Inch by agonising inch, Harry's arms lowered from their suspended state. A choked off cry of pain rumbled in his throat. It turned into a sound of shock as it morphed amongst other sounds: the cranking of the mechanism above him, the sound of his own laboured breathing, the clinking of his chains, the popping and creaking of his joints. His knees touched the wooden floor, his legs trembling. He didn't bother opening his eyes. He was still blindfolded, still trapped in darkness. He felt Voldemort's smothering presence and the prickling pain in his scar. Harry stayed as limp as a ragdoll as the shackles around his bleeding wrists were unlocked. His gasps of surprise were all the sounds he could muster. Voldemort's hand guided each of his arms down carefully, arranging his deadened limbs where he had no strength to manage himself.
The remaining senses that he had while tortured with deprivation were his only means of grounding himself. It wasn't enough. He had no means to mark the passage other than the routine he followed in a repetitive cycle. Twice a day, Malfoy would show and remove his human waste right out of his body. He had to drink what was given – water and potions. Unlike Voldemort, Malfoy didn't hurt him. He just did what he was meant to do. He sometimes spoke, but not always. Considering their history, Harry knew better than to expect any semblance of an alliance.
He never thought he'd ever beg before, but he couldn't help it when the beatings began. There was no pattern to the torture, no design or rule that he could follow so he could anticipate what torment was to follow. Whenever Voldemort shared the same space as him, he had no way of predicting what would happen next. He had some respite wherever he eventually passed out from exhaustion, slipping unconscious without resistance.
It was the first time since the first day that Voldemort removed the cuffs from around Harry's wrists. There was so much pain. Stripes of fire burned into his back, his wrists felt as if they'd been doused in acid, and his shoulders sent splinters of pain through him with each attempt to move. His lungs made a horrible wet gargle when he breathed. All in all, he felt very much the victim of torture. The last rounds of Cruciatus had been particularly punishing and he was sure he stopped breathing at one point.
A warm hand moved under his neck and lifted his head up from the ground, tilting it back. Glass touched Harry's bottom lip. He knew it was a potion. Water always came in a metal cup whereas remedies arrived in glass bottles.
"Drink."
Obediently, Harry opened his mouth wider so Voldemort could tip the concoction in his mouth. It tasted of mint and chalk. Swallowing it, he still trembled, blinking slowly as he felt tingles spreading over his body, running up and down his limbs in waves. It wasn't uncomfortable, not like the agony blazing across his back.
"A nerve regenerative. It will heal the damage from the Cruciatus. Keep still while he works," Voldemort ordered, "Mobilicorpus."
Harry's head rolled to the side, neck seemingly boneless as he lifted up from the floor. Floating upwards, he turned until he was facing upwards, his limbs dangling under him, fingers touching the floor for a moment before rising higher. His head lifted up, the air supporting him, holding him in position. He tried to talk, but he couldn't muster up the strength.
Still blind, Harry had no concept of where he was going. He drifted, weightless and paralysed, powerless to do anything other than breathe and listen. He couldn't even see the shift of light as he passed from room to room. Sounds changed from being close to being distant as he was brought into a different space. From the ambient sounds, he gathered it was a larger room.
Trapped in the levitation spell, he couldn't tell how fast he was moving. His hair ruffled a little as he felt a breeze touch his skin. Distant voices and sounds signified signs of life. Sounds that belonged to more of his enemies. The trilling of birdsong snagged his ears before he heard a knock. A door opened before he was on the move again.
"My lord," two voices greeted Voldemort, one male and one female. The male one Harry recognised at once. He tried to struggle but he just spasmed.
"Draco, Narcissa," Voldemort greeted the Malfoys in turn, the son and then the mother. "I do hope I have provided you with enough time to prepare our guest? He is, at present, recovering from significant nerve damage. It will take time for him to regain full motor function. I felt it best for you to make the most of his… condition to heal the more prevalent of his injuries."
Harry nearly moaned in despair at what he heard. Draco and Narcissa both were going to 'prepare' him? What for?
Harry's scar flared in warning, giving him enough time to prepare for Voldemort's attack. It arrived in the form of his vice-like grip seizing his jaw.
"Behave yourself, Harry. I intend to treat you well for your birthday."
Releasing him, Voldemort paced away.
"I will return in an hour."
Harry listened to his fading footsteps before the sound of a door shutting cut it out completely. He drifted in a daze, barely registering what Voldemort had said to him. He could scarcely hold onto a single thought. He knew something significant had been said, knew that he should react in some way, but the pain took priority. Harry remained suspended in the air, waiting for the next torture to commence.
"Draco, prepare the bath. Add the Dittany as I told you and the Rue. Remember, warm – not hot."
