(AN: I've been drafting this chapter for a long time. While things might seem bleak by the end of it, just TRUST me; this is all great; they're working through their problems so maturely. For the Greater Good.)
Kingdom Fall, Claire Wyndham & AG
Say it like you mean it
Bones become dust
Gold turns to rust
Say it like you mean it
Underneath a spotlight
And all the splintered wood
Nothing here is shining
Shining like it should
I'd rather watch my kingdom fall
I want it all or not at all
He woke up tangled with Voldemort, jerked awake when the Dark Lord broke their interlinked limbs apart in the dark.
"Ah…?" dunked into the frozen ocean, a sensation he was familiar with, though it was far more intense after hours of being wrapped entirely around him. So intense that he hissed, "Fuck," shivering, yanking the blankets out from underneath himself and cocooning. It didn't help.
He could feel Voldemort backing away from him, though his eyes were closed, and it was dark. He could practically see him. A demand was stuck in Harry's mouth—that the Dark Lord return to bed and rid him of the slowly fading discomfort.
Voldemort didn't ask why Harry was hissing through clacking teeth. He locked himself in the bathroom instead.
'This feels… Awful,' he thought, pulling the blankets tighter to no effect.
'It's passing,' Tom thought, though he could tell that he was just as uncomfortable, thawing sluggishly.
Tom was distracted despite the attention freezing to death demanded.
'…We aren't dying.' Tom thought, eye-roll impossible but detectable.
'This feels awful,' Harry repeated.
It was subsiding—gradually less all-encompassing. By the time the Dark Lord was finished in the bathroom, he felt like he'd just finished rolling in the snow, goosebumps all over his skin, but no longer aching to the core.
He cast a Lumos—Voldemort no longer nude, and so not a wildly provocative move—then a Tempus. Four AM. On Sunday.
"What is the matter with you," the Dark Lord muttered, probably referring to the fact that Harry was up to his eyes in blankets with the tip of his wand poking out.
"Um," he said.
"Lack of contact is uncomfortable," Tom told him, "Briefly."
Voldemort's gaze flicked between Harry's eyes like he had more questions. Instead, he gestured for Harry to get up.
He hightailed it for the shower, taking the blankets with him.
Once the ice shards in his bones finally released him, he felt like a week-old colt. Bouncing on his heels and constantly resisting the urge to sprint. Where, he didn't know. Energy pulsed through him like pure voltage.
Nagini had slept in the house. When the sun rose, they dismantled the tent and sought her out.
Some of her family had stayed, drinking coffee in the backyard with the Dark Lord's familiar. Yenny laughed the loudest, standing up and pointing at Jude, retelling an embarrassing story from their childhood. Bima, Asha, and Susanti almost met Yenny's volume, all red in the face, except Jude.
"-No, no, no, you licked it, and my mama and your mama lost their minds, thought you needed to go to the hospital. They took you and told them-"
"Not true," Jude demanded, arms crossed.
Bima grinned at Harry and Voldemort's slow approach, then said, "All true, sorry Jude."
Jude scowled and stood up, taking his mug into the house. "I don't remember it; I don't know how you do!" He called over his shoulder.
Shiloh and Imco hadn't stayed, and Harry was simultaneously glad they were gone and sad for Nagini.
Just before noon, she was saying her goodbyes. Harry couldn't handle watching it. He left her to it and wandered up the driveway after waving his goodbye, thanking them for their hospitality in English. He considered apologising for how strangely they'd behaved—Voldemort more than anyone else—but he decided not to bother.
They were about to be even weirder, leaving through the front gate and wandering into the vegetation to Portkey instead of taking a car.
Once they were alone in the trees, Nagini asked when they'd be returning.
The Dark Lord said, "Whenever you wish it. Time permitting."
Harry heard the uncertain undertone, but he didn't think she did, nodding through her tears as Voldemort offered the Portkey.
They reappeared at the Malfoy Manor, which didn't surprise him. It did annoy him, though; he wanted his Lethifold back.
Filled to the brim with electric, nervous energy, bouncing as he paced back and forth in the Dark Lord's office.
"…Would you sit?" Voldemort said, more of a demand. That Harry couldn't have followed if he wanted to, the muscles in his legs twitching along with his rampant heart rate as though he'd had a lethal dose of caffeine.
'You don't think this is somehow bad, right? The way I feel after he touches me?' Harry wondered, thoughts rapid.
'Do you feel 'Bad'?'
'…No, I feel fantastic.' Harry thought. "Wanna fight?" Out loud.
"What?" The Dark Lord put his quill down.
