(AN: Guess who's back. (It's me) Happy 400k wtf.)
Peeping Tom, Placebo
I'm careful not to fall
I have to climb your wall
'Cause you're the one
Who makes me feel much taller than you are
I'm just a peeping tom
On my own for far too long
I'm weightless, I'm bare
I'm faithless, I'm scared
The face that fills the hole
That stole my broken soul
The one that makes me seem to feel much taller than you are
I'm just a peeping tom
On my own for far too long
Crux bounced out of his head when he returned to it, likely because he knew Harry had choice words to think at his Horcrux. He had to fight to keep his breathing level, and Tom promptly made it worse.
'He wants a dream tonight.'
'...We just did that.'
'I know. He wants...' he paused and then decided to rip the band-aid clean off, 'In the Department of Mysteries. The room with the veil.'
He rolled his eyes into his head and fought the fruitless urge to glare at the Dark Lord and hope it hit his Horcrux.
'Of course he does. The second part of my punishment?' Harry thought.
'Yes. He wants us all restrained and gagged.'
Harry choked on spit and looked at Voldemort, and found he was already watching him. Eyes hooded, perfectly still. He didn't shift when Harry met his gaze—instantly impossible to look away from, like being caught in a bear trap.
"There is no shame in begging," the Dark Lord said.
Harry almost fought the grin, then didn't—on the verge of laughing, readily distracted from his Horcrux's heinous idea of punishment, "You never ever take your own advice?"
Voldemort inhaled sharply, nostrils flared. He steepled his hands on the desk and put his face in them, "It will not be me."
"Yeah, you keep saying." Harry had noticed the distinct lack of physical advances since Castelobruxo, and if he had to make an educated guess as to why, he figured the Dark Lord couldn't handle it either. "...I think there is some shame in begging, isn't that the point?"
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, "I am the Dark Lord. I will not beg."
"Yeah, again, noted. Except-"
"Enough."
"No one would know." Harry didn't 'Enough.'
Voldemort yanked Harry towards him by the scruff of his shirt, almost nose to nose, careful to avoid the Lethifold, "If you knew the incredible—truly awe-inspiring—strength it takes to not tear your insolent head from your shoulders, you would shut your godforsaken mouth." He quickly let go as though he were infectious.
The plates of food had vanished at some point, likely while he was in Reed's head. He hadn't paid enough attention to know whether the Dark Lord had eaten.
"I just think the whole thing is stupid," Harry muttered.
"What was that?"
"I thought you wanted me to shut my mouth?" He almost crossed his arms.
Voldemort stared at him with the intensity of the sun.
"I said this whole thing is stupid," Harry repeated.
The Dark Lord stood up and gestured sharply for him to do the same as he replaced his mask and hood.
In apparent punishment—Harry didn't know what else it could have been—he was taken into the dungeons, silent the entire descent, to find Rookwood and Snape arguing over schematics.
"Ah, good. You're here," Rookwood visibly relaxed at the sight of Voldemort, something Harry almost laughed at, entirely bizarre.
"Severus thinks these wings are too large, my Lord. And a delay as expected, the Cursebreakers keep hitting snags."
"We have allowed extra time. In the unlikely event they are too large, Severus, they will simply be too large," Voldemort said.
Snape didn't seem to be listening to either of them, staring at Harry.
"...Still wearing the Lethifold?" Rookwood continued in Snape's silence.
"Bed Sheet," Harry corrected, lifting the corners of his living cloak. Bed Sheet cooed, and Rookwood laughed nervously.
"Fascinating. Unnerving, to be sure, but fascinating. Did you know, Harry, that a Lethifold's skin is covered in optic receptors? Three-hundred and sixty-degree vision."
"Oh, I wondered where his eyes were," Harry said. "I heard they like fingers?"
"...To eat?"
"What else would they do with fingers," he shrugged.
"Severus," The Dark Lord said, apparently noticing his silence and nearly slack-jawed stare.
"Yes, of course, my Lord," he bowed low at the waist as though it were a knee-jerk reaction, "Forgive me. I did not mean to insinuate that you would be... Unsuccessful."
