Everything is J.K. Rowling's. I only claim the plot. Everything else, including the characters and the magic, is hers. Please let me know what you think. I encourage feedback of all kinds; just be nice about it!
Here is Marvolo's POV. It's very introspective like his last one was. He's just as dramatic and over-thinky as ever. It's not as violent as I thought it would be, considering this is Umbridge's death, but I hope you all enjoy her demise all the same. It's very soft for Marvolo, and he's acknowledging he's soft, and he's right on the edge of accepting his feelings. He's almost there, one could argue he is there even if he won't verbalize it aloud or internally, he knows. Still, I feel like this chapter might even be too soft, for a Dark Lord, so I am sorry if that is the case, I was trying to temper it, but oh well.
***Also Trigger Warnings for torture and some semi-graphic descriptions of torture. I'm not sure it's overly graphic or in need of warnings, but that could be a reflection of some of the other stuff I read. So, still, Trigger Warnings Now***
Also, as an extra treat, I've included a small scene in the end notes about some of the student's reactions to Umbridge's disappearance. I couldn't get the scene out of my head, so I wrote it out real quick and included it in the notes. I hope you enjoy that too.
The next chapter will be the Dementors! Not guarantees when it will post, but I've got pieces of it written so it's not a blank slate.
You are all wonderful and delightful and I appreciate your continued enthusiasm and support.
Send Her to Death
The shrill screams echoed off the dungeon walls and Marvolo sighed into the satisfaction of causing the pain. Casually, he sent another curse and watched as the wretched excuse of a human shrieked and contorted in agony. Laughter filled tickled his throat as the exhilaration of power surged through him, but he did not release it, that would be a touch too histrionic for his tastes. Blood soaked the hem and front of his robes and dripped down his fingers from when he'd utilized a more personal touch of torture. Only one hand, of course. He wouldn't taint his wand by allowing this vile worm's blood to touch it.
He had missed this, missed the exertion of his power. Political undermining was the route he pursued this time around, and he didn't regret it. It was far more mentally stimulating and kept the sanctity of magical blood intact. However, he mourned the loss of the brutality of war, the viciousness of killing, and the unequivocal evidence of superior strength. And he had never lost a battle. At least not since he'd come into his power and embraced all avenues accessible to him, he mentally corrected, acknowledging his young self's torment. The minor lapses of time following his encounters with Harry notwithstanding, of course, those weren't actual failures, merely additional steps to achieving success.
Nagini hissed wordlessly from where she had coiled up in the corner of the dungeons to watch. She normally accompanied him in the hopes of eating the remains but also to add to the torture when necessary. In recent times, since so few battles or war mongering took place, there had been less torture of late. Still, in the corner lay a stack of cushions, a range of velvety greens and lush blues, that Marvolo had provided for Nagini to observe in comfort or while she digested after hunting. In recent weeks, Raaja had started asking for cushions, as well. He would eventually grow too large to share with Nagini after all, but Marvolo planned to consult Harry on what type of perch he wished his snake to have down in the dungeons.
The dungeons were not overly large or grandiose, as many speculated. Speculation that Marvolo never saw fit to correct because the rumors only benefited him. Aside from himself and his victims, none but Harry and his Inner Circle had ever even witnessed the dungeons. His Inner Circle took pride in spurring the false rumors if only to make themselves appear more knowledgeable, and Harry wasn't one for gossipmongering, and admittedly, most of his followers were too intimidated to query Harry about his impressions of the Slytherin dungeons simply.
The simplicity of the dungeons was based on a rather basic stream of logic. It was expected to terminate enemies within the Slytherin line, not hold on to them. Every second an enemy was left breathing was another chance for them to flee or sow discord among the public. Due to this, the dungeons reflected a circular layout, not long, winding halls. There were only a handful of holding cells lining the dungeons' center for the few individuals deemed necessary for information, and each cell was cast in complete shadow and under auditory suppression charms to further the mental torture with the deprivation of the sense of sight and sound. In contrast, most of the dungeon, aside from the stone stairs leading up to the heavy wooden door, was an open, circular, high-ceiling, well-lit room dedicated to torturing information from captives before silencing them permanently.
Marvolo nudged the disgusting worm sniveling on the floor with the toe of his boot. She whimpered weakly. He sneered in disgust at the pathetic display. His lion had suffered under his wand before but always managed to return to his feet and fight back no matter the pain. He sighed and sent another curse, brutally blasting a foot off in a spray of red mist only to cauterize the leg on the backswing of the same wand motion. He really shouldn't keep comparing all foes to Harry. Not because of the unfairness to those failing to reach the high pedestal of human perseverance but because it insulted Harry. How could Marvolo attempt to compare him to any other? Aside from himself, at least. Because he, too, had suffered pain and torture at the wands of his fellow students during his Hogwarts years or even in that despicable orphanage before he'd learned enough magic to overpower them all. Even then, he always returned to his feet, always faced them down, refused to scream, and refused to pander to their pedantic whims because he knew, even then, that he was their superior.
Scowling, he tossed a healing potion down and then snarled; the damned wretch had fallen unconscious. Miserable worm, he revived her and then kicked her in a way that made her roll onto the healing potion. Disgusted, he watched the wastrel scramble weakly for it, guzzling it down like a starved animal. Then he watched the shredded and flayed skin knit back together, the blood clot and scab over. The insect was healed in minutes, or at least no longer actively bleeding. The stitched skin was still blood-smeared and dirty with sweat, tears, and grime. It was hardly the first time he'd prolonged torture by providing healing potions to his victims. Sadly, he couldn't kill this insect; that would be Harry's pleasure tonight. But that didn't mean Marvolo couldn't enjoy the waiting. The death and killing of this woman were requirements for Harry — a gift from Death for being its Child or something. So, to appease Death and permit Harry a chance to satisfy his revenge, Marvolo would stay his hand. Harry really should be appropriately grateful.