"I remember, mother," Malfoy said quietly as he moved off. Harry heard the swishing of long robes and the sound of someone breathing. He could sense someone close, a friendly presence. Gentle fingers touched his cheeks, pushing lightly, before travelling up towards his eyes. They slowly removed the blindfold, giving Harry time to close his eyes against the sudden light.
"It will serve both our purposes to put aside our differences," Narcissa Malfoy said to him, her voice close to where she had lowered herself to speak quietly in his ear. "If you wish to survive in this den of vipers, you must accept our aid."
Opening his eyes, Harry was relieved that the light in the room was subdued and not piercing. He found Narcissa's pale face, her blue eyes so different from Bellatrix's brown. Her hair was not as fair as her son's, more of a light brown than an ash blonde. Her nose wasn't wrinkled in disgust, her face smooth where her eyes were bright with concern. Her lips were pursed, cheeks flushed.
Harry's eyes burned, touched to find compassion in such a place during such a time. He stared up at her, his hands starting to twitch as his nerves started to heal.
"I'm going to put you in the bath now that Draco should have enough water for you," she said gently, her wand flicking out to bring him under the control of her own levitation spell. Harry glanced around, seeing muted grandeur around him without his glasses to discern much else.
He gleaned that she was taking him away from where there was a window to the back where a door remained open, made from dark wood. The rest of the room was mostly decorated with green and silver, unsurprising for a Slytherin home. As he floated through the doorway, he heard the sound of pouring water. He could see the steam gathering at the ceiling, then looked over to a misted mirror. His reflection thankfully concealed.
"Move aside, Draco. I need to lower him in slowly."
Harry wasn't ready to confront Malfoy's presence. He closed his eyes as Narcissa positioned him where he felt heat touch his lacerated back.
"He's going to thrash when-."
"I know, but it won't be his fault."
Their conversation mattered little to Harry when his hands dipped in the warm water under him. When his wrists were submerged, the wounds seared in pain. Harry cried out but there wasn't anything he could do to stop his descent. Slowly, his fingers found the marble base of the bath. His elbows bent next. Then the surface of the water hit his back.
Harry's legs kicked, what little movement he managed to recover caused a splash. He wasn't able to do much. What he could do was scream. His voice echoed loudly as the water burned against the fresh wounds Voldemort had lashed across his back.
"Mother!"
He lowered further into the liquid, panicking as his back continued to burn. It was as if the wounds were cauterising. The pain made his vision burn white as he cried out in distress and tried to form words.
"Hold his shoulders down, Draco. Stop him from getting out of the water."
Hands pressed on his shoulders, but Harry barely felt the contact. His cries started to taper off as the pain slowly dwindled.
"It's working…"
The back of Harry's head thunked against the bath, the impact sending shocks of pain through his head and vision. Everything was lost under a screen of dull grey before awareness fizzled back into life. He then felt gentle fingers under his chin. Harry opened his eyes. Most of his body was underwater except his head. He could feel the warmth seeping into his body, soothing his abused joints and muscles.
"You passed out," a soft voice told him, belonging to the person who supported his head. "I gave you some drops of a Calming Draught so you should feel more relaxed now."
Harry looked around, shocked by the huge bathtub and the gleaming gold tapes at the end. Looking down, he saw he was submerged in pink water. He remembered the burning acid that they lowered him into.
Not acid, bath water. Potioned bath water.
"You healed me?" Harry murmured, shuffling his limbs under the water. They were still weak, but he could move. He tried to tilt his head back to see his helper, but he didn't have to as Narcissa leaned over him. Her hand had been keeping him from drowning while he was unconscious. That was a fact he shelved. Narcissa Malfoy could have killed him and didn't.
"It's not a pleasant method," she admitted, "but Dittany baths are very effective."
Harry lay still for a moment, conscious then that he was very naked and in the presence of an older woman. His face flushed at once.
"You need to be bathed as well as healed."
"Oh," Harry blushed even more.
"If I help you sit up, do you think you can keep yourself there?"
"I think so."
Inching out of the water, Harry realised that the pink colour wasn't down to some remedy or soap. It was his blood in the water along with the potions.
"I'm going to start washing your hair," Narcissa then informed him, startling him, "you're regaining some movement, but not enough to manage yourself just yet."
Harry had no idea how long it took Narcissa to wash his hair, but he never had an experience like it. Of all the people to treat him so gently, he never imagined Narcissa Malfoy to be the one. Her fingers massaged his scalp, lathered shampoo into his black locks. Her hands cupped water to rinse the shampoo out before helping him lower down and submerge the back of his head. She commented on the tangles in his hair, easing them out with her fingers before adding some lemon-scented balm into his locks.
