A/N: If my prescription of characters is different from canon, sorry about that: I haven't read the books in too long in that case. And this is not beta read - though if someone wants to beta read, please let me know. So read at your own risk :)
Before we begin, I want to give a shout-out to an awesome series I recently discovered: The Problem With Pain by Pufflehuff90. This one deserves more attention. It's delicious, exciting, ruthless: the writer goes where others shy away, and I think to the core of what each character is about and is capable of. It's a riveting, immersive experience BUT: don't read if the warnings might trigger something for you! It's violent and horrible, so be warned.
Lastly a warning for this chapter: mentions of an earlier suicide attempt.
Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts as always.
Dec. 2024: editing to make the chapter run more smoothly and fix some errors
Chapter 35
He looked around the shadowy common room of the Slytherins, thinking back on why he was here. He'd done this before, yes: falling asleep for a spot of time on this couch. The other time he'd woken to loud voices of students but now: only a few conversations in quiet tones.
Snape's brew must be a soporific; it pulled on his eyelids the whole afternoon. But try to keep awake, now. He winced at what his face must look like, then realised with a burst of nerves he'd thought that before. Was he just tired, or had the man hit him a little too hard earlier?
"Get lost," he heard Malfoy chew out a group of fifth, no sixth years that had been hanging nearby and throwing glances his way in the past hour. They scurried off. It was just their own year now, in a half circle in front of the fireplace. He gave in to his drooping eyes when talking resumed, hopeful they'd get the hint.
He'd been hiding out in the dormitories since Snape had send him on his wobbly way. First he'd thought of the greenhouses, but there might be lessons. And persons. That ruled out the library as well, the Owlery where he hoped to see Hedwig sometime. So he lay down on his bed, and to his own surprise he'd slept a while. He was not up to confronting the whole school either for dinner, but then Dobby appeared with some light supper. Slowly students started returning to the common room, and Malfoy had come up to find him.
The grim boy had insisted he show up here before retreating to his four-poster bed for the night. So he was here, but that was where his participation ended. He slowly withdrew one traitorous shaking hand back into the folds of his Hogwarts robes. The muscle damage there he could no longer feel, or not yet as it were, with thanks to a person who was usually a cantankerous, ruthless git.
Reluctantly, he recalled his weird deference to Snape earlier – how could he have forgotten who this man was?
Pain. Torture had vaporized it. But could this relief of pain quench the thirst for revenge? No. He'd been polite because he had his fill of strive. Even worse to recall: the Dark Lord, responsible for his loveless upbringing, had taunted him about his neediness to connect, to care. His enemies were changing him.
He felt scrambled, washed out. Weak. An ache to each breath. Voldemort thought he'd betrayed him, which was logic-defying. Anger sure, but to feel wronged? He had zero right – Harry was allowed to see an enemy to kill in any way possible.
Inside the cloudy space of the painkiller his thoughts drifted further. What would Dumbledore be thinking now? Would he be worried about him? Or was he more the type of man for action, as opposed to useless ruminations.
"Potter," someone asked next to him and he jolted, nearly asleep again. For it was such a pleasant haze, this Moonsund thing. Like that time Sirius introduced him to two sips of his Firewhiskey: nothing to worry about, he could just sink into blissful nothingness. Shut down.
Once more: his name.
"What," he snapped.
"I heard a rumour, this week," Daphne spoke. "You can touch the Mark and… make someone hurt, like him."
He closed his eyes again.
Murmurings.
"Potter!" Daphne snapped. He looked over at her inclined figure on the couch opposite.
"Hm."
"I want you to show us."
"I don't."
"Don't think you can dismiss me, half-blood," Daphne said waspishly. She was not used to hearing no. She hadn't seemed so stuck-up before, though. Had she changed her tune since the party?
Daphne pulled her wand. He tensed, before Malfoy knocked her wand sideways.
"He's just been tortured this morning Greengrass, we don't need you adding to it."
He'd re-bitten his swollen tongue. He was too jumpy. Besides: the painkiller dulled the Crucio's pervasiveness into near nothing, so he wouldn't feel what she wanted to dish out. For just a second, he felt like toasting Snape's potioneering talent. He went back to his languid position, tilting his head towards the couch back and closing his eyes, although his instincts screamed against it. He found that ignoring them was the most demanding on the little egos down in the dungeons.
Sure enough the silence got filled again. Goyle, out of sight, came to the edge of his vision and said: "Think you're all high and mighty now?"
"Why would I think that," he muttered.
"You know why, you idiot."
He kept silent.
"Because," Nott now, in a lilting tone, "The Dark Lord has declared you off-limits. His, right?"
That voice had him open his eyes. Theodore sat next to Daphne on the edge of the sofa opposite. The flickering fire behind Harry made his darker skin look bronzed. He was staring him down like some kind of slightly repulsive insect, elbows on his knees, athletic upper arms hanging down. Then he stood, and the upholstery dented next to him. He could feel the boy's breath. Drat.
All knew Nott had found this out the hard way: the nasty boy used to have that murderous urge for him. Did someone have a talk with him about that?
"Who did it?" Nott said, too close on his right, while Harry stared straight ahead at the curving walls around them. He saw Malfoy shake his head to someone's unspoken question, perhaps to say it wasn't his father who did it.
The silence now felt anticipatory. What to make of him, Harry seen from their eyes? An outsider yet clearly at the front of their Lords mind somehow. Their hands had to be itching to put this small boy, this anomaly in its place. Or perhaps it was different. Like the gentry at courts of old, perhaps they were thirsty for a piece of their ruler, and he was to be that piece, by proxy. If that was so, they were more right than they'd ever live to tell.
"The Dark Lord did it himself, of course," Daphne supplied. "Am I right? Wanted to make a point, it looks like."
His mouth twisted with tension... Someone chuckled. Someone whistled.
"Oh so he did..." Daphne breathed. She frowned slightly. Voldemort not using magic, but physical violence? Those dots didn't connect in her brain, clearly. He could torture and kill, sure, but this savageness...
She went on: "It's personal between you, isn't it? Its always been like that. I wonder why he bothers."
"Best keep those wanderings to yourself," Malfoy supplied.
Pansy walked closer from the other side of the room, where she'd been sitting by herself. "What made him do that, Potter?"
She was the first to acknowledge him as a breathing part of the conversation, which is why he broke the silence to say: "I was… out of line."
"Did you provoke him?" Zabini.
Because of course the man himself couldn't be at fault for torturing him, he wanted to scowl. Vernon routinely blamed him as well for any curve balls he couldn't handle. He gritted his teeth to let the memory slip away of that morning's very dead version.
Nott chuckled and he suppressed a shudder at his closeness. "Really, you need to give us some more."
