Hefna, Danheim

(Instrumental)


Draco had taken him to the same room he'd occupied over the break, under his cloak, near midnight. Sometime after two, Cassiopeia checked in on him.

"You're not going to sleep?" She asked when she found him sitting upright in bed.

"Can't," Harry said.

"Fair. He wants to see you anyway. He's pretty drunk, sorry. You'll need your fancy cloak."

He got out of bed mechanically, threw the cloak over his head, and followed her down the hall to the dining room. On the way, he passed over twenty Death Eaters, but none of them he recognised. He felt strangely out of body as Cassiopeia stopped in front of the doors and gave him a nod before she pushed them open. Tom walked them in, took the cloak off, and looked at the floor.

From the corner of his eye, he noted that Nagini wasn't in the room and that the Dark Lord was unmasked, apparently done with his appointments. The sight of him caught his breath, making his cheeks and ears red, and he revolted when he realised why.

"You called for me, my Lord," Tom said in the same low, smooth tone. He bowed and didn't sit them down; instead, he stood facing Voldemort, eyes on the ground.

Harry resisted the urge to look up, to confirm that his stomach was somersaulting because…

'Yes. You find him attractive. Keep your head down,' Tom thought, swallowing repeatedly, 'Do not look at him.'

'No, I don't,' he thought weakly.

"After I claim Azkaban, we will travel to Bulgaria. Once there, you will not leave my sight unless chaperoned. You will be masked for the entirety unless I will it; you will speak to no one. Understood?" The Dark Lord commanded, the slightest slur detectable in his words.

"Yes, my Lord," Tom said, bowing again. Harry could feel him bristling, rage brewing and unconcealed at having to bow to anyone.

"Out."

On the other hand, Harry was red in the face as he realised that the Dark Lord's commands had the same effect on him as Tom's did, his lizard brain unable to tell the difference.

'This is fucked up. I'm so fucked up. You've made me…'

'All you, I repulse being commanded,' Tom thought.

'…No, because it started when we were fused…'

'It started when I started commanding you.'

He'd hurried out of the dining room, his cloak replaced, to find Cassiopeia waiting. She nodded at him, though he was invisible: "Well done, not dead. Champ."

She led him back to his bedroom, where he resumed not sleeping.

'I don't find him attractive; I hate him,' Harry thought, some minutes after the vampire left them alone.

'Not mutually exclusive things.'

'What? Yes, they are. I don't find him attractive; he's not attractive. Stop saying attractive; it's just because you… in the dreams…'

'You are attracted to me. He is me. I am stunning. We do not have the time for this.'

'Are you having a stroke,' Harry scoffed out loud, shaking his head.

'Enough. You are more attracted to me than anyone you have ever met.'

He let out a shocked, appalled laugh, then fell into silence with wide eyes.

'…No retort?' Tom wondered.

Harry refused to respond, furious that it was obviously, disgustingly accurate. He took some victory in the fact that his lack of response had sent Tom scrambling for his thoughts, apparently not as collected.


Cassiopeia had brought Calming Draughts before sunrise and told him he'd see Narcissa in the morning.

As the sky turned purple, neither was feeling particularly chatty.

Draco came with his mother, who levitated a small trunk and robes into the room before her when the light grew golden.

"Good morning, Harry," she smiled when she saw him, genuine, "I have some extra supplies for you. For Hogwarts."

She gestured at the trunk as she sat it down in the far corner.

"More robes?" Harry asked, feeling like he probably should have brought a set she'd already given him.

"Charmed for buoyancy, temperature —the North Sea is rough this time of year, not particularly warm, either— and a little something to help with the Dementors."

"…I don't know if I can cast a Patronus," Harry said, ignoring how she seemed to think he would fall in, "…Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."

"Call me Narcissa. Stay in your room today," she looked apologetic as she left them, warding the door closed.

"Here to hang out or watch the asset?" Harry asked, unable to sit down or stop pacing.

"…Bit of both, sorry. I know you're not exactly here of your own free will, but—tonight…" He stopped, laughed humorlessly, and shook his head, "…You're going to rescue some Death Eaters from Azkaban… That probably smarts," he frowned and sat down in the white armchair. Harry didn't join him, "I was about to thank you," Draco finished.