It took him a moment to realise that he had no memory of being bathed by kind hands. The thought sent pangs of grief through him. She sat him back up, lathering a soapbar in her hands. She hesitated for a moment, then gently pushed him forwards to clean his back.
"You should be able to wash the rest of your body. I know… you will struggle to reach your back where the bruising is the worst."
Harry hummed in response, just grateful for the comforting touches. He no longer cared who they belonged to. Not even caring that he was being touched at all. He'd always craved contact, just rarely received it. She left him briefly when she went to fetch some towels and clothes for him to dress into. Harry sat, empty and hollow, before he lifted his trembling arms out of the water. His wrists had mottled bands of bruises wrapped around them, so vivid they stood out like tattoos.
He wasn't ready to confront the state his back was in.
Carefully, he went to clean the rest of him, his hands clumsy with the soap as he dropped it several times. He gave up when Narcissa returned, sitting up in the bath.
She held out a towel, looking pointedly away as she told him to come out and stand on the bath matt. He struggled to stand, but his legs didn't crumble. He took the towel, covering up his nudity before Narcissa took her leave.
Harry felt relaxed and safe, content in his forced calm from the potion Narcissa had given him. The restorative bath and potions had healed his lacerated back and wrists, but he still felt like a walking bruise. Every joint protested as he managed to dry himself with the towels. He reluctantly inspected the clothes. They were the sort of garments worn under traditional dress robes. He'd never worn the sort of attire purebloods wore for important occasions, the closest having been his dress robes for the Yule Ball and he just wore his school shirt and trousers with them.
He couldn't understand what Voldemort was doing to him, torturing him close to insanity then having him pampered the next. His hands wouldn't stop shaking as he went to pull on the silken undergarments, his face hot as he covered up his nudity with clothes that likely belonged to Draco Malfoy. He pulled on the shirt. He tried to tie the strings at the collar, but his fingers trembled too much from his torture. He left it open. Black silk pantaloons covered his legs, loose and comfortable.
Donning a pair of slippers, he cautiously made his way out of the grand bathroom. Resigned, he entered the bedroom beyond. Narcissa approached at once, her hand touching his elbow in a supportive way.
"Come over to the futon, Mr Potter."
"Call me 'Harry', please," he said, his raspy voice sounding alien and subdued. Narcissa faltered in her steps as she brought him towards the seat. She sighed, releasing him very suddenly. Harry had the feeling he offended her someway, but how, he had no idea. He could see the futon so he headed over and sat down. He brought his arms around himself instinctively, still shaking even if it wasn't as violently as before.
"Here, you must be thirsty," she reappeared, offering Harry a glass of water. He almost lunged for it, clumsily taking it with both hands, not trusting himself with just one. As he drank, Narcissa straightened and snapped her hand towards herself, beckoning someone. That someone was Draco Malfoy, who was dressed in black robes. Harry looked up, his throat closing briefly as he saw his school rival adorned in Death Eater robes. The only thing missing was the mask. They weren't as ornate as the ones Harry had seen his father wear, but still distinctive with silver embroidery at the sleeves and a clasp at his throat fashioned into the shape of a serpent.
Once Harry finished drinking, he searched for somewhere to put it. Draco was the one who started forwards, taking the glass from him. Harry looked up and their gazes met.
The hate he should feel wasn't there. The hate he should see reflected back also wasn't there.
"We are in this together now, whether we like it or not," Narcissa said softly, looking at both of them. Harry watched her as she stepped around the coffee table. Her kindness confused him, but he was so grateful, he didn't question it or become difficult. Instead, he lifted his head to look at Draco again. The absence of hatred made him feel strangely empty and lost. He should be spitting mad, launching himself at the Death Eater and doing his utmost to dish out his revenge. Malfoy had been just as responsible for Dumbledore's death as Snape. He brought the Death Eaters into Hogwarts while they were gone. He cornered them in the Astronomy tower.
He contributed towards Harry's treatment in that room.
"The Dark Lord will be here soon," Narcissa muttered, turning to her son, "your Venetian velvet robes should fit him, Draco. It will not do for him to not be clothed appropriately."
"But mother-."
"It will be expected," she said firmly over him, "go."
Draco tugged at his robes indignantly as he was ordered about by his mother. He swept away to do as he was told. Harry realised then that they were in Draco's own rooms if his robes were kept there. He glanced around, grimacing at the wealth on display. He wasn't alone with Narcissa for long as Draco returned, carrying a swath of green velvet.
"Up you get, Potter. If you're going to dine as a pureblood, you better look the part," Malfoy said scathingly as he held up the robes. Harry choked out a breath of surprise. The robes were fine indeed, finer than anything rustled up at Madame Malkins in London. There were gold fastenings that he imagined were actual gold. Gold hemming glittered at the sleeves, collar and lapels. He noticed that the style was much like Death Eater robes with the high collar.
