In Willing Sacrifice

by GeMerope

When Harry Potter has the opportunity to erase Voldemort before the Dark Lord can resurrect, he finds out that walking a fine line between his own morality and the good of this world is more complicated than Harry could have ever imagined. Slow Burn, eventual HPLV.

109. C108 - Of Wards and Treasure

Chapter 108 – of Wards and Treasure

Hogwarts was there to welcome him, as robust and protective as the day Voldemort had last seen the castle up this close.

Its summer inhabitants… not so much.

The trek from the gates through the large double doors was just as silent as the entrance hall. Few days had gone by in which he hadn't briefly imagined returning here. The most recent daydreams had featured images of walking in after achieving victory under many curious glances and bowing heads. Reality was bleak in comparison.

The only bowing head greeting him was Amycus'. The remaining reactions came from the scarce portraits placed in the hall, their gasps too falling silent as soon as Severus went to the nearest one – of Glanmore Peaks, a wizard famous for slaying a sea serpent - to call the rest of the staff. Voldemort had once admired such a feat, until coming into contact with Sea Serpents and finding them to be sentient and highly magical creatures. The animals being vegetarian hadn't made Peaks' deed any more glorious.

The present professors and other staff members were slow to show up despite Severus stating to the portrait how urgent this emergency meeting was. Aurora Sinistra appeared first – curious, as her office was near the Astronomy tower on the other side of the castle - followed soon by Septima Vector, Bathsheba Babbling and Charity Burbage. Of these four, only Sinistra did not express comical panic at his appearance. Voldemort would rather have seen the Runes and Arithmancy professors to keep cooler heads, for their fields of study were far more useful in case trouble would arise with the wards. He'd have to look to the Charms teacher instead.

During the wait, the Dark Lord considered the information he'd gathered on the Hogwarts staff. He'd taken care to thoroughly document the achievements and traits of those Albus Dumbledore surrounded himself with. In summary, the results had been disappointing. Most teachers were mediocre and had gained their positions out of a combination of timing, luck and political value. Trelawney had been hired to keep hidden away from Voldemort's reach, Firenze because he'd been a friend of Dumbledore's, Vector had simply been the only available candidate who'd applied after the position of Arithmancy teacher had become available, and Burbage's ideas of tolerance and acceptance lined up well with the old fool's own political claims… None of these had soared to great heights or knew offensive spellwork that Voldemort could not swat away with a single finger. It was telling that only four of those the previous Headmaster had gathered to teach his students had been invited to join the Order of the Phoenix – one of which had declined, not for a lack of ability but to focus on teaching:

Filius Flitwick, who had just appeared on top of the staircase leading to the first floor.

''Severus,'' the Charms Professor stated, hand firmly placed on his hip near the handle of his short wand. ''What an unexpected guest you have brought in. To do with this morning's Prophet article, I assume?'' The half-goblin eyed Voldemort, seeming uncertain how or even if to address him.

The Headmaster uttered a gruff sound. ''You know I don't tend to repeat myself, Filius. Let us wait for the rest.''

''I'd expected Minerva and Pomona to appear faster than my own short legs can carry me.''

''Minerva has other business to attend to,'' Severus smoothly answered. ''As for Pomona, I can't recall her having placed portraits in the greenhouses. Something about them frightening her precious plants? Charity, care for some fresh air to collect our colleague before you faint on the spot?'' he sneered at the Muggle Studies Professor, who indeed didn't look too well. How dramatic.

As the rest found their way (a quiet librarian and the much rowdier Hogwarts caretaker joined them soon, neither of whom was useful or a threat) Voldemort decided to move this meeting to the Great Hall, wishing to scratch the itch of seeing the overwhelming sight of it sooner rather than later.

~Isn't it wonderful?~ he asked, languidly stroking Nagini's scales as he stood in the middle of the Hall, tipping his head back to appreciate its enchanted ceiling, a sea of grey clouds rolling overhead. His companion had wrapped herself around his torso and shoulders like a heavy, reassuring shawl.

~Smells nice. Food and heat,~ she commented, appreciatively flicking her tongue in the direction of the many enchanted candles that were left burning throughout every season.

~Plenty of either, yes,~ he mused. ~Hogwarts' army of House-elves will have busy days ahead if all works out as I intend.~ He resisted walking up to the staff table. As amusing as it would be to take Dumbledore's spot in the man's absence – or even more satisfying, the chair reserved for the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher that Voldemort only ever had the pleasure of sitting in blind on the back of Quirinus' head – it would unnecessarily rile up both the present staff watching him like augureys and devalue the positions he'd graciously handed to his own followers.

He wasn't a young man with an incessant need to brag anymore. That he had been, once, was exactly the reason why Voldemort disliked conversing with the preserved younger parts of his own soul.

Once all living souls residing in Hogwarts had at last dragged their feet across the threshold - Ironically, the two Divination teachers were tardiest – Severus started a monotonous explanation, pointing to the Prophet's latest news and reassuring his colleagues this visit was necessary and, above all, harmless.

A laughable statement, for if any of them would raise a wand, he'd see them on the brink of death. Voldemort didn't care to correct his follower as long as his enemies stayed their hands. It helped that Alecto had gone ahead to draw the attention of McGonagall and Hagrid. Both Order members had already been spirited away to the designated meeting spot before Severus had opened the gates.

The reassurances of the Headmaster that this inspection of the wards was in line with Dumbledore's own wishes, paired with the absence of the Deputy Headmistress, quelled most protest quickly. Not that many tried. There was quite a bit of whispering between Babbling and Vector about stepping in and 'maintaining stability by putting their foot down about letting a dark wizard in' but in the end neither of the two women were proactive about doing so. The remaining Heads of Houses, who truly formed the only real threat of disruption, were smart enough to recognise rebelling against this decision wasn't productive.

''It is good you are here, He-Who-Slithers. I shall not stand in your way.'' The voice was so strong that it took a moment to realise it was the Centaur who had addressed him. It was rare that these beasts did not have an overall dreamy tone unless feeling threatened.

Was Firenze threatened by Voldemort's presence? A wave of glee overcame him at the notion of these proud creatures being nervous by his mere presence. It faded as fast as it had come, rationality washing that thought away just as quickly. The Centaurs had not been terribly intimidated last time he'd breached their territory to hunt unicorns, nor had the lone Centaur in Sweden been impressed in the slightest by his visit. It seemed unlikely one would feel threatened by Voldemort here.

It dawned on him that this effortless analysis and control of emotions came far more naturally than it once had. Harry's emotions had truly improved his own a great deal.

The name the Centaur bestowed upon him was familiar. Harry had relayed the strange conversation he'd had with Firenze a while ago. ''A war which will last for years, in which Harry Potter and He-Who-Slithers are to play central figures…'' Voldemort spoke Harry's summary out loud. ''You foresaw this.''

A hoof nervously scraped the tiles, a sound so horridly loud that Voldemort considered severing its leg. Surely, it could still walk on three…

The sound was interrupted with one that was shockingly more irritating. ''I too foresaw war!'' Trelawney exclaimed, the bangles on her arms rattling as she raised her arms. ''Dark times, always clouding the future of Harry James Potter!''

Maybe Firenze's leg was safe, the Dark Lord decided when the beast threw his colleague a look with more disdain than he'd believed Centaurs to be capable of.

''Harry Potter's future is long and bright, if only because I shall ensure it is,'' Voldemort aggressively snarled.

~Don't let the little humans irritate you,~ Nagini said, rubbing her snout against his cheek. Inhaling deeply, he allowed her words to calm him.

~She spoke ill of Harry,~

~Oh. In that case I'll gladly bite her.~ Demonstratively, she looked at Trelawney and opened her jaw wide enough to make her venomous fangs prominently pop out.

~Another day,~ he decided, guiding her head back into the crook of his neck. ~There is work to do.~

He repeated the last statement in English to the gathered staff, who'd started getting nervous again. Sprout was asking Pomfrey for quick healing tips in case curses would fly, whereas Filch hopped from foot to foot, grumbling about inspections.

''Flitwick,'' Voldemort called out, deciding more than enough time had been wasted elaborating on the purpose of this visit.

''Yes?''

The tiny Professor carried not an ounce of fright, unlike many of his colleagues. Hardly surprising. Flitwick was a half-goblin who'd fought hard to be recognised by his peers, ripping expectations of mediocrity apart. Charms master, Duelling champion, Head of Ravenclaw House, titles all gained before reaching the age of forty. Flitwick had even poured effort into being recognised as a Maestro, a title with little meaning attached in the magical world, yet one which Voldemort appreciated for its showing of unbridled dedication to music. Being in his early sixties now and actively educating the next generations, Flitwick would not have lost the edge of any his abilities. The displayed confidence was more well-earned than many might recognise.

