Perfect Hell, World's First Cinema
Talking shadows
Hearing whispers down the hall
I feel it creep in, hear it crawling through the wall
And I'm sleeping with the lights on
Just to feel like I am safe
Guilty conscience
I can't take this, anymore
Oh my God
Drag me back into hell
Oh my God
How am I gonna save myself?
Should have known that light can't save my life
Gonna find you chewin' on my bones
Oh my God
Living in a Perfect Hell
The Dark Lord didn't let Nagini soothe him for long. "He is fine. Leave him," he ordered as he exited the cell.
She let go and gave him sad eyes. Tom took her place in keeping his emotions under control.
'You are doing perfectly. Hold it together.'
'Keep it together?' Harry thought, nearly laughing at the absurdity.
Six Death Eaters entered the room, one after the other, one of them casting a Rennervate on Hagrid. He spluttered as he sat up, locked eyes on Harry, and was shocked all over again. He was shackled, his confusion making the job difficult for the Dark Lord's followers—he swatted them away like flies until someone had the sense to stun him still.
The scene was enough to snap him mostly, momentarily free of his guilt about Charlie. He kept his eyes averted to maintain his fragile mental state. He chose to believe that the Dark Lord had, for whatever reason, helped him.
This was further confirmed when they passed Lydia in the entrance foyer. She gave him a slightly raised eyebrow and then shot up the staircase once they'd cleared it. The Death Eaters, who had restrained Hagrid, led him behind them in chains and at wandpoint. The half-giant needed to go down the winding stairs sideways with his head ducked to fit.
There was a constant ringing in his ears, punctuating the war in his head.
'…Harry,' Tom purred in his head, nearly making him trip over his feet. 'Put the guilt aside and tell me how that felt.'
He could hardly inhale as the Dark Lord threw the doors open with magic. A few of the Death Eaters joined their procession, following them through the courtyard and down the stairs into the fog, guided by the silverly ball of light that Voldemort re-summoned.
Hagrid sobbed all the while, chains clicking together behind Harry. He frowned and gnawed his tongue, pointedly ignoring Tom's command and how it had felt, far too uncomfortable with who had been on the receiving end.
'He earned it.'
'Did he really though? He was drunk and angry.'
'When he Crucioed you while you were chained to a wall?'
'It's not the same. His didn't even hurt. Do you think he'll… Be okay?'
'I don't know.'
Harry didn't like the tone of his thoughts, so he stopped engaging, staring at the back of Voldemort's robes instead. Nagini had reverted to serpent form and returned to his shoulders. She watched him, her head bobbing each time the Dark Lord took a step.
When they reached the bottom, he spun to face Harry and, as usual, took his arm without warning him. He then Disapparated and reappeared them in a random field in the dark.
They were alone for a moment, and Harry was extremely aware of the sound of his breathing, of the feel of his pulse in his neck and chest.
'Tell me how it felt.'
"Are we going to Beauxbatons?" He asked out loud instead of answering Tom.
His arm was taken again, and he was once more shot through a tube to land in another dark, cold, empty field.
They didn't need to wait long for the silence to be broken by the pops and cracks of Apparition. Far more Death Eaters appeared than had followed them through Nurmengard; he guessed there had to be over one hundred of them.
The Dark Lord pressed his wand to his throat and amplified his voice. "I will reiterate the importance of diplomacy. This is not an attack, and I do not expect retaliation. Violence will be your last resort," he said, looking around the gathering to ensure his message sank in. "Go."
Though violence wasn't the goal, they were all masked and hooded, wands in hand. Hagrid towered over the rest of them and was the only one making a sound, filling the field with wailing until someone Disappointed him.
Harry could feel the Dark Lord's eyes, feel the thread that bound them as he stalked, pacing, behind him.
"What are we waiting for?" He asked when they were the only ones left.
Tom didn't let him turn around, allowing Voldemort to stay in their blind spot, hiking Harry's heart rate considerably. He hadn't resumed his line of questioning, but he knew it was a matter of time before Tom forced it out. Ignoring him would only buy distance.