Perhaps the withholding was a partially selfish act, Marvolo conceded. He did so enjoy witnessing Harry embrace his darker tendencies, delighted in watching Harry kill. The voyeuristic exhilaration sometimes rivaled the high of committing the act himself. Though he shouldn't be surprised Harry could inspire these new sensations, he'd been doing it for years. Of course, in this past year, the sensations inspired were far more pleasant, if not vastly more confusing.
Personally, Marvolo would prefer not to categorize this allowance as an appeasement to Death at all. Marvolo would avoid all thoughts regarding that omniscient primordial if he could manage it. That devastating deity who held power over Harry, power Marvolo could never hope to emulate and doubted – a rare occurrence he only tolerated in his darkest nights – that he wanted to. He didn't want Harry to cower, didn't want him to flinch from his touch. The very thought was too devastating to contemplate. Even in the deepest crevices of his mind, his very being shuddered at the concept.
So no, the fact that Death had ordered Harry to kill this tyrannical tormentor ranked last on the reasons why Marvolo allowed it.
After this death, Harry would be free to properly kill Dumbledore, which is another death Marvolo would concede to Harry. Of course, he'd be enacting his own revenge even if he didn't deal the final blow. And it would be deliciously vicious, so devastatingly great that it would satiate his desire for Dumbledore's blood. Just recalling earlier today, when he and Harry were in Dumbledore's Office, had Marvolo's blood boiling, and remembering Harry's anguish caused a physical ache to permeate his body. Snarling, Marvolo cast an overpowered curse on the scourge at his feet that had the fingernails and eyelashes individually ripped out and regrown and ripped out again on repeat. The screams soothed the ache, and he kept the curse going. The piercing shrieks mended the cracks of his soul that were only prominent because of Harry and his accursed….everything!
Marvolo switched his curse to a cycling entrail expelling curse. One of his own inventions: pairing the well-known entrail expelling curse with a healing curse so that the victim wouldn't die but have to live through the cycling pain, never-ending until he determined its end. As the wretched malefactor wept snot and tears as her insides repeatedly exploded from within, Marvolo cast a quick Tempus. He couldn't be confident how long Harry would take to interact with his little cohorts, but he didn't imagine it would be too long. The Calming Draught he'd provided Harry, while strong, would hardly keep him contained for long, given Harry's level of rage when they parted. And knowing Harry, he would want to extricate himself from the students before causing potential harm.
Harry could be so despicably predictable with his kindness and consideration.
Marvolo lifted his curse, tossed another healing potion, and added a blood-replenishing potion in preparation for what he planned next. Marvolo watched the miscreant gasp for breath on the dungeon floor as he contemplated Harry and Death. Hating how intertwined the two were. The memory of Harry drained and exhausted on his staircase would forever haunt his dreams. If Marvolo ever tolerated a boggart long enough for it to take shape, he knew the form it would take. It used to be his own corpse or tombstone, at least when he was a student and unable to simply destroy it immediately. Admittedly, Marvolo hadn't faced a boggart in over two decades, but it didn't negate the realization that he knew the shape had changed.
Harry had been the embodiment of ice. Marvolo recalled forcing air into his lungs as terror, unlike he'd ever felt, overtook his most basic bodily functions more than once during the time it took him to carry Harry to bed. He'd forced numerous potions into Harry's unconscious body after he'd cocooned Harry in blankets and ignited the fireplace. Marvolo didn't sleep for three straight days, terrified that any slip in his consciousness would result in losing Harry permanently to the very deity he'd dedicated his life to never encountering. It wasn't until Harry became strong enough to leave his bed that Marvolo felt secure enough to succumb to slumber himself. Not that he'd ever allow Harry to know the extreme levels of his desperation and concern. Even Marvolo knew how excessive his reaction had been towards his ally, and he doubted he'd be able to explain it away as easily as he had done convincing Harry to dance with him at the Ball he'd held.
Even now, being separated from Harry was a torment he found comparable to a thousand Crucios; not just his mind but his very being was afflicted. Growling at the thought of this worry and concern festering over the very concept of Harry in danger or just by recalling Harry's shallow breathing as Marvolo hovered by his bed, Marvolo's magic lashed out without direction, and the toad at his feet screamed.
Marvolo despised this debilitating dependency.
Gnashing his teeth together, he thrust the quill at the toad on the ground and cast an absentminded Imperius curse. "Write," he said through clenched teeth. He watched the words etched onto flesh, blood trickling and splattering the stone floor. His hatred and frustration building with every letter carved.
Marvolo had already debated the pros and cons of forsaking this Horcrux re-binding crusade. He had strong arguments in favor of disbanding it all. It was already a tentative agreement, one made under duress, he could argue. His functioning – mentally, physically, and emotionally – performed optimally, and he suffered no noticeable detriments. There were no benefits to reuniting his Horcruxes. It only provided an additional weakness to add to the one that haunted him currently. But then Marvolo remembered the frostiness encompassing the manor after he and Harry argued after the Ball. He recalled the full-body dread when Harry announced he'd move out on Marvolo's birthday after baking him a cake. The first cake he'd ever received. The sweetness of it had enveloped his senses so thoroughly it plagued him even now. During a Death Eater meeting or while writing missives in his office, the memory would float to the surface of his thoughts, causing him to crave another taste. Marvolo was a strong and proud man, maintaining honesty with himself in all things. And he could admit that as strong as he was, he couldn't handle Harry leaving permanently. He wouldn't tolerate an empty cold house, not after he'd experienced the warmth it could hold. His sanity would not withstand the change, the void left by Harry's absence.