Someone who accurately knew their own worth was one of the few types of people Voldemort could tolerate, even enjoy conversation with. A mercy then, that Flitwick was the obvious choice when it came to observing his work on the wards.

''As Severus explained, I need to assure myself of the limits of the Patronus wards the previous Headmaster fortified the castle with. I realise very well that the majority of you neither welcomes nor trusts me. This hampers my work. To ease this strained collaboration, I am in need of an impartial party with above average knowledge of Warding to observe me. Insurance for both ends, if you will. You can report to your colleagues that I am not threading curses into the wards that will choke you to death, and my concentration is not hindered by constant suspicion. I believe you to fit this role best.''

Flitwick considered it, brow furrowing as his gaze drifted over to his other colleagues. ''It is true that I have a firm grasp on shielding spells. However, perhaps my colleague Amycus is a better choice? Warding is a field of specialisation of Defence Against the Dark Arts, not Charms.''

Having one of his own followers nearby would be preferable, especially as Amycus could assist and speed up the process. Nevertheless, all gained trust would evaporate as soon as it became known that the Carrows were his. With dark and light mages mingling out of necessity in face of a common enemy, there was a high risk of this information becoming known soon. Especially if the better part of their population was to be relocated to the same spot: here.

''Amycus, bare your arm,'' he neutrally commanded. To leave no doubt as to which arm he meant, he concentrated on making the Dark Mark flare up ever so slightly.

It was pleasing that no protest ensued. Some of his less intelligent followers – including those who actually had a brain yet were arrogant enough to believe individual thinking was warranted when direct instructions had already been given - might have wavered in carrying the order out. Amycus did not, proudly pulling his sleeve back. The man was even wise enough to sink to one knee and bow his head, muttering a quiet and reverent 'my Lord'.

Voldemort ignored the outcries that followed, merely taking note of the loudest: Babbling, Filch and Vector. Especially the Hogwarts caretaker spouted a stream of vulgar insults about lies and deception. Likely because the Squib was, for indiscernible reasons, starkly loyal to the Ministry of Magic first and foremost. Reports of the Carrow siblings had made clear that Filch had readily helped them settle in as replacements of the Ministry's voice after Umbridge's departure.

Did this loyalty extend to the new Ministry? Perhaps Voldemort needed to consider how much of a threat Filch was… the man had no power now, not here, but if he still carried loyalty towards Dolores Umbridge, the Squib would need to be neutralised before the Dementors found yet another ally.

The Charms master did not express overt shock, bushy eyebrows rising and a troubled look being shot at Severus, who didn't bother feigning surprise. ''We best start at the oldest anchor stone,'' Flitwick spoke, abruptly spinning on his heel to head out.

It was a short trek, back through the entrance hall and down the large staircase with its many gossiping portraits, to finally end close to the kitchens and Hufflepuff common room.

Long enough, however, for Voldemort to strike up conversation.

''It came to my attention that you studied under John Barbirolli,'' he spoke while easily striding alongside the much smaller man. Even Nagini, who had let herself drop to the floor not to hamper Voldemort's movements, followed along without trouble. The already easy pace slowed further as Flitwick faltered.

''I'd not imagined someone like yourself to bother learning of Muggles.''

He hummed. ''A false assumption. Barbirolli's work was admirable. Although his talent of string instruments impressed me more than his conducting. I'm rather partial to them.''

It was clear that Flitwick attempted to gauge why they were having this conversation. What Voldemort's deeper motives were. The Maestro would be most shocked by the truth: that he'd been starving to have an intelligent conversation about classical music with a connoisseur of the topic. It had been delightful to guide Harry in the way of poetry and hear refreshing views on his own favourites, yet he'd determined early on that his partner would never understand music as more than something that sounded 'pretty'. Voldemort suspected a devastating tone-deafness.

''Cello?'' the other asked, a hint of curiosity countering his shortage of words.

''Violin. Which incidentally was Barbirolli's first instrument, at the age of four. He only switched to the cello due to family telling him to sit still. A shame, I can't help but wonder what different pieces he might have played as a principal violinist.''

''Do you agree that music is a magic beyond all we do at Hogwarts?''

It was difficult not to scoff at the quote he'd heard at least five times during his years as a student. ''I might have, had I not known those to be Dumbledore's words. I tend to polarise myself to his opinions out of principle when it does not pertain to life-or-death situations.''

''The war… yes. I still can't believe it,'' the other sighed, generously holding the door open for Voldemort as if being courteous was simply Flitwick's second nature.

He'd not meant the war, thinking back on the old fool urging him to call upon Fawkes to save a dying Harry Potter from Basilisk venom. Voldemort hummed noncommittedly. ''If music were greater than magic,'' he continued, ''Why is it that music can reach a higher level of transcendence by being imbued with magic? Both are ethereal forces, able to harmonise so perfectly that minds and matter can be influenced by precisely empowered melodies. In that sense, neither are superior to the other. As magic is far more versatile and usable for any purpose, claiming it can be outshined is folly.''

''Music can be used by all, including Muggles, or even animals.''

''Precisely,'' the Dark Lord agreed, pleased by Flitwick's observation. He could not possibly see the odd look thrown at his back.

''Ah, here we are,'' he announced, as if Flitwick hadn't been the one who should have led him to their destination. Voldemort crouched down to place a hand on the very first wardstone: A large engraving of the Hogwarts crest encircled by four rings of runes, each made by one of the Founders. Despite it being placed on the floor of a corridor dozens of feet would walk across day in day out, the relief was as distinct as it must have been when created. Source Magic tingled on its surface.

Merlin's work? No, that would not line up with historic accounts, as Merlin had become a student once Hogwarts had already been completed. No proof existed of the Light Lord having been chosen by Magic before coming of age, after Slytherin's falling-out and subsequent rise to power had thrown magic off balance. The Founders must have employed the help of an earlier Lord then. Interesting.

''You mentioned to search specifically for Patronus wards?''

''Yes,'' he answered while settling down on the floor, carefully placing the tip of his wand on the outermost rune ring. He'd have to examine each one, spiralling towards the centre, to safely take a look. ''Well, I coined the term, but the name is fitting. Dumbledore sent out multiple Patroni that merged with the wards, supposedly creating a new layer that merged with the rest. Quite the feat… he must have sacrificed one of his most emotionally-charged memories for it. Here I'd come to believe the old man would stay his hand solely to spite me by never using heavy magic for the remainder of his life. Now, I advise you to sit at a distance, this will take a while.''

When arriving at Hogwarts, it had been shortly before noon. When Voldemort pulled himself away from the first wardstone, it had to be evening. His throat was parched from casting spells to stabilise the runes and examine the many protective layers that cloaked Hogwarts without damaging them. If he'd snuck in a few additional spells using source magic Flitwick would be unfamiliar with to make the castle more agreeable to Voldemort's presence, no-one needed to know.

Not only Flitwick was present when the Dark Lord opened his eyes and massaged a sore throat. ''Here,'' the Hogwarts Matron brusquely barked, thrusting a vial into his hands. A generic healing potion. Wiggenweld.

''My own healing charms are more effective,'' he rebuked with a scowl.

''Potions are less of a strain on your reserves.''

''Casting every diagnostic charm under the sun on it to ensure you aren't trying to poison me will drain me more.'' He pocketed the vial nonetheless, more out of habit of hoarding than intending to use it or placate her. ''Suggesting I will be too tired to remedy a sore throat is almost as insulting as your expressed doubt over my control of dark magic.''

Madam Pomfrey's brow furrowed. ''When did I-''

''I was the one to replace Harry Potter's arm. After your inspection, there should have been no doubt about how stable my creation was.''

''Creation?'' Flitwick asked. Voldemort and Madam Pomfrey both ignored the question.

She stubbornly crossed her arms. ''That type of magic is unstable. What initially looks perfect can fall apart later. I was unaware of who had aided Mr Potter, he was frustratingly protective of your , in hindsight, but I shall not apologise for what I considered a fair assessment and warning. Speaking of warnings: what happened to Mr Potter's original wand arm? He was rather careless with it, I heard.''

It truly was none of her business what Voldemort had used his own property for. Then again, he was attempting to gain their trust, show he was more than the 'evil, barbaric dark wizard' they'd branded him as. There was thus no harm in the truth: ''I had a love potion made out of it,''

Understandably, that statement confused the woman. ''That would only serve to make the drinker fall in love with Mr Potter.''

''That was my intention, yes,'' he replied, refusing to reveal more details than that out-of-context implication. ''If that was all? I do not have all day to entertain your questions, Madam.''