"There is the matter of the new professors. I would present you with my options for approval," his voice came from barely two feet behind his right ear, and Tom needed to prevent him from making a noise, "At this point, I believe it is clear you will accept any option I offer you."
Harry had never liked how he always seemed to be saying more than the words that came out, always some other meaning that was lost on him.
'Answer him,' Tom thought.
"You've made good choices so far, apart from Carrow," he whispered to keep his voice steady. "I just want to make sure they're not mad."
He sounded closer again when he spoke in Parseltongue, "Is that not a broad and debatable stipulation?"
Harry was fighting the dual urge to either turn around or flee. "I guess. Obedient, then."
The Dark Lord hummed and took Harry's arm, ignoring how he jumped. He side-along Apparated him a third time, coming to land at the centre of his followers, and Hagrid, still weeping.
This time, they stood in a marble courtyard lit with firelight from antiquated streetlamps, coiled iron, and glass. Immaculate rose gardens were scattered among the stones, and numerous statued fountains bubbled.
Though they were atop a snow-dusted mountain, the space for the grounds carved between two peaks, it was warm in the courtyard. He turned to find the Château, a grand white building, ivy climbing one side. It was surrounded by multiple hovering golden orbs that cast dancing shadows on the walls and blue scalloped roof.
"It's not warded against Apparition?" Harry asked in the serpent tongue.
"Different wards. That we have bypassed," he said before he was walking away.
Madame Maxime stood in front of her student body with her staff, all with their wands raised. The Death Eaters didn't follow suit, wands at their sides. The only ones who held theirs up were those restraining Hagrid—though Harry didn't think the sobbing man was a threat.
He could tell the residents of Beauxbatons were shocked to see them, their faces alternating between alarm, fear, and rage, stepping foot to foot as they looked between the Dark Lord's followers and their headmistress, who mostly appeared distraught.
"How have you done this? Why are you here?" Maxime demanded as Voldemort broke through the crowd.
Harry followed him, not sure if he should and doing it anyway.
"I am afraid you have misconstrued my intentions," the Dark Lord said, stance and tone casual as he came to stand before the massive woman.
"You invade my school? My wards? What intentions am I to imagine you have?" She guffawed and looked at Hagrid, her face falling. "What do you want here?"
"A discussion. I have a proposal for you. That you are free to refuse."
Harry was more than familiar with this tactic. He knew it would be a proposal she wouldn't decline. Voldemort would get what he wanted, and she would be caught in his web all at once.
"Perhaps over dinner?" He continued.
She hesitated and looked at her students, who seemed equally baffled. Voldemort held a hand up, and his followers unmasked and put away their wands.
"What proposal? What is it you want?"
"A conversation at a table," he said, removing his gloves, a movement that always made Harry instinctively swallow. He showed his hands and then looked at Hagrid, Nagini swaying on his shoulders. "No harm will come to you or your students," he said.
"If there is no harm, why bring so many of your people?" She held one hand out to keep her people behind her, the other with her wand trained on the Dark Lord.
He nodded once and turned to the Death Eaters gathered in the courtyard. "Go. Take him back. You two with me." He pointed at Lucius and Barty, who both bowed, the latter grinning at Harry.
"A compromise I am sure you will find acceptable," Voldemort continued.
Harry felt they were simply another two sets of eyes; he imagined he and the Dark Lord could bring the whole school down if pressed.
He hoped they weren't pressed.
Once only the residents of Beauxbatons, Lucius, Barty, Harry, and the Dark Lord remained in the courtyard—the rest Disapparated—Madame Maxime ordered half of her staff to take the students to bed.
Once they were gone, she took them through the opulent halls at wandpoint, walking behind with the remainder of her faculty.
The marble from the exterior followed them inside—the floors polished white stone, the walls dark panelled wood. The corridor was lined with suits of armour, paintings of landscapes, and locked cases filled with all manner of jewels and artifacts.
"We have measures if you try anything," she warned.
"Of course you do."
Harry could hear his smile.