He turned towards the burning flames of the hearth and waited – they would not have the patience for his answers, surely.
"I can fill in the blanks." Malfoy. "Of course you had to pick my crazy aunt, Potter. Trapped her with the Dark Lord's magic . My mother was there, you know, when Bella thought she got called. You never learn when to back down, do you?"
"What does that mean though," Pansy asked him, " She thought she got called?"
"Like Greengrass said," Nott murmured. "He shares some of the dark lords traits. Let's see … don't you think I deserve a bit of pain, Potter?"
He turned his tired head, still propped up by the couch's back, to watch Nott in surprise, then realised he was forgetting his resolve to ignore the Slytherins in general.
"Can't say it was a chore, Potter, when I beat you up a few weeks ago," Nott continued with an unpleasant smirk, eyes flitting to watch the others like he'd won a round.
"So frustrated, Nott," he guessed at the restless, buzzy energy coming from the boy's Mark. He straightened up and turned to Daphne. "Did you turn him down?"
Daphne looked surprised. But his observation had hit the mark. The boy's focus had been mostly in her general direction, now he'd proven Nott's crush: the boy's cheek twitched with something wild wanting to let loose. But then he sat back calmly to take a sip from a bottle of butterbeer – the side table held enough for all of them, probably supplied by elves earlier.
Malfoy chuckled coldly. Nothing seemed left of the earlier camaraderie between Nott and Malfoy. Nott's taunts during the Quidditch try-out had hit hard, perhaps.
Nott was swallowing, about to speak to nourish his ego so Harry continued:
"Rather thuggish that attack I thought, with the boots." Better wield the blade of that memory himself, than let someone wield it against him. "Didn't think you had it in you, you know?"
Pissed off greatly improved the boy's face. Around them people went quiet to listen in.
Nott huffed, tossed his head in response. "Is what I thought you deserved at the time. For being a little shit..."
He deserved this next bit, then. "You got off well. You should've seen the other guy. It wasn't pretty."
"Zacharias, you mean." Zabini put in, probably standing next to the hearth at their backs.
Nott grimaced like he'd eaten something foul. Harry gave a toothy grin, which worked to bottle up a sudden wave of self-hatred – he had to work with what he got. "He meant it as a gift to me, killing Smith. You see now? That's how much your Lord is dedicated to the pureblood cause."
Nothing more to gain here – to the dorms now… but the plush seating made him slow. Nott saw his efforts and pushed at his chest, down, and he was stronger. Harry's left hand meanwhile found the wand stuck in his waistband. He hoped he still looked relaxed, as Horcrux Riddle nearly always did before he reacted.
Nott nudged even closer. In a move he should've seen coming, the boy yanked up his own sleeve to reveal his mark. He grabbed at Harry's idle right hand: despite his efforts Nott managed to press his fingers down over the ugly tattoo. Something seemed to thrum below the skin. He hated the intensity of Nott's gaze. The way the boy drew in a shaky breath while grimacing through the pain, a sort of worship to it.
His anger at Nott was translating directly through the Mark – would it feel the same as when Voldemort was near and hateful? The physical connection now snared Nott's magic like a chord ready to be pushed, more clearly than he'd yet experienced it. It was almost like the magic had a life of it's own, wanting him to subject the servant to more of this. But he resisted making a point, since it was Nott's he'd be making.
"You like the pain then, Nott?" Malfoy smirked as if echoing his thoughts, eyebrows raised in surprise.
Nott's Mark felt energetic, causing a buzz in his limbs, and his head to feel light. He pulled away but Nott was ready for it. He twisted so that the fingers of his trapped arm now clenched Harry's forearm back, in mirror to his own. Two hands held onto him now. He raised his eyebrows and took in each member of their group – all staring with different emotions.
"A bit intense, Nott," he drawled at the far wall. "Shouldn't we get to know each other a bit first?"
Quiet laughter. Nott drew away, but his little smirk stayed on as he walked back to the couch opposite. The attention around them waned. He pushed off to stand.
Goyle was suddenly near, stewing clearly. "You're just a little mudblood shit. You got away again, so why hasn't our lord killed you yet?"
"We all know what this is really about," Daphne said. "When he attacked you as a baby, Potter. That's when you got these powers, Parseltongue... All his traits that he gave you."
Fair enough but he enjoyed leaving her hanging with a blank expression. Not least because this was a group of entitled people, who could just keep on guessing like everyone else. Standing was tiring. He felt his eyes droop after a few beats of silence, beyond his will.
Malfoy drew upwards to stand. "Let's go Potter. Dormitory."
He nodded, grabbed the armrest to stand.
"I get that it's not about your escape," Zabini joined in suddenly. Why couldn't he just ask this privately if he were so smart? That way he might actually learn something, and he wouldn't let him feel as if on trial.
Blaise shook his head. "He must be so mad about general Lestrange. You trapped her for the Order and then…" Zabini seemed to search for words even though he knew them, voice rising into the incredulous range. "And then he let you go – after only a bit of punishment?"
Harry stared at his classmate. The longer this dynamic with the Dark Lord went on – and Voldemort had assured him of its longevity – the stranger his position must seem to Zabini. Things needed to be rational for him. He was nuanced, voiced no strong opinions. Blaise always gave him the feeling he could see the whole of him, and ignore the labels. But that was getting harder to do. He found the heir thing farfetched, but what else could explain him?
There was Daphne, who appeared to be of the opinion now that everyone was making too big a deal out of him. She'd changed her tune since the Slytherin party weeks back - did she feel unsure or threatened, like Malfoy seemed to be? Then there was Pansy, who didn't doubt the story: she liked things to be clear-cut, labels. Her eyes were narrowed - reevaluating him, making the world neat and clear again.
He couldn't understand it himself: from Voldemort, it was an indulgence to be allowed here again. And he'd wanted to do something else: to complete that vision playing in his mind of Harry sliced open and hanging from chains in the dungeons. Yet he had restrained himself.
He turned to leave, all his aches mingling with the exhaustion. He walked off briskly towards the dorms at the back.
888
If lunch went like breakfast, and the whole week, he would perhaps never get used to it. It was like he was the circus act come to town. His bruises were turning green and bluish, and you could easily magic that away, so why had he left it on? And also, there was just a shape of fingertips on his right, so brutish, so Muggle. Still, people leapt to the person responsible: because those red speckles in his eyes when you saw him up close, how about that? The papers must be telling the truth this time, he must be close to the Dark Lord...
Not a word yet about his escape or return in the Daily Prophet though – That could be something to look forward to tomorrow. Malfoy skimmed the papers each morning, a bit like Hermione used to. Except Hermione would skip and also read the articles at full speed, eyes flashing back and forth. And she would have at least three articles finished before class.