She huffed and showed not the slightest inclination of leaving – a Gryffindor, must be – and although she was wise enough to hold her tongue, Pomfrey unofficially added herself to their little group as Voldemort went around Hogwarts and its grounds to search out more wardstones.

The central one had proven that Dumbledore's Patroni were still an integral part of the protective enchantments, miraculously having interwoven with the Muggle-repelling wards as if always belonging and having fortified itself by shifting just behind the Security Spells. Masterful spellwork, such intricate and delicate magic that Voldemort was once more incredibly glad that the era of his youth had been marked by an imbalance due to an overflow of light magic, for if it'd been the other way around, none other than Dumbledore would have been chosen as a Light Lord. The already annoying fool would have been positively insufferable if so.

Voldemort pushed through fatigue, using various mental techniques to preserve his strength and drawing energy from the source to not dwindle his own at a much slower pace as he travelled from one anchor point to the next with the purpose of determining the Patronus shield's stability. One tiny weak spot, and all would be for naught.

''We will rest for today,'' he decided when midnight struck. Every fibre of his body was screaming for sleep, a state of being he was unaccustomed to. ''The wards look promising so far.''

''May I ask what Dumbledore's intention is for Hogwarts?'' Flitwick inquired. ''To send you here rather than come himself…''

Voldemort was minimally surprised by Flitwick not showing any suspicion about the spun tale of all this happening with Dumbledore's cooperation. He understood that McGonagall would keep any suspicions close to her chest and not speak of the failed 'rescue' or the old fool's uncharacteristic refusal to contact the Order afterwards, yet was Flitwick not one of her closest allies? As Flitwick appeared genuine, Voldemort decided to take the question at face value, replying:

''The deal we struck with the Ministry required him to leave the country again. Dumbledore is far too intertwined in politics to break such a deal when he does not consider it absolutely necessary.'' The lies slip out easily, though give Voldemort food for thought at the same time. Their deception had placed the old man in a central role, and truth had a tendency to claw its way to the surface. He would have to think ahead, plan for many possible scenarios. Barty was needed in various places as his Right Hand, so could not devote every hour of the day pretending to be Albus Dumbledore.

Flitwick did not seem incredibly satisfied with that answer. He may have declined a position in the Order of the Phoenix, but it was obvious where the Maestro's loyalties lay. ''Your intentions, then. Which should be in line with Dumbledore's, if you came here with his blessing?''

Once again, the Dark Lord turned to his familiar to find the calm to handle this pesky interrogation, concentrating on the feel of her dry scales under his fingers. He was not used to being questioned so disrespectfully. Only Harry was allowed so much leeway when it came to prying nowadays…

Voldemort sternly reminded himself to remain tactful. Helpful. Putting well-liked staff members in an early grave would not get them far.

''Hogwarts is one of the few places Dementors cannot enter. There have already been sightings of them on the mainland and I have no doubt they will start attacking soon, once having composed a strategy. It does not bode well that they have found an ally who thinks like us and can thus help them devise war schemes. Dolores Umbridge,'' he clarified at Flitwick's frown. ''They contacted her yesterday and she seemingly went with them voluntarily. She's had a history of using the creatures to do her bidding.''

Flitwick grew eerily silent and stern, brows drawing together for a few long seconds. ''A woman with few scruples,'' he judged. ''That is… problematic. Due to the high positions she'd had before, there's much valuable information she can give them. Which villages have a high magical population, how the Ministry is organised… even Auror shifts and the like.''

''Which is why we are attempting to work fast and are involving several organisations at once: the Ministry of Magic, the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter's Defence Association, my own army and the Hand of Magic overseas. Possibly the International Confederation of Wizards as well, depending on how much weight Dumbledore can pull. We cannot efficiently fight our enemy, however, as long as the Dementors threaten the public and can lavish on their souls. Which is where Hogwarts comes in. It is spacious, largely self-sufficient and well-guarded against this specific threat – as long as we discover no weaknesses in the wards. With additional expanding charms on various rooms, we can house thousands here.''

''You wish to relocate the entirety of the wizarding population to Hogwarts?'' Pomfrey interjected, who'd been listening to the conversation so far with much self-restraint.

''Not only them. The forest and lake can harbour magical creatures as well. It will be an excellent opportunity to see how our kind fares with no contact to the Muggle world as well,'' he added thoughtfully. ''Naturally, we cannot all stay here for eternity, expanding charms can collapse when too much space is stretched at once in one spot, but it should hold for long enough to protect those who are incapable of aiding in this fight outside of the wards.''

He also would not solely rely on Hogwarts. Dimensional shifting had been shown to efficiently cut Dementors off from the rest of the world as well, which meant anyone inside of such a bubble was generally protected. He had set up a few of them over the years that were ready to be used. It would clearly be an abysmal idea to let his recently escaped Death Eaters roam amongst civilians.

''About the Dementors…'' Flitwick said, stroking his grey beard. ''Only mages can be protected in Hogwarts. What is with the Muggle population? They'll be left vulnerable.''

''The Dementors specifically declared war against us. They are not as satisfied by Muggle souls either,'' Voldemort diplomatically explained, leaving out that he couldn't care less how many Muggles they would suck dry. Muggles could technically boost the magical population in the future, but there were so many of them that he'd much prefer if the Dementors would get their first fill over there. No magic would be lost from it.

Having reached the castle, Voldemort found Severus waiting for him in front of the entrance doors.

''Rooms have been prepared for you in the Slytherin dorms.'' The absence of a title to address him by was likely a deliberate choice due to Flitwick's and Pomfrey being there. ''Amycus and Alecto are waiting in the Slytherin common room too, they asked for a word.''

''The Carrows will wait until tomorrow, I have spoken enough for today. Also, I won't be needing those rooms,'' he dismissively spoke. ''What is the current password to Gryffindor tower?''

Severus blinked rapidly. With slightly clenched teeth, he said: ''There is a perfectly good bed already prepared-''

''Severus. Don't test me. I've had a long two days without sleep filled with rituals and political talks and having to deal with dozens of people I'd rather not have interacted with at all. The password or I'll rip the portrait clean off its wall.''

''Sloe Gin Fizz,'' the other relented. ''Is there anything else I may assist with?''

''Inform Amycus and Alecto that I'll make time for them in the morning. After that, considering yourself dismissed.''

Severus being unhappy about the situation was not his most pressing problem currently. His own irritation was harder to shake. Even on top of everything as much as possible, Voldemort could not control the current state of matters in the country. He did not even possess a perfect information network currently, cut off from anyone who could fill him in until leaving Hogwarts.

Flitwick retreated to his own quarters too after they arranged a time and meeting place for the continued work tomorrow. The man had already looked tired during their talk on the trek back to the entrance hall. Pomfrey trailed behind until the fourth floor, where she had no excuse anymore as to why she would pass the hospital wing.

''The portraits and ghosts are perfectly capable of watching me,'' he dryly mentioned to the nurse. ''Goodnight, Madam.''

The Fat Lady was harder to convince. Even with the correct password, she argued about how he clearly wasn't student or staff – a fair assumption considering his inhuman looks - until the Headmaster passed down a message via a chain of portraits to let him in. It didn't improve Voldemort's mood any.

He'd only set foot in this tower once, when accompanying Headmaster Dippet to confront Hagrid, as Voldemort had been the main witness of the 'monster' the half-giant had hidden in the school. It looked hardly different than fifty years ago, though the absence of the clutter students tended to leave lying around gave a much cleaner impression. He did not dawdle in the common room for long, feet carrying him up the dorms until he halted at the one with a plaque that said 'fifth years'. It wasn't technically correct anymore, but the plaques were only changed around on the morning of the first of September.

Five beds greeted him and it was immediately clear which belonged to Harry: only two beds still had trunks deposited at the end despite it being the summer holidays, and although the trunks both looked worn, only one had clearly seen the hands of several previous brothers.

He wondered…

Kneeling down and flipping open the trunk, he searched for one item in particular, taking a far too heavy sock out and letting the contents fall into his open palm. The pocket sneakoscope buzzed faintly yet did not start its loud whistling. Voldemort took it as a confirmation that its owner did not mind his intentions, then.

There were many other interesting items in the trunk which he inspected, one item in particular which Harry would want returned above all else that had not yet been transported home. Voldemort pulled the Firebolt out from under clothes and books, unable to figure out what was so special about it. Well, he'd never been a broom enthusiast. Having learned to fly with accidental magic, he'd never seen a need for the uncomfortable wooden devices. Putting everything back in the trunk for easier carrying, he decided to take the entire trunk with him upon leaving Hogwarts when done with the ward inspection.