Harry didn't understand his tone, merely picked up on it.
"What would you be unsuccessful in?" He asked in Parseltongue.
"He does not suppose I will recruit nearly as many of the students and staff as I predict." The Dark Lord answered in English.
"...Oh."
Snape took a step back, bowed again, "My Lord, that was not my intention."
Harry detected a slight break in his voice. "I mean... You know he was a spy, right? Surely, you've seen that in my head by now. That he was in the Order?"
"I know of his deceit, yes."
With bug eyes, Harry flicked back and forth between Voldemort and an increasingly uncomfortable Snape. His hand in his pocket on the Snakewood wand, thumbing the notches along the length.
"Well..." Rookwood said, playing the same game of eyeball tennis, "I believe we should get back to it. I am running somewhat low on competent builders. If only we had a few of the students from Jaadoo Seekhana on hand, eh? We'd be past done. Severus." Rookwood dragged him partially until the headmaster used his legs.
"So... When are you gonna do something about that?" Harry asked once they'd vanished quickly around a corner.
"When he has outlived his usefulness."
Once they stood alone in the dungeon hallway, Voldemort turned on his heel, walking away without another word.
'What's the plan? For the dream?' Harry wondered.
'I don't know.'
'Are you okay?'
'...I don't know. I am... I'm here.'
Harry gnawed his lip as he followed the Dark Lord through the halls. Being a Saturday and before curfew, students and Death Eaters were everywhere, still doing double takes and stumbling when the Boy Who Repeatedly Lived and the Dark Lord Voldemort appeared. A hush followed by rampant whispering when they were absolutely not out of earshot.
"Where are we going?" His question was traditionally ignored.
He was led out of the castle—the sun freshly set, the air nearly freezing—to the Quidditch Pitch, although Harry wasn't sure it could be called that anymore. Larger, missing the hoops. Witches and wizards surrounded the ongoing construction, wands raised in unison to vastly expand the seating capacity. They didn't go inside; instead, the Dark Lord watched them work for less than a minute, took Harry's arm and Disapparated.
Voldemort was walking before Harry registered that they were outside the Malfoy Manor. He had to jog to catch up, and when he did, the Dark Lord was talking as though he'd never fallen behind.
"I have three potential candidates for the Dark Arts post."
Harry didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't.
"…I find I am undecided," the Dark Lord continued.
'Does he want me to choose?' Harry wondered.
'It seems that way.' As was becoming usual, Tom was distracted.
'If you put it back, he wouldn't know. You could stop letting him in so fast and take it all back out when he shows up. I've seen you do it fast enough.' Harry was rushed with an anxiety that he knew wasn't all his to an almost uniform beat.
'He would know.'
The weight his Horcrux was forcing Tom to bear was more than uncomfortable to watch, more than enraging. It was endangering the plan. Harry didn't know what kind of trouble they'd be in if the Dark Lord discovered that they were enabling Crux to wreak havoc, that he had gone behind his back with Reed to maintain his relationships, or even that he was indeed trying—overall, first and foremost—to manipulate himself into a position of power. Something Harry figured he'd guessed at but couldn't confirm. Without Tom to guide him, without his full attention, Harry felt like he was practically destined to fuck it up.
"Do you want me to choose the next Dark Arts professor?" Harry asked as he sat in his usual seat in the dining room that served for small-scale Death Eater meetings.
Voldemort inhaled as though he'd said something painfully ridiculous, "The Moreau siblings. All exceed in the darker arts, each of them has their… Issues."
They were alone in the room, but not for long. Three dark-haired Death Eaters entered, called by the Dark Lord. Harry thought the way his heart jumped at the sight of his bare forearm was unfair and insane. The Elder wand pressed to the Dark Mark something he couldn't look away from.
The woman laughed at the sight of Harry, a shocked sound that she quickly silenced. All three bowed. There was a clear resemblance between them, all brown-eyed, the same slightly hooked nose universal, so he assumed they were the Moreau siblings. They sat down at the end of the table, and Harry thought the woman looked borderline giddy. Her brothers were stoic and older than her.
