Love and War, Fleurie

I'm next in line and my supply is running out
It's time to leave, the clouds are hanging low
The truth begins to show

Lover, hunter, friend and enemy
You will always be every one of these
Lover, hunter, friend and enemy
You will always be every one of these
Nothing's fair in love and war

In life, in love, this time, I can't afford to lose
For one, for all, I'll do what I have to do
You can't understand; it's all part of the plan

Once more, Harry woke alone. Closer to sunrise but not close enough to roll out of the bliss and hunt the Dark Lord. Bed Sheet kept him warm, and the potions kept him down.

The second time he woke, it was past sunup, and he was immediately irritated with Voldemort.

"Where do you keep going? All night?"

He pointed at breakfast, and Harry realised he looked awkward—squirmy about Harry's questioning.

"I cannot sleep. Why lay staring at the ceiling listening to you- there is too much to be done," he flinched repeatedly, "Eat. Your Horcrux needs feeding."

Harry's eyes bugged at the mention of Crux, the dream flooding back like a tsunami.

'…That's insane. That was insane? I mean… Right?' He thought.

Tom immediately thought it wasn't insane. Terrifying, maybe—Crux made it dangerous, both Harry and Tom well aware that his Horcrux was unpredictable with suspicious motives—but it was also the most provocative thing Tom had ever seen. Loudly repeating it—semi-erect, working on a full hard-on—bright in his head with absolutely no shame.

'Shameless?' Harry took a bliss potion with his food, deciding he was sick of it wearing thin.

One potion took the edge off. Two would be too many. The Dark Lord watched him take it, and Harry pointed at breakfast, mimicking Voldemort.

"When did you last sleep?" He asked.

"Last night." His expression wasn't as schooled as usual; he was frowning, almost smiling,an undercurrent of frustration.

"You were in that dream for…" Harry cleared his throat andbugged his eyes, "Minutes, probably."

"Mmm."

"Mmm?"

"Tell me, Harry, how it came to be…" He picked up a goblet of juice and held it, "…That you would react to your Horcrux-"

Harry squawked and held his hand up, "I don't know. I thought you already knew-" He cleared his throat, suddenly too tight to speak, "It's not hidden in my head anymore. I figured you'd seen how I feel about- about Crux."

The Dark Lord shook his head, almost bewildered, eyes narrowed, "…Crux."

"For short. He doesn't like me calling him Harry."

"It."

"Well past that," Harry sighed, "Aren't we? How did it come to be that you react to him like that?"

Before he finished speaking, Crux was in his head, 'How'd you sleep? Good? I could tell you what he's doing all night, but honestly, I wanna see how it plays out. He's so obsessed it's driving him nuts; he can hardly spend an hour harassing his groupies for what they can't give him. Are you going to defend your honour along with mine?'

"It," Voldemort repeated, forcefully enunciating the t.

'…What are you talking about? Ever?' Harry thought.

'Princess,' he drew the word out while he rifled through Harry's memories of the dream, followed them back to the source, and giggled at the emotions attached, 'He fucked you unconscious. Rude of him not to ask.'

'You did everything but tell him to do it.'

'Oh, wow? Accusations. No basis in reality—maybe you're insane? This is definitely crazy?' Crux highlighted Harry's emotions a second time, his laughter all but audible, 'Don't worry, Harry. You're all out of our minds.'

'And you're not?'

'I'm the sanest ever to exist. Compared to you?' Crux made a 'Pff' noise for an annoying amount of time.

"If you don't stop calling him it, maybe I'll call you Morty."

'Harry! Stop I'm gonna blush. Keep going.' Crux hadn't let go of his thoughts, highlighted and irritating. '…You just said that to shut me up.'

'You never shut up.'

"What purpose would that serve? Humanising it?" The Dark Lord was unimpressed, but he didn't have the energy to put up a fight.

"Eat something, will you? And tonight, you're sleeping; we'll work something out, potions or a blow to the head. Morty."