"Everything about this has been wildly uncomfortable, least of all this. Your mum seems to love your dad. Is he alright to you?" Harry asked.

"…He got a bit- it was rough when the Dark Lord returned in fourth year. He was rough," he stopped to clear his throat, "Now… I don't know. He's been in there a while."

"…Right."

"But he's different too, The Dark Lord. He seems…" He struggled to find the words, was grasping at the air like he could find them there, "I don't know. Less-" He tapped his temple and bugged his eyes, "He's still terrifying, but the new laws and regulations they're… Good? His new followers, they're not-"

"Insane?" Tom supplied.

"Your word, but yes."

Harry didn't say that Draco shouldn't bet on his Lord's continued sanity. Either he would successfully rid himself of the Horcrux, or it would drive him mad. There were few other possibilities. His hands were suddenly cold, and he felt dread in his gut at the thought of the Dark Lord holding the Wizarding World in a vice grip, then losing his mind all over again, taking it down with him. A morbid fear at the knowledge of how Voldemort planned to reattain his insanity.


Draco had come and gone throughout the day; the subject matter kept light after Harry nearly had a panic attack. His heart had moved permanently into his neck as the afternoon became evening, his arms and legs vibrating from the tension, his back aching for the same reason, all his muscles wringing his bones.

Draco had been gone for a few hours by nightfall, and Cassiopeia was the next one through the door.

"Hey. It's time to get ready," she said. She seemed sadder every time she looked at him. She closed the doors and disappeared behind them while he changed into the combat robes that Narcissa had provided him.

"Done," he told the empty room, sure she would hear him while the wards were down. She reopened the door and told him to follow her under the cloak. She led him through busier halls; he had to work not to bump into any of the hundreds of Death Eaters that swarmed the manor and the grounds beyond it. She led him through the front gates and side-along Apparated him without giving him a warning.

They reappeared outside the small hut with the green wards, and she told him to take the cloak off as they crossed the lawn. As soon as he reached the door, he felt the pull in his middle and fought not to shudder physically. She opened the door and stepped in in front of him, talking as she went:

"I hope we're returning to the manor first because I can't go dressed in combats. You can't either; I've forbidden it. I told you how he feels about pretty things. I can't believe you won't take my advice and use this as an opportunity to show your fac-"

"Cassiopeia," Voldemort snapped from behind the desk. He was fully robed, masked, and wearing gloves, "You will have several opportunities to change your clothes."

"Right, sure, here," she gestured at Harry, and Tom bowed silently.

He felt the mask form on his face —conjured by the Dark Lord— covering the top half, showing the lower half of his mouth and jaw. Tom took this as a sign to pull his hood up. Harry kept trying to glance at the Dark Lord, a repeated need to reaffirm that he did find him attractive; like a wound he couldn't stop poking, making him sick every time he did it, unable to stop. It didn't seem to matter that Voldemort was fully concealed; his stomach was still flipping along with his adrenaline, shame, loathing, and desire fighting for pole position. Cassiopeia took the invisibility cloak from his grip and set it on the desk.

'It can't be possible to feel like this. This is…' his thoughts trailed off as the Dark Lord stood up and removed his left glove, that motion alone enough to make Harry's heart palpitate for some reason. He directed his discomfort at Tom, holding him responsible as Voldemort approached him, taking something from his inner pocket—a teaspoon.

"Hands on the Portkey. Do not touch me," he said, presenting the spoon with his gloved hand.

Harry put one finger on the very top. Cassiopeia and the Dark Lord followed, launched through space and time to land on an island so small he could see the other side of it, three trees clinging to life at the rocky centre. They weren't alone. Three masked Death Eaters, one of them unmistakably Fenrir, but the other two unidentifiable, stood on the graveled shore, each focused and casting on the choppy ocean.

A few seconds passed, and the water began to bubble before the mast of a ship broke the surface, foaming the already wild water as the rest of the boat followed, covered in algae and limpets, hull full of holes, fish flopping on the deck.

"Ugh," Cassiopeia said as she transfigured herself a stone staircase to board the ship.

The Dark Lord shoved Harry forward, and he jogged up the stairs, gingerly crossing the dilapidated deck to stand next to the vampire at the bow. He didn't turn to watch the rest of them board. He could feel Voldemort behind him, could gauge the distance.