Narcissa, Lucius, and Draco were next through the door. The youngest Malfoy was wide-eyed, though not more than he might have been whilst in a room with the Dark Lord. Harry knew it was because he'd met someone decidedly more frightening (Not that Harry thought Crux was remotely scary.)
He sat next to his father and trained his eyes on the table. Harry could tell that Draco was fighting a repeated urge to look up. He wondered if the blonde thought he was here because of what had happened in Reed's head. It wasn't unlike Voldemort to catch on like lightning and pretend he didn't know a damn thing until someone was hanging by their ankles or their neck.
Cassiopeia and Nagini were next, and the Dark Lord began speaking at the sight of them. His familiar hopped onto the table, notebook and charcoal pencil in hand. She grinned at Harry and wiggled her eyebrows so minutely that he only saw it because he was looking. The vampire sat beside Harry and smirked while Voldemort addressed Lucius.
"Your son will represent Hogwarts. I expect you to prepare him on your own time."
Lucius nodded once, becoming a bow, while Draco sat up straight and met Harry's eyes for a fraction of a second.
"Narcissa, you will have access to the student profiles when they are not in use."
It was her turn to nod, and Harry's gaze had wandered back to Voldemort inevitably. His eyes were the only visible part of his face, drawing him in like warmth on a cold night.
"All good, limpet?" Cassiopeia whispered, and Harry used her as a tool to look away, a metaphorical crowbar.
"No, am I usually?" His whisper was low enough for only her to hear, and she nudged him gently with her elbow.
"So you have chosen who'll fight?" Harry asked in Parseltongue, eyes already drawn right back to Voldemort's, a rush of adrenaline at how he flinched almost infinitesimally.
"Yes. I have."
Another thrill at finally forcing him into the serpent tongue. "But you can't decide which Moreau to put in the Dark Arts position?"
Withering stare. "An entirely different issue. The Dark Arts position is a critical draw for the students of the other Wizarding schools. The curriculum and the professor must be exceptional."
Harry shrugged, "Why don't you teach it then? It's what you wanted to do. And who could teach the Dark Arts better, right?"
The smirk was visible in his eyes, and he leaned in, "I am the Dark Lord." He said for the second time that day, giving Harry goosebumps on his thankfully covered forearms. "I do not have a single spare second, let alone days."
"You have the Time-Turner?"
"I would rather have had Bellatrix Lestrange do it." For an instant, Harry saw the exhaustion before it was hidden again.
"…Okay."
The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes and looked at Cassiopeia. "The vampires."
Cassiopeia cleared her throat and didn't hide her grin, "They're always open to a bloodbath, you know that. They've agreed. Hope you've got enough prisoners of war; there will suddenly be many mouths to feed."
Voldemort didn't answer her. Instead, he'd taken to looking at Draco, who was still repeatedly grimacing at nothing. His parents had noticed, increasingly flustered, as they tried to correct his odd behaviour without saying a word or moving a muscle.
"When are you bringing in the vampires?" Harry asked, stealing the Dark Lord's attention away from the Malfoy, who apparently couldn't help himself.
"When? When?" He barked a laugh and didn't answer the question. "Narcissa," he waved a hand, and she launched almost gratefully into her fund and recruitment reporting.
"I'm picking up on some tension. Over-usual," Cassiopeia whispered, and Harry nearly snorted.
"Yeah."
"Help is on the way. Not long now," she said it directly into his ear while Narcissa droned.
Voldemort watched Harry, and he had to assume the Dark Lord wasn't listening to the Malfoy Matriarch.
"Cryptic and useless to me," Harry whispered back, making unavoidable eye contact with the Dark Lord as he did.
"Ah, but when it happens, don't say I don't do nothing," she muttered.
"Cassiopeia," Voldemort said, cutting Narcissa off.
"Yes?"
"Is there something you need to say aloud?"