"Don't fucking call me that."

Harry shrugged, annoyed with his refusal but more concerned with Voldemort's attempted backsliding.

Harry had marked his five hundred, and Tom was preparing to broach the subject of more, anxiously watching for the right time.

The right time wasn't directly after feeding Crux and bleeding Voldemort within an inch with the curse to settle the rage.

Throughout the day, Harry had looked out the window three times. Paying attention to his surroundings was harder and harder, but when he did, he'd spot the changes—ripples of the Dark Lord's ambitions—rapidly expanding despite and due to the Order's interference.

Each time he observed the grounds, hundreds of people were gathered outside the wards. Too far away to guess identity, though at least a quarter of them were photographing the castle, cameras floating and flashing above their heads. Death Eaters roamed among them, shepherding the crowds away from the protective magic.

It was easy enough to let it all slip his mind, particularly once marking was done—the Dark Lord refused more than one Replenisher—he dared Harry with his eyes to say something throughout the process, which had Tom re-evaluating the quality of the speech he'd prepared to request more marked.

When they were alone, Voldemort felt less and less like a Dark Lord in spite of the way his influence grew. The rising tensions in the Wizarding World and his part in it were almost at thebottom of the list of things he was thinking about. Aware he should care—that they should be his top priorities.

On Saturday morning, Lydia requested more time with Charlie, and again she'd called it complicated, though she added that she had hope he would recover.

Cassiopeia was due back after the executions on Sunday night, and Tom had tentatively booked his mark monologue in for afterwards.

He'd caught bits and pieces of the news Narcissa brought, and Tom caught the rest. There were suspicions that it wasn't so much the Order that they needed to worry about. Though the Order's ranks were growing, it was a stable progression compared to Reginald Ironwood's movements.

Exact numbers were impossible, but Ironwood wasn't careful—talk was plentiful. He was not only recruiting wizards and witches with no allegiances—low-ranking Death Eaters and unmarked followers were abandoning Voldemort in Ironwood's favour.

Tom told the Dark Lord that more were inevitable so long as Ironwood had Reed Harlow. Permanent brainwashing in droves; anyone who got within her radius wasa potential target.

Voldemort made plans with Narcissa to prepare the castle and grounds for Gwrych's first large gathering to determine how many of his marked didn't show up.

Tom pushed for a conversation with Pollux and Ruby, met with silence and directed to his own quarters to prepare for the event—a weird change of pace—usually allowed to bathe in the Dark Lord's bathroom. Voldemort's face was intense when he demanded it, though, so Harry picked his battles and left Voldemort in the sitting room with the piano.

Friday and Saturday night, the Dark Lord had vanished again. Each time Harry prodded the subject he received awkwardness in return. He assumed whatever Voldemort was doing, he was embarrassed about it, which made Harry's curiosity all the more intense. Crux's reluctance to tell him meant it wasn't a threat to any of their plans, but that didn't strictly mean whatever the Dark Lord was doing was positive.

Harry bathed with his thoughts catching on his Horcrux. It was obvious that Crux was just having fun with Harry's crush—unable to physically feel and emotionally stunted along with it—and he wasn't sure how to feel about it.

On the one hand, Crux's inability to develop feelings on that level was some comfort, an assurance that he couldn't build an obsession at the same intensity.

On the otherhand, Tom thought it was a detrimenthe couldn't. Easier to control and predict if he was as rapt as they were.

They knew he wanted fusion, that it was his top priority. Beyond that, Crux had been vague. And vague was a threat.

He was frustrated with his train of thought and how it led him to think about Ginny, Reed, and the apocalypse. Irritated that he couldn't bring himself to want to focus on it—his repetitive obsession heavily disrupted his functioning.

If it weren't for Tom's self-control and desire to prove himself—to make Harry happy no matter what it took—he would be essentially hopeless, too smitten to prove useful to himself.