He welcomed the moment they stepped outside to walk the grounds. Torrents of rain soaked their cloths as the seventh years made their way to the first lesson of the day. Near the edge of the forest their professor waited. Grubbly-Plank's kind and open face seemed tense today, he thought as they came to stand in line. The group around him, mostly Slytherins, greeted her. It was like everyone was more attentive towards their teachers: perhaps punishments had changed, or students were more serious about these things now.
"At ease."
Perhaps it was a military thing. The students broke apart to form a loose half circle around her. Rain was trailing into the nape of his neck, and he shivered.
"Today we will be discussing the property's of Thestrals. You've had a lesson on them last year, correct? Well, as you may or may not know, the carriages that transport the first years are pulled by these creatures. Whether you can see them depends on whether you've seen someone die."
A collective intake of breath. At least this was an easy one.
Crabbe and Goyle at the back weren't listening: at the back of the group they wrestled to get the other to fall into a huge puddle on the grass nearby. Padma and Daphne next to them had spelled an umbrella above their heads and looked on with grins. Malfoy stood whispering to Daphne.
"We will be looking at the characteristics of these magnificent beasts. I work with them regularly and I can tell you: they're all different. This of course is true for all living beings. But today I'm mostly here to tell you about their usage. Though they are rarely tamed, they can be an efficient travel companion or help during battle." She added with clear irritation: "In accordance with the new guidelines, we will be focusing on this: their uses for magical people."
Of course. The class was now fittingly called Magical Creatures in his schedule, without the care.
"Now for this lesson we need to walk towards a part of the grounds you are less familiar with. Follow me."
Goyle finally tackled Crabbe, who tripped and fell face-first in the mud. He shook his head like a dog might, dripping. The group laughed. Harry grinned a little despite himself. As they found the herd of Thestrals, Grubbly-Plank asked the obvious: who could see them? It was still surprising to him that more than half of the twenty-ish students raised their hands.
888
Takumi came to mind on a morning like this: he suddenly missed talking to him regularly, as a calm point inside this insane regime. And missing turned into a vague worry. Tortured, then killed or spared, Watanabe had said of the faith of his previous guard, who'd screwed up by letting him get away on Diagon Alley. Luckily for him, Voldemort had chosen the latter. He was still an 'asset'.
He had to work out where the man was: what was his new assignment? A demotion probably, but bearable? Takumi's first action as his guard had been a visit to Zabini s mother, he mused as they walked back into the school, dragging mud and water inside. The way they'd responded to each other, she had to know something about his new situation. He had no clue about her position with regards to Voldemort really – perhaps she was merely affiliated through her husband.
The next class was potions with Slughorn, so just a few stairs downwards. He sat down next to Zabini, the same place as before he'd… gone off. Almost like he'd never left.
"Why don't you ever give parties, Zabini," he asked below the den of scurrying activities as classmates gathered ingredients and started their brew .
"Parties? What do you mean," he said, a little distracted by setting out all their ingredients in neat rows. Zabini was certainly more useful a partner than Neville, who was sitting at the back, alone. Good for Neville, that he'd been allowed into seventh year, since he needed a potion's N.E.W.T. for his higher education in Herbology. On the other hand, perhaps it was better that he worked with someone else.
Not him: he wasn't being a very useful lab partner. Whatever Slughorn spoke of, he was forgetting in the next instant. His hands weren't steady. This must be the vague ache in his joints – the echo of the torture curse crouching over his body, waiting for Snape's painkiller to wear off.
What to say? "Well I've been around to your house once, and it looked nice enough for it." He took to mind the palace-like parlour splendour.
"Oh? My parents never said you came by."
He busied himself with pouring the right amount of water into their cauldron and setting it to boil. "Yes, well, my guard took me there to see Vol-" the Dark Lord."
"Right. He comes over sometimes to meet with my parents." Yes, great. "It's a big place, isn't it," he went on. Then as if to himself: "You'd think they'd get along, wouldn't you, with all that space."
"What do you mean?"
But Zabini shook his head, and there was no room to talk with all the steps the potion needed, whatever it's use was. They worked for a while, one stirring while the other prepared. The stuff needed to settle for a bit.
"You look tired, Blaise." Zabini's words had made him imagine parents at odds, in a large mansion. He lowered his voice. "Are they fighting at home, your parents? Is that what you mean?"
The boy threw him a sideways glance. Hermione once told him in first year, that using last names the way Slytherins did created distance, and see: the Gryffindor approach worked better.
"Don't try and analyse me, Potter. What do you want, see my house all of a sudden? You have to slice them first before squeezing."
He cut into the newt's eyes with a grimace, then squeezed each cut-up ball like a fruit to let the juices dribble into a small bowl. There were gloves for this, luckily.
Good question. "Merely to understand why each and every Death Eater party has to be at the Malfoy's."
Zabini was stirring the murky soup: counter-clockwise, thrice, once clockwise and repeat. "You must hate that dungeon of theirs now, I suppose."
He shrugged. It was hard to tell whether Blaise was mocking or not.
"Well, my mother isn't much for parties. That's why. Though my father loves to binge with his 'old mates'.
"Hm?" He looked at the boys sour demeanour. "Your dad drinks? Can't see your mother handling that well, actually." So, that explained it.
As Zabini shook his head he asked: "Let me guess, he meets them in a different room of the house so he doesn't disturb her? Or does he go off to some kind of firewhiskey club?"
That had been his uncle's favourite kind of night: when he came home smelling of cigars and Harry made sure to give him a wide berth. Next his mind threw up an image of his uncle's now very dead eyes.
He sucked in a breath as pain struck his left hand where the thorns of some kind of root made tiny indents. He was squeezing it.
"We have the drawing room for that, yes. My mother plans other stuff on those evenings, she usually- wait, what happened?"
He was studying the swelling like Harry was doing – this probably wasn't poisonous right?
"Oh it's shallow," Blaise muttered reassuringly. "What are you standing around for? Go, use the medical kit or it could interfere with this stuff. The sooner you can continue stirring..." Zabini waved him off, adjusting the heat of the potion to add a small length of what looked like gillyweed.
He stood stiffly to rinse the little wound at the sinks in the corner. After a few paces he hesitated, before braving onwards: Ernie and Millicent were in the little area, still rinsing a few of the ingredients from the first step ever so slowly. Just past the teachers desk they stood, but it had apparently slipped Slughorn's notice that they were dawdling.
Ernie saw him and smiled a mean grin, one that simpler gits like Nott just couldn't pull off.
"That beaten up face suits you, Potter. Who do I have to thank for that?"