"Not really. I mean, I'm bored. I have a thing I'd rather be doing. I'm also like, so close to getting Vanya to say a word in English, and I don't want to miss her first one. It's special. You seem in a god-awful terrible mood, so you could dismiss this lot, and we could have an interesting conversation. No offense, Narcissa. Or you could dismiss me."
"Or you could close your mouth for longer than an instant."
"Ohh, okay, we're being nasty. I don't close my mouth because, let's be honest, how else would you ever figure anything out."
"You can go."
"Excellent choice, my Lord." She gave the most sarcastic curtsy Harry had ever seen when she stood up, and he found, as usual, he was more impressed than jealous of her ability to not only dress down and manipulate the Dark Lord, but to do so in front of his followers and get away with it.
Crux was in his head before the vampire was out the door. Harry clenched his fists under the table to hide it on his face. Narcissa was told to resume her speech, and he zoned her out.
'That's not how you make friends,' Harry thought.
'You know I think it's really fucking funny how you both are convinced I'm sobbing in the corner hoping for someone to care more. Pair of actual fools. Anyway, in riveting and actually accurate news, I found a thought in his head. I'm getting good at this. I'm finding all sorts of things. Wanna know what he thought, then hid real fast?'
'I don't know, do I?' The exhaustion bled into his mental voice.
Narcissa was winding down, finishing with Galleon amounts—whose vaults contained them, talk of shifting gold—and Harry expected to be required to pay attention to the Moreau part of the meeting. Crux didn't seem concerned.
'That he wants it to happen again. A dream. Almost as much as he's afraid of it if I had to guess. Equally afraid and intrigued. Wants it. Next one oughta sort that desire out, I reckon.'
'Isn't that what you want? Don't you want him to want it?' Harry wondered, keeping his eyes firmly away from the Dark Lord. His cheeks felt red hot.
'That's complicated. I dunno. No? Mostly no. Well, I mean, on the other hand, it is funny. Right? That no matter what I say or do, he's still gonna get hard about it. Because it's you, yes? Your voice, your face, your cock, technically. Visually. Audibly. Physically. Can't tell the difference, just like you, sweetheart.'
Tom took that as a cue to yank him into privacy, and Harry rolled his eyes, his fists still tightly clenched. The Malfoys were dismissed, and the Dark Lord once again stole his attention, waving a hand at the three siblings at the end of the table.
"I am considering each of you for the role of Dark Arts professor."
They sat up straighter, the woman beaming.
"Sol Moreau, the eldest brother, on the left," Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue, and if someone had asked Harry what his name was at that moment, he might not have had an answer. He didn't look at the brother in question. "Over-indulgent and prone to dishonesty. Of his siblings, he is the most knowledgeable and the least gifted in the darker arts. Are you paying attention?"
Harry's neck went hot, and he accidentally said, "Yes sir," blessedly in Parseltongue.
"Which one is Sol," Voldemort asked, hands on the wood.
Without looking, Harry said, "The one on the left."
"…Lige Moreau. The second brother. On the right, if you would care to look."
Harry didn't.
"Skilled but hesitant. One might even say lazy. Not unlike yourself, in that regard."
"I am not-"
"Orial Moreau. The youngest, in the middle. She is decidedly the most gifted among them, but she is inexperienced. She is quite… Creative. Too cheerful for my taste."
"A rock is too cheerful for your tastes."
The Dark Lord ignored him, but Nagini snorted and kicked her legs out, hiding her drawings from them as though they were crawling across the table to get a glance.
"What's wrong with cheerful?" Harry asked.
He was anxious to speed the process along and to avoid the end of it. It was getting late, and for all his bravado regarding his Horcrux and the dreams, the thought of all three of them being restrained was making him nauseous.
Voldemort didn't seem to have an answer to his question.
"Dishonesty is worse, right?" Harry continued, "Kinda not really buying your definition of lazy. What do you mean by that? Does he sleep at night or something? Stop for lunch?"
"…Hilarious. He lacks drive."
"Again, too vague. Give me an example."
"Lige, which of you do you think would be most suited to the position?" The Dark Lord asked.
"Me? Oh."
Harry finally glanced at him, his huge brown eyes locked on the tabletop.