As a last evening routine, Voldemort withdrew the onyx scrying scale he carried everywhere when having no access to spies. He'd not managed to bind many places to this new one yet, but it was reassuring to have a window into the outside world. Pouring his last reserves into the scale, he checked on homes of enemies and allies alike, content when finding nothing damning. The only off image was of the Leaky Cauldron, the establishment that was usually busy until the early morning being hauntingly empty. He'd have to keep in mind to follow up on the reason why.

Voldemort undressed and got comfortable on the bed, pressing his flat nose in the pillow that even after months held faint traces of his partner's smell. Inhaling deeply, he was glad for his decision. There was no corner of Hogwarts where he'd rather spend the night than here.

---

''You don't happen to be fluent in Gobbledegook so we can avoid loudly stating what vault we need in English?'' Evan asked, eyes shooting back and forth between the many customers and the goblins working at their high desks. Barty sighed and grabbed the kid's shoulder.

''Don't be so twitchy,'' he chuckled. ''You're going to pull more attention like this. Blend into the crowd, act like everyone else. Most people will avoid eye-contact with strangers while shopping, so unless you're acting suspicious, all of this is completely fine. Learnt that from Black, he told me all about how he swaggered straight into the bank with no-one the wiser. There were wanted posters of him all over Diagon.'' Black's wild stories and many a visit to Muggle bars or shopping districts had given Barty great boosts of confidence. Being taught tricks by one of the most famous wild cards of their time at Hogwarts felt a bit like meeting a celebrity at times.

Kind of ironic, considering whom he was at Gringotts with today.

''Why am I more nervous for this than waltzing into the Ministry?''

Evan needed to have the most obvious truths in the world spelled out for him sometimes… Clawing his way up to becoming one of the most powerful wizards of their time hadn't cured that persistent obliviousness. ''Our Lord isn't here,'' Barty pointed out, giving Evan a sympathetic look when tired eyes were rubbed behind round glasses.

Maybe Ginevra should have stayed with them for a bit longer, the presence of Evan's friends usually did wonders in easing the teen's mood. She'd been rather in a hurry though, claiming her brothers had already missed her for far too long. Ginevra had even shrugged off the offer of being accompanied to Knockturn, slipping into the crowd instead. Barty didn't think letting an underage Traced student run into it such an area was a sound idea, but Evan had not seemed concerned for her safety at all, claiming anyone who'd dare look at the girl funny would be the unlucky one…

The teen sighed and rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension. ''Yeah, that must be it. Strange he has such a calming effect, isn't it? Considering his reputation… I wonder how he's being received at Hogwarts, I don't trust Snape not to give away just how much of our story is fabricated. He may seem stone-faced at times but can absolutely blow up or become frazzled when things don't go his way.''

''I don't particularly like the man, but trust him to be capable in any given task.''

''Only because your Lord does,'' Evan muttered underneath his breath.

''What was that?''

''Nothing.'' The slight grin clashed with the answer so much that Barty was about to scold the kid on learning some sneakier comebacks. Then again, if the Malfoys and his Lord hadn't taught Evan this, no-one would.

Or maybe he simply didn't care for it.

When it was their turn at last, Evan simply held up the key for the banker to inspect, a good strategy to cut the duration they could catch anyone's attention short and be considered polite towards the goblin's time. Customer service was a minimal part of their job that understandably, none actually wished to spend much time doing.

''Found the lost key, then?'' the goblin asked, plucking it out of Evan's hands. ''Good. Wizards are far too careless. A key is crafted the same as a crown.'' Needle-sharp teeth were revealed when thin lips curled back.

''It was only lost because my parents put protective spells over the key so no burglars would discover it,'' the other protested.

Cursing softly when seeing coal eyes glitter dangerously, Barty put a hand on the hot-headed teen's shoulder and a strained smile on his own face. ''No need to cause a scene,'' he warned. ''What's important is that you have it now, right? Right.''

Disastrous quarrel avoided – Barty patted himself on the back for his hard-won social skills as if they hadn't all been gained in the past couple months to avoid further fistfights with Black – they progressed to their goal with dizzying speed.

Truth be told, for all his earlier bravado, Barty too could breathe easier when it was just the two of them in a secure vault. Wearing his own face in public made him antsy ever since that disaster in Greece his Lord had had to clean up after and for which he'd believed he would be exiled… To calm down, Barty rolled up his left sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark as soon as any prying eyes were gone and lightly stroked the silver tattoo. He was in two minds about wishing it would grow hot. It would mean trouble, but also allow him to return to the Dark Lord's side faster.

''Am I such bad company?'' Evan asked. The grin wasn't as genuine now, more a grimace to cover up underlying hurt the kid probably wasn't even aware of.

''Course not, but you can't tell me you wouldn't rather be with Him than down here with me either,'' he retorted in hopes of putting his own wish in a relatable perspective.

''Point taken. Although it's been a while since we really had time to catch up. Without a bunch of other people listening in anyways. I miss our frequent kitchen talks.''

''What, you mean when I tried to explain why keeping you imprisoned with us was better than the alternative?''

Evan barked out a laugh that he must have subconsciously copied from his godfather. ''I have to admit it was effective, though highly questionable in hindsight. I don't know, maybe I'm feeling a bit nostalgic today because we're in my family vault…'' the teen trailed off, aimlessly wandering through the large room. It was as cozily messy as one would expect from a family of which its members had mainly been lions. Piles of furniture precariously balanced with help of ancient spells, mismatched cabinets likely held a hundred and one trinkets each, stacks of books had been shoved to the walls on all sides… it would take hours to effectively sort out, if not the entire day.

''Take care not to idealise the past,'' Barty advised. ''Most of our talks took place to walk you through insecurities you no longer have. Whenever you were angry about the world, or hurt, or confused about your own feelings. It's a good thing that you became independent enough not to need me for that any longer. For 'therapy sessions' as you sometimes called them.'' The kid had done a lot of growing, no longer the scrawny boy with misguided accusations that had broken into Riddle house and been unable to kill his enemy, nor the person a summer later who hadn't known where to turn between the limelight of being a Triwizard Victor and the grit of being a servant of their Lord, swept away by heavy magic he didn't know whether to love or fear.

He was proud of who Evan had become, seeing the kid still retained all his good traits while also doing what was necessary to further their Lord's future without constantly being thrown back into guilt. As disastrous as the break-in and discovery in the Department of Mysteries had seemed at first, it had served as a catalyst to funnel support into Evan's life that he'd sorely needed to be at peace with himself, no longer conflicted after having convinced his best friends of the Dark Lord's ideals.

Which wasn't to say that Barty didn't worry about Evan's state of mind and magic at times, but it had lessened to a general caring where he was positive that the teen could clean up most of the messes he got in, or at least knew how to ask for the right kind of help instead of carelessly moving on as if nothing was wrong.

''You've just been pretty absent since becoming Voldemort's Right hand, that's all,'' Evan shrugged while opening the nearest drawer on impulse. ''Whenever we did spend any time together, either the Malfoys were there, or my friends, or Sirius, or literally hundreds of onlookers. I missed you.''

Hearing this spoken so directly from the heart was touching, and Barty had to swallow down a sudden lump in his throat. ''I'm here now,'' he offered, walking up to the desk to peek at the contents of the drawer as well – thick scrolls of preserved parchment that turned out to contain the Potter's secret potion recipes. ''I'm more than happy to catch up while we work instead of spending it in gloomy silence. Anything in particular that you-''

''-Are you actually looking forward to war?'' flew the instant first question, which caught Barty off guard so much that he looked up from the scroll to stare in bafflement at the pinched face of his little brother. ''It's just that… last time you looked as happy as you did in the past twenty-four hours was right after getting promoted. Not even Voldemort is pleased about all this, who usually loves any excuse to get violent.''

''The Dark Lord does not need to find excuses,'' he muttered out of habit while thinking on the actual answer to Evan's question. The short one was a very clear yes. The addition of the why much longer and incoherent than Barty liked. To keep his hands busy, the Death Eater went to the nearest pile of books to examine them one by one. It appeared the vault had been used for regular storage more than anything, for the latest generations of the Potters to dump anything they did not find interesting enough to keep at hand in their homes. Hardly anything to be found between 'The Mysteries of Udolpho' and all twelve Volumes of 'Owl Breeds' that warranted being kept locked away hundreds of feet beneath the earth.