Nagini was sleeping, a serpent coiled at his feet under a warming charm. Exhausted after likely barely sleeping the entire weekend.
"Fight. Duel. Outside?" Harry mimed duelling with the Snakewood wand, taking a battle stance before he was pacing again.
"I will not be frolicking in the snow with you."
"Frolicking? I want to kick your ass."
"My point remains."
"Forgetting about our deal," Harry said, stopping for a moment, though ultimately unable to stand still.
"I am not 'Forgetting'; I am busy."
He didn't know what time they were leaving for the political event the Dark Lord had planned, nor did he know its purpose.
"I'll let you try the wand?" Harry tried, holding up the Snakewood wand and twirling it between his thumbs and forefingers.
"…In what reality do you exist? One in which you 'Allow' me anything? That wand is mine."
"Yeah, and I'll let you use it," Harry said, while Tom thought, 'It is mine.'
"…What are you doing? What is the matter with you?" Voldemort finally asked.
"I dunno, but it's your fault."
Voldemort hadn't duelled him despite his insistence.
Nervous energy rose and fell for the rest of the afternoon, until Narcissa collected Nagini and left them with robes to change into. She borderline chastised the Dark Lord before she left them, insisting that he mark the ever-growing pool of prospective Death Eaters.
He'd nearly worn himself out doing nothing by sunset. Cooped up and fidgeting until the anxiety took over. The eggs, the Resurrection Stone, and the alternative to the apocalypse forming a loop in his thoughts until he was scowling with his arms crossed.
His robes were extravagant, tight-fitting, cut just below the knee, hooded, lined with incredibly soft black fur, and snug on his wrists and the back of his head. Adorned with yawning snake head buttons in blackened silver.
Harry had run out of things to say. He felt like he'd gone through every possible combination of words he could think of to convince the Dark Lord not to destroy his Horcrux. Some combinations he'd tried several times over. Not left alone for long enough to sound an alarm, the thought of telling Nagini made his entire body sweat. The idea of telling Cassiopeia and Har felt as frightening as it did necessary. As it stood, he'd have to shout it at them from a distance and hope they could run fast enough to dodge Voldemort's fury.
Tom was thinking about Merope. He was trying to keep it buried, but the stone and the Dark Lord's mother cropped up as frequently as the end of the world did.
'…Why don't you talk about her?' Harry wondered, watching Voldemort—Dressed immaculately, silver chains draping across his chest and shoulders, his buttons bearing Slytherin's Crest. His hair set perfectly, face almost painfully stunning, though he'd be wearing a hood and mask. Harry got the privilege of seeing him without them. Deep black robes that sucked the light out of his office. A void at a desk.
'…You do not speak of Lily,' Tom finally thought.
They both flinched, but Harry dug in regardless, 'I don't know why. I was asking you why-'
'I don't want to talk about her. There are things I can't… Things that don't… Don't concern yourself with it. None of it is worth knowing.'
'I really doubt that.'
'Leave it be, Harry, please.'
He did leave it then, but it was temporary. He knew Tom had a veritable ocean of history in him that he'd barely waded into. The more time passed, the more Harry wanted to know everything.
He was, unfortunately, dealing with the clandestine Dark Lord. Private to a fault.
"You should just wear a crown at this point. Get a throne you can sit in all day while your loyal subjects bow and curtsy. You'd have to build or claim another castle to put the throne in, though. Nurmengard is a prison, and Hogwarts is a school," Harry said, Parseltongue because it virtually guaranteed a response.
Voldemort had been pretending not to look at him, watching Harry from the corner of his eye—almost always fake-reading something.
"…Getting much work done?" He asked when the Dark Lord had merely raised his eyebrows.
"Not—currently."
"You'd look good in a crown. I mean, obviously, you'd have to lose the hood and the mask. Kind of odd to put a crown on top of a hood."
Voldemort closed his eyes.
"Why are we dressed like we should be wearing crowns?" He didn't relent.
"You would not be wearing a crown." He shook his head and pinched his brow, annoyed with himself for taking the bait, Harry assumed.
"Yeah, whatever, what are we doing?"
He sighed, leaned back in his seat and steepled his hands, "Tonight, there is a gathering at Yaxley's estate. A soft launch for his campaign and a convenient time for the potential champions to be announced publicly. Several representatives from a range of Ministry departments will be in attendance."
Harry was watching the Dark Lord smirk instead of listening—too busy recalling his tongue under the curse—red in the face at the thought of it.
"…What did I just say, Harry?"
"Oh, you said, 'Politics. Something, something, Corban Yaxley. Politics. Political dick sword fight. I am waxing on about politics. I am about to list the names of Ministry departments.'"