"My Lord? If I had to choose…" He seemed as though he'd sat down on a cactus. "Do I have to choose? Sol knows much on the subject of the darker arts-"
"Not yourself?" Voldemort interrupted him.
"Me?"
The Dark Lord looked at Harry, and his eyes said, 'See?'
"Well, then it has to be Orial, right? The creative one," he said in Parseltongue.
"She lacks the experience," Voldemort repeated, once again trapping Harry's eyes.
He thought about it, mind moving through molasses when the Dark Lord stared at him like that, "If you created the curriculum, she could just use that… Till she's up to speed. Cassiopeia could make sure she understands it?" Harry was certain by that point that his entire face and neck were blazing red. Voldemort's eyes flicking to his lips wasn't helping. "Why, um. Why- who- Are there no other options? No better options, I mean."
"Eloquent." Again, he glanced at Harry's lips, and his stomach's reaction was nearly painful. If people got butterflies, Harry got lions.
"They are closest to my inner circle, without burdening those already tasked in other areas."
"Right. Well. I still think Orial. She seems like she'd be… I dunno. Lige is boring me from here." Harry had to swallow repeatedly to get his words out clear. "How inexperienced? Would you use her in a fight?" He looked at her and decided she was somewhere around twenty-five. She seemed offended that Lige hadn't chosen her.
"…I would, but in that instance, any wand will do if you have the numbers." Again.
He cleared his throat, and Crux flew out of his head, nearly startling him to standing. He shot right back in, his re-entry delayed by Tom's confusion.
'Hey leg boy, wanna know what he's thinking right now?'
Harry wasn't sure that he did.
Crux told him anyway, 'Rock hard at the thought of fucking your talk hole.'
He coughed, then choked on the inhale, spluttered and buried his face in his hands.
'That's all I wanted to say. See you later.' His Horcrux was gone, and Harry didn't think any of it warranted a comment.
His thoughts went straight to the wardrobe dream while he hid his eyes, quickly unhiding them when he pictured how he must look, beet-faced and shy about it. "…What are we talking about?"
"Give me strength." Voldemort had stopped looking at his mouth, disdain obvious.
"Right. The Moreau siblings. Dark Arts. Paying attention."
"…Orial."
She sat up straight once more, had slouched somewhat at Lige's recommendation, "Yes, my Lord?"
"Who would you recommend for the role?" He leaned in and Harry thought Voldemort might have been avoiding his gaze.
"Myself," she said without hesitation, back so straight it must have hurt.
Sol sneered at her as though she was slime he'd stepped in, but she wasn't looking at him.
"I vote for myself. That gives me two votes of confidence," Sol said before anyone asked.
Harry could tell that the animosity in his voice, though not aimed at the Dark Lord, had lost him any chance he'd had.
He snorted a small laugh before his thoughts raced back to what Crux had just told him, ending the sound in his throat.
"You have a week to prepare, Orial. Cassiopeia will see that you understand the lesson structure." Voldemort sighed and added in Parseltongue, "If she did not drive me to near insanity, she would be in this room to hear it for herself, but no, I will need to seek her out."
"…Why doesn't she have a Dark Mark?" Harry asked, and the Dark Lord stared at him for a long moment before his eyes squinted into a laugh, quiet, meant for him alone.
He didn't answer the question, and Harry wasn't sure if he was being mocked.
"You may go," Voldemort said, as though it wasn't practically law for his followers to await his every command.
The siblings dispersed, Sol bleeding ill-concealed rage into the room as he left it, somehow brightening the Dark Lord's mood.
Again, Harry was conflicted by the dreams. On one hand, he felt he should feel Voldemort was getting what he'd earned. Maybe, really, less than what he'd earned, considering what had been stripped from Harry to build the empire the Dark Lord stood atop. Regardless, he didn't much feel vindicated. It didn't feel like justice. Mostly, he felt guilty. Guilty, and, if he were forced to admit it, curious. His insides rolled with more than nerves as Voldemort stood and directed both Harry and Nagini out of the room.