With that awareness in mind, Marvolo knew he would proceed with reconstructing his soul if only to keep Harry near him and content with Marvolo's presence. Understanding the fact didn't settle his anger, though. Acknowledging his complacency regarding Harry's whims only ignited more ire regarding the entire situation. He was the Darkest Lord the Wizarding World had ever seen! He was not some moon-eyed schoolgirl. He refused to be dependent upon the emotions of another. He would not allow it. Marvolo yelled in frustration before unleashing a wave of magic on the dungeon walls and the creature on the floor. The cracks that sprouted and hoarse cries did little to ease his anger.
The realization that he…Marvolo swallowed against the rise of emotions that flooded through him…emotions he never thought he could feel. Because he… No, Marvolo sneered and pushed it all down.
It would be for the better if, after all of this, after Dumbledore was defeated and the Wizarding World was in his clutches once and for all, he and Harry parted ways. It's not like Harry hadn't expressed numerous times how he didn't wish to be in the spotlight. Harry could hide away in his school, and Marvolo would assume his role as Emperor of the entire Wizarding World. With time apart, Marvolo would regain his previous level of autonomy. A leader of any proper renown could not be so hideously reliant on another. What kingdoms survived when a leader catered continuously to another? Because Marvolo did cater to Harry. He was aware enough and cognizant of his actions to realize that he caved to Harry's whims more than he'd prefer. His will was firm in everything except withstanding Harry. Fortunately, Harry's whims aligned with his own, though it did result in less bloodshed. Technically, he supposed, it was for the betterment of the nation he would rule that fewer people died, so it was for the best in that regard.
Yes, he would deny Harry once and for all. He would not tolerate this evident weakness. After Dumbledore was defeated, after his Horcruxes were reunited, he would separate from Harry.
Of course, it would be a figurative parting, Marvolo mused, watching blood pool on the stones, painting the soles of his shoes. Politically, they would still be aligned; they shared too many like-minded goals. Geographically, they would remain in contact, as well, because Marvolo would not evict Harry. It had been threatened once, and now, anytime Harry was gone from the Manor, it caused pain to emanate from his chest most disturbingly. But he would extract himself, somehow. Marvolo would accomplish this because he was the Dark Lord, and he would not allow an obstacle as paltry as emotion to conquer him.
Decision solidifying – not for the first time either, he was remiss to admit – he gave a nod to himself. He would hold firm. His honor and integrity were at stake. He watched the horrid woman continue scribbling and scratching into her own flesh, carving words into her skin, whimpering pathetically. He knew Harry had taken this treatment stoically, burning with fire instead of disparaging his fate. Marvolo fought the desire to crush the woman with the heel of his boot. The dungeon door at the top of the stairs opened, and Marvolo turned to look despite already knowing who it would be. Who else would dare interrupt him?
Harry entered the dungeon, still garbed in his muggle attire – an outfit that Marvolo would never admit aloud fit him remarkably well simply because such a compliment would pay homage to muggle fashions. But it wasn't just Harry that entered. It was never just Harry anymore. The accursed thestral rested in his arms, the pretentious owl perched on his shoulder, and the impudent snake draped about his neck. Marvolo would not entertain the understanding that he purchased the snake for Harry, at least not since the snake had allied with Nagini, and the two of them had taken to hissing unwanted advice at every private moment. It was infuriating.
"Marvolo," Harry said slowly, reaching the bottom of the stairs. His eyes flickered between Marvolo and the trash bleeding on the floor. Harry licked his lips and took a breath before placing the thestral on the ground and unwrapping Raaja from his neck. Raaja slithered to join Nagini on her cushions, hissing greetings to each other quietly.
Unable to refrain from the impulse, Marvolo holstered his wand and strode closer, reaching out with his non-bloodied hand because he would not taint Harry's skin with that insect's blood despite it being dry now. He pressed his clean fingers against the inside of Harry's wrist. The fast pulse of blood pumping beneath warm skin alleviated the stress that built whenever Harry was out of sight. Standing as close as he dared, Marvolo watched enraptured as the emotions, so elusive to himself, flickered across Harry's face.
"Your present," he said needlessly after Harry had been silent for longer than he felt comfortable. "We are unable to terminate Dumbledore yet. However, I thought this would be an adequate replacement and outlet for your rage."
Harry pursed his lips. "You know this will be risky for the Dark once the media gets hold of this."
"A miniscule risk, barely worth contemplating." Marvolo felt an odd twinge in his stomach regarding Harry's reaction. Why was Harry not expressing joy, as he was usually so quick to do? Or why did he not display his anger uninhibited? Why did he not yell? Either from joy or fury, Marvolo did not particularly care because either would bring a light to Harry's eyes and a flush to his skin. Either would make him breathtaking to behold. Did Harry not appreciate the gift? Frustrated anger started to build as he jerked his hand back from Harry's wrist. It wouldn't do for Harry to notice his newest obsession, and the heat of Harry's skin burned whenever he lingered.
"How long have you been planning this?" Harry asked eyes focused on the bloodied body. The vermin was still scribbling away, carving words into its skin, and hadn't noticed Harry's arrival yet.
"It was not an impulsive choice if that is your concern."
Harry shook his head. Those untamable strands tempted Marvolo's fingers; instead, he redirected that energy, pulling his wand back out and striding towards the cockroach, lifting the Imperius curse. The owl – the only barely tolerable animal in Harry's collection – flew to the stone stairs to observe from a greater height.