"Shut up," he growled, the tiredness from last night bearing down again, and took the third sink furthest from them. He should've ignored that: ever since he'd snubbed Zacharius - killed because he hadn't shown up in time - Ernie seemed to enjoy his discomfort. He had turned into Malfoy that way, while Malfoy had turned into some kind of diligent soldier.
Focus, so he could get away: here the bandages, the plaster. Cut off some. No scissors. Disinfectant? They had to be around somewhere…
"Well, I'm curious now," Millicent joined in as Ernie strolled over. "Was it Malfoy senior, then? Are the rumours true about his… type?"
Type, he mouthed to himself as the alcohol supplied in a small flacon burned along the cut. He dabbed the wound. He found the scissors on the ground – had Ernie dropped them? Cutting off a strip of plaster blindly, he squeezed a fist to make it stick. He turned to walk back but was stopped by Ernie's hand on his arm. This boy needed to get a hint soon – his eyes were too full of greed.
"Not him? Then who is enjoying those bruises? Wait, Draco will tell me."
What was McMillan doing, making a scene in front of twenty students? At least Slughorn was dithering at the back now, but this left them in clear view.
He wrenched his arm back. Millicent lost interest and walked back to her bench, or perhaps she didn't want to be a part in this.
"You don't pull off Death Eater kid well, Ernie. Perhaps it's one of those things – never meant to be, you know?"
Last year the path towards serving Voldemort was abhorrent to most students, and then boom, it suddenly wasn't.
The boy sneered back, and mocked: "I know why it suits you, to serve Dark Lord. First the scar, now this. Perhaps it's one of those things, you know? That you can always be used for."
He turned back towards Ernie and, Riddles physical intimidation in his thoughts, raised his undamaged right palm to Ernie's cheek. His hand covered the whole right of McMillan's face, and the boy's mouth fell open a little.
"You have an unhealthy fixation on me, Ernie."
As predicted, the boys eyes flashed around the room as his cheeks flushed, screaming his thoughts: is anyone looking?
Harry grinned as Ernie wrenched away with a shove to his midsection. He took the hit with an easy sidestep: it had nothing on Dudley's shoves.
"Boys!" Slughorn bellowed, noticing the class' distraction. "Stop that at once. You are out of line fighting here, especially in the middle of a brewing session. Ten points from Hufflepuff ánd Gryffindor - I mean Slytherin."
Pansy snickered. Belstrode dragged Ernie back to their desk. he noticed mostly puzzled looks.
Once he was back at their desk, Blaise muttered: "Quite the little scene you made there. Our own little lordship." He did nothing to conceal a derisive tone, which Harry thought a bit much.
"Oh - so I'm forced to stay in Slytherin, act like a Slytherin… but use my reputation to defend myself – that's when I go too far?"
Zabini's hand paused a second before adding the next teaspoon of dragon scale powder, which would give the potion its burning effect for the purpose of something to do with cleaning, he remembered now.
"You know," he continued, watching Blaise and grinding his teeth. "Slytherin and Gryffindor are just excuses we all use, just so we can act a certain way."
Zabini ignored this. "I think you shouldn't draw attention this way. You'll only confirm the rumour."
"Which ones, then? I hear all sorts."
"No you don't," Zabini whispered next. "You know the one story going on around here. That you're his heir. And the Dark Lord at least doesn't discount it, you know, he doesn't talk about it at all which I think is telling."
"He wouldn't bother with student rumours, now would he?"
"It's Death Eaters say it too, Potter"
"Well that settles that. You say he doesn't talk about it – have you ever seen him give a press conference, then? He never speaks in public."
Zabini rolled his eyes as he quickly dowsed the fire after the volatile stage. The brew had turned purple. "Just watch your back with these kinds of people, I guess."
They posited the brew on Slughorn's desk. The man was sitting back in his chair to relieve his considerable belly. He gave Harry a look that was filled with scepticism - as if Harry had asked him to do something unseemly. He nodded to the Professor, then gladly turned his back.
888
Padma gave Colin a friendly shove to the side, so he stumbled into Flinch-Fletchley walking along with them. "Tell 'm, Colin."
Walking towards lunch: all friendly faces around him and only Malfoy a sour-green spot sulking along. Would he mope each time he was separated from his house due to Harry's schedule?
Not many classmates paid him attention now. They'd taken their fill at either breakfast or during a class with him perhaps, so he had high hopes for lunch.
The morning had turned out alright, if he didn't count the pain now dripping fully through yesterday's dosage of the Moonsund. A double Charms class after potions, more Ravenclaws and Gryffindors here. He'd have guessed that Flitwick wouldn't be allowed back, as a wrecker of death eaters during the battle. Perhaps McGonagall's pull was showing here. He looked okay, at least. The man managed a smile for him before starting a class on spell attenuation.
His concentration got worse during the lecture. When they were asked to start he looked around. The others knew the drill already, from earlier lessons. They were building little floating wooden towers on one side of the class, from tiny bricks; on the other side his classmates were trying to open wooden chests, two students per chest. All this done without incantations but with a lot of whispers and sighs. Flitwick came over to give him a bucket filled with bricks, and he thought of the floating feeling of Wingardium Leviosa. He had a tiny tower of five bricks at the end, and a lot of them around his desk.
"What? Oh. Right." Colin leaned towards him like someone conspiring, while they waited for one staircase to move them down to another one. "It's like this. I've got a film projector. And Luna found a place. So we're going to have film night, next week on Thursday. Want to come?"
"Ehm… sure." He looked sideways. Malfoy drew away towards his little Slytherin club coming down from a different hallway, also finished with morning class. Looking over his shoulder he could just catch a sour look as someone elbowed Draco, it was Goyle – he clearly heard the word 'babysitting'.
He was still grinning a little as he sat down at the Gryffindor table. He was hungry. It had been a while since he actually felt like eating, with the painkillers suppressing other senses up till now.
Padma gave him a pointed look. He swallowed around his eggs-on-toast before explaining, gesturing with a fork over his shoulder: "I think it's harder on him than on me." The people around him grinned.
"I think so too, with that crowd," Neville inserted with a rare smile.
He asked: "So is this the first time you're all doing this, watching a film?"
"It's a first for Hogwarts, actually," Luna answered . She was eating a huge vegetable bowl of something - a salad?
"Is it secret?"
Neville shook his head. "It's not against the rules per sé."
He looked over at Colin to his left, who was munching but not really eating. He looked thin, really, like himself. "So wizards do this sort of thing? Watching films like - ouch!"
Across the table Padma had put the sharp nose of her shoe into his knee. She removed the object. "And witches."
He rolled his eyes. "It's just a figure of speech."
"They usually are. And I'm usually missing something from it."
Neville raised his eyebrows as if to say: Padma's new project. Good that she had the energy for it.
"It's not something magical people usually do, no," Colin said with a nod to Padma.