Sleep came too easy in the small, cozy secret room they wound up in again, two beds right where they'd left them. Nagini coiled on the Dark Lord's legs as though to hold him in place, Bed Sheet doing essentially the same for Harry. He'd tried not to fall unconscious after silencing himself (Still giddy each time he used his magic), but it came like an irresistible wave not long after the bliss shivered through him.
Crux was waiting for them, pacing across the grey stones Tom manifested.
"The chair that blocks your magic. Make three, arrange them like this," he said it like a drill Sergent, pointing. Tom obliged and summoned three of the heavy chairs with built-in shackles. One of them right before the veil Sirius had fallen through.
"When I start reciting—you'll know the poem—I want effects to go with it, alright? Don't steal the show, though, just make him think this is all me, got it?" Crux was nose to nose with Tom, so Harry approached, forcing them apart while his Horcrux giggled.
"Dunno which of you is more green-eyed. Sit." Crux shoved them both toward the seats furthest from the veil. "Oh, and give me Ravenclaw's Diadem."
Tom shot Harry a look, then summoned the silver crown on Crux's head.
"You need to watch closely, leg boy, because you're being really fucking stupid, and I'm only going to make it blindingly obvious so many damn times. I said sit down."
"…What?" Harry asked, not following when exactly the punishment had become a lesson.
"I said sit down?" Crux repeated, scoffing as he corrected the diadem on his mess of hair.
Tom sat down first, and Harry heard his voice internally, 'Do as he says, and this goes faster.'
'More worried about what he's gonna do than how long it's gonna take,' Harry thought back, but he sat down anyway, the shackles snapping shut over his wrists and ankles.
"Gags," Crux said.
Harry watched him move—jagged and weird, overall—while Tom gagged them both with leather straps, mostly decoration, as they didn't need their mouths. Harry wondered whether Crux knew they could communicate wordlessly, and Tom told him he did. Confirmed decoration.
"Now we wait," Crux sat on the ground, watching the veil more than he did Harry or Tom. "Do you think it hurt him?" He looked at Harry as though he expected him to answer, "Right. You're gagged. Sirius, I mean. When he fell through the veil." He frowned, and for an instant, he seemed almost human, before he shook it off and stood back up.
He paced some more, stopped now and then to stare at the veil without expression. Though his motions were strange, his mannerisms were more Voldemort's than they were Harry's. "Showtime. Lights camera, et cetera. Gag Morty before he talks. I'm not in the mood."
'Does the Dark Lord not know how to… Think at him? Do they not do that?' Harry wondered.
'I don't know,' before Tom thought another word, Voldemort was in the third chair, shackled before he blinked. Gagged before he reacted.
Harry watched him realise, register him, Tom, and his Horcrux—dressed in deep black robes and Ravenclaw's Diadem—grinning like a cartoon shark as the Dark Lord tried to rock his chair, thrashing and biting the gag. With no success.
"Morty often does things that he thinks are real clever. Then they come back to bite him right on the ass, isn't that right? Exhibit A, this chair. You can try to topple it all you want, but you made it too fucking heavy, stupid."
The most unnerving thing about Crux, Harry decided in that instant, was the way he careened wildly from sheer violent insanity into an almost sane, highly intelligent pest. The Dark Lord seemed to be deciding the same thing, his eyes not leaving Crux for long, wide as he went still.
'You don't think he's gonna… I dunno. Do something awful to him?' Harry was purposefully vague, the thought itself too rancid in his stomach to think aloud.
'We watched him tear his heart out while he fucked him on my father's grave. I don't know what he is going to do. Ever.'
He looked at Tom and found him exhausted, his eyes blank; he frowned, and it stayed there. Harry felt himself leaning for him, though he knew—he'd just been told—that the chairs weren't going anywhere.
"Aww. Look. Morty. Look. I SAID LOOK AT THEM."
When the Dark Lord did look, the disgust was plain on his face. As plain as the sweat forming on his brow.
"…Aren't they cute? Looking at each other all concerned and yearning." Crux approached him, slowly, and the closer he got, the more alarmed Voldemort became. "Settle down; you love an audience you always have. Attention, all yours, right?"