''The first purpose I found in life was to serve the Dark Lord, you know this,'' he carefully started. ''In the middle of a war, it was obvious that servitude equalled becoming a soldier. So, that is what I strove to be. I spent my afternoons at Hogwarts learning curses and duelling, snuck out to get a taste of raids and see for myself what war was all about. I took to it quickly. I was good at being a soldier, Evan. Better than most. I prided myself in being effective whereas others were unnecessarily cruel or goaded our enemies. This is how I gained worth in the eyes of my Lord, the only person who'd ever seen me how I wished to be and fostered that. After spending my childhood and early teenage years feeling unsatisfied, I'd finally been given the tools and knowledge to make any sort of change. Yes, it went too far. Yes, I know some of the battles I fought turned out to be unjustified bloodshed, but I lived Evan. I was living and thriving… until in one single evening, it was all over.''

The news of his Lord's fall had been so devastating he'd not even resisted when the Aurors took him away. The entire arrest, detainment, and trial had been a blur with only a single thought running through his head: he was useless again, without purpose. He'd failed to protect his Lord. It was only in Azkaban that Barty had gained back hope when months passed and the Dark Mark did not fade completely out of existence. He'd likely not have gone along with his mothers' plan if he'd not clung onto that last sliver of hope. He would not have let her die uselessly, the only person who'd genuinely loved him unconditionally.

''There have been skirmishes again since His return of course. We hunted down those bastards who hurt our allies and children, but it was not… war. Hardly any fights where we were met with resistance. It's not death or bloodshed I revel in, not the result of war, it's the fighting itself that makes me feel as if I'm doing something right. I always wanted to return to being a soldier. Now, faced with an army of impossible enemies, I know I can finally play that part again. Well, once you and our Lord develop better weapons to fight them and I can protect myself and my fellow Death Eaters enough by learning the Patronus charm,'' he added with a chuckle. ''Won't be of much use until I can get that one down, but you've given me hope that it's possible.''

''I did?'' Evan had not continued his search of the vault, having listened attentively while leaning against the desk they'd found the potion recipes in.

''It wasn't on the Hogwarts curriculum, nor part of the Dark Lord's training. From what I read, the Patronus is an obscure, highly advanced charm that is challenging to learn. I only became interested in this spell when our Lord let me read his own book on classification and I discovered it is dark magic when properly applied, but that was barely two months before His death and He'd made clear to having no time to teach me. I heard many of the members of your Defence Association got this charm down in only a couple of sessions, though. That must mean you have found a surefire way of teaching it.''

A laugh slipped from Evan's lips. ''No time to teach you?'' he asked with amusement. ''Merlin, he was always disinclined to show any spot of weakness, wasn't he?''

''What do you mean?''

The teen pulls a slightly guilty face. ''You know he had trouble with emotions, especially positive ones,'' he hints. ''The Patronus needs a memory of true happiness to work.''

It appeared Evan was suggesting that the Dark Lord could not cast this spell. Preposterous. ''I have seen His Phoenix,'' he defended his father's skills. ''Everyone did! There is no magic He cannot master.''

''I said he had trouble with it. You're right: I did find a surefire way of teaching it, which is called 'believing enough in others that they start to believe in themselves'.''

It was as if Barty had been struck by lightning. ''You taught our Lord how to cast this spell? When?''

''Litha, after the shared celebration.''

A month ago? His Lord had only been able to conjure a Patronus for a single month before using it to combat a whole flock of Dementors and shield Barty's brothers and sisters who'd escaped Azkaban? His respect for his Lord grew to even greater heights. The confidence with which the man had commanded the soaring animal guardian…

''Will you teach me as well?''

''I'd be glad to. It's the very least I can do after you taught me half of my duelling repertoire.''

Excited at the prospect of being a step closer to his goal of effectively fighting the Dementors, Barty went on to explain the second half of the happiness that had settled in every fibre of his being since yesterday. ''Aside from my own personal reasons, I'm equally thrilled for all the Death Eaters who've suffered years in Azkaban to have joined us again.''

Doubtful, Evan asked: ''All of them? I was under the assumption that some of them are… well.''

''Horrible people?'' Barty asked, arching an eyebrow as he cast yet another book aside. ''Thriving on hunting Muggles, inflicting pain and spreading ideas of inequality? You have devoted yourself to a man who did the same for most of his life, who dug out exactly these qualities in the people He deemed to surround Himself with.''

Evan bristled, very typically folding his arms into a defensive position. ''He tried to fight his own urges! Whereas you told me the Lestranges did not stop their pointless torture even when you begged them to!''

Barty impatiently slammed the next book close. He might not like all of his colleague's actions, but for those who had shown the extent of their loyalty included a life of suffering, he'd stick his neck out in a heartbeat. ''The Death Eaters are what the Dark Lord made them and, like me, are proud of that. Like me, they will adapt now He has different needs of them. Every single person who rather sacrificed their sanity than denounced His name will follow in our Lord's footsteps regardless of where He leads us.''

As the only true kindred spirits Barty knew, they would be compelled to like he had been. Did Hexon Travers have a cruel streak and liked collecting pieces from his victims? Maybe. Would Rodolphus Lestrange benefit from anger management therapy? Undoubtedly. Yet they all shared the same unquestioning commitment to Dark Lord Voldemort, who'd lifted them from the sludge of mundanity and gifted them greatness beyond measure. Bellatrix had already proven she would cast any belief she'd ever held aside if it would please their Lord.

Black would disagree, he briefly worried. The rumbunctious Gryffindor even now held such rigid ideas of what was right and wrong. Black's dislike for his own family would not make this transition any easier… Perhaps it was good that he and Lupin had found something useful to do that did not involve crossing paths with Bellatrix and Narcissa for a while.

Before Barty's brain could follow all the ways his friend could create problems in this uncertain future, Evan had found another way of countering Barty's argument.

''You sound so certain of that. With these people, my main worry is not them turning tail because Voldemort is steering us all in a more peaceful direction. It is because I'm not aware of how much they know. Has he told them of his past? His blood? Of Pureblood-propaganda being no more than a sheen of lies Voldemort used to influence the masses? Regulus was an inner-circle Death Eater of your generation. He loved Voldemort, was as devoted as anything, until finding out his Lord was a Half-blood. Or 'Muggle-born' as the Blacks apparently classify it as when you have even a single Muggle relative. Will Bellatrix Black also spiral into crazed grief when realising her 'God' had a Muggle father?''

A sounder argumentation that he'd expected, although Evan clearly did not have all the facts. ''Bellatrix was his apprentice longer than Regulus was. Has a less naïve head on her shoulders too. Yes, she knows. I'm confident that the majority of them know.''

''The majority,'' the other flatly replied. ''Isn't good enough.'' Anger burned equally in green eyes and balled fists that trembled at his side. It was the same anger Barty had felt when hearing of the damage traitors had done, from Rosier to Karkaroff. Trusting his Lord's judgement about Severus Snape also did not mean Barty couldn't hate the man's guts for ever thinking of betrayal.

Evan's protectiveness over their Lord was touching, if unnecessary.

''He is more careful than I would be. Last night, I witnessed the Dark Lord altering everyone's Marks. You know what it did to Wormtail and Rosier. He assured me that after having perfected the spell, none of them will get as far with revealing information to the enemy as those two did.'' Finished with the first pile, Barty once more crossed the distance between them and hugged Evan tightly, who protested only minimally before accepting the embrace and returning it twofold. ''I get your worry, I care for him too. But he is a Lord of Magic. The only one He occasionally needs protecting from is Himself, and I have it on good authority that you've already been a massive help in that department. Speaking of which… may I ask how you and Him are doing? Everything alright?''

''A bit more than alright,'' Evan answered, unable to hide a quick flash of a roguish smirk and a faint darkening of his cheeks. ''After all-'' he cut himself off, eyeing Barty. ''Err, have you and Voldemort had any time in private to talk since the birthday party?''

Instantly on guard, he said: ''Not really… should I be worried?''

''Not on our accounts, I'd actually rather you don't. Well, I already tackled Sirius and one of you is more than enough, so I'll generously delegate your question to Voldemort.''

How unsubtle. Adding their overnight trip abroad, the way they'd talked at the birthday party and the fact that Evan had turned sixteen, it wasn't overly difficult to guess what the teen meant now. Barty did not feel wholly comfortable about it, having a nagging feel of apprehension in his stomach, but his Lord had made abundantly clear that further interference was unwelcome. His own thoughts on boundaries aside, both people involved seemed happy. Maybe Barty had been wrong to worry so about the pace they were going at this.

''I'm glad to hear you're doing well,'' he thus only said. ''If you do need any advice, you know where to find me.''

''Appreciated, but Voldemort and I have sorted through most of our issues and I'm confident we can keep doing so with enough communication.''

Evan finally relaxed enough to concentrate on doing what they had come for, in a much better mood as he opened cabinets and flipped through letters. The topics became lighter, from cooking tips to planning outings once 'all this was over'.