"It's going to be a couple of hours," Cassiopeia told him as the ship began to move, rocking violently in the chop and forcing him to grip the nearly ungraspable rails, "There's not a lot of land to Apparate to in the North Sea."

"…I bet you love this," Tom said, indicating the slimy ship. She moved with the rocking as though she could predict it, refusing to touch the sides.

"As much as you, boss," she muttered back, "I reckon there's skeletons in it."

Harry could feel the Dark Lord inching closer to their discussion, abruptly freezing his mouth before either could reply.

'Is he trying to eavesdrop?' Harry wondered.

Tom didn't answer, paying attention to the thread that bound them as Cassiopeia continued complaining. As soon as Tom fell silent, Voldemort stopped his infinitesimal approach. They focused on hanging on instead of talking, Narcissa's threat of falling in holding more weight.

By the time the ship stopped, a little over two hours later, he'd realised he'd made a mistake not sleeping. His fingers were numb from gripping the slippery railing, and his legs ached from fighting to stay upright on the unstable, hole-filled deck. The prison was ahead, looming in the near distance. He could see the Dementors clocking the ship, drifting down from the steep stone walls, lit from behind by a nearly full moon.

The Death Eaters worked to steady the boat with magic, allowing Harry to let go, wringing his hands to try and get the sensation back. The Dark Lord grabbed the back of his robes and pointed him at the stronghold before he successfully felt his fingers. Adrenaline rushed through him again, becoming sharper and increasingly agitating the more exhausted he was. He raised his numb arms regardless, aware of the Dementors nearer the ship. He and Tom both summoned the curse, exploding forth and sweeping the macabre prison guards within it, a great rushing cloud of pain enriched with rage, driving countless sharp points into the wards, punching with his fury, mangling the Dementors in the process.

Some soul-sucking guards had escaped him, but they weren't his focus. He and Tom pummelled the protections, pushing as hard as they dared, careful not to repeat his past mistakes. He knew he was screaming, but it was hard to hear over the roaring, buzzing ringing in his ears, louder than the waves crashing into the hull and the prison, more deafening than his voice. He couldn't feel any give in the wards, as though made of solid diamond. Someone had summoned a non-corporeal Patronus, the silvery light forming a dome above them, and minutes passed that way, stretching forever as his throat grew hoarse and his legs threatened to let him go. He could hear Cassiopeia shouting, but he couldn't discern the words.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord was beside him, hands raised, though he did nothing for what felt like an eternity. Harry wondered —brain beginning to sear with the effort of maintaining an assault, agony numbing his senses and his thoughts— whether he was going to do anything at all, before golden beams of blinding light shot from the Dark Lord's palms, snaked with jagged, angry red electricity, meeting the darkness like a thunderclap; a reverberating, wailing, shattering noise that forced the waves apart as though the Earth was splitting while their magic combined; ripping at itself and the wards, electric red and gold warping and twisting with black and fluorescent green. A multitude of booming implosions peppered the wards like supernovas, blindingly bright, the sonic waves creating geometric patterns in the water; suppressing the natural wave formation and rocking the boat despite the stabilisation. Within the now huge, writhing cloud, the wards began to give. Harry was at the end of his strength when the protections gave one final screeching, shattering crack.

He released the darkness and fell to his knees, hyperventilating, glad the rotting planks survived the impact. Cassiopeia held out a Portkey while she stopped him from tiling forward. This time a fork. He took it gratefully. They were thrown once again to the little house, and Harry fell into the grass, fighting the immediate and desperate need to sleep.

"Spectacular. Well done, buddy. Nearly through it."

"Nnn," he told her, sensing her sitting beside him.

"I'll get you some Pepper-ups. Tom will be back here once he gets the cells empty. Then we need to get ready to go."

Harry didn't respond, eyes rolling closed. What felt like an instant later, he was being shaken awake, his masked face still planted in the dirt, confusing him monumentally before he remembered where he was and shot upright, dizzy, swinging too far the other way and stumbling onto his back. The Dark Lord watched him flail, still as a statue, face concealed. Cassiopeia had been the one to wake him up, also watching him, smiling with one eyebrow raised.