"I'm not wearing that," Harry tried to protest. Malfoy rolled his eyes at him.
"You don't have a choice," he pointed out savagely. Harry knew he was right. If he made things difficult and disobeyed, it wouldn't just be him that would get punished. Draco and his mother were responsible for him. If they failed to get him ready on time, there would be consequences, even if the fault lay with Harry. He knew too well how Voldemort disciplined his subordinates.
Tentatively, he got to his feet. Narcissa sighed, striding up to her son. She gave him a pointed look and approached Harry, opening up the robes for him so he could easily feed his arms through the sleeves. Face burning, Harry turned and let her dress him. It was humiliating beyond comprehension, especially with Malfoy watching. He stood still, though his arms still trembled, as Narcissa fastened the robes for him. With his hands like they were, he'd be unable to manage. She finished off with the collar, smoothing it down with an odd look on her face.
"Your noble ancestry is more noticeable now," she said quietly as she pulled his sleeves down straight, looking him over with a critical eye. "Few families can claim a lineage as ancient as the Potter line."
"Pity it ends with a half-blood then," Harry said before he could stop himself. Narcissa raised an eyebrow at his remark.
"An eligible half-blood with a fortune and a famous name," she mused, "many short-comings can be overlooked, your mixed breeding is one of them."
Anger crackled under Harry's skin. The talk of 'breeding' reminded him too much of Aunt Marge and her opinions of 'bad blood'. It was just the same bigotry talking, just dressed up differently.
"Come, take a seat and… try to calm yourself," Narcissa urged him, guiding him back to the futon. Uncomfortable in the rich robes, he sat back down. To his surprise, the padded surface of the futon shifted as a second weight joined his. A pleasant smell, much like that of blueberries, tickled his nose.
"You must learn," Narcissa said quietly, her voice hushed as she joined him, "you must swallow your pride . There is no glorious charge here. No honourable duel to the death. If you refuse the Dark Lord and deny him what he wants from you, all you'll discover is pain and an undignified death. He has spared your life against the odds so use this chance. Do not squander what very little you have left over a fight that you have already lost."
He listened to every word. His breathing slowed as he felt the reasoning behind them. His scar prickled, causing him to shudder reflexively. He snapped his head away from Narcissa.
"He's on his way."
Narcissa rose from the futon. As much as it was tempting for him to bolt off the seat and make a run for it, he stayed put. Harry sensed the moment Voldemort appeared, even before the door opened and he made his presence known.
"He is ready for you, my lord," Draco Malfoy announced.
Harry angled his gaze downwards, unable to confront Voldemort's suffocating presence. As fear prickled through him, he understood then, the realisation cold and brutal. It had worked. Days of unbearable torture had broken him down and rendered him meek… even docile.
Voldemort was right there, right in front of him. Harry could feel his closeness, his skin prickling under the finery he'd been dressed in. His hand soon pressed down on Harry's shoulder, brushing it as if dusting off some lint, then the same hand suddenly grasped him around the back of his neck. Harry flinched, gasping out as his long nails dug in, his thumb pressing mercilessly into his skin.
"Get up."
Harry had little choice in the matter as Voldemort hefted him upwards, his legs just scrambling out in time to get under him. Before he had the chance to orient himself, Voldemort dragged him by the neck, forcing him forwards. He stumbled a couple of times before adjusting to the pace. Voldemort wrenched him to a brief stop.
"Ah… we can't have you doing anything foolish, now can we? Hands behind your back."
Hating himself, Harry silently obeyed, too terrified to think about resisting. He crossed his wrists over behind him, closing his eyes. Voldemort's traced the tip of his wand over Harry's prone wrists, cords coiling around his bony joints like snakes, wrapping around his wrists to bind them tightly together. Then the horribly familiar blindfold slithered back in place over his eyes, blotting out his blurred vision. Harry was a little relieved to be spared the sight of Voldemort's monstrous face.
"I thank you for your diligent preparations, Narcissa… Draco. I will take Harry down myself."
With those words, Harry was thrust towards through the door, the grip on his neck punishing as he had to walk out blindly. Completely dependent on Voldemort's hold on him, he kept in pace. Behind, he heard following footsteps, the sound of Narcissa and Draco at their back.
"If you show me respect, I will treat you with respect in kind. I do not ask for much, Harry. Just your compliance, nothing more, nothing less."
Harry tried to walk in pace, but Voldemort took off with broad strides, making it hard to keep up. He kept being wrenched forwards, nails digging in painfully each time.
"What happened to wanting my surrender?" Harry asked through clenched teeth just as he was jerked to a halt. "Isn't that why you've been torturing me?"