"I remember it was a thing to do in pureblood circles, when I was younger," Neville chimed in, "We'd all go and watch a Muggle film, the whole family, just for laughs after dinner."
"At your grandmother's place?"
Hearing back his own words he felt sweaty next, like his lungs were expelling more air than they could draw in. Neville turned to him and winced, perhaps at his vacant expression, or recalling how his grandmother had offered him up so eagerly.
Luckily Padma wanted to know more: what kind of work did his grandmother do when he was younger? Below the table he caught Neville's elbow and squeezed in reassurance.
888
After lunch it was back with the Slytherins. Harry stood with fifteen minutes to spare before his first Carrows class, not wanting the whole of Slytherin seventh years to come along. Malfoy, scowling, tracked him and Neville as they went for the doors. The blond boy was seated halfway the fullest table: many thought Slytherin fashionable nowadays. But they hadn't seen much of the violence that was surely going on outside.
In response, he pointed beside him: there's my guard. He could just make our Malfoys shake of the head.
Draco was faking disapproval for something that suited him just fine: they'd both agreed last night that Neville slipping him out of the castle again, was very unlikely at this point. Not after all that trouble his granny went through to get him back here. So it made sense for Neville to be a back up 'guard'. What was he being guarded from?
They walked in friendly silence up towards the North Tower. He really didn't feel like the Carrows right now. He shouldn't have eaten normal portions, who knows what might turn the stomach in the next hour? Vaguely nauseous already, he went into a bathroom along the way.
This one was light for a change – he hadn't yet seen a bathroom with a window around, but here low autumnal sunlight brighten ed the old stones and arches around the cubicles and the sinks. And Hagrid's hut as well , although no Hagrid, and the forest behind.
He felt frozen with the ache of something like mourning. Careful breaths, he knew, and whatever it was, perhaps everything, would lower back down into the lower parts of his ribcage.
A hand on his shoulder, hesitant. He turned to him, his face scrunching. Then an arm around him, pulling him close. His eyes were burning. Neville held him.
"I don't want to keep doing this," he said, sobbed. Feeling daring, he turned to whisper in his friend's ear with shaking breaths: "You know I'm keeping him alive? One of the things keeping him alive."
Neville tightened his hold a moment. "You live for yourself Harry. Not for him."
He drew back, bit back something else – if Voldemort saw this conversation...
Neville dragged him towards the door. "Come on. We don't want to be late for the Carrows." He shook his head, at just the thought perhaps. They drew nearer the classroom area. Here they passed lots of medieval tapestries of burning and fighting cities of old, darkened with age.
"So tell me, are the rumours true?" Neville raised a brow. "They say Malfoy is busy smuggling all kinds of stuff inside. Liquor, among them."
"Don't know. Now I'm looking forward to the next Slytherin party."
Neville chuckled. "So when, do you think?"
"I'm not sure, they just seem to happen."
"Hm. How about you give me a sign when you hear anything. So I can... drum up some people."
He chuckled. "For what purpose."
They reached the top of the stairs to stop at the ancient door where classmates of all houses were waiting. Neville whispered: "To get the seventh' years together, if possible. We're not going to let a Dark Lord come between us, right?"
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The castle seemed to have found its rhythm while he was away: with entree tests done and students appointed to their various classes, depending on blood or wealth, it turned out school continued as it had for hundreds of years whether Voldemort ruled or not. Harry was the sore thumb in this timeless place, with his bruised and beaten face like some street urchin dug out of a bad London neighbourhood.
He'd been worried as he'd readied for the day, how people would call him out. But almost no one did. They stared. And reacted, but not to his face, bitter Ernie being the exception. With scorn, fascination, or pity. They gossiped. Who would've thought vengeful Hufflepuffs and Slytherins had something in common: he was their shared entertainment now.
It was only during the Carrow's class that it hit him fully how the atmosphere at Hogwarts had changed overnight. They were tasked to perform dark spells on hapless mice in boxes, making him think of that squirrel Snape had told him to hurt. The usual little whispers between desks, jokes and grins where absent here: they practiced in complete silence. The 'teachers' at the front had their wands out, and as Neville had whispered to him beforehand, they were not shy about sending a stinging hex or nasty charm if one hesitated with the program.
Next to him, Neville was sweaty with concentration the whole of the lesson. He managed an eye-searing curse, just in time for Alecto approaching them threateningly to veer towards someone else. He recalled some of Snape's lessons about time-dependent curses. He made do with the weakest of incantations. He managed to avoid the Carrow's attention. At the end when the mouse were collected, he reversed his own curse and Neville's without being seen.
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There was a yearning feeling around his heart. It ached, almost… pleasant. Familiar. Something he used to have with him a lot of the time growing up, but which had gradually softened to near nothing when he started to go to Hogwarts, background noise. Perhaps there was logic to it: at the Dursleys the ache stood out to him as something real, unlike the dullness pervading everything else. It started to feel real again.
In those horrid weeks, two weeks that he'd been locked up in the Malfoy dungeon last year he'd felt this ache, quite separate from the torture. Days had passed without any change around him, without a clue as to what they wanted. Because if it wasn't to kill him, and Voldemort didn't show up, why did they tortured him without asking any questions? He knew from that time, that dwelling on this numbness was addictive.
After classes he decided to study with Neville at one of the tables in the library, when Luna came over to whisper:
"Hi guys, can I sit with you?"
"Luna." He straightened, rubbed his tired face, then winced and slowly lowered his hands. "Hi."
Neville gestured her over.
She smiled a bit sadly. "It must be hard, to have to deal with Voldemort each day."
He nodded.
"I discovered something," she said as she gazed around at the bookshelves.
"What's that?"
"The dueling competition. It's mandatory."
"Really," Neville frowned. "It didn't say that, on the leaflet."
Luna swept her wet hair back – she'd obviously come from outside – and huddled a bit closer for warmth. "I'm not at all inclined to join in. Perhaps I can offer to do something else."
"Like what, though?" Neville asked.
"I don't think you should stand out that way," he pointed out. "Just do the minimum of what's needed, basically show up. It's what I do when I need to attend those Slughorn dinners or the junior death eater meetings..."
She considered this, but shook her head. "Doesn't sit well with me."
"Well," Neville said in a whisper. "Either you do what they ask or you make a break for it. You better make sure you have a good plan in that case. Anyway, please don't go. We need you here, right Harry?"
"Definitely."
Luna grinned. He added also in a low voice to not get noticed by the librarian: "You know, we can find all kinds of spells here. There must be some outlandish ones that will catch them off guard, without things turning violent, right?"
"Well, I'd have to be quick about winning. Who knows what a Slytherin might use on me. There are barely any rules as to what you can use."