They were brought to a wide dining hall, the centre of which was left bare to showcase a massive, intricate carving of a horse in the middle of the floor. Around the outside were five huge round tables, each with over fifty seats around the edge.
Three chandeliers hung by the split staircase on the other side of the hall, where several wood nymphs slid down the railings and hit the floor with tiny thuds.
The Dark Lord moved as though he wasn't at wandpoint, dragging them into the room with him instead of the other way around. He chose their seats—backs to the wall—and sat Harry beside him; Barty and Lucius were both ordered to sit three seats away, between them and the staff of Beauxbatons—the remaining ten. They took seats at either side of the headmistress, not one putting away their wand.
Crouch was watching him like it was his fault he had to sit so far away. Harry nearly asked if he wanted to swap so he could inhale again.
Maxime seemed to be waiting for Voldemort to say something, her staff looking to her for direction, antsy as though they wanted to stand.
"Perhaps over dinner?" he repeated, less patient.
The headmistress startled and snapped her fingers, summoning a House Elf who was dressed in a tiny suit with coattails.
"A feast for the table, Tadry," she said, her voice almost a whisper.
It vanished, and a few moments later, a ring of food appeared on the white silk tablecloth.
"Eat," the Dark Lord commanded in Parseltongue.
Harry and Tom both moved, Harry piling a gold plate to satisfy Voldemort, Tom filling a goblet with wine to satisfy himself.
'I think I'm going to have a heart attack,' he thought.
'You are not.'
'Dunno how you're so sure.'
He picked up the goblet first and upended it, draining and refilling it, earning himself a pointed look from his right. He shrugged lightly at the Dark Lord and willed him to get it over with in his head.
"On the twelfth of December, we will host a ten-day tournament at Hogwarts. Ten schools from around the world will receive an invitation. Yours is one of them." As he spoke, he took his hands from the tabletop and rested them on the arms of his chair, suddenly dangerously close to Harry, their seats well within touching distance.
The Dark Lord then requested access to his head, and Tom scrambled to jam most of their thoughts away, picking and choosing what he left behind in a manner that didn't really make sense to Harry.
He was in and out, 'Put your hand under the table. Do not be insufferable.'
'Oh, fuck,' Harry thought, Tom catching his eyes before they fell out.
He took another large sip of wine and tried to do as he was told with indifference while Madame Maxime whispered with the short, moustachioed man to her left.
Voldemort placed his hand on top of Harry's, hidden by the tablecloth and their position. He realised it must have been orchestrated solely for that purpose as the warmth flooded through him.
"And if we refuse?" Maxime finally said.
"Then nine schools will compete," he said.
'I like this. Feels good,' Harry thought.
Tom didn't let him look at the Dark Lord or their hands. Instead, he made a monumental effort to appear as though he was casually eating dinner, swaying slightly in his seat.
"What even is this?" He asked out loud, stabbing a miniature chicken with a fork.
Voldemort flinched and dug his nails into his wrist.
"Never mind, not important, I've found out." He picked up the goblet to stop his mouth from speaking.
Nagini chose that moment to remove herself from the Dark Lord's shoulders, wrapping herself instead around the free chair beside him.
"However, I do have an offer. As you saw, I have Rubeus Hagrid in my custody. I would be willing to return him to you in exchange for your attendance and your… Affability."
Harry thought that even the plate of small, strange chicken would make a comfortable pillow. Tom fought the urge to move the food to lay on the table, and to just put his face on his dinner.
"Don't you get tired of not eating? I mean, with the mask on. You'd fit right in with the Veela here, and the wines not bad," Harry said in Parseltongue.
He didn't get a response. Instead, he was burned, the Dark Lord's hand heating up to a dangerous degree. It effectively shut him up as he fought not to make a different sound.
"And what is the catch? You want these students to fight to the death? To swear fealty to you?" Maxime asked.
His grip on Harry's hand tightened and relaxed, stuttering light like a strobe into his skin; he felt it like a beat. His mouth kept opening, and he could feel his eyebrows trying to knit together as he squirmed infinitesimally in his seat.