"Actions always speak louder than words. I will not believe it until I see it for myself. There are stairs here."
The warning was strangely considerate. As he descended the steps, he became aware that the grip around his neck acted as a support just as much as a restraint. Voldemort's strength wasn't natural as he kept Harry from falling or tripping. Once at the bottom, he was tugged away, his slippered feet hurrying to keep pace.
Voldemort wrenched him suddenly to a halt again. Harry gasped in pain from the rough treatment.
"Before we enter, here are the rules. You will not speak unless I give you permission. When you do, you will use only parseltongue."
Harry's eyes widened. He turned his head over his shoulder, unable to level the man with an incredulous look with the blindfold covering his eyes.
"You have not spoken to a true parselmouth before, only serpents. It is different, as you will discover. You will naturally respond in the tongue if I address you in it."
Harry worked his mouth for a moment, unsettled that they were discussing such a thing as if it was a normal ability. As far as he knew, they were both the only parselmouths alive.
"When I speak it, I can't tell that I'm speaking in a different language."
"It is an ability, not a language. It cannot be learned, only inherited," Voldemort said with an almost proud lift to his words. "You will do as I command and not engage with anyone else in the room. Is that understood?"
"Yes," Harry said tightly, blood rushing to his face in his further humiliation. He at least didn't degrade himself by adding a 'my lord'. He would never address him in such a way, not after experiencing days of torture and punishment. The brutal nature of the abuses he'd been subjected to had made an effect. He was ashamed of his own submission, hating how he cowered in fear. At any moment, Voldemort could inflict great pain without warning and it terrified him.
He heard Narcissa and Draco reach them. Harry shuddered under Voldemort's hand as his fingers tightened and he was pushed back into motion. Doors opened ahead, the sound unmistakable, as were the lower hum of voices that quickly fell silent. Harry's heart thudded rapidly as he was yanked roughly to the right, staggering blindly into the room. His soft-soled slippers padded on the wooden floor before he balanced himself.
"Good evening," Voldemort greeted the room, his voice strangely mellow. Harry hadn't heard him use a cordial tone before, not even when he addressed his followers on the night of his resurrection. "I believe our guest does not need an introduction. Especially not today of all days. Wormtail, pull out Harry's seat for him."
Hatred seared through Harry as he heard a muttered response, knowing who it belonged to. Voldemort steered him around, the forceful dragging bringing a response out of the audience. He heard a cackle, a female cackle. Harry twisted his head around towards the sound of Bellatrix Lestrange's amusement at his treatment. Voldemort's fingers squeezed, a reminder to keep him in line. He finally pushed Harry down into a seat, forced to sit leaning forwards at the edge with his arms bound as they were. He could hear low, hushed voices around him as well as awkward shifting as people fidgeted.
"I am going to release your hands and remove the blindfold. You do not move from your seat or touch anything in front of you until I tell you."
Harry could sense the shift into Parseltongue, turning his head towards the sibilant words. He just nodded in response, not trusting that he could speak the tongue naturally as Voldemort had said he could. The tight spelled cords around his wrists vanished. His arms slumped at once. The blindfold vanished next, light stinging his eyes. Voldemort's hands pressed on his arms, guiding him to sit back against the chair. Harry shuffled back, not resisting as his chair was then pushed forwards.
When Voldemort moved away from him, Harry peeked open his eyes. His blurred vision was more a hindrance than ever as he squinted in the candlelight. Gleaming candelabras shone down the length of the table in front of him. Above, chandeliers glittered in the warm golden light. Harry could vaguely make out dark wooden panelling at the walls and green silk. Movement down the table caught his attention, seeing Draco and his mother take their seats.
Then he realised where he was sitting. At the top of the table on the left of the head - a position of honour. Harry slowly looked over to the large, throne-like seat where Voldemort lowered himself, flicking his hands out of his sleeves. He had done away with his usual black silk robes, dressed to the throat in black velvet. They were Death Eater robes, only with a stiff collar jutting upwards, appearing almost regal in design. Harry had never seen robes like it and the effect made Voldemort appear in every part of his self-proclaimed title of a Dark Lord.
When his scarlet eyes sought him out, Harry quickly turned his gaze downwards. His eyes widened when he saw the bone china plate in front of him and highly polished silverware. He really was there… in Malfoy Manor as a guest for dinner.
Harry felt as if his life had fully pitched sideways on its axis then. He placed his trembling hands on his lap under the table so the Death Eaters couldn't see the after-effects of his torture. He had no idea how he looked in his borrowed expensive robes, broken down into submission like a tamed animal. He peered upwards when a shadow passed. He clenched his jaw at once as he saw Wormtail, his silver hand flashing in the lights. The man noticeably ignored Harry completely, shaking as he poured wine out from a crystal decanter into the silver goblet in front of Voldemort.