"So then," Neville mused, "we can just let them get the first shot in. Then we lose our wand or we fall down or something – flunk the whole thing."
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As six a clock drew near, he said goodbye to Luna and Neville who went down to dinner. Malfoy had somehow found him at a quarter to – he'd forgotten to tell him but perhaps the library was the obvious choice. They went to climb the stairs towards the seventh floor and past the gargoyle. At the next-to-last step, Malfoy gave him a grimace, as if to say good luck, and turned to leave.
With great reluctance he stepped into the Headmaster's office. The fire was up higher than usual in the hearth to the left. He waited in silence for Snape, who was perusing documents at the desk, to react.
Snape finally looked up. "It's been about thirty hours since the Moonsund." he said coolly, not mincing words. "What measure of pain do you currently feel?"
Pain relief was not on Voldemort's agenda. Snape must want something. He wished he'd never accepted the stuff, though it had worked well, and the nerves felt much better.
He tossed his head. "It's fine now."
Today the sir's were much harder to get past his throat than the day before. Now he could manage to reflect on other things beside his nerve endings.
Snape didn't comment on the lack of address. He studied him in a way he didn't like. Was he reminded now of Harry's compliance yesterday as well? Like a small child, overcome by the world. The orphan Voldemort spoke of, stupidly grateful for a scrap of kindness from the headmaster: yes sir, thank you sir – you sicced a dark Lord on me and my parents but it's all forgotten now, after having to deal with said nightmare.
Snape had simply been a relief after Voldemort's errant.
His face was drawn in harsh lines that the firelight accentuated. "You will go to Madame Pomfrey directly after this. She will look at your recovery. I will send for Draco to join you on your way to the common room afterwards."
He gave a nod, then lowered his eyes to avoid Snape's. No need to go there, people might talk more... he would get by now . He rubbed the grains of the desk: in the middle they were deeper than at the edges, it made sense.
Snape was watching him still. He felt the rage buzz in his lungs from days earlier. This bunch of thugs; acting noble when it suited their agendas.
The man folded his hands. "You have a choice to make, Potter. And you will look at me when I'm talking to you."
The last came out in such a low tone that he couldn't help but look up.
Snape scowled. That was more like it.
"We will talk."
He raised his eyebrows.
A glass of water and pumpkin juice sprung up in front of him on the desk, one gleaming next to the other. Snape continued on in the same bored manner:
"A frank conversation. Or you will take your usual pumpkin juice now, with a bit of truth serum in it."
No way.
He squeezed the gouged wood between his hands, feeling a sudden leap in his chest: Snape seemed not to be deterred.
"Alright. But we'll need to set rules on what you will discuss."
Snape's mouth twitched. "Like in court? No. No rules."
"I'm not going to-"
The man's nostrils flared a little. Enjoyment, anticipation. "You must be confused. There are no choices except the two in front of you."
"I'm doing neither, Snape." And you can shove that respect up your a ss along with the pain relief.
Snape cast his wand out. There was just a meter between them now and Harry flinched.
"Immotum praeter faciem."
Air locked down around him, holding him in place, half-flinch. The man went on in a murmur:
"Let's try that again. You know how to address me Potter, you showed progress yesterday."
"What do you want," he said when he noticed he could still move his jaw. He imagined gesturing but his hands remained stuck to the table. "I know… I was weak yesterday. Next time you can just let me rot." It was disconcerting that he could not look away.
"Ever the martyr. No one else suffers quite like you, do they?"
He didn't bother with a response. Snape picked up the quill that lay between pages of the thick tome open on the desk. A table was drawn on the left page, a raster that spread over the whole paper, with descriptions in the first column and tiny rows of cells next to it. Each column held one word at the top, in Snape's long script which was hard to read from here.
"Nothing to say?" the headmaster said, pointing his left finger to a row while his right hand started filling in letters in some of the cells. After five minutes of this Harry wanted to slam the desk, but the spell allowed him no space.
"First I want to know what this is about, before I- before we talk."
Snape ignored him. The sound of quill on paper was soothing, despite the situation – a pure Hogwarts sound. Long minutes passed in silence, just Snape's palm and the fire moving.
He could only escape with words, which was of course the point. His lower back complained at all this frozen muscle, when he wasn't quite feeling well yet.
Snape's writing had slowed a bit at that, but it started up again. He was writing, checking, writing. Just past six now: so this had the potential to stretch for hours and hours with the man's tenacity. He tried to at least move his hands or use that burning magic, with the fire nearby, but it failed as usual. Feeling trapped didn't help with the right mindset.
He rolled his eyes. The Dursley's had given him a permanent scorn for large egos. Snape knew this trapped feeling chafed him more than the remnants of the Cruciatus. Perhaps instead of threatening people and body parts, Voldemort could just immobilise him and he would cave, inch by inch.
Snape clearly could do this all night. "Let's talk, professor."
Snape watched him between curtains of hair. "This means then that you will answer any question I deem imperative. Otherwise we can always switch to the juice."
He nodded. Snape waved his wand and in the next moment he could move his head and arms again - the pressure had vanished. He took a deep breath.
Snape put down his quill and closed the large book, shoved them to the side to have space to rest his elbows. Waited.
Harry shivered. It was the end of September and the fire was stoked high in its crate; perhaps it was the Mark that was getting to him. Snape was a wild card – the result might be worse than his imaginings if he pushed that mark now.
"What's going on with you, Potter?"
He scowled. "What's it to you?"
"What's it to you, sir," he hissed.
"Sir." He flattened his hair while searching for words. He felt too exhausted to make any points. It wasn't worth it. "What does it matter to you, sir," he finally settled on.
"You were told to go to nurse Pomfrey in case the pain hadn't abated."
He looked at his still shaking hands. Physical health then, that made sense. "I didn't get around to it."
Malfoy had told him to that morning. First he'd put it off - he couldn't remember the last day he went without any painkiller, and he felt quite disconnect enough today as it was. And at some point, with the relative newness of normal classes, he forgot. The burning was creeping back into his joints more and more, it was true, Snape's stuff had finally worn off. He had slept well with it, anyway.
He could usually determine Snape's motivations fine. Because he'd be yelling them. He now seemed more… attentive. While he thought this, something calculating came over the man and he knew they were back to regular derision.
"Basked in admiration last night, did you?" Snape murmured. "Potter, all-round martyr and the dark lords whipping post."
He scowled. "What are you talking about?" But he knew well what was draped on his face.
The man stood up abruptly to round the desk. He quelled a flinch, too late.
Snape just leaned back on the desk with arms crossed, as if settling in for a long conversation. A wryness flitted over his mouth. No admonishment yet for his disrespect.
He felt his eyebrows raise slightly when the silence continued.