The writing immediately ceased, the quill dropping from trembling fingers as the creature looked up, eyes red and wet from its sniveling sobs went wide when it noticed Harry, and the pleading began. "Harry, Harry, save me, save me. Please. You're here to defeat him, surely, to rescue me, oh dear boy. Please, please, thank you, thank –"
Harry flicked his wand sharply, darkness rising in his eyes. Instead of simply silencing her, Harry muted the woman, forcibly sticking her lips together so that her throat bulged in frantic desperation at the inability not just to speak but not even suck in air. Marvolo watched gleefully as the woman clutched at her throat, her nostrils flaring rapidly, trying to suck in enough air that way.
"Why?" Harry asked, stepping closer to Marvolo, the blood squelching underfoot. The anger still burned at the lack of appreciation for his efforts, but Marvolo held his tongue, stretching his already thin patience thinner still. He couldn't harm Harry due to their oath and his personal misgivings regarding the matter, but if he did unleash his anger, then the woman would be dead, and then the gift would be pointless, and Death might be angry with Harry and punish him again.
"Death gifted her life to you, no? You must Claim her before Dumbledore, and after our visit, it was evident you required a release for the emotions you could not unleash on the goat. It was prudent, logical, and efficient to provide the means while accomplishing Death's requirement. One could say that it was multifaceted in its benefits. The plans have been in place; the justification was simply provided during the meeting."
Harry was silent for a minute, running a hand through his hair. "Opportunistic then, no other reason?"
Marvolo frowned. What other reason did Harry desire him to provide? He wouldn't admit to his voyeuristic desire to witness Harry kill; that would be horrendous and serve no benefit. "What other reasons are there?"
Strangely, Harry's cheeks reddened, but he shook his head. Marvolo frowned, yearning – not for the first time and certainly not for the last time – to understand the man next to him. "No other reason, just verifying." Harry swallowed and looked up at Marvolo, green eyes bright. "Thank you, Marvolo."
His mounting anger diffused under the genuine gratitude emanating from Harry. Marvolo refrained from shifting uncomfortably, though he was uncertain how to respond. After all, this was the reaction he wished for: Harry's praise and appreciation. Blasted chest pains, he thought, abstaining from clutching and rubbing at his chest. He needed to start implementing a potion regime regarding cardiac problems in addition to his normal nightly and weekly ones. The pains were becoming far too prevalent to be a non-issue. Marvolo tore his eyes away from those verdant eyes, clearing his throat but unable to say anything. He felt his resolve over the inevitable, necessary separation he would enforce after the war wavering once again.
The knowledge that he – No!
"I know your reticence regarding torture. However, given her history, I think it would be more than fitting," he finally said.
"It seems you've done a good job of it for me."
"It is a specialty of mine."
"I don't know if I have the patience right now," Harry admitted quietly. Marvolo glanced at him and saw the hunger and hatred darkening the glittering green.
Marvolo nodded in understanding; he'd certainly felt that during his many years regarding a certain few who'd invoked his ire like none other. "It does not need to be an elongated torture session; a few curses to fully expend your fury."
The creature on the floor clutched at her throat with bloodied hands, nails missing, and skin shredded with carved words of every hateful thing she'd ever thought regarding herself, muscles and tendons visible under the gore, a foot obliterated into a stub, and flecks of jaw bone visible with every mouth twitch. Marvolo tilted his head. Perhaps he'd gone too overboard in his vengeance. There wasn't much left for Harry to torture.
Harry snorted. "While the offer is nice, it's not really my style." And what a terrible loss that was, Marvolo thought mournfully. Harry's creativity would be inspired if it was directed towards violent outlets.
"Perhaps it's not your style, but consider it an indulgence," Marvolo countered, softening his tone to wrap the words in silk befitting a present.
"Torture is –"
"Oh, little lion, it's not torture," Marvolo said, swaying closer, hovering at Harry's shoulder. "All the cruelties she bestowed, not just to you but to all the other students, all those terrible discriminatory laws she pushed through that harmed not just your precious werewolf but all the others. Why, it's not torture, it's justice."
Harry tilted his head, lips twisting wryly. "I know what you're doing?"
"Doing?" Marvolo asked innocently. "I'm merely stating facts. What is the harm in expelling some anger? This thing will be dead by the end of the night either way, and better her than some innocent."
Harry's tongue darted out, and he hummed softly. Marvolo waited silently, watching Harry, the emotions darting across his face. He smiled when Harry raised his wand and slashed it down, flames enveloping the woman's face. There were no screams this time due to her mouth being permanently shut, but the sight was enjoyable all the same, Marvolo thought, watching the light of the flames flickering in Harry's eyes.
Not dousing the flames, Harry then twitched his wrist in three short movements, slicing three fingers clean off the hand. It was done far cleaner than Marvolo would have preferred, more clinically efficient than bloody or barbaric. But this was Harry's torture, so he would not critique.
"Healing potions?" Harry asked quietly as he sprayed an overpowered water column at the beast's face, dousing the flames. Wordlessly, Marvolo handed them over. Harry uncorked two and splashed them on the beast instead of allowing it to drink as Marvolo had done. It was less efficient but more dehumanizing. Marvolo approved. And watched the burned skin turn from crispy black to violent red and cracked. The eyes had melted though, and the structure of the nose was more of a husk now.
"Are you manipulating her Life to keep her alive?" Marvolo asked curiously. He'd never seen someone withstand having their face burned off, in addition to the other damage already suffered, and still live. The human body could only withstand so much, even with magic.
Harry hesitated but slowly nodded, panting lightly and regripping his wand. "I can see it flickering. It's so faint," he whispered hoarsely.