He made it to his feet with no small amount of embarrassment, followed swiftly by loathing. He trudged up the slope to the house, pushed through the door first, and picked up the cloak from the desk. Only Cassiopeia followed him in, and Voldemort was gone when they exited. She side-along Apparated him to the manor gates. She walked beside him up the gravel drive, now lined with fifteen steel carriages, small, stark boxes with no windows, surely not big enough to hold more than two people uncomfortably, drawn by ten Thestrals each, lining the loop of the gravel road and spreading out the front gates.

"Ohh, we're taking carriages," she said as she passed them, "He doesn't tell me shit. Then he gets mad when I ask questions. Know what I mean?" She asked the empty space he occupied.

"I do know what you mean," Harry muttered.

She took him to a sitting room. Narcissa, Draco, and the Dark Lord were occupying three of the armchairs, Voldemort still masked. Cassiopeia took the cloak off his head, sat him down in one of the several armchairs, and pushed some Pepper-ups into his hands. She didn't indicate that he could remove the mask or the hood. He downed one of the spicy potions, then another when his eyes still resisted seeing.

Ten silent, painful minutes passed before the door pushed open. Narcissa shot out of her seat, gasping, hand over her mouth; overflowing with tears as she rushed to Lucius, who was grey in the face and leaning heavily in the doorway. He was dressed in fresh robes and looked clean, though thin and dead behind the eyes. He didn't seem to truly register his wife, his son —who had come to inspect his father from a distance— or his Lord, who remained seated, staring daggers into the side of Harry's lowered head.

"Thank you, my Lord. Thank you. I am ever in your debt," Narcissa gushed while she sat her wide-eyed husband down.

Harry thought it was Voldemort's fault Lucius was in prison in the first place. Not that the elder Malfoy wouldn't have found his way to illegality of his own accord.

'He hasn't been kissed, has he?' Harry thought.

'No, in need of a healer, though.'

"Narcissa, I must ask after your arrangements," the Dark Lord said, interrupting her gratitude.

"Yours, Cassiopeia's, and your guest's belongings and supplies are packed in your carriage. Your travel clothes await each of you in your quarters. Nagini is waiting for you there, my Lord."

Cassiopeia took the cue to take Harry, cloaked once more, to his room. He moved like a zombie through the still buzzing halls, skull filled with cotton. He changed from the robes he was in into another set, still black, clasped with gold snakeheads larger than the last. An expensive, flowing cape. He couldn't identify the fabric, almost as light as air, with a deep hood that essentially blinded him when pulled forward. A glimpse in the mirror made his stomach drop; a Death Eater was blinking back at him. His skull mask was black with delicate, swirling silver detailing —much the same as the Dark Lord's— though Harry's wasn't obscuring his whole face, vanishing his glasses and any other sign that he was who he was. The cloak was rippling as though there was a breeze in the room.

The vampire walked in on him while staring at himself in the mirror.

"We don't have time for… Whatever you're doing," she told him.

"Panicking," Harry told her calmly.

"Freak out in the carriage, baby cakes," she slapped the door frame twice, and he threw the invisibility cloak over his head again.

He felt like he had blinked and was on the lawn, standing blankly next to Cassiopeia while she, the Dark Lord, and Nagini—a snake on his shoulders—watched his closest followers load into the carriages while the rest of them Disapparated outside the gates. Harry assumed that the carriages were magically extended inside, judging by the way that some of them held up to ten people. Once the carriages at the front of the line began taking off, Cassiopeia opened theirs and gently ushered Harry in.

It was extended, though it was a single, large room. Four beds separated by black draping curtains, several trunks stacked in the corner, a table with four chairs, a small kitchenette and two doors offside that he assumed were bathrooms, lit within by candelabras, though still quite dark. A house elf was bowing low, her nose nearly touching the floorboards. All in all more cramped than he'd hoped. He took the cloak off and turned to watch the vampire, begging her with his eyes for a bed.

She pointed at the one on the far left and vanished his mask. He didn't look at Voldemort, though he could feel him as their carriage began to move. He drew the curtains closed around his space and took off his boots, glasses, the delicate cape, and his robes, hanging the latter two at the end of the luxurious-looking bed before he crashed into it, curling into a ball and losing consciousness immediately.