Snape put the cap back on a bottle of ink on the corner of the desk. He knew that air of patience. This bait was the start of something on his mind, a layer of Harry that he was going to enjoy peeling back.
"You think I want this? I didn't have a choice," he bit out – better stay on the offensive. "Your Lord is creepy and childish. You know this already."
The headmasters eyes turned flat and unfeeling. "I see you're less eager to show me respect today… but I am due respect. Each. Day."
Harry shuddered a little at the revulsion there, just for him. "Right, sir." Here we go: I have seen you weak and grateful to me and I will keep reminding you.
He looked around, at the array of potion colours on the shelves: black, a lot of browns, burgundy, and muted grey-greens. The labels were in the man's long script.
"Potter!"
"Sir."
"Take me through your visit yesterday."
Snape had mended his face so carefully a few days ago. A dark Lord wanted you spic and span, only so that he could maim the canvas. He was starting to hate these little games. You have no way to avoid any of it.
Snape picked up on his thoughts somehow, for he waved an impatient hand at the state of him. "That I couldn't care less about. I speak of the call you both made to your family."
Oh yes his dear family. He regretted his wry musing when Snape leaned forward a little:
"They are your family, are they not?"
He nodded.
"Whatever it was he made you do to them, you are rather calm about it."
He shook his head. "Let's not go there."
"Go where?"
He gave a rotting smile that spread a bit to his insides. "We don't have to – I mean there's no need. Sir. I'll tell Voldemort we had a talk about how i feel awful now, I'm all out of fight. I won't… I won't be trying that again. Or you can tell him, whatever."
The way that he watched him now, Snape would also peer over a just-finished potion. Harry felt all his aches at onece and turned towards the darkened windows.
"After how foolish you've been, Potter, you expected to continue on as usual?"
He fumed down at his hands.
"Your actions have made your words worthless. Until such a time you've proven yourself reliable. We digress. Tell me."
He tossed his head. "It'll probably be in the Prophet by tomorrow anyway."
"I doubt that."
He looked at Snape and quickly away.
"You are part of his appeal to the moderates. They see his enemy is now joining him, not willingly, but at least accepting the offer to influence the new policies. So it appears."
Snapes eyes sharpened in warning after the silence continued – speak. Harry tried to relax his jaw, his shoulders and hopefully his temper would follow. He looked at Fawkes empty perch and it suddenly struck him that Snape had not removed it from the office.
"He-… he took me to my relatives' house. He told me to…" his fingers were turning white and numb around the wood.
"Yes? Look at me."
He'd been studying the desk again. "Right." Snape's gaze was empty of anything. This was better at least than telling anyone else who would try to comfort him. "They were all home: He wanted me to choose between them."
"Go on." Snape's lips barely moved and he spoke so softly, that it took a moment before he caught the word.
"I chose my uncle, because it was the least bad choice for Dud- for my cousin."
"So he'd still have his mother. What happened then?"
All this, it looked a bit like concern. It wasn't so bad if he didn't look at the man: because the voice he associated with nothing but hatred. "He did it. Cast the curse."
"And upon your return, he felt you weren't punished enough."
"Yes sir."
Snape gave a nod, though no expression showed. "You do not appear as affected as one would think, by your uncle's death." His low voice rose a bit on that word, as if he was searching for a better one.
He looked down at his hands clasped together in his lap. "I'm- I still have to get used to the idea I guess, sir."
"You feel closer to your aunt than your uncle?"
He'd found the nice edge of his cloak to trace the hem. "Why do you want to know, sir."
He gasped at Snape's palm hitting the wood, hard. The long sleeves of his black cloak spread out to follow, covering the hand and part of the wooden surface.
"One more time you talk back to me instead of answering, Potter," Snape seethed, "and I will conclude you are disobedient. Then it will be the juice."
He blinking back tears of stress – he wanted to sleep. What did his uncle matter to Snape? What did he want to examine, now that he could ask away? He raised his head again. "I'm not close to either of them." Dudley was.
But Snape was looking down, strands of hair hiding his face as he examined the feathery end of a quill. He started parting the plumage between a thumb and a forefinger.
"Your aunt. She is your blood relative, correct?"
"Yes." Not good, he was sounding defensive.
"They spoil their own child, while you felt unseen?"
"What? No, they were fine." He set his jaw when he saw Snape smooth away an expression – glee, triumph? He'd taken the bait.
Snapes dropped the quill behind him and straightened, wand hand reassuringly empty and placed over the desk's edge. "But Your uncle doesn't fawn over you as much as your aunt, I wager."
Always back to this: somehow making you feel spoiled while your family and friends were still dropping left and right like flies. He was the potion experiment now, he realised: Snape was adding this and that, and seeing how these ingredients effected the whole. It was more disturbing for the fact that he had always done quite the opposite of taking an interest –
Snapes eyebrow raised in threat – well?
With a grimace at just the thought of it, he shook his head. "I'm not discussing my… family with you sir. It's none of your concern."
Snape's lips pressed and his eyes flashed – a sign that he felt slighted. "So the truth serum then?" he spit out, one hand balling to a fist. "You start talking now. I tire of you already – or do you imagine I want to waste my time listening to your adolescent woes?"
"There is nothing to say, sir, there was no fawning or anything like that!" He was shouted back in frustration, though actually it was a formless fear of what Snape would uncover and the ridicule that would follow.
"I need to know how this will affect your sensibilities, since they are so delicate these days."
Oh the hate he held for this guy. "I'm not delicate sir," he hissed back. "What happened with the… the other thing," he stumbled, "had nothing to do with them. It's not like I'll go and…" He closed his eyes a moment, to push down the nerves. "Like you said, I'm not upset about it."
Snape looked to be thinking what to do with him. "Are you relieved he is gone?"
Not relieved, no. Here was Voldemort demonstrating how far he could reach to cause damage to every aspect of his life – even the muggle part of it.
"Let's say I've gotten used to this kind of thing happening."
Vernon had that slight look of surprise still on his face, he recalled now, when he'd gone down. His body was so heavy that they had all felt the impact as it hit the floor. Dudley had jumped back but his aunt had stood like a stone.
Then Voldemort had sat down for tea.
They were signaled to sit. With small wandless gestures, Voldemort vanished the plates into non-existence, threw the apparently still-filled kettle into boil. A smattering of cups sailed out of a cupboard one after the other, along with their plates: the gold-rimmed ones they rarely used, with red roses on the sides.
Petunia didn't comment on her favourite China being put to use by the red-eyed murderer of her husband, who saturated the little area that was the kitchen . She was breathing hard and stammering, but turned quiet with Dudley's hand on her shoulder.
