7 Layers, Dotan

You had questions and you knew names
Hidden secrets linked in chains
Wrapped in circles, locked in squares

I was a stranger in my own skin
7 layers graced and wearing thin
I was a stranger in my own skin
7 layers I've been hiding in

Father's eyes and my father's smile
I couldn't tell I was just a child
Missing memories replaced by dust
Speaking tongues into my ear
Told herself what she had to hear
But did she ever think I'd never find out?

Cassiopeia had returned over an hour later, long enough for Harry to spiral into a panic attack and then recover. His own mind felt foreign. Shards of thoughts that weren't his, emotions, convictions, all blurred; conflicted.

The feeling that they had done something irreparable with unclear consequences was weighing on both of them. When the vampire returned, she found them on the floor. Staring blankly, swaying slightly.

"Oh, Jesus. Are you fine to even walk?" She asked, stopping in front of him.

"Walk?" They repeated.

She looked uncomfortable, avoiding their eyes, "Tom wants to… See for himself. The damage."

Harry immediately felt sick, desperate for the ability to retreat into his head; reeling at the reality that it wasn't really his head anymore. Even the thing balked at the thought of seeing the Dark Lord, though he couldn't grasp why.

"Necessary?" It asked.

"Eh…" She began, shrugging, "It's a bit overdue, actually. I'm going to warn you, it's best you just… Be very quiet. Don't speak to him unless you're answering a question, okay? Quick, concise answers. Keep it so… Morally ambiguous."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Well," she finally met their eyes, "How do I put this… He can't- stand you? Particularly after… I'm actually going to let him deal with this, so if you could get up please."

"Well… I can't- stand him either," the Boy Who Lived said, bitter about all of it.

"Maybe it's best if the Harry part shuts up?" She suggested, yanking them off the floor when they made it clear they weren't moving, "And don't… Stare."

"Stare?" Harry repeated.

"Shush," she told him, bidding them to follow her out of the room and down a hallway.

The walls were painted black, making it feel narrow. They followed her, thrumming with adrenaline as they continued to fight each other for control.

'It is best for me to lead in this. I know you know that,' it told him as they walked slowly, delaying.

'I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can take it,' Harry didn't just mean seeing Voldemort.

Harry stopped them, leaned against a wall, and struggled for breath. It forced him to breathe, which he didn't appreciate. He wanted to claw out of his skin. Cassiopeia had turned to watch them but said nothing.

'We need to stay as level as you can manage. Understand? I have no idea how we are even walking. Casting the curse was… Different. The magic feels fragile. I know you feel it. So, breathe. Walk. Let me do the talking.'

"Back to bed, Draco Malfoy," she said in a conversational tone, though Harry couldn't see the blonde anywhere. She tapped her ear when it questioned her with a raised eyebrow.

'Fine. You talk. I'll try,' the Boy Who Lived told it, as they resumed following the vampire down the long hallway.

Feeling weak and sick at the thought of it, dragging himself as though to his execution. She led him to the farthest end of the Manor from where Harry was kept, down three flights of stairs. Then she hesitated in front of a heavy set of dark wooden doors, looking at them.

"Just… Be quiet, Alright?" She hissed as she threw the doors inward, then rushed away without another word.

Straight away Harry couldn't walk, so the thing moved them through the entryway in his stead, kept their breathing steady despite the pounding of their heart. Harry had his eyes squeezed shut as he entered, the strange feeling he'd felt in the field under the wards was flitting in his gut, pulling him into the room.

'What is that?' Harry asked, eyes still closed, refusing to open them.

'You… Feel it?'

"Sit. Down," A warning from the far end of the room.

Heart thundering, it opened his eyes. It took them both several seconds to understand the scene. To understand what they were seeing. Sitting at the far end of a large dining table, big enough to seat twenty, was Voldemort. Scowling deeply, disgusted at the sight of them. Nagini standing next to him, hand on the back of his neck. Both of their eyes glowed faintly green, but that wasn't what had struck them still.

The Dark Lord looked… Human. Dark brown, almost black hair swept back, slightly roman nose, high cheekbones, sharp chin. Still pale, but not deathly so. Normal.

"SIT. Down," the Dark Lord repeated, making Nagini flinch and adjust her hold on the back of his neck.

They both scrambled to do so, tearing their eyes away and then bringing them right back.

"Do not resist," Voldemort warned, ice in his tone as he exploded into Harry's head.

He tore through his memories as though burgling the place, saw Ginny and Ron in the clearing, saw the prophecy through their eyes, the curse that had torn him apart, what Nagini had done afterwards.

Then he was suddenly holding the fragile core they'd made from the dust, panicking them both.

"It's... Fragile," it said out loud, barely a whisper.

The Dark Lord was incensed. He was suddenly standing, Nagini struggling to reach the back of his neck, her eyes leaking florescent green smoke into the air.

"You have rendered yourself irredeemable. Give me one reason. What are you good for? How are you worth more to me conscious? With magic?" Voldemort shook his head violently, brushing Nagini off, not breaking eye contact.