He bathed fast, and Tom fixed his appearance. The same robes he'd worn for the first execution were on his unused bed beside a square wooden box he hadn't noticed when he'd entered. Sat atop an envelope.

Tom slipped the envelope out, nothing written on the front, charmed strong enough to feel the magic—for his eyes only.

Name this.

If it gets what it wants, do not hesitate.

'Name this,' in the Dark Lord's handwriting had Harry's heart thundering instantly—not his adrenaline. His understanding came with Tom's. There was a Squib snake in the box.

'We can't hide this from Crux? Voldemort's expecting us to keep this a secret? How?' Harry thought, box untouched.

'…Shit.'

'Shit?' It felt less like a container and more like a bomb sat on his bed covers. 'What if we don't open it?' then, '…It's too late for that, isn't it.'

'Yes.' Tom's inner thoughts were rapid, overlapping, his frown bleeding onto Harry's face.

'He means use it on him, doesn't he? If they fuse?'

'Try not to think about it. Keep it small. He's more interested in your… interest in him. Distract him with that.' Tom flicked the box open, a black velvet drawstring pouch within it.

'Distract him with that? Are you serious? He'll find it; he finds everything?'

Tom was more concerned with the Dark Lord. That he'd put his magic in their hands, that he'd demand to be stripped of it if he and Crux fused. To Tom, it meant that Voldemort had weighed the situation—the race between Harry's Horcrux, recovering the hostages, and the hatching of the Basilisk eggs—and had concluded that he might lose. That he might lose soon.

From that thought stemmed a whole new set of concerns that Tom couldn't stop indulging despite his suggestion to 'Not think about it'.

The Dark Lord without magic at the head of an empire.

'…That's crazy?'

'It is.' Tom removed the pouch and spoke Parseltongue into the wriggling fabric, "I name you Sanctus."

Purposely not thinking about something was difficult. The snake pushed to the back of his mind repeatedly.

He'd thrown the letter in the fireplace, but he figured it didn't matter whether the physical evidence remained—the snake itself hidden in his robes, burning a hole there and in his head.

The executions were to take place at Nurmengard, presented with the familiar Portkey once his mask had been summoned. Bed Sheet hid the rest of him. Anonymous only in a loose sense. A shred of deniability was all he needed under new law and order.

Narcissa met them alone in the entrance hall. After bowing low and giving her token 'My Lord,' she said, "I believe we should speak privately before the executions. There has been a… Development." She looked at Harry briefly, and he sensed he wouldn't like the development.

Voldemort let her lead the way, and instead of taking them down the hall to the observatory, she took them down to the dungeons.

Harry was bracing before they reached the bottom of the stairs. There were few reasons Narcissa would give him that look and take him to the underground cells. They had someone he knew.

He held his breath until Tom took over. Narcissa silenced them in the narrow, dimly lit hallway.

"…They approached us of their own accord. They are requesting to speak with Harry. I thought it wise to hold them and those that brought them in…" She pursed her lips, hesitating, "Weasleys."

"What?" Harry said, more a shocked exclamation than a question. "Who? Where?" He pushed past her down the corridor, scanning cells.

Fred in one cell, George in the next. Or vice versa.

"…No," Harry said, then again when the Dark Lord approached.

Narcissa extended her spell to include the Weasleys and stayed where she was.

"What are you doing here?" Directed at the twins, though he didn't give them time to answer, "I'm not killing them. Neither are you. Don't even think about it." Half English, half Parseltongue.

"Nice mask, Harry," One of the twins said, "Get a lot of killing done?"

He vanished his anonymity—Bed Sheet took the cue to fall back from his face—and shook his head, "What are you doing?" He repeated.

Both looked no worse for wear, though in need of a bath, covered in mud and soaked for some reason.

"We really fancied a chat with you." His words joking, histone serious. George, he decided.

Voldemort hadn't said anything, so Harry said again, "We're not killing them. They came of their own accord?"

"Don't want to rush you, Harry, but this is time-sensitive," Fred said.