The kettle and cups worked together and next, steam floated upwards in front of the three of them – earl grey. Dudley bravely decided to sit down as well. Voldemort sipped his tea, no milk, and studied their faces. Harry lowered his eyes and touched the flowers on his cup with their fine indentations.
"Haven't had a chance to touch these before, have you Potter?" Riddle said with a glance at Harry's hands still feeling along the china. Then to Petunia: "Only for guests."
She shrank down further in her seat. Harry thought she would be sending looks at his uncle's body, or otherwise shuffle her chair away from it, but she did neither, as if it was just an overturned chair. It all felt a bit like the tea party he'd read about in Alice in Wonderland as a child.
Riddle's brows raised slightly. "Do you regret it now? Your treatment of him."
What was he getting at, really? His wasn't the happiest, there were ugly parts in the history of this house; but surely those times he'd been delving into his mind, he hadn't been searching all the dusty corners for the worst of them?
She had calmed somewhat, and thought this over. Without hesitation she replied: "We never asked for him. We raised him nevertheless."
He closed his eyes, scenting the strong tea to distract himself. One of the low points, this moment was.
"Love would have made a weakling of him. That I approve of. It is your disgust of magic though, thad has cost you now."
All four of them were surprised when Dudley spoke in the silence:
"Have you- did you turn Harry's eye that way sir, red like yours?" The effect was actually brown, but perhaps Dudley knew his eyes well to see the details.
"I did, yes."
Dudley frowned. He went on to ask Voldemort for an explanation, like no one brave Harry knew would:
"Why? Sir."
The Dark Lord's cup was empty and he stood. The rest of them tensed up. "Because he shares some of my traits, he should look like me."
Dudley now gazed at him in puzzlement, understandable.
Dudley leaned towards him, Harry, to whisper and he feared what would come out, "I'm sorry you're stuck with..." Harry winced ahead. "You know. But perhaps... will the rest of them leave you alone, those death things?"
Voldemort tossed his head, disinterest and somehow disgust bleeding through their link: let's go. He loosened his clawing grip over his tea and stood with wooden legs, refusing to take in the right lower part of his vision. "Yes, that's right."
Dudley nodded, placing trembling hands flat on the table, only his eyes skirting sideways to track Riddle's moves. "Well, good."
Riddle had vanished the body then. Petunia started rocking and moaning into the hand she had covering her mouth. Dudley's arm trailed to pet her shoulder again.
Voldemort walked out, confident he would follow. Dudley's eyes burned with purpose now. At the last moment he'd caught one of his numb hands and held tight. "I hope I can see you again some day. Please come and visit when... when things go better for you."
With a jerk of his whole body he realised he'd spaced out with the memory of Privet Drive, all sorts of pain mingling to make him slow. How long had Snape been staring at him? Harry dearly hoped he'd learned enough.
But the man started to whisper and his next points were even worse.
"Precisely. So many persons sacrificing their lives to keep you safe. Which is why your sudden rash act astounds me. All of it a waste of effort isn't it, when you might just decide any moment you've had enough?"
He gasped as the words hit him worse than a bludger. He bowed his head, bit the inside of his cheek lest his trembling jaw betray him. Rubbing suddenly sweaty hands on his slacks, he scrambled for words.
"How dare you suggest- I- I'm not doing this just for the heck of it-" No - Snape could not know, or Voldemort would have his hide again. He would also silence Snape one way or another, and he didn't know how he felt about that yet.
"Well I'll say!" a voice from a painting exclaimed behind Snape. "Pupils never spoke back to the headmaster in my time! Punishment is in order, I think, a good old-fashioned-"
"Shhh," Snape hissed to the painting without looking away from Harry. The subject clammed shut its next remark with a commically scandalized air, tall hat wobbling to and fro.
"Yes? Let's hear your reasoning then."
He chuckled, blinked back tears. But what else could he tell him? "You saw, in my mind. Why I did it."
"A Legilimens can see events play out, no more than that."
"Right." He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, which also blocked out the painted eyes of most of the paintings. It felt like he was on the other end of battle readiness, caving into battle weary. His days vacillated like that often now.
So maybe Snape thought he'd really gone around the bend. Tell him then, but without saying the doomed word. No omissions though, or Snape would sense it and proceed with Veritaserum.
"Ever since I've known why I can… mess with the dark marks, I've realised why he wants to keep me." He opened his eyes to watch Snape's reaction. "He sees me as some kind of magical heir. The papers aren't far off here, for once."
His arrogance did not rile as expected: famous Harry Potter expecting to be the Dark Lord's heir. The potion's master regarded him without expression. Like the scorpion he'd seen on the telly when he was young: still but ever watchful, and dangerous. His heart rate sped up - why was he still so calm? Then again, weren't spies unreadable by nature?
"And so…." He swallowed the dryness in his throat and closed his eyes again. "And so when I held his wand I realised I had a chance to- well. I tried to… you know." Hopefully he did not need to voice this to the whole painted community of Hogwarts.
Snape gestured towards his neck, where the burns were covered by his school tie, face grim. "That is not a moment of doubt. You know how wizards usually kill themselves?" He folded his arms, so that only the tips of his pale fingers were visible past his sleeves and leaned forward a little.
Harry swallowed as he looked around – gee thanks Snape. Let's hope these paintings did not gossip. "I don't want to know, sir," he grimaced.
Snapes eyes gleamed – in a normal person he'd say it was mirth. "Hm, yes. Perhaps I should not be giving you any ideas."
"I'm not about to-"
He swallowed the rest when Snape held up his palm. He did this with such speed that Harry felt dizzy: the man's mood seemed to have shifted again. A vein was visible, ticking in his neck… stressed?
Snape closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He opened them, stared at him – his pits for eyes once more empty.
Harry lowered his face into his hands. This was bringing him back to that moment, and it was exhausting. Snape's cruel remark was also playing over and over in his head, and now Sirius last moments were blending with Bellatrix, just before that, giving him a lesson in Unforgivables: you have to mean it. You need to mean them, Potter!
Mean them, mean them, mean them…
Snape was saying: he'd meant it. It figured Voldemort had sensed this as well: people with any doubt could not perform an Avada Kedavra on themselves.
But he didn't mean it, did he: he'd had his focus on only that parasitic thing he needed to be rid off. Why did he feel like he wanted to convince Snape he wasn't such a… self-hating wreck?
"Off you go," Snape said abruptly and it sounded harsh. "To the hospital wing."
He stood, turned. He was certain now. Snape had to know: he wouldn't be satisfied with his vague explanation otherwise. And he knew Harry didn't believe the rumours himself, or he'd be pouncing on that. Voldemort hadn't told him of course, and neither had reading his mind - so how then had he found out?
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As always thank you for reading! And please make my day, you know how: leave a review!
We'll see Voldemort soon in the next chapter.