He was still holding their delicate magic. Harry could see it, solidified, no longer roiling. It reminded him of a dried ball of sand, glittering, black, reflecting light that wasn't there. The same fluorescent green glow in Nagini's eyes pulsed within it, visible within the hairline fractures. It looked like it would crumble under the wrong touch. They both struggled to keep their breathing under control as their minds raced. Nagini had replaced her hand on Voldemort's neck, frowning, looking between the Dark Lord and Harry.

'Both,' it began, barely a whisper in their head where the Dark Lord could hear it, 'Entrusted to those… Who- who revile their true nature-'

Voldemort slammed his fist on the table, splitting the wood and sending four chairs flying with a shock wave.

"OUT!"

Harry stumbled off his chair, scrambling for the door.

"Both of you!" The Dark Lord sent Nagini out after them.

The three of them stood in the hallway while Harry and the thing caught their breath. Furniture exploded in the room they'd exited. It caught Nagini's eyes and pleaded with her. For what, neither it nor Harry knew. She took their hand, expressionless, pulling them back towards their room.

She stopped in the doorway as they reached it before she took their face in her hands and searched their eyes.

"I know what my heart is like since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge, holding a little pool. Left there by the tide."

It was suddenly crying, a deep ache in their chest while it struggled to look anywhere else as she spoke, but Harry couldn't tear his eyes away.

"A little tepid pool, drying inward from the edge."

There were tears in her eyes too as she tore away, locking them in the room.

Harry was splayed out, leaning against the half-destroyed wall, watching the sunlight stream through the roof, through the branches of the tree that occupied the hole there. Nagini was coiled haphazardly around his legs, watching his face. The book in his hand -worn with time and repeated use- was forgotten. He looked from the roof to the floorboards, rotted through, blackened by fire and time. The Gaunt house empty for years. He let out a long, shaky sigh, finally looking at the Maledictus.

"Nagini…" He began, but he didn't finish his train of thought.

Couldn't bear to speak what was in his head aloud. So, he returned his eyes to the pages. Reading to her in Parseltongue.

"Is it lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing-"

Harry couldn't tell which one of them was sobbing when he woke up.

Their room had been stocked with Calming Draughts, which Harry took to mean he was no longer going to be sedated. He nearly fell out of bed as he reached for a potion, on the bedside table, as he spotted Cassiopeia sitting silent and still in the corner.

"A very excellent job on being quiet last night. I commend it," she said when they looked at her, "He wasn't set to murder you afterwards at all. Required no talking down."

She examined her fingernails.

"When he said that I'd… Rendered myself irredeemable…" It said, trying to form the question.

She shrugged, disregarded the non-question, "I don't think you're ready to be awake. If it were up to me, you'd still be sedated while we worked through it. Unfortunately, Tom has a plan now, and we're of course on a time crunch, too many things are already in play… Yadda yadda."

She rolled her eyes, removing an envelope from the front of her low-cut dress.

"So, I hope you're in a strong enough state of mind to hear repeated bad news."

Neither it nor Harry said anything. The Boy Who Lived was certain he couldn't bear it, that he didn't want to hear it; as usual the thing had a sick curiosity, a need for all the information. She handed them the envelope, watched them open it.

Harry,

I don't know where you are, but I hope this letter finds you. I hope you're okay. Things have been… Really hard. Mum and Dad took it hard. I guess we all did.

Things have changed at Padfoot's place. Dumbledore says…

She, or someone else, had crossed out several lines and Harry was unable to decipher what they said.

I don't know what happened in the hall that morning, but I know it wasn't on purpose. If it was my fault… If I caused something… I'm sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me, for all of it. I hope you can come home.

Ginny.

They returned their eyes to the vampire, questioning. The thing in his head kept flicking their eyes to the scribbled-out lines. Harry felt his heart breaking at the thought of Molly Weasley organizing her son's funeral. The thought of their faces. All of them. That he wouldn't be there. That he wasn't there.

He dropped the letter with a gasp and pushed his fists into his eyes.

"Drink another one," Cassiopeia told him.

His hand moved at the things command, downing another Calming Draught with Harry's acceptance.

"Now… Drink a third."

It realized that she was nervous. It did as she asked and warned Harry to brace himself.

"I don't… Know how much he knows… About the curse," she said.

"Nothing," it told her, and she nodded like she suspected as much.

"Alright- are you gonna tell him, or will I?" She asked.

"I- I will do it," it said.

Harry realized they were both shaking, that it wasn't just him. It reached for a fourth draught without being directed and drank it.

'Liquida Tenebris… Is a- manifestation of pain. It is- a proportionate… Manifestation. When we lost control of it- in the hall…"

Harry's heart was still thundering despite the potions.

'Proportionate…' He repeated, hoping that it wouldn't mean what he thought it meant.

'I- created the curse… It was for- When I- I learned, later… That it is… Far more painful than the Cruciatus… Depending on- depending on how much pain I was- Harry... I have never cast it like that…' It's disjointed train of thought landed despite Harry's confusion.