"For Harry as well, Wormtail," Voldemort said as the traitor went to move away, "he is of age now, after all." Harry turned his face from the man as he reluctantly moved to pour wine in the glass set in front of him. Harry could hear Wormtail's sniffling as he served, every part the servant he'd been reduced to.
"Before you call for service, Narcissa, I wish to present our guest with a birthday gift. One that I believe he will appreciate."
Voldemort leaned forwards, causing Harry to flinch involuntarily. He placed a hand down on the table and pushed something towards Harry. Looking down, Harry saw that there was indeed a gift, wrapped in dark green silk with silver ribbons. Flushing, Harry looked back up at his tormentor, confused and scared.
"Allow me," Voldemort said as he carefully pulled at the ribbons. They came away, the silk coming loose. Removing the silk, he revealed a dark, rectangular box. Smiling, he opened the box on sprung hinges. Inside, there was more green silk and, to Harry's surprise, a pair of glasses.
Harry knew his face was a deep shade of red from how his cheeks burned. He rolled his tongue over his teeth. With his faculties returning and recovering, he picked up on the significant information he'd been missing. He hadn't just been dragged out of the hellish torture chamber for Voldemort's entertainment. They hadn't dressed him in fancy robes and cleaned him up to put him on display.
It was his birthday.
His seventeenth birthday.
Bitter tears swam in his eyes. What else could Voldemort taint? Everything he hoped for, everything he dreamed of, had been reduced to ashes all around him. He'd been forced into becoming a traitor, forced into obedience like a snivelling coward. The worst thing was that he actually felt grateful for being released from his chains and treated like a person.
He turned his attention back to the glasses he was being given. They weren't weren't his, but they had been fashioned to look similar. Where his actual glasses had ended up, he had no clue. Likely smashed up along with the crashed motorbike. The frames in the box were golden, much more delicate and intricate than his free NHS glasses he got two summers ago.
"You may wear them," Voldemort said, the order clear. Whether or not he expected Harry to show some gratitude, it wasn't clear. Harry chose not to speak as he picked up the glasses. The metal was cold under his touch. Aware that the Malfoys and Lestranges were watching him, he unfolded the arms and placed the glasses on his nose tentatively.
His vision sharpened at once as he blinked. He recoiled, startled as the world jumped into focus. He could very clearly see Malfoy's slack face opposite him, his own cheeks pink for some reason. He could make out the small reflections of the candles in the crystal glasses, shining off the silver cutlery and the fine porcelain. Looking upwards, he marvelled at the sparkling chandeliers, fractals of light dancing around the walls and ornate ceiling. He'd never been in a stately home before, but if he had any doubts about the Malfoy wealth, they were gone.
"It is traditional for a wizard to receive a watch on his seventeenth birthday, but I felt you would appreciate having your vision restored over being able to tell the time," Voldemort said with a wave of his hand, turning away from him. There was a loud chime as Narcissa tapped her glass.
In a blink, the food appeared on the table. The savoury aromas assaulted Harry at once. He sat back, astonished, at the plate in front of him. There was a fillet of salmon with green beans and asparagus, along with a wedge of dauphinoise potatoes. Glancing quickly around with his restored eyesight, Harry saw each plate on the table had the same.
Hunger burned in his stomach, but he didn't move. Harry just stared at the food in front of him, watching Voldemort in the corner of his eye as the man picked up his cutlery and began to eat. He never thought Voldemort needed to eat. Witnessing him doing something so ordinary made Harry very certain that his torture had shattered his mind and that he was about to wake up in the Janus Thickley Ward.
"I know you are starving, Harry. You have not eaten properly for days. Nutritional potions alone are not enough. Eat."
Closing his eyes, Harry knew he had no choice but to comply. As much as he wanted to refuse and throw the salmon in Voldemort's ugly face, doing so would just result in a torturous death. Narcissa's words had hit home. He had lost his fight; his war was over. All he could do was survive as a prisoner of war and follow the commands of his captors.
He didn't want to go back to the darkness and pain. Subjecting himself to torture over a willful act of defiance was stupid. So he picked up the silver knife and fork. Slowly, he cut into the fish and speared a piece on his fork. Voldemort watched him intently as he put the salmon in his mouth, his hands shaking as he did.
Across the table, Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat. Harry glanced over, finding the man openly glaring at him with unveiled hatred and disgust.
"My lord, am I to understand that Potter's presence here tonight means that we shall finally be rid of his infernal existence?"
Harry chewed silently, looking down, his face on fire. Voldemort's hands stilled where he had been in the process of eating.
"I do not dine with the dead, Lucius. I have rescinded the death sentence on him now that he is mine."