"They are members of the Order of the Phoenix," the Dark Lord said.

He wanted to strike his stubborn masked face, "You need to stop resisting just because it's me and start letting me help you. They're not here for nothing; they know something."

The twins were stunned and levitated—with cloth bags on their heads—to another room within the dungeons by Narcissa on Voldemort's orders—the door heavy wood instead of bars. The Dark Lord cast privacy wards before Fred and George were allowed to stand.

"…Have those that brought them here Obliviated, Narcissa. See that no one is aware." The Dark Lord was pacing, making Harry nervous with his energy.

"I'm not killing them," Harry thought it warranted repeating repeatedly.

Voldemort vanished his mask as the Malfoy Matriarch bowed out—releasing the Weasley twins from their stuns. Both scrambled to get the bags off and feign some bravado.

There was a single table in the sparse stone room, and George leaned against it, shivering, hiding his anxiety fairly well, "Everything's gone a bit pear-shaped, hasn't it?"

They weren't surprised by the Dark Lord's face, so Harry assumed word had well and truly spread. They stared, though, wide-eyed, false nonchalance layered over a fatigue Harry understood. Older than he remembered them, though it hadn't been that long. Scruffy beards and tired eyes.

"Ginny?" Harry asked.

"We want assurance that we can get them out," Fred said, "In exchange for what we know."

"…Get who out?"

"Whoever we can," George answered.

"That's worth it, right?" Harry said, then Tom agreed, "It is if their information is sound," ever the supportive optimist.

"Hate to interrupt you, Harry, but I'm freezing my bloody bollocks off," Fred said, behind him.

"Are you both out of your damn minds?" Harry snapped, spinning on them, Voldemort's reluctance inspiring an anxious irritation.

How he felt wasn't helped by the twins, what he'd rather be doing, or by the snake he shouldn't have thought about.

Nostrils flared, forcefully exhaling, he drew the Snakewood wand for Tom to dry the twins and vanish the mud with a Parseltongue incantation.

"I can tell you—though I am certain you are aware, Harry—how I would deal with this," The Dark Lord said, voice trailing as he paced at Harry's back.

"You'd trick or force the information out of them and then kill everyone," Harry said, part nervously frustrated, part inexplicably bored—more tired than anything else, Voldemort's unyielding resistance was irritating in an increasingly dull way—still scowling at Fred and George.

George shrugged, watching Voldemort, "You might get some of the information if you magicked it out of us, but the critical bits…"

"And if this is some plot? A trap?" The Dark Lord asked in Parseltongue.

"Look at them?" Harry insisted, "They're desperate. They wouldn't have done this unless things were…" The concern finally welled up and swallowed the rest, almost relieved to feel it, "We're doing this? They're asking to get people out of the Order." He was hit with the urge to call Voldemort Tom andsnapped his mouth shut, frownling. Evaluating. "…Please."

The Dark Lord inhaled, held it, thensaid, "Speak. I will decide on the merit of your information whether we have a deal." Voldemort told the twins, almost relentless in his pacing—stopping and starting.

"Ginny?" Harry asked again.

"We can tell you where she is, but we need to… Fill you in a bit first," Fred leaned against the table with his brother, both frowning.

"You have a spy high up in your ranks. We don't know who exactly, but they report to Mad-Eye directly." George said, arms crossed, grim-faced, "Whoever it is, they know where you are and what you're doing at all times, from what we've pieced together—"

Fred interrupted George, "We don't have the clearance to hear 'the grown-ups' talk at the 'grown-up' table; mum's too paranoid—with good reason, I suppose, the clock always reads 'MORTAL PERIL' nowadays—so we've had to get creative."

"—The attack at the Minister's estate was a shambles. On our end and yours. Aberforth's son—he goes by Credence—took whoever would go, along with some of Ironwood's goons, acting on Mad-Eye's top-secret information to carry out highly unsanctioned shenanigans."

"A spy?" Harry repeated.