While Evan struggled with some heavy dress robes that had gone out of fashion three centuries ago, Barty recounted funny tales about some of his fellow Death Eaters when they'd been students at Hogwarts still – most of those hearsay due to age differences, like when Dolohov (desperately trying and failing to unleash Slytherin's monster as he could not find the famed Chamber of Secrets) ended up being caught trying to hatch his very own Basilisk, unfortunately using a duck egg and a frog. Old Slughorn had let Dolohov off the hook instead of taking it up with the Headmaster, but it had remained a tale of much amusement for years of Slytherins to come. The most astonishing part of it was Dolohov apparently guessing the monster correctly in the end.

''I should probably not mention to him that I killed the real Basilisk.''

''Yeah, don't think that would warm you up to him. Not that you'd get very far in your explanation, he gets very defensive when anyone mentions Basilisks near him.''

As the hours passed, only a few useful trinkets popped up, from an impressive collection of foe detectors that rivalled Alastor Moody's to a set of enchanted ivory knives that were only dull to the wearer and cut through everything else like butter. Evan was fascinated by a few old portraits of his ancestors that had been stowed away in the back until realising they'd been hidden down here because their ego was more bloated than Gilderoy Lockhart's, each one shouting louder than the next about all of their achievements until a spell silenced all four.

''This one just contains a bunch of old jewellery,'' Evan sighed after opening the last drawer, holding up chokers and earrings of glittering gold and ruby. ''Maybe I'll gift it to Draco.''

That was certainly an eyebrow-raising statement. ''The young Malfoy? He may be your family, but I'm not quite sure how well our Lord will receive the news of you gifting jewellery to young men.''

A fair amount of embarrassed choking followed. ''Not to wear!'' Evan exclaimed. ''Draco is very gifted when it comes to crafting jewellery and mentioned he sometimes lacks the material. His parents don't approve of this hobby, especially not after he carefully let shine through he'd like to make it his career. I find it a shame that he cannot hone his talents in a direction his heart pulls him in. Draco will make a terrible politician.''

Barty wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. Successful politicians had to be charming, brutal or command respect with their mere presence. Lucius' and Narcissa's son did not possess any of those traits in spades, having but a mediocre grasp on all three. Tinkering away with precious gemstones and using a critical eye for details in fashion would suit the boy far better. ''Don't let the Malfoys catch your silent support,'' he advised, holding open the bag he'd brought to take any items of value back to the surface.

''Thanks, I won't. How far are you with those books?''

''Only halfway,'' he yawned. ''Most covers are not incredibly revealing, so I'm skimming the table of contents for each one. Maybe we should take a break?'' His stomach had been rumbling for a while already, so when Evan agreed, they put some chairs and a table upright for a late lunch. ''Ta-daa,'' he spoke, proudly pulling a few glass containers out of his satchel. ''I did my best to make something edible that is more filling than a regular salad. Rice salad! Exotic, isn't it?''

With anticipation, he waited for the master cook's judgement. Evan's face remained doubtful as he took a few bites of the charred rice. ''It tastes like darkness, very on-brand. I could swear I taught you to follow package instructions on rice two years ago.''

''The recipe I found specifically mentioned 'black rice'!'' Barty defended, although when tasting the dish – which he hadn't done while cooking – he had to admit it was unpleasantly crunchy and reminded of charcoal.

The other supressed a snort. ''That's a different type of rice, Barty. Where did you even find a recipe with that ingredient? I've only seen it in specialty markets.''

''I wanted to try something different and there is this Chinese potion master who also writes cookbooks…''

Their lunch ended up being cut short after it was determined the food was a health hazard, but as Evan hadn't thought to pack anything for the day, they were both deemed to be as much at fault as the other. Unfortunately, Gringotts had burglary measures in place that prevented House-Elves from entering and which made it impossible to quickly apparate back and forth to Diagon Alley.

''It doesn't seem my family has any secret weapons against Dementors in here, so let's just get through the rest of the books together and leave it at that,'' Evan decided. ''I gathered most items with emotional value. Found a bunch of letters and photographs I'll sort through at home.''

Barty's hope of getting lunch quickly died with the third book he picked up, however. Between all the harmless books and specifically defensive magical items they'd found, he could not imagine which Potter had owned a book with Grindelwald's mark featured prominently on its cover.

It was coloured oddly, the triangle a glowing red whereas the circle and line were black. It exuded an air of mystery, and when he moved to open it, something stopped his hand an inch away. A nagging – imagined? magical? instinctive? – whisper in the back of his mind told Barty to better not open it. The strong urge to chuck it away rose inside of his stomach and flipped it upside down.

''Hey Evan? Have a look at this…''

Dropping the tome he'd been flipping through, the teen came over and peeked at the strange book. ''What's that? I don't recognise the symbol.''

''It's Grindewald's.''

''Grindelwald? Were any of my family members supporters?'' Evan asked, carefully taking the book to study the engraved lines. Finally, the Death Eater felt the rising panic subside, clasping his hands behind his back to suppress their trembling.

''Absolutely not. Besides, unlike our Lord's Dark Mark, his was more of a… private symbol. Not well known in Britain. I only know of it because my Lord shared his research on his most prominent enemies with me, including on Albus Dumbledore, who hid this same sign in his signature for a while. An investigation quickly turned up answers about it being the same symbol Grindelwald had carved into the wall at Durmstrang before being expelled. It's how we found out about the risqué connection between the two that was hidden from the public. What's most odd about this thing, however, is that it looks ancient. Far older than the past century.''

Whatever magic had compelled Barty to let go of the book didn't appear to apply to Evan, who carelessly opened it. It must have protective spells on it to prevent those without the Potter name or proper bloodline from holding onto it, then.

''It's blank,'' Evan quickly concluded, flipping through the entire thing. Instead of disappointment or dismissiveness showing however, his face held a glow of excitement. ''Last time I encountered a mysterious empty book with a connection to a prominent dark wizard, it turned out to hold a piece of his soul. Whatever this thing truly contains must be important. Voldemort will know what to do with it.''

The rest of the stack held nothing as exciting as the single blank tome they'd found. All other valuables taken up to the surface were sacks full of Galleons, which the Potter vault had also contained more than its fair share of, stowed away in chests that appeared endless. ''War funds'' Evan shrugged off his question why they were moving what could have sufficed as a dragon hoard. ''Can't hurt to have money on hand, it won't do much good in here. Who knows when we'll have the opportunity to risk a visit to Gringotts again.''

The answer turned out to be 'longer than either of them expected', for when their cart reached the surface and their driver delegated them back into the main hallway, it was not just empty, but deserted. What should have been a bustling house before closing time looked more like midnight after bankruptcy, gemstones carelessly strewn across the floor and the white marble tiles marked with black traces of spellfire.

''What happened here?'' the Goblin cried out in shock, reaching for his belt to reveal a hidden wand that he definitely shouldn't be possessing. Barty figured they had larger problems at hand than the revelation some Goblins conceal-carried wands, if the state of Gringotts was anything to go by. He took a few steps forward to inspect the burn mark, when freezing in his tracks. He'd felt something sickeningly familiar, a drift of cold air that reached too deep inside of his chest.

''Evan-'' he whispered, eyes trained on the doors at the very end of the long hallway. One of them was slightly ajar.

''I can feel them too,'' his brother-in-arms whispered back. ''Stay behind me. Hey, you. What's your name?''

''Gornuk. Can we leave further pleasantries for later?'' the goblin snarled, tense as he too eyed the large doors.

''Gornuk, can we disapparate from here?''

He quickly shook his head. ''No. Nowhere in the building. Can't trust wizardfolk not to pop in and out behind one of our bank tellers.''

A fair concern. Petty thieves who hunted for scraps in Knockturn wouldn't have left such an easy way to make money untested.

''Okay… okay. Barty, do you know what shield Voldemort used to temporarily protect the mouths of his other followers when the Dementors descended upon them yesterday?''

''Yes, but once a Dementor concentrates on you, that protection can be ripped through in seconds. Regular shields are incredibly ineffective against them,'' he warned.

''Then we'll have to make sure they don't concentrate on you any longer than you need to get both foots on the doorstep and apparate away.''

Somehow, Barty got the horrible feeling of being dragged in the middle of a 'Potter adventure'. From everything his Lord, Sirius and Ronald had said about those, that meant a hint of a plan unlikely to work when put into practise, much careless improvisation and very bad chances. At least there always was more luck involved than should be humanly possible. Nonetheless, he tried to come up with escape routes that at least sounded feasible before leaving this in Harry's hands. ''Can you call a Patronus to protect us until that point?''

''They have it specifically out for me, I'd rather not pull their attention with a Patronus. I've warded off enough of them in my life that they're likely to recognise the shape of my guardian.''