"…You asked?"
"Yeah, Honestly, I just like watching your lips move." He was pleased with the way Voldemort winced, his face forming a question mark, though Harry had no idea what he wanted to ask—he didn't voice the question.
Instead, the Dark Lord stood up and loomed over him. Harry leaned back in his seat to meet Voldemort's eyes.
He reached out with one hand to hold Harry's throat, leaning on the back of his chair with the other. He held the Dark Lord's wrist and raised his eyebrows in question. Unanswered as Voldemort looked him over.
"You really should lose the mask." Harry said, "I think it would help. With your politics. People love beautiful people." His voice had gone breathy thanks to the tightness in his throat.
"…In your infinite political wisdom." Though his words were supposed to be cutting, he whispered them in the serpent tongue, the hint of a frown as he held Harry's neck gently in one hand. "You will behave tonight. Do not speak unless you are spoken to."
"Sure."
"I mean it," Voldemort narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah, I said sure," he was pulled to his feet, more of a soft pull—a silent command. He stood before he was no longer capable, reaching with his hips to wrap a leg around him. Trying to drag him in by the robes or undo the buttons of his pants, undecided in his plan of attack.
The bliss hit him in the neck, and the Dark Lord Disapparated without warning.
As usual, it stumbled him to the ground. What was not usual was being scooped back off the recently ploughed drive by Voldemort.
He seemed to do it thoughtlessly, taking Harry by the upper arm and smoothly yanking him upright, "You are relentlessly clumsy."
"That time, it was because you had your hand on my throat," Harry said, "Sometimes you literally push me over." He didn't mention that Voldemort was the root cause of his clumsiness, even when he wasn't the direct cause. Like his limbs lost function in his presence.
He looked like he was considering pushing him over again before he pulled his hood up and summoned his mask.
Harry took in the estate. A ridiculously long driveway leading to a castle. A red brick box with ramparts and multiple towers at the four corners, blue cupola capped. At least six stories tall. Brightly lit by both electric lights and orbs of magic.
"This is Drumlanrig Castle," Voldemort said, walking as he pulled his sleeve up to press his wand to the mark.
Harry felt the wards as they crossed them. Impressive, stronger than the wards at Malfoy Manor—Tom told him—though not as strong as the wards on the small house that stood just outside Hogsmeade.
Pops and cracks behind them announced the arrival of whoever he'd called. Harry didn't turn to find out. Eyes glued to the castle as he decided he'd rather be nearly anywhere else.
"Are we going back to Hogwarts? After this?" He asked. He'd been nervously prodding about the plan all day; the possibility that the eggs were hatching as he spoke kept the question in his mouth.
He couldn't tell if the Dark Lord's caginess was because he barely ever gave an inch, or if it was because he was planning Horcrux murder later in the evening.
"Because I need to get Bed Sheet before he starts eating your followers and students," Harry continued.
Voldemort didn't look back either. Harry figured he'd heard somewhere around forty Apparitions.
"Why are you being obsessive?" The Dark Lord asked, walking almost too fast.
He figured it was so no one had the nerve to catch up. "I want my Lethifold back. And you're being suspicious."
"Your Lethifold will not be killing any of my followers."
Harry nearly stopped walking, "I really don't like how you said that."
"I do not like the way you say anything. Ceaselessly speaking."
"I don't know about that," he watched the Dark Lord while Tom ensured they didn't trip, "I think you love the way I don't shut up."
"Mm. I enjoy shutting you up." He was almost too quiet to hear, voices behind them and gravel underfoot almost drowning him out, "Remarkably simple."
"Yeah, but you can't put your cock in my mouth right now," giddy adrenaline when he watched his words land.
A slight falter in the Dark Lord's step, eyes on Harry—intense—he didn't slow down and requested access to his head.
There was nothing for them to clear away; Harry's thought's clean of machinations—Tom was meticulous, better and better at being prepared—they knew what he wanted, and so Harry presented the memory of Voldemort's cock down his throat with a healthy amount of nearly uncontrollable desire. A tiny side of mocking at the fact that the Dark Lord had requested to see it.
They'd both slowed down, watching each other from the corner of their eyes. When Voldemort withdrew from his head, they'd virtually stopped, before the Dark Lord picked the pace back up.
Harry finally glanced over his shoulder to find over forty people following behind them. He spotted Ginny immediately, Eris on one side, Avalon on the other—Nagini with Narcissa, Lucius, Draco, and Pansy—looking both thrilled and confused to be there. Reed, Ruby, Pollux, and, to Harry's shock, Luna. To his shock and then his anger, Aaliyah.
Death Eaters