of near-physical red threads connected to Ruin. Instinctively, he understood what Harry had been saying: his partner had used the red moon of Corpus to first create lures and then destroy the Dementor's physical body, killing them instantly. The unfortunate side effect was that the excessive use of this magic was wreaking havoc on Harry's own physical form as well.

''Enough,'' he boomed, turning to the palest, smallest moon. ''I call upon you, Glory, to release your chosen from this world's hold. Grant strength and victory to your knight, may he return to the earthlight to continue his fight in your name. Glory, grant me the means to keep him.''

The glow on his palms that Voldemort received in return remained as he opened his eyes, colour already blooming under his fingertips as mottled grey was washed away and Harry's familiar warm brown tint returned. Relief was palpable when emerald green blinked up at him. Voldemort allowed himself only the smallest of relieved sighs. ''Welcome back. I'd hoped to receive more than a month's break in between saving your life.''

''Need to keep you on your toes,'' Harry tiredly retorted, voice scratchy. ''Did it- did it work?''

''Define 'work'.'' Without waiting for an answer, Voldemort hooked an arm around his partner and drew him up to his feet, so they had a better vantage point to take in the damage without having to compromise on how much of Harry was pressed against him.

''My Lord,'' Barty said, who apparently had been waiting for a while as well. ''All whom I could get to leave have. The rest…'' he trailed off with a frown. ''The rest have not been very cooperative since Evan saved us,'' he unhappily ended, throwing a look over his shoulder. Following the gaze, Voldemort noted that over fifty civilians remained. ''Refuse to leave without being informed of what's been going on since the Dementors stopped their assault.''

Said creatures had regrouped, haven given up searching for a means to escape. ''Keep an eye on Evan,'' he ordered, carefully handing the teen to Barty's capable hands before striding towards the Dementors one more time. They'd seen what could happen now, what mages were capable of.

''One of yours destroyed us,'' the one in front whispered menacingly as he reached them.

''More will follow if you do not submit,'' he threatened in return.

''This was not the first time. One of us disappeared on the grounds we guarded,'' it continued, frenetic. ''This magic was similar to what we felt, then. It came from the same human, this Necromancer. We agree to your earlier demands on one condition: you must give us the mage who endangers us.''

''You are not in a position to negotiate any further.''

''We are. Give us the magus mortem with dual souls who found a way to hurt us, and we will do anything you please. Do not fear for you own soul, Lord, we shall only feed on the one that defies our existence.''

He hid the discomfort over the jarring discovery that the Dementors could identify Harry as his Horcrux and took in the 'offer'. Harry's soul in exchange for loyalty…

They might as well have asked for Voldemort's heart on a platter.

''Never,'' he snarled back. The audacity to ask for more in return while trapped on this island... ''You will starve here until you see sense and serve as magic intended.''

Their hooded faces did not reveal their thoughts or feelings about this. The Dementor who'd been speaking slowly retrieved a polished, pitch-black orb and held it up in its claw.

A scrying device.

''It is to be war, then. Starve us, destroy us if you will. Our brethren have seen what transpired here and shall not bow to you, nor any other witch or wizard until our murderer's soul has been consumed. We'll be a blight upon this land, the likes of which will be unparalleled.''

Blistering with fury, Lord Voldemort's crimson gaze met empty sockets.

''You may certainly try.''

He feared not for his own soul as he turned his back to the cursed creatures who cared not for the role they ought to play. Striding towards his people through the grain that had wilted by the Dementor's presence, Voldemort knew what must be done. Their current government would snap like one of the stalks beneath his feet when confronted with the entire force of Azkaban's Dementors running wild.

''Get everyone out of here,'' he grimly told his right hand.

''To the same spot as the others? Or their homes instead?''

''The same. We need to ensure no-one suffers from lingering effects. Put Pye and Severus to work, they are both apt in mind magic. Also, separate those who were freed from Azkaban today, their treatment will be far more extensive. Only direct family is to be granted access to them.'' He looked at his most loyal, who were already standing stronger now they weren't in the direct sphere of the Dementor's influence anymore. Rookwood even took a few confident steps forward and called out to his daughter, who was part of Harry's ranks.

Barty hesitated for a moment. ''Augustus Pye? He only recently entered our ranks… has Pye proven himself enough to be allowed into the heads of our ill, my Lord?''