''And hiding from them or killing them? You brought your cloak, didn't you?''

Evidently, his panicked voice echoed too loudly, for Evan put a finger to his lips, expression one of pure concentration as he gazed at the doors. ''If the cloak can't hide me from cats, I don't think it makes me invisible to Dementors. I also promised Voldemort not to take risks with death magic again. Killing them will be a last resort as we have not had a chance for further experiments. Please, trust me and cast those shields. Then, as soon as I give you a signal, run to the entrance and apparate home, I'll catch up.''

''Evan!'' Barty hissed, but the teen had already dropped his backpack at Barty's feet and was striding towards one of the high desks with determined steps. Drawing his wand to cast the requested shield on Evan was all he could do before casting it on himself, then the goblin. ''And now what sig-'' he asked when turning back, blinking as the teen had disappeared.

Catching movement above, he looked up, seeing a large bat had taken off from the direction of the desk, parchment fluttering to the ground from the air displaced by furiously beating wings. Dementors couldn't sense animals very well, Barty realised, having heard Black's stories of how he'd kept sane and escaped. They would be able to tell something was there, a disturbance, without realising that something was human.

A loud screech sounded when Evan reached the doors and masterfully angled his trembling wings so he soared diagonally through the crack. Barty grabbed the bags and started running, urging the goblin to keep up. They had their own form of apparition, didn't they? Like House-elves? He wasn't entirely sure in this moment, caring more about getting himself to safety. It didn't feel as if he were running in the right direction for that as the cold intensified and pressed on his lungs. Blasted Gryffindor, rushing headfirst into one of the few situations in which the Death Eater could offer no protection. Getting his own soul sucked out wouldn't help one iota if Evan became their target.

He pushed the door open further with difficulty, breath catching at the sight.

Over a dozen Dementors were gliding through the street that ordinarily formed the bustling heart of Wizarding Britain. It was devoid of life now apart from the soulless bodies of a handful of witches and wizards who'd been unlucky enough to not get away fast enough. They stared into nothingness with dazed eyes and empty faces.

Another screech, and Barty noticed the Dementors were not moving aimlessly, circling towards the source of the noise while blindly mowing claws through the air.

Not all had been fooled, though, or maybe Barty was exceptionally unfortunate, for barely a couple of yards away was a lone Dementor who now appeared to look straight at him. The hood made it difficult to say for sure.

''Disapparate man, disapparate!'' the goblin urged, and Barty realised Gornok was clinging to his robes.

As the Dementor sped up and swooped down towards them, he could not spend a precious second worrying about that, throwing a last look at Evan, who was climbing higher and higher with a trail of confused Dementors following slowly as if they weren't sure what to do with the bat.

Barty disapparated.

His Lord was going to strangle him.

---

Harry found himself strangely surrounded by impermeable darkness.

There'd been Dementors chasing him - so much larger and more frightening to Harry's Animagus form - until his wings had been so heavy with weariness and beating rain that he'd looked for a chance to escape more permanently. In their hesitance over why his aura felt so strange, he'd managed to create enough distance to briefly transform back and wish to be home. The hisses of betrayed Dementors had rang into his ears longer than the loud crack of apparition that had echoed over the rolling hills to the village of Little Hangleton.

He'd thought to have reached safety at last, welcomed into the light by a frazzled Barty, who'd spent the evening arguing with an even more frazzled Gornok who'd refused to leave and writing letters while the teen studied the odd book they'd found to distract himself from the waiting. Waiting for Ron, for Sirius, for Voldemort… None of them had returned.

And now he was… where?

''Hello?'' he asked, then cringed at his own choice of words. What was he, the side character of a horror film who died in the first scene by drawing out the killer by mindlessly calling out? It came out strangely muffled, as if the shadowy darkness that surrounded Harry from all sides absorbed them the instant they left his mouth.

''Evan?''

Oh. So there was a killer. Nevertheless, Harry's heart stopped its nervous beating to irregularly flutter instead. Voldemort's sharp voice had been unmistakable, and without a moment's hesitation, the Gryffindor started making his way over to the direction from which it came. He didn't get very far, a pained grunt knocked from his lips when he rammed into something large and square that was about the height of his stomach.

''Can you make light?'' he asked, fruitlessly feeling around for his own wand. Neither Holly nor Elder was to be found. ''Voldemort?'' he added when receiving no reaction for a few long seconds.

''I hadn't imagined we could dream this way again.''

A dream? That would explain the part of forgetting how he'd ended up here… The sofa in the drawing room from which he'd watched Barty work and kept an extra eye on their guest had been rather comfortable. Last Harry could recall, the clock had been nearing midnight.

''I'm not complaining,'' he shrugged, ''Though that might change if you let me stumble blind for much longer.'' With this being a dream, magic was technically not a necessity, but he had a feeling it was Voldemort's and didn't wish to intrude more by suddenly flooding the room with light on his own after already having asked his partner.

Dim, floating orbs started glowing from all sides, causing a spectacular view of moving light and shadow that might not be entirely realistic. The blue glow reflected off a set of glass boxes that had been neatly arranged in the room, each placed on a low, black pedestal. It was one of those containers that he'd ran into, and when Harry curiously peered down at it, he saw that in its centre sat a silver-and-sapphire diadem he'd held once, years ago. Back when the item's exact importance hadn't been revealed to Harry yet.

He tore his eyes away from glittering gemstones to appreciate the most beautiful form the light revealed. Ivory skin glowed, light reflecting off patches of scales on exposed collarbones and hollow cheeks. Slitted eyes that had completely bled red held a typical possessive glint as Voldemort glided through the room, towards him. A dream indeed. Harry speculated whether he could ever find a spell or ritual for his partner that would allow the man to alter his body further in waking life, craft it into what Voldemort seemed to view as his perfect form.

The man moved like one of the shadows until he embraced Harry, long sleeves almost swallowing the teen. Sighing contently, Harry allowed himself a brief moment of peace, of just being and enjoying the feel of Voldemort's arms. He tried to school his expression a bit when looking up to not show just how much like a lovesick puppy he felt, being held like this after hours of separation.

He felt a bit bad for doing so when noticing Voldemort hid nothing, obvious adoration on full display in the soft smile and gaze that looked so very odd on a face that was even less human than usual.

Cracking a smile of his own, Harry nosed the angular jawline and kissed his way upwards until he was rewarded with an impatient grabbing of his neck and being drawn into a needy, deep kiss. It was the first one they'd shared in a dream, he realised when an unfamiliar forked tongue caressed his own.

To not think too much about just how much that had turned him on, Harry withdrew an inch and asked: ''Where are we?''

The obvious answer was 'The hiding spot of your Horcruxes', but that wasn't what he wanted to know. As far as he'd been told, Voldemort kept them all close by his side, and yet Harry had never seen such a room in Riddle House. Then again, he'd never stumbled across the pieces of soul despite having free reign and taking up the responsibility of much of the manual labour that needed to be done in the house… a strange insight to have after living there for months.

''In a memory you plucked from my mind, it appears. But why this, why now…''

''We're in my dream?'' Letting the fact that Voldemort had avoided truly answering the question slide for now, he looked around once more to find the flaws that were a signature for his own. In the illuminating light of the orbs, the walls seemed perfect. So did the single window – that held brickwork instead of glass, only the outline of it visible. Harry suspected this was a fault of the location itself and not his image of it. When he shifted his view upwards though, Harry realised that the ceiling still being black had nothing to do with a poor choice in paint colour. Both ceiling and floor appeared to stretch on into an endless void. Definitely his dream.

''A memory of yours, you say? Like the time I dreamed of the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries?'' he muttered into Voldemort's robes, refusing to let go just yet.

''Indeed. Considering the significance of that location, I have a feeling this is no mere coincidence either. Your subconsciousness may be playing tricks on us both to figure out. Moreso because I have warded this place specifically to be unnoticeable to such a degree that no-one would ever think of searching for it. Including you and Nagini.'' At Harry's inquiring look, he at last divulged: ''We're home. Do forgive me for not pressing to include this room in your little house tour when Dumbledore visited.''

''You have a hidden room in the house?'' The window being barred made more sense now. As well as that the walls appeared to hold no door.

''Naturally, I did not wish any of my visitors to stumble across my most precious possessions. Having you and Nagini running around is already a great risk. There'd have been little use to taking my Horcruxes from their well-guarded hiding spots across the country if I'd stow them in the drawer of my desk, don't you think? To sate your curiosity, this hideaway is located beyond the potion storages. Illusion and Confundus charms complete the protective spellwork, making it so no-one doubts the fact that the remaining rooms on the left side of the house are not large enough to cover all you can see from the outside.''