"No," he said out loud, refusing to believe it.

There had been so many students. All the staff…

"Caught up on that part then?" Cassiopeia asked, "Because unfortunately, it gets worse."

Harry blinked at her, feeling like he wished he'd never met her.

"Three students died."

Their breath left them. Cold seeped into his limbs; heart in his stomach.

"No," Harry repeated, shaking his head.

"There's a silver lining. We know you're only responsible for two, now. The whole… Weasley thing…" She trailed off.

"Get out," it hissed, glaring.

She stood up, hands raised in surrender as she floated from the room, locking it.

It seemed to be waiting for Harry to panic, bracing to calm him. Instead, he folded in half, sobs weakly bubbling out of his throat as his thoughts lost all coherency.

They'd left him largely alone after that. The room was choked with wards, the thing in his head gently feeling them out. Alarm wards, locking wards, silencing wards, even the solid wards were maintained from the outside of his room.

Cassiopeia was giving him a wide berth, which both of them were glad for. They were occasionally joined by Nagini, and it would sometimes pass the time by talking to her; avoiding the Vow, while she mostly said nothing. It had been two days since the vampire had told him that two students had died in the hall. Each time he thought about it he was numb. He'd been sitting alone with all of it. The weight pushed every ounce of happiness out of him until he'd forgotten the sensation. The only consolation had been the claw-foot bathtub in his en-suite, where he spent most of his time scalding himself with too-hot water, forcing the thoughts out with pain. When he wasn't doing that, he was picking a fight.

'Why wouldn't you tell me. Why didn't you warn me?' Harry pressed it about Liquida Tenebris, as he had done countless times.

He'd been unable to sleep. He found he rarely could.

He'd hammered it with questions, with blame, with the pain in his head and his heart, screamed at it, screamed at himself. Fought to claw his own eyes out in the hopes that it would feel it, though it stopped him before he could successfully pop them from his head. Normally it let him berate it, and would say nothing while Harry felt its guilt, rage, and pain in return. This time it seemed to have had enough.

'I had NO capacity to warn you. If I could have, if I had WARNED YOU,' it was suddenly furious, 'I would still be a voiceless STARVING GHOST IN YOUR HEAD.'

Harry's heart hammered as he ran through it all again and found no solution. No reversal. He drank a Calming Draught, but it felt like dousing a house fire with a water pistol.

He let his heart rate slow, breathing intentionally. The process took longer each time the panic picked up, anxiety the new baseline.

'I want this to stop,' Harry told it.

'I know.'

'And if I… Tried to stop it?'

It was silent at Harry's implication.

The Chosen One's ideations were interrupted by cracks of Apparition, coming from the outside the manor. A few at first, then dozens. They crossed to the window, both curious. Harry peeked out the curtains and watched maybe sixty Death Eaters, cloaked, moving toward the manor, some of them levitating trunks. While he watched from the darkness of his room their door opened, and it turned to find Cassiopeia.

"Not that you've left this room recently," she began without ceremony, "But I'm here to tell you that you mustn't leave it now. Okay?" She was still hanging onto the door handle, half in the room.

They didn't question her, stared blankly as she frowned.

"Alright… Well, good."

She left, locking the door. Harry wondered how he'd walk the halls anyway. His weakened magic wasn't going to free him from this room. Even if he had anywhere to go. He returned his gaze to the window, though the Death Eaters were already inside.

He lay awake after that; alternating between wild, uncontrollable panic that took his breath away, to a vast, aching, empty numbness.

It startled Harry out of his head by using his mouth to speak in Parseltongue.

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes- the nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs- the stiff heart questions 'Was it He, that bore,' and 'Yesterday, or Centuries before'?"

Nagini wasn't in the room, so Harry had to assume it was talking to him. Or to itself. Barely whispering, "The feet, mechanical, go round - a wooden way, of ground, or air, or ought – regardless grown, a quartz contentment, like a stone – this is the hour of lead – remembered, if outlived, as freezing persons, recollect the snow- first, chill – then stupor – then the letting go."

"Is this… My fault? Was I…" Harry trailed off.

"No…" It began, still speaking in the serpent language, "I made sure that-" It took a shaky breath.

Harry thought about Dumbledore. About Hermione, about Snape. About Voldemort himself, about Ginny. About himself. The Order. His parents, Petter Pettigrew, Sirius… How each one of them played a part, -willing or not; purposefully or accidentally- from the beginning. If he had to share the blame, if he had to divvy it up by percentage and apply it… The thing in his head could only be blamed for self-preservation. For starvation. For pain. It had hurt him, but it had never been targeted. It was careless when it came to Harry, self-interested. But not deliberately malicious. Harry didn't display his thoughts, hiding them instead to chew on them, while they both fell silent.

(AN: holy fuck they're so depressed what have I done. Nagini's poem is Ebb by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Tom recites After Great Pain, A Formal Feeling Comes, by Emily Dickinson.)