''I personally sought him out and indebted him to me. Get to it.''

Only after every curious gaze was gone, when only a handful of Death Eaters and Harry's closest family and friends remained – still including one disguised Ginevra Weasley, who hung in the shadow of her brother – did Voldemort approach his partner.

''We are at war,'' he bluntly declared before Harry could speak. ''The Dementors managed to communicate what happened to the rest of their brood. We must prepare for harsh times.''

The other lowered his eyes in misplaced shame. ''I did not mean to spark a war,'' Harry muttered, devastated. ''I'm sor-''

''It was not you who made the decision, darling,'' he interrupted. ''Nor would you have had the authority to. It was their greed and my refusal to give in to their demands that caused this. Although they are now certainly out for your blood, figuratively speaking. You've proven to be too great of a threat to them.'' He peered at the flock of Dementors that were now aimlessly flying circles in the distance. They were difficult to make out even for his own enhanced vision, the sky having only marginally cleared at the death of seven.

''And now? What can I do to set things right?''

Voldemort straightened his spine and gazed down sternly. ''For now, you are to rest and heal from this encounter. At dawn, we shall both head for the Ministry of Magic.''

''The Ministry?'' Lucius sharply repeated. ''The both of you, openly?''

''Yes,'' he affirmed. ''If the Dementors do not play the role they should, they will serve as a common enemy instead. Their declaration of war did not extend to me alone, but to all wizardkind. To have any hopes of weathering this storm, I must hurry my plans along.''

''Meaning?'' Black asked, finally speaking although his grim look was still reserved for Harry only, whom the man had protectively wrapped an arm around.

''Meaning that it is time for a new government. Or would you prefer trying to get Cornelius Fudge to admit his Dementors are running rampant, the same man who managed to convince himself for two years and after multiple accounts of witnesses that I haven't returned?''

When not even Black found a defying response, Voldemort raised his wand. ''I'll activate your Portkeys. As for you, girl,'' he spoke, turning his attention to Ginevra, who stood still as a statue as if he were a Basilisk who'd petrified her. ''Ronald's services are needed elsewhere, but I can't let you run free. Upon arrival, you are to search out William and not leave his side, are we clear?'' He ignored the confused looks he received from everyone other than Ronald and Ginevra. ''Are we?' he repeated, curling his upper lip.

''Yes, sir,'' she answered with more strength than he'd expected.

''Good.'' Once she'd grabbed her brother's hand, he sent the both of them away, followed quickly by the rest of them – Black after heavy protest and a promise Harry would follow mere minutes after – and his Death Eaters, until only Harry and he remained.

In silence, they stared at the ruined isle. ''Surely, you'll have to accept another birthday gift now,'' Voldemort spoke. ''At least until these Dementors have perished, which may take another couple of years.'' When Harry did not respond other than by leaning against his side, he sighed. ''I overestimated the control I would have over them.''

''I don't blame you,'' his partner was quick to reassure. ''I know just how tricky your task of balancing magic is. That you held onto the hope of not pissing off potential allies who basically consist of dark magic is understandable. It sucks that it came to this.''

''I must thank you for making the necessary decision that I only could when it was too late.''

''Thank Ron for that. He's the one who chucked this wand at me out of nowhere.''

Voldemort hummed. ''His impulsiveness did likely improve the outcome,'' he diplomatically replied.

''It's odd that I bonded with it though, isn't it?'' Harry asked, staring down at the deceptively plain-looking wand. ''After all, the tales about it claim it must be won. And although that can be interpreted rather loosely considering Grindelwald got it through theft, we weren't even completely sure if it had accepted Ron as its new master after Dumbledore was tricked into entrusting it to him. Doing nothing but pluck it out of the air seems a bit of a stretch.''

Voldemort had his own theories about it, one of which involved a certain fairy tale and the powerful cloak that Harry had called his own for years. He didn't share those speculations for now. ''The wand does choose the wizard… maybe it grew soft in its old age,'' he speculated instead.

''Speaking from experience?''

''What a vile implication, love. You wound me.''

A warm hand found his, the Death Stick locked between their intertwined fingers.

''Let's go,'' Harry suggested. ''We've a government to overthrow.''

AN: Welp, the arc of peace&planning is officially over. Time for the war the Centaurs predicted to start at last.

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xx GeMerope