Marvolo intervened when he saw a slight tremor shake Harry's shoulders. He knew the exhilaration torture could bring and knew how a first time, especially with someone so personal, could bring possible detrimental effects to the inflicter. He'd not suffered this, of course, not to any extreme, but even he remembered how breathless he'd been after killing his family members and the spikes of adrenaline that left him trembling after his first bouts of torture of the older students who'd formerly bullied him. Sure, Harry had killed before, frequently even. However, it had never been so personal. There had been a removed detachment to the acts, even with Bellatrix, but direct torture brought a strange intimacy to the actions. He didn't want to put Harry off the idea of participating in future sessions and this would happen if he didn't stop Harry now. In the morning, Harry needed to remember this night fondly, not grow horrified and shameful. It would serve nothing if Harry's emotions got in the way.
"You've done well," Marvolo said softly. "Send her to Death. Make her suffering eternal."
At first, Marvolo worried Harry hadn't heard, that he had succumbed to the blackout delirium too much torture infliction brought. But then the well-lit dungeons dimmed as Marvolo felt the first wave of Harry's unrestrained magic brush his skin. He shivered at the decadence of it. It was as Dark as his own, darker in some aspects though not as sharp. Marvolo stepped back to provide better space for Harry to work, casting cleaning spells on the dried blood coating his hand, the itch becoming tiresome, and observed with unashamed rapture. Marvolo watched the bliss and relaxation overtake Harry's entire body; his shoulders slumped, and his face slackened. He looked euphoric as he indulged in the act of killing. Harry called it Claiming a Life and said it was more than just killing; however, the end result was the same. Marvolo traced Harry's features with his eyes – a poor substitute for his fingers – committing him to memory, adding this memory to the countless others he had cultivated over the past months.
Desperation clung to his every breath as Marvolo stared and wanted and longed for what he knew he could not have. Marvolo had never denied himself anything nor exercised restraint when faced with a desire. He had practiced patience and cunning to obtain it certainly but never restraint, not until Harry. While monitoring Harry's bedside, Marvolo had admitted to himself that he wanted everything another person could feasibly give another, and he wanted that from Harry – with Harry.
Marvolo knew that while presently he was Harry's partner and ally, and knew that what he and Harry shared was unique to themselves alone. Not just politically and residentially, either. He shared Harry's blood; Harry had carried his soul. Harry had been his death and resurrection as he had been for Harry. They were each others' catalysts. Never before had a pair been more entwined.
It wasn't enough.
It didn't satisfy the ache, the yearning. He would not always hold Harry's attention. Already, it was shared by others. Marvolo glanced at the animals taking up space in the dungeons, and as much as he detested them for commandeering Harry's time and attention, he couldn't fault them for it.
And he only tolerated the menagerie because of how he felt for Harry, because – No, blast it all!
All his life, he'd wanted to rule. With his limited scope of reference in his childhood, he had wished to rule the orphanage. Then, it was Hogwarts itself. Eventually, he had set his sights wider. The Wizarding World of Great Britain, and only after establishing his rule would he move to overtake Europe, Asia, and the Americas. It was his one goal, his one driving force his entire life. Never had he wavered, never had he second-guessed. He still didn't. He would rule the world, he would be great, and he would be remembered, and he would be eternal. He would never be the forgotten, poor orphaned boy with dirty blood again. The only other goal that matched his ambition to rule was achieving immortality, which had always been tied to his desire to be great, to be remembered. People couldn't forget someone who had never died, couldn't forget someone who remained.
This obsession and devotion to Harry, this desire for him, drew even with his lifelong goal of ruling. Because he…because he…
But he couldn't have Harry. Harry, as Dark as he was, was too good, pure in a sense that Marvolo had never been able to comprehend. Marvolo was not above ruining things; tainting and destroying things had become second nature before he ever entered Hogwarts. He didn't particularly care if he ruined the Wizarding World when he finished his crusade. It would be satisfying to destroy those who'd once looked down on him, almost as satisfying as it would be to rule and correct all the faults he saw and experienced. There was some truth in the adage of needing to break something before it could be rebuilt, and Marvolo had toyed with implementing that method for his conquering until Harry joined him. He still hadn't entirely dismissed the option.
Satisfaction would be gained whether he ruled or ruined. But he couldn't do that to Harry; he couldn't smother his goodness with his depravity. It was remarkable that Harry withstood his taint even now. Marvolo destroyed everything he touched. The orphanage matrons knew it, the families who rejected him knew it, the students who cowered from him knew it, the ones who swore fealty to him but never attempted to stand too close knew it, even his Professors had known it for all that they'd tried ignoring it to praise his genius.
So, he would refrain from seeking anything more than the partnership they maintained because anything would be better than nothing, and Marvolo wouldn't survive nothing. He would pride himself on the closeness they had, knowing it would never be more, and learn to content himself with that, content himself with his adjacent proximity.
Because Marvolo…because he…
Marvolo shook himself; those thoughts already haunted his nights, and allowing them to infect his waking hours was an unnecessary hindrance. So instead, he watched Harry and listened to the guttural chanting that Harry had tried to explain one night in the library shortly after Bellatrix was Claimed but couldn't do so effectively in any language Marvolo understood. Marvolo soaked in the warmth and comfort Harry's magic provided, breathed in the chilled air, and listened to the dying screams from melted lips torn open under the onslaught of pain blend with the rhythmic chanting.
Eventually, the dimness lightened, and the caress of Harry's magic withdrew. Marvolo didn't glance at the corpse on the floor; instead, he continued observing Harry, watching him blink lazily, sleepily, as though waking from a deep sleep. Harry sighed, practically purred – a contented lion sated after devouring its prey – before releasing a delirious giggle. Marvolo stepped forward, touching Harry's inner wrist, felt the rapid staccato of his heartbeat, felt the burning heat from Harry's skin threatening to set his own alight.