Harry's fork clanged on the plate where he lost grip. Flushing furiously, his reaction didn't go unnoticed. Bellatrix laughed as if on command, her cold mirth scratching out like fingernails down a chalkboard.
"I think, however, he has suffered enough for the time being. It takes both the carrot and the stick to break in a stubborn stallion, does it not?"
Harry turned his face sharply away from Voldemort. Hearing it from his mouth that he was indeed trying to tame him was a push too far. He put down his knife, defiance warring against his fear.
"Pick them up and eat or I will force you," Voldemort warned, lapsing into parseltongue. Harry's vision was pulsing with his rage, his face burning. Hating himself, Harry grasped the handles in his trembling fingers. He went to eat, feeling the tickle of a tear run down his cheek. He ignored it.
Survive, Harry.
The voice in the back of his mind sounded much like Sirius. It calmed him enough to unclench his jaw and put more salmon in. It tasted divine, which was hardly a surprise considering where he was.
"I was under the impression that Potter's life is forfeit, my lord," Lucius coldly spat out, his voice laced with unconstrained venom. Narcissa reached across, resting a warning hand on his arm. It wasn't enough as Lucius angrily tugged a napkin free and flicked it in Harry's direction. "The boy disrespects you with every breath and yet here he is, eating off the same table. This very boy was responsible for your… interruption sixteen years ago and who time and time again gets in our way. He cost me my reputation… and nearly cost my son his life. I should be demanding satisfaction for his slights against my family, not grant him my hospitality."
Harry looked at him incredulously. Was Lucius Malfoy trying to get himself killed? He wasn't alone as Draco gaped at his father, blood draining from his face. Voldemort put his cutlery down on the table almost delicately before turning his gleaming red eyes over to his disgraced follower.
"Harry is here, Lucius, because he has earned a chance to prove himself to me. If he disappoints me, then he will pay the price. You, on the other hand, have failed me time and time again. You have shown me that you are not only incompetent, but unworthy of the pure blood that you profess makes you so superior. Your son made the mistake of underestimating his opponent and would have died had his little skirmish with Harry been a real duel. So, no, Lucius, you do not get to demand satisfaction. Make such demands again and it will be your miserable life that will be forfeit."
Silence followed the hard, cold words that hissed out of Voldemort's mouth. Each one cut through the air with the same savage cruelty as his Cruciatus. Harry's eyes were wide as his heart drummed with fear.
Narcissa removed her hand from her husband's arm. She turned her face to Voldemort, bowing her head respectfully.
"My lord, allow me to express that I do not share my husband's sentiments. Mr Potter is our guest and deserves to be treated as such," she said softly, her eyes briefly meeting Harry's. Voldemort tilted his head, his fingers twitching as if itching for his wand. Instead, he reached for his goblet.
Rodolphus let out a low chuckle as he lounged back in his seat, the chair creaking as he did. He rolled his head over in Harry's direction, smiling as he did.
"I have no feud with you, boy. I can't say the same for my wife, though."
Bellatrix huffed, snatching her glass from in front of her. She then leaned forwards and Harry got a good look at her for the first time. The gaunt mask-like appearance left over from her time in Azkaban was gone, her skin as pale as her sister's. Her eyes were dark where Narcissa's were pale, her hair deep brown and curly. She oozed threat as she surveyed him, her lip twisting a little before she sniffed and gave a small shrug.
"He has his father's looks at least," she drawled, causing the man on her left to chuckle low. She sat between both Lestrange brothers, husband on her right, brother-in-law on her left. Harry bristled at Bellatrix talking about his father, but the broken tension was welcome. As cutlery resumed its scrape and clatter around the table, Harry went back to his own meal. He concentrated on the flavours, focusing on the food and trying to zone out who he was with.
It worked well enough. Hours of using his senses to ground himself made him barely aware of anything outside of his own experiences. He kept cutting and spearing, chewing and swallowing. His vision was unfocused where he stared down, mechanically eating.
"You are doing well, Harry. I am pleased."
Voldemort's voice pierced through his concentration. The thrum of unnatural magic pulsed around his words, telling Harry that he was hearing a tongue that was not human but serpent. He cleared his mouth, blinking and refocusing. He lifted his head, finding Voldemort watching him with enrapt interest, holding his goblet. His own meal was barely touched but he appeared to be done. Harry looked down at his own plate. Just one piece of asparagus left. He quickly ate it, clearing the plate.
"Severus had not been successful in his attempts to teach you mental discipline. His lack of patience with you made him a poor tutor. Had he taken the time to find out how you disassociate, he would have had better success."