"It appears as though you are harbouring some misconceptions," Voldemort said.
'Use the curse,' Tom thought.
Though the Dark Lord's touch heavily subdued Harry's emotions, he felt a flutter of nerves as he did what he was bid. He summoned wisps of darkness and coiled them around Voldemort's fingers, relishing the nearly silent sigh he earned.
"Allow me to… Rectify that," his grip and posture relaxed as he leaned forward. "Any magical blood spilled is a terrible waste. I would not have children kill each other for sport. Anyone who wishes to join my ranks will be considered; I do not forcefully recruit."
He squeezed Harry's wrist when he said 'forcefully', and so he responded by snaking the curse further up his hand, around his wrist.
He didn't dare look at the Dark Lord or anyone else. He kept his eyes on the goblet in front of him with intensity, as though if he glanced away, he'd fall off the Earth. He could feel the heat in his face and neck, almost as if it was bleeding up his arm. Waves of goosebumps rushed him, the pain of the darkness and the Dark Lord's light more than enough to keep him alert.
"And you, Harry Potter? I believed you loved Hagrid? He only spoke highly of you. It is horrible to see you here with him," Maxime said.
Her words would have cut him far deeper under almost any other circumstance.
"I do," his voice was a husky whisper, so he coughed and tried again, "I do care about him. That's why-" He had to exhale heavily to fight a moan, the Dark Lord slowly ramping up the potency of the light. "That's why I hope to see you in December."
He chanced a look at Voldemort and found that he was already staring at him. There was nothing obvious in his eyes as Harry looked away.
"What will this competition entail?" She asked.
Just like that, Harry knew it was done. So did the Dark Lord, sitting back in his seat and tracing circles on the back of Harry's hand, finally reducing the light to a few tiny beams from his fingertips. He felt them individually drawing marks on him, an overlapping figure eight on raw skin. He didn't release the curse on Tom's command, still lacing it around Voldemort's fingers while frozen in place.
"Each school will bring six of their most skilled students to compete in a duel. The goal is to improve international relations. To the victor, of course, goes some glory." He burned hotter for a second, then relented.
"Only students in their final year. Though the killing curse is not permitted, they should be informed that there will be no other restrictions."
She huffed at his words, and her staff bristled, but they didn't interrupt.
"Space has been allocated for each institution to bring an additional ninety-four students and the required faculty. On the final night, a ball will commemorate the champion and the winning school."
Harry could hardly hear what he was saying, his words just noises as he tried not to look at their hands. His ears rang, and his face was numb with the effort of disassociating.
The Dark Lord had fallen silent, drawing shapes on the back of his hand, the rest of him nonchalant. He wondered if he was hard, like Harry was, his cock aching in his pants.
'He is,' Tom thought.
Again, the physical contact was momentarily not enough to stop his stomach from rolling. His eyes darted from the goblet, but he wouldn't let them land on Voldemort's lap, aware that everyone was staring at them.
"Fine. I accept your terms," Maxime said, her faculty muttering instantly among themselves.
"Excellent." He removed his hand and Harry suddenly felt like he was naked in a snowstorm.
'Tom… Fuck,' his eyes bugged, and his breath hitched as he shifted in his seat.
'You are fine.'
"Before I leave, I will see the six students you choose," the Dark Lord said.
"They are in bed," the moustachioed man said, brave enough to throw his voice across the table.
"Wake them."
Another wave of whispering among them lasted minutes before Maxime sent the short man who had spoken to fetch the students.
Tom was hidden in his thoughts, rearranging them and keeping Harry at a distance.
'What? What is it? What are you sneaking around for?' He wondered.
'…It is critically important that he make the first move, Harry, do you understand?'
'Why? That could take forever.'
'Do not ask for it, do not initiate, and most importantly, do not beg.'
'Why would I need to beg?'
There was a beat of silence before Tom thought, 'I cannot be certain, but I believe he might intend to…'
'What? Make me beg for it?' Harry nearly scoffed out loud before he really thought about it, again unable to sit still in his seat. 'You think he's had the same idea I did?'