"Harry," he said softly, pressing a bit harder against Harry's pulse, waiting for Harry to turn dilated eyes and blissed expression towards him. "Harry." Harry giggled again, swaying a bit with the high of his Necromancy. Unable to resist temptation, Marvolo placed his freshly cleaned hand against Harry's cheek, keeping his other pressed against his wrist. "Come back to me, Harry." This close, with two full contact points, Marvolo legitimately feared combusting from the fire radiating off of the man in front of him.
"Marvolo?" Harry breathed, clarity slowly returning to his eyes.
"Little lion," he replied quietly, unwilling to step back, unable to stop touching Harry's skin. Harry stared up at him, eyes wide and unblinking. The rapid pace of Harry's heart, felt beneath his fingertips, increased to the point that Marvolo feared a potential cardiac arrest despite Harry outwardly looking fine.
"Master?" Raaja hissed. Harry jerked violently out of Marvolo's grip and turned to face his golden snake, uncurling from alongside Nagini to slither towards the carcass. "Is it safe to eat?" Marvolo faced the dungeon wall as Harry scurried to his menagerie.
"No, Raaja, don't eat that. Rotten toad isn't good for your stomach. Luna, stop licking that blood." The thestral whinnied, and Marvolo could only guess at the childish complaint because Harry sighed heavily. "Yes, later, I promise."
Satisfied with his regained control and composure, Marvolo turned from the wall and made for the stairs, the owl flapping out of his way to land again on Harry's shoulder, immediately running a beak through his wild hair. The envy flaring in his chest at the sight was ridiculous, and Marvolo scolded himself vehemently. "Once you are fully recovered and cleaned, I'll show you the items I retrieved."
"In the library?"
"No!" Marvolo's sanity wouldn't be able to handle the sanctity, calm, and peace their library nights provided right now. "No, in my office, this is a business discussion."
He didn't wait for Harry's comment; the dungeons were suddenly far too hot to stomach as he swept out of the dungeon. Harry would make sure Nagini left the dungeons if she desired it.
The door to his office slammed shut, though he didn't recall the trek from dungeon to office, and Marvolo growled at his idiocy clouding his perception. This was becoming dangerous. "Mimsy! Bring me a new robe," he snapped to the elf as soon as she appeared, grateful that Harry wasn't present to scowl disapprovingly at him for his lack of manners. Mimsy disappeared and reappeared two minutes later with a clean robe free of blood stains. He swapped robes and sent Mimsy off with the dirty one with the order to burn it. He had no desire for that stain of existence to tarnish anything he owned.
Marvolo paced his office, the plush carpet flattening beneath his feet – a path he had watched Harry tread numerous times. Harry. It was always Harry. Everything led back to that insufferably wonderful man. He glanced at the objects on his desk, the items he'd collected during his venture to the castle. Marvolo stared at the small stone on his desk and entertained the faint notion of keeping it for himself. It was an item of Death. Harry needed it to fulfill Death's orders and become a stronger Necromancer – a Deathly Hollow. Marvolo could hide it in his room, encased behind wards so strong that he doubted Harry would ever find it. Harry wouldn't search for it either. Not if Marvolo told Harry he hadn't discovered it. Harry would believe him. Harry would trust in their promise and would not doubt Marvolo's sincerity. Marvolo could see how it would all play out clearly. He could take the Stone and be more powerful for it. It was the Hollow he'd wanted least, but any Hollow would be a boon to his strength.
This was ludicrous, Marvolo snarled, hands gripped tight behind his back, turning from the temptation that wasn't as strong of a temptation as it would have been a year ago. A year ago, he would have simply taken it and killed the previous owner. A year ago, he wouldn't be in this position. He wouldn't take it, just like he hadn't killed the toad in the dungeons, just like he wouldn't kill Dumbledore…because of Harry, for Harry.
It wasn't possible, it shouldn't be possible, it couldn't be. There were very few things that Marvolo acknowledged Dumbledore being correct in; this was one of them. Someone like him couldn't feel this way. There was no benefit; it wasn't logical. It was ludicrous even to contemplate. It was impossible.
Though Harry did have the uncanny ability to make the impossible possible, Marvolo mused.
Shaking his head to dismiss the thoughts, he claimed his seat behind his desk. He needed his desk between him and Harry, needed a physical barrier to keep himself intact. Steepling his fingers and staring intently at his stolen items, Marvolo's thoughts raced alongside the infuriating organ in his chest. Books he'd read on the subject – not that there had been very many, admittedly – labeled this obsessive dedication to another with a word so simple and inadequate that Marvolo wouldn't even allow the letters to form in his mind's eye. Many cultures had a vast repertoire of words to describe the concept, whether it be of familial, platonic, sexual, or romantic variety, but Marvolo discarded those words as well. Again, they were all far too simple to incorporate the complexities he felt – the complexity of everything that was his relationship with Harry. A relationship in which they were so tightly interwoven, so profoundly bound that it had to be fated. Marvolo sneered at the thought. The thought of some otherworldly force affecting his life was possibly even more repulsive than being influenced by said emotions.
There would need to be a new word. A unique word, specifically for them two, encompassing everything they embodied.
His door opened without a knock, and Harry, freshly showered with hair still dripping at the ends, entered – thankfully without his menagerie – his head ducked, strangely shy. "What's got you looking contemplative?" Harry asked, his smile slightly unsure, though Marvolo couldn't fathom why.
"The disappointing, unsatisfying nature of human language."
Harry blinked at him, confusion erasing any timidity. "Right…"
"Have you recovered adequately?"