Harry carefully laid his cutlery neatly on the plate, side-by-side. He rolled his jaw, uncertain if he was able to speak in parseltongue easily as Voldemort implied. Looking up at the monster, it was easy to imagine he was speaking with a snake.
"Did he not fail on purpose on your orders?"
He knew he succeeded when he felt his tongue tingle. Soft gasps down the table told him that the others had heard him speak in the dark tongue. Voldemort's eyes gleamed as he spoke. He put down his goblet.
"Astute of you to make that assumption, but no. Severus is not a natural teacher as you no doubt have realised after years of studying under him."
Harry nearly laughed. The fact that he came close shocked him. Alarmed, his hand subconsciously sought out the glass of wine still in front of him. He drank, startled when the rich drink coated his tongue. He swallowed, looking at the glass in his hand. He then glanced up, finding Draco watching him. Strange, conflicted feelings stirred in him and Harry looked away, back to Voldemort.
"You continue to impress me, " Voldemort said, the rhythmic cadence of his parseltongue far more pleasant than his cold, cruel voice when using his human tongue. " I put you through a gruelling punishment that would have reduced men far older than yourself to begging me to end their torment within a single day. You accepted your pain and kept your dignity after four. You adapt well in a hostile environment because you grew up in one."
All traces of amusement drained out of Harry. He didn't look at Voldemort, too mortified at the thought of what he must have seen in his memories to come up with that conclusion.
"I was only in that environment because of you," Harry forced out angrily. He could sense the others present listening even though they would not understand a word that was being discussed.
"I believe we have already ascertained that isn't entirely true," Voldemort said calmly, his eyes bright and intense. "I did not place you with those muggles. Albus Dumbledore did."
Pain lanced through Harry. He couldn't deny it and Voldemort knew it. Had Dumbledore not taken control over his life and made decisions for him, Sirius would have taken him and not pursued Peter. He would have never gone to Azkaban… and perhaps, he would still be alive to that day. So much would have been different, but most importantly of all, Harry would have grown up knowing love.
Hatred flared into life once more, but it wasn't aimed at Voldemort. Harry gritted his teeth. Dumbledore had no right taking that life away from him.
"It is your seventeenth birthday," Voldemort then said. Harry looked up, pulled from his mutinous thoughts. "You have come into your full inheritance as the head of your house - or houses I should say. You are the rightful head of the Potter family and the Black family. Your godfather made you his heir before he died, did he not?"
Harry glanced down the table to where Sirius's murderer was sitting only two seats away from him.
"He left me everything he owned in his Will," Harry answered, stiffly turning to face Voldemort properly, "but what does any of that matter when you're going to kill me anyway? "
Voldemort let out a laugh before picking up his goblet again. The candlelights glittered in his eyes.
"I am not going to kill you, Harry. I did not go to the trouble of torturing you personally for these past four days without reason. I meant what I said to Lucius. You have earned your right to be here."
Bewildered, Harry shook his head, "but the prophecy…?"
"It only has power if we follow it." Voldemort said, the reds of his eyes burning bright. "I will allow you to live a comfortable life as long as you do not pose a threat to me. Are you a threat to me right now?"
In front of him, his plate cleared and was replaced with a portion of rhubarb crumble with custard. He slashed a glance up at Voldemort. He saw the triumphant gleam in Voldemort's eyes. Harry could feel the defeat crushing down on him. He was a traitor and a coward. He hated himself. Yet as he sat alone with his enemies, he knew, deep down, that his fight was lost before it had begun.
"No, " Harry replied, "you've won, Voldemort. I was doomed the moment I was born and that's the truth of it."
He reached for his dessert spoon, turning his gaze over to the pudding. He tucked in, distancing himself once again with the rich tastes of the traditional pudding. Once he was finished, he battled against the powerful need to cry at his loss. He wasn't strong enough to resist, days of torture having stripped him of his fight. Voldemort was teasing him with a very tasty carrot and threatening him with an extremely painful stick.
Survive.
Sirius would not judge him for doing what he had to. He'd understand what sort of people held him captive. His friends…
For them, he had to keep going. He had to stomach whatever tortures were thrown his way and stay alive. If it meant being forced to dine with Sirius's murderer and his parents' murderer, he would do it. If it meant cooperating with his enemies, he had to comply. It would do him no good to give Voldemort reason to further torture him into submission. He had to keep sane and never stop looking for a way out.
Resolved to play Voldemort's game for the moment, Harry reached forwards for the glass of wine. He caught sight of the smug smile on Voldemort's face, the monster relishing in his victory over him as Harry did his bidding. Inside, Harry shelved away his true nature, the Slytherin that he could have been had he not swayed the Sorting Hat towards Gryffindor. If it took being a snake in the den of vipers to survive, then that was just what he would do.
He was a Parselmouth, after all.