''Life with you is never without surprises, is it?'' Harry commented, extracting himself from the embrace at last in favour of inspecting the glass box in front of him more closely. Which one of the boxes contained the Locket, he wondered… though as this was a dream of Voldemort's memory, it'd probably not be 'his' Locket, would it? Would it still contain memories of their shared time at Hogwarts or the depth of its betrayal?

Voldemort's lips spread into a smirk, a rather strange sight on the face he wore in dreams, slitted pupils widened slightly. ''Because your life is so incredibly mundane. Does catching legendary swords and wands count towards your daily routine?''

Touché, he supposed, feeling no need to voice that. His partner was already smug enough. Harry sauntered away, unable to contain his curiosity as he wandered from one glass case to the next. What a strange thought, that each of these unfeeling items contained a sliver of soul. Macabre and fascinating both, this exhibition of the Dark Lord's parts. His partner being... divided had always been a rather abstract concept even when Harry had interacted with some of the other Horcruxes. To see so many gathered in what resembled a trophy room, locked away, was something else entirely…

Harry imagined himself displayed in one of those glass containers, pinned in place and isolated from the rest of the world to be protected. Preserved.

''How is Hogwarts?'' he asked to distract from those intrusive thoughts. ''Are the wards truly unbreachable for Dementors?''

''Had I completed my analysis, I'd have returned to your side already, darling. After barely scratching the surface, it looks… promising, that is as far as my assessment has gone. Remaining within the school tonight serves the purpose of deepening my connection to the castle's inherent magic to the degree I once had as a student. The attitude of the staff towards my presence is less than ideal to convince Hogwarts of my noble intentions. Had Severus not been Headmaster, I wouldn't have been able to cross the gates. Even now, a web of spells meant to detect intruders unpleasantly palpates my skin at all times.''

Harry relaxed, even as he finally found the Locket and pensively gazed down on the deceptively innocent little thing. He got the feeling that something unnameable tugged at his own soul. A memory?

It'd been far too long since they'd interacted like this. Just the two of them, unhurried by either more pressing matters or their flaring desire to be close. As fond as Harry was of their mental link and how their very energy sparked when close, it had been a great distraction recently. The weeks had been filled with tasks, training, social meetings or – when they did find time alone – the encompassing pull that left little room for coherent thought. Talks and teaching had been put on a such a low flame that he could hardly recall the last time they'd simply discussed magic.

Now, he finally had that opportunity once more, even when it was unclear when dawn would force them apart. ''How do the wards of Hogwarts work?'' he inquired. ''I never really grasped this 'protection'. On one hand, you were able to get in on the back of Quirrel's head, my godfather whom everyone thought was a wanted murderer could bypass the wards as a dog, and Barty by disguising himself as someone else. Not to even mention all the guests at the Triwizard Tournament. I'd have not believed there to be any wards if not for the fact that you mentioned once that you weren't able to enter the castle in general – including by sneaking through the tunnels.''

''Ah, now you are asking the right questions… The answers to which I'll be glad to give after you divulge to me whether your efforts of today paid off.''

Harry fidgeted, not truly wishing to talk about his day. Not when Voldemort was in reality still far away in Scotland. As much as he'd love to find excuses to call his partner back home with depressing news of Dementors and the mystery surrounding the blank book with Grindelwald's sign, the Dark Lord had left for an important reason.

He knew very well that for all Voldemort's cleverness, the man could be impulsive, following current whims. He'd shown so when locking himself in for days to chase down Nagini at expense of his own magic, as well as when he'd let all else drop at two lines of a Prophecy… Gaining more emotions had not helped in that specific department either. Should he lie? Or prattle on about the unimportant bits of the day like finding bragging portraits and old necklaces?

''Evan, your silence is more telling than if you were to placate me with empty words. Don't bother hiding. What happened?''

Voldemort left no room for protest, shifting closer once more so they were pressed chest-to-back, both looking down on the seemingly innocent Locket on display.

''Diagon Alley was attacked by Dementors,'' he confessed. ''I saw at least four mages who had had their souls sucked out and that was only in the direct vicinity of Gringotts. It's begun.''

''Did they recognise you?''

''I'm not sure. Not at first, I showed myself to them in my Animagus form as a distraction, so Barty had an opportunity to get out unnoticed. I didn't know in which direction to fly to get home though, and needed to transform back to disapparate. Whether the ones following me got more aggressive when realising I was a mage or specifically because it was me, I can't say.''

Voldemort hissed sharply. ''You disapparated? Without any adults around?''

''Being Traced is your main concern? I'd think the Ministry has more important business to take care off than their only 'weapon' against Dementors using underage magic in the middle of nowhere. I know it's not going to look good on my case file, but what else was I supposed to do? Hope the Knight bus would get there before the Dementors absolutely realised they'd been chasing the very wizard they've been wanting to get their claws on? Should I have tried to activate my Portkey to you, knowing very well you're behind wards I'd smash into at the attempt?'' he snapped. ''How I got out of there isn't the important bit. The Dementors attacked the heart of magical Britain! I don't know whom they all caught. Heck, Ginny went to Knockturn on her own in the morning and I have no idea if she's alright!''

Guilt gnawed at him as the words left him. When had the Dementors started their assault? Diagon had been completely deserted already. That Harry had spent hours underground didn't mean anything. It might have happened the moment he'd stepped into the cart that brought them to the Potter vault…

''None of your Weasleys are in mortal peril.''

Disbelievingly, Harry arched an eyebrow. ''And you would know that how?''

''When we installed monitoring spells on the Burrow to check the movements of Arthur and Molly Weasley, I took the liberty of linking the mirror in their living room to my scrying device. From it, one can see that nifty clock of theirs. None of the handles were pointed at mortal danger before I fell asleep. When someone's soul is removed, the person will lose all sense of purpose to go through the necessities of staying alive and die quickly as a result without the aid of others.''

That was not incredibly convincing. Ginny had gone to visit her brothers, surely they'd do everything in their power to keep her alive, soul or not. He decided against expressing those doubts, Voldemort had little empathy to give for worries about people he didn't deem worth caring about. It was far more startling that the Dark Lord wasn't raving about this set-back in context of his grander scheme.

''You don't seem so concerned about this attack.''

A hand came to rest atop his head, lazily burying itself into his hair. Was Voldemort trying to distract him? ''Darling, we knew the Dementors would make a move soon. It is hardly shocking that they went for the busiest shopping street to feast when the urgency of the situation did not yet permeate the minds of the masses. Not everyone believes the Prophet, and many more who do have protagonist syndrome and think such horrors will never affect them personally.''

As someone whom the horrors seemed to befall every year, Harry could not relate.

The man continued, still in the same calm tone: ''Allowing myself to be agitated at this news will do nothing but disrupt precious concentration. There is nothing to be done besides the measures we took already. I feel a discussion about it is thus not productive either, especially as the Dementors did not negatively affect you in the end. Was your risky escape worth the effort, at least? Did your family vault hold anything of worth?''

''Gifting me the key was valuable, yes,'' he answered, knowing that was what Voldemort was most interested in hearing. ''Almost as valuable as the key to your heart.''

A barely audible scoff sounded. ''I never gave you a key, you broke in and refused to leave. Your findings?''

Not in the mood for flirting, then? Perhaps Voldemort was more annoyed by the news than he let show. The relief of not being inevitably affected by their bond was quickly turning into frustration over the inability to read his partner's mood with nary a thought.

''Mostly old trinkets with defensive, light magic. If any of the Potters or their spouses dabbled in heavy magic, they didn't store it in there. The only thing that felt out of a place was a book with Grindelwald's symbol on the cover. That's what Barty identified it as anyways, though he said in the same breath that it looked much older than Grindelwald. It didn't have any contents, which piqued my interest more than the symbol itself. Your diary was blank as well. Although it didn't feel like a horcrux to me, there was something rather comforting about holding the book.''

''Grindelwald's symbol found in the Potter vault…'' Voldemort breathed, ''And your mind chose this room to show us both…?''

He moved in a flash, catching Harry's hand to drag him along towards a display case he'd not looked at yet. As it was placed in a shadowy corner, Harry could not instantly make out which Horcrux lay in its centre. It didn't help that he'd seen a couple of them only once.

When Voldemort placed his flat palm on top of the glass, it melted away, allowing him to pick up a small item that glinted black and gold. Taking a step back, he held it up to one of the orbs so its light would directly hit it. It was Voldemort's family ring, Harry realised. The one he'd seen in Dumbledore's memories a few times.

What he'd never noticed before were the lines carved into the black stone.

The same triangle, circle and line etched as on the leather cover of the book he'd fallen asleep over.