Harry grimaced, his hand moving to his hair, shaking droplets from it in the process. He was again dressed in that horrendous muggle athletic attire: grey sweats and a deplorable hoodie. "Sorry, yeah. I'm good now. I mean, it's still buzzing, but I can control it again. Sorry you had to see me like that." Marvolo didn't contradict Harry's apology despite disagreeing vehemently. "It's getting harder to suppress when it's loose like that."
This brought a chill to his spine. He recalled Harry mentioning that if he lost control, he risked death or insanity, neither of which Marvolo would tolerate or allow. He'd vowed to remedy the situation as soon as Harry mentioned it, though he was no closer to determining the method of how. He would need to interrogate Harry on the magical theory regarding the concept and devise some suitable countermeasures, but that was a project for a later time, tomorrow perhaps.
Harry gasped suddenly and rushed to Marvolo's desk, eagerness brightening his face. "You did get it! Oh, Marvolo, thank you! How did you manage it?" Marvolo watched Harry snatch up the Resurrection Stone from its place on his desk, holding it reverently. His tanned fingers tracing the ridges as if committing it to memory. The white scars on Harry's hand had anger burning hot in his stomach, and Marvolo wished the creature in the dungeons hadn't died so swiftly, wished they had prolonged the torture by another day or week, but knew Harry wouldn't have tolerated that no matter Marvolo's persuasions.
"It was in the drawer, the same one holding your wand," Marvolo explained, glancing at the snapped pieces of holly wand lying on his desk. Harry stared at his broken wand, his face twisting in pain and anguish, his brow creased. Marvolo entertained the idea of smoothing his brow but shook it free just as quickly. Harry pocketed the Stone to cradle his snapped wand with trembling fingers. Marvolo did not begrudge the blatant emotional display this time. A wizard's wand was everything, especially for those such as Harry and himself, who had suffered cruelly before they discovered the truth. His wand symbolized all that magic represented, the emblem of escaping his muggle prison. His wand had been his ticket to better things, a new life. He knew Harry felt similarly. Marvolo knew he would do far worse than a single death if anyone had snapped his wand. "The drawer itself was strongly warded," he continued. "However, when the Headmaster opened it, the wards were disrupted, allowing me the opportunity to switch the real with the fake you created earlier."
Harry beamed at him so brightly it was akin to staring at the sun. "Brilliant! And you got your Horcrux?"
Marvolo nodded. Ravenclaws' Diadem now resided alongside Slytherins' locket and Hufflepuffs' Cup, which he'd obtained while Harry suffered the Emergency Wizengamot session the previous month, in his bedroom under lock and key in a strongly warded drawer. Those three, plus Nagini, equaled his last remaining Horcruxes. His last unbroken vestiges of defying Death, of his immortality achievements.
"Yes, it is acquired. All of them are now, once again, in my possession."
Harry nodded. "Great. Then we are all set for the New Moon next month," Harry said falsely chipper, glancing nervously at Marvolo. Marvolo was willing to bet Harry expected his argument against the ritual to be now, but he refrained. It was a useless endeavor, especially since Marvolo knew it would change nothing. He was not a man prone to allow useless things. Harry's anxiety regarding an impending argument did grant him much amusement, though, especially since Marvolo knew the argument wouldn't happen. It made Harry's nerves and trepidation surprisingly sweeter. Though he was admittedly curious as to what Harry's counterarguments would be. Maybe he would bring it up just to indulge his curiosity, but later, he didn't want to suffer those thoughts now.
"Now, what else did you collect?" Harry's blatantly obvious attempt to keep the conversation light caused a slight twitch to Marvolo's lips. "What are all these? What curses did you leave for that old bastard goat to discover?"
Marvolo indulged himself in getting swept up in Harry's enthusiasm. Before Harry, it was rare for him to disclose his genius in such precise detail to another outside of Nagini. Now, it was becoming a regularity, and Harry proved to be the best audience. He looked down at the collection of books he'd stolen from Dumbledore's shelves; the replacements he'd left were transfigured stones and sticks he'd stuffed his pockets full of before entering the castle. He'd even pocketed a few rare items from the Room of Requirement when he'd ventured in to take his Horcrux.
"The curses are timed, releases set unconnected from each other but should occur within the next month. As we hope to overthrow him during the next Wizengamot meeting, it wouldn't do to accidentally curse whoever we choose to entrust next with the role." This wasn't a kindness or a consideration to the next in line, though Harry would most definitely see it as such. Marvolo simply knew that the two likely candidates would be Severus and McGonagall. One was a loyal follower of himself and Harry, and the other was someone Harry held dear due to his own sentimentality and whom Marvolo thought to be a competent witch if not prone to blind loyalty. "Expect reports from your followers regarding the more superficial, cosmetic ones. Such as beard loss, hair color changes, and vocal disruptions. Harmless and idiotic, childish in all aspects. However, it will further reflect his deteriorating mental state and cause further doubt to infiltrate the student body. People can be hideously superficial, and any disturbances to appearance will sway their perceptions subconsciously." Harry sighed in agreement, moving to recline on his sofa. Marvolo eyed his languid form, his legs outstretched, his head propped up with a hand. "It will also lend credence to his deteriorating mental state, which only strengthens our cause. However, besides indulging in childish whims, I left some listening charms and devices. I'm uncertain why we never had your little follower deposit some during his previous visits –" Marvolo knew why, knew he had never suggested it because that would be entrusting an act of great importance on someone he did not know, tolerate, nor trust; but perceived humility had its benefits "– however, now we can listen to anything said within that office. It will aid our intelligence-gathering ventures by drastic measures." Assuming the old man never noticed them, at least, and given Dumbledore's growing paranoia, which would only worsen with the childish pranks he'd set, Marvolo conceded to the understanding that the devices and his curses would probably only remain undetected for a few days at most before they were discovered and demolished. Fortunately, he placed some outside the office as well, and hopefully, those would take longer to be detected.