He screamed into his gag—half rage, half fear—once Harry's Horcrux was within touching distance.
"He acts like a big scary all-knowing genius psychopath, but really, he's a scared stupid, lonely little boy." Crux laughed, teeth showing.
The Dark Lord was still once more, and Harry was reminded of a snake charmer. He wasn't looking at Crux with disgust any longer, but Harry had difficulty getting a good read on the myriads of emotions fighting for dominance on his face. A rage-fuelled, hungry reverence, he decided.
"Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; hungry clouds swag on the deep. Once meek, and in a perilous path, the just man kept his course along the vale of death," Crux recited in Parseltongue, his pronunciation purposely jagged, a noise like bees humming from everywhere at once as the air above their heads filled with storm clouds.
He slid his hand under the Dark Lord's shirt and cackled when he resisted, jolted into thrashing at the contact. Hand over Voldemort's heart, standing behind him—always grinning—he continued, "Roses are planted where thorns grow, and on the barren heath sing the honey bees."
He'd closed his eyes, sweating profusely, attempting to dislodge Crux with the knowledge that he couldn't. Again, Harry felt ill with guilt, looked at Tom and imagined him in the same position. Couldn't fathom him deserving it.
"Then the perilous path was planted: And a river and a spring on every cliff and tomb; and on the bleached bones red clay brought forth. Till the villain left the paths of ease, to walk in perilous paths, and drive the just man into barren climes." Crux held the Dark Lord's chin tight with his free hand, and Harry didn't think he'd ever be able to get the image out of his head.
Voldemort held helpless against him, his Horcrux, a ghost of himself. The Dark Lord biting the gag as though trying to break his teeth. Eyes squeezed closed against the reality, his fight sporadic.
"Now the sneaking serpent walks in mild humility, and the just man rages in the wilds where lions roam. Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; hungry clouds swag on the deep." Fat raindrops fell as Crux finished reciting and rounded the chair to stand before Voldemort.
"You're an illusion. Tricking everyone into thinking you're real," Crux said.
Again, the Dark Lord watched him as though he was sick with rage and ravenous.
"There's your truth. You think you hide it so well, but I can fucking see you. You're all fucked up and wrong in the head, desperate to get inside the HORCRUX YOU ORPHANED." He pointed at Harry, and his stomach dropped.
He'd been hoping to get through the entirety of the horror show without an honourable mention. Crux approached Tom then, and Harry's stomach dropped further. He found he was the one thrashing in his chair when his Horcrux stopped behind a despondent Tom—who was watching Voldemort instead of looking at Harry. Crux whispered in his ear, a quick sentence, though Harry couldn't read his lips.
'He wants you to watch the Dark Lord,' Tom thought.
"Just look at this one, though," Crux said, yanking Tom's head by his hair as though he was a recently hooked fish, "Charming, actually, how guilt-ridden he is. Look at his face, Morty; you can see it written in his eyes. They're screaming, 'I regret everything, and it's ripping me apart inside,' kinda hot? Don't you think?"
Harry finally tore his eyes away. The Dark Lord was fuming again, gnawing on the gag and leaning forward.
'He's jealous?' Harry thought.
"Hot in a fucking sad, too little too late kind of way." He tossed Tom's head forward as he let go.
He made his way back to Voldemort casually and sat on his lap—cross-legged—as though it were a regular occurrence. Grinned as he corrected the diadem needlessly. He leaned back and muttered something that sent Voldemort feral beneath him—his hands white as he tried to yank them out of the shackles, something Harry knew first-hand couldn't be done quickly—until he abruptly stopped squirming mere seconds later.
"Ugh, you're always almost interesting. You know that? So close sometimes, and then no. You're fucking boring." Crux looked at Harry and said, "He's trying to bite me through the gag."
Crux rolled his hips and smirked like a villain when the Dark Lord started head-butting his back, making him wobble in place.
"Not a very comfortable throne, but I'll take it."
(AN: Crux recites The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake.)