'…It is a possibility. I cannot tell what he is thinking anymore. We need to prepare for that reality. If you want equality, you cannot, no matter what he says or does, beg.'
Harry drained the goblet, filled it, and emptied it again.
After over ten minutes of painful silence, interspersed with the whispering of Maxime's eclectically dressed staff, six students—in their powder blue silk robes—were led into the dining hall by the short, moustachioed man, all of them unreasonably attractive.
There were four boys and two girls, most ranging from apprehensive to distraught. The least concerned was the shortest of the group, a boy with long brown curly hair piled atop his head in a bun. His wide brown eyes were locked on Harry, apparently only curious.
"Margot Jaccoud," Maxime said, and she stepped forward, whispering in French to her headmaster.
She was blonde, tall, and rail thin, her narrowed eyes getting narrower as spoke.
"It is how Professor Galopin told you. If you do not wish to compete, that is up to you," Maxime said, loud and with finality, talking to the group at large.
The blonde again looked distraught, but she didn't move. She shook it off, crossed her arms behind her back, and squared her shoulders. She reminded Harry of a swan.
"Margot Jaccoud, she is gifted in transfiguration. Séverin Carrell," Maxime gestured, and Margot stepped back. Another student stepped forward, almost as tall as the swan-like girl.
"A skilled Animagus and the leader of our duelling club."
The golden skinned boy gave a curt bow, his dark eyes on no one as he immediately stepped aside for the next.
"Pay attention," Voldemort said in Parseltongue.
Harry swallowed instead of replying.
"Noémie Bescond," Maxime said, and the second girl came forward.
She was slight in build, with brown eyes and hair, and fair skin. She took each Death Eater in, then Harry and the Dark Lord. He couldn't see any fear in her face; she seemed angry and alert.
"Our finest student, if she applied herself," Maxime's tone implied an age-old argument.
Noémie simply raised her eyebrows and moved aside.
"Jean-Jacques Pelletier," the headmistress said.
A boy with yellow-gold hair sauntered forward with a sneer on his face. Two of the other boys muttered something to him in French. He was athletic in build, muscles obvious under the silk.
"If he did not compete, the school would revolt. Marc Dufresne," she continued. Jean-Jacques stepped aside, pleased with himself.
The boy with the curly brown hair piled on his head still didn't take his eyes off Harry as he came forward.
"A remarkable aptitude for strategy," she seemed irritated with him, narrowing her eyes so hard he sensed it and turned to look at her.
"I do hope you will someday forgive my comments, Madame Maxime, but I won't apologise for saying the truth." Marc moved out of the way, and half the staff huffed in offence along with Maxime, the other half hiding shocked giggles before they seemed to remember the situation.
"…Finally, Fabien Gérin." She recovered, and the last student stepped forward, looking nearly bored.
"He gives Séverin someone to duel fairly with. His spellcraft is exceptional," Maxime said.
'I'm going to have a heart attack,' Harry thought again.
'I did try to warn you.'
'Not very well.'
Tom fought a smirk, his nostrils flaring with the effort. 'Would it have worked? Would you have been warned? Here is another one: This is nothing. He is playing nice with you. Another one: I do not think you can back out now. You have his attention. Should I continue? Are you sufficiently cautioned?'
He fought to inhale, and Tom didn't help.
'Well?'
'I'm fine,' he thought, but he knew if he stood up, his legs would drop him. 'I know who he is.'
'We will see.'
(AN: I refuse to write accents 'textually'; I think it's tacky to 'ave zem talk like zis; we know they're French, it's perfectly possible to write an accent without making it an offensive puzzle (Looking at you, Rowling.) Now, to the point of this AN: I thought it would be dope for us to find out who's going to fight who and who's going to win together. So, I'll use a random number generator to set up the fights and who wins. Place your bets and pick your favourites (I know I have). To do this, I had to create OVER eighty OCs and give them all at least a wisp of a personality on the odds that any one of sixty could be the last fight. Of course, I'm not going to show you every duel, that would take the rest of my life, but I'll highlight reel you. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.)