"Oh, speaking of intelligence gathering, I've also asked the ghosts to spy on Dumbledore. A few of them approached me to grant their full Passing, and I said I would this summer if they listened in on Dumbledore and reported back to Snape to tell us." Marvolo nodded his head in acknowledgment. It was a smart move. Most disregarded ghosts, forgetting that they were sentient and not like portraits. "Also, speaking of Neville and the Office, he gave me a copy of his memories of that day he witnessed ours." Marvolo sat straighter in his chair and watched Harry pull a small vial from his hoodie pocket – a seemingly harmless item to contain such devastating information. "I thought we could set some time aside to view them together in the next few days."
The dismissal was on the tip of his tongue. That vial contained memories regarding his childhood, secrets involving his upbringing, and his crimes. He couldn't allow Harry to witness them; he shouldn't tolerate another person viewing such private moments. It was already a violation that Dumbledore and Harry's little cohort had seen them. But this was Harry, the one person who knew him better than any other. The vial contained memories regarding Harry as well. It would be a vulnerability for his ally, too. A shared vulnerability, another layer to their web of complexity. "Very well," he said quietly.
Harry shifted on the sofa, stretching to place the vial of memories on his desk. The concession of ownership was not lost on Marvolo, and he felt a strange gratitude toward Harry's understanding of Marvolo's controlling tendencies and Harry's continued silent demonstrations of his trust and loyalty in Marvolo.
Marvolo did not reach out and snatch the vial from the desk. He ignored the possessive impulse to clutch at the memories held within. Instead, he left the vial untouched on his desk. He allowed it to sit innocently among the other treasures he stole that night as he enlightened Harry on the reasons behind each conquest, the research he planned to indulge in, and the lore behind the artifacts. Most of his acquired items did not benefit their current cause, but they were lenient towards his academic fantasies and endeavors.
Harry remained on the sofa the rest of the night, his green eyes intent and sparkling as he listened to Marvolo, smiling softly and fondly. Harry summoned tea from Mimsy at some point that Marvolo couldn't recall, only realizing it must have occurred as he sipped the perfectly made cup Harry handed him. He didn't even think to test it for poisons as he did any other time someone else gave him a beverage or item of sustenance.
He wouldn't even remember he hadn't tested it until he retired to his room and began reviewing the day's events as he prepared for sleep – a postponed and delayed sleep schedule, once again because of Harry. But Marvolo couldn't think of testing the tea because Harry was plying him with questions regarding the research he wished to conduct and quipping small jokes so nonsensical they were amusing in the late hour.
Marvolo settled into bed, the lingering taste of the nightly potions he consumed not fully overpowering the flavor of the tea he'd drank, Nagini a coiled and solid presence at his feet. No, he thought, he couldn't believe the feelings in his chest were related to such a simplistic ideal, especially not one the feeble sheep of society were so quick to toss about amongst each other. The memory of Harry giggling as he fumbled a question, the words caught on tired lips, followed by the delirious delight that could only be induced by exhausting one's magical energy and staying up past the body's limits, floated to the forefront of his mind. It had been his indicator that they should finally retire; it was already early morning, after all.
The simplicity of such a word was inadequate for the complexity of the feeling, Marvolo thought forlornly as he vividly recalled Harry's soft smile, wild hair, and bright eyes. But, he thought as sleep claimed him, he could think of no other word that might fit.
**Additional Scene**
Draco yawned as he buttered his toast. It was Monday morning, another dull start to a mundane week. The weekend had been exhausting, not only because it had been a Hogsmeade weekend but because the majority of the time was spent tending to and redirecting rumors sparked by Potter's arrival Friday night. Placing the right words in enough unsuspecting ears, whispers spoken just loud enough that a passerby would overhear. A loyal follower's job was never done, he thought with a small sigh as he chewed his toast. His fellow Slytherins surrounded him at the table, talking quietly amongst themselves as they ate breakfast. There was no need for scheming now; all those in earshot were already aware of the political atmosphere.
The owls arrived, and Draco accepted the letter from the Malfoy Great Grey owl, a letter from Mother accompanied by some Parisian sweets. Delightful, he thought happily, slipping the box into his bag to disperse amongst his friends later that day. He'd save some for Weasley and Granger, though, someone had to bring high society culture to their unrefined palates. Granger was cultured enough to have visited Muggle France at least, but Weasley had likely never smelt a proper sweet from France.
Daphne let out a soft gasp as she unfolded her copy of the Daily Prophet. Frowning, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo unrolled their copies. Draco didn't bother paying for his own copy, not when all his friends got them and would give them to him. Why waste money when others would spend it on your behalf?
In this case, he didn't need to wait long. Daphne laid the copy out in the center of the table, and each of them leaned closer to read the headline. It wasn't at the top of the fold, nor was it on the front page. It was page six at the bottom. Hardly a hundred words, but for those who knew, it told a vastly greater story.
Senior Undersecretary Umbridge Missing Since Friday
At a brief scan, the article simply explained the woman was taken from her home Friday evening, though no forced entry was suspected.
Draco glanced at the rest of the Great Hall. It seemed few understood the significance of the headline. Most reading it looked grimly satisfied – that toad had garnered no favors here – but only a select few students and professors seemed to realize what had happened. He glanced at the Gryffindor table and caught Grangers' eye. She looked viciously delighted and smirked when he raised an eyebrow at her.
"So," Draco drawled quietly, leaning back and picking up his toast again, "that's what a Dark Lord gets an intended Consort for Valentine's Day."
Blaise choked on a laugh, which inspired Pansy and Tracey to burst into giggles. Theo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, over and over again, "Only Potter."