"The only reason we know there is a spy is because Credence acted on it. It caused quite the stir. All anyone in our house can talk about," Fred said, "Otherwise, it would have been above our pay grade."

"Where is Credence?" Voldemort had stopped pacing.

"Above our pay grade, too. Somewhere with Aberforth."

"Nagini?" Harry asked.

The twins shrugged in unison. "We don't know where she is. If she's with them or… We don't understand that part. No one gets that part, why…?" Fred trailed off.

It was clear that Credence and Nagini's history wasn't common knowledge. Tom hoped the fact that she was a Horcrux was also under wraps, but if there was a spy in as deep as they said there was, it was unlikely no one knew. His train of consciousness was already re-examining everyone close to them.

"And Reed Harlow?" Tom asked.

The twins gave each other a look. "We can't tell you where she is, either, but we can tell you—"

George finished Fred's sentence, "—What she does is dangerous. And… That's what brought us here. Mum and dad- when Ginny was brought back, she wasn't—" he stopped to sigh, "—She didn't want to be there. She was devastated. Asking to be released. And our parents couldn't come to terms with it, that she'd rather be… So they had Harlow change her mind."

"What? What do you mean?" Harry pressed, arms falling out of their crossed position, fear like heat coursing through him, "Changed her mind?"

"We can tell you where Ginny is, but she won't come willingly," Fred said. "If we give you that information… Everyone there…"

"How do we change her mind back?" Harry snapped.

Voldemort answered, "We cannot. Not without the cerebromancer."

The cerebromancer that was under Ironwood's control. Reed, with her exceptional radius.

"…How are they making her do this? Reed? She wouldn't? I mean, I don't think she would—"

"They've done something to her. We've only seen her once, and that was more than enough. Right dead behind the eyes. Ironwood is using her to grow his ranks—" Fred began.

"We know that part," Harry said, raising a hand and searching the Dark Lord's demeanour.

The twins had Voldemort's full attention, "Malfoy, Greyback, and Rosier?"

"We don't know." The twins looked at Harry as they answered, "Aberforth, Mad-Eye, and Ironwood are… Now that Reginald has the brain-scrambler, we're at his whim. It's not an uneasy alliance anymore; they're scared of him. Nobody's talking about it out loud, but… We want out. A lot of us, I think."

"Reed. The 'Brain-scrambler.' She's Ironwood's daughter," Harry guessed they didn't know.

Confirmed by their faces, slack-jawed and confused, "His daughter?" They exchanged more looks, "Would not have guessed that in a million years—That's… Blimey."

Fred recovered first to repeat, "We need a guarantee that you'll allow them to get out."

"You had to know that I wouldn't let you kill them," Harry told the Dark Lord in the serpent tongue, "That I'd refuse to do it for you—any of them, from before. Put your wand away. We need to do this."

He scoffed, "That you would not 'let' me. Amusing."

Harry stared at him expectantly. And he caved.

"I will not make a vow. Nor will you," he made a show of tucking his wand back into his robe pocket, then in English, "My word is all you will get."

Fred and George watched Harry, their postures mirrored.

"I'll do my best," he told them.

Voldemort had a habit of explosive murder when pushed. Confronting the Order would push him, circumstances turning his reasoning to mush. Harry was in a better position to influence his decisions, though, a place he hadn't been before.

"Can't be choosers now, can we? We're the Secret Keepers for Aunt Muriel's place," Fred said after a long, tense pause, "Got a piece of parchment? You'll- you'll need to go as soon as possible, when they realise we're not coming back—"

The Dark Lord extended parchment and a small quill with no small amount of aggression, forcefully passing it.

George's hand shook as he penned the address, wonky ink not yet dry when he returned it to Harry, pleading with his eyes—scared they were doing the wrong thing. He hoped for all their sakes that they weren't.

Voldemort pressed two fingers to his mark, and when Narcissa returned, he ordered her to move the Weasley twins to Gwrych with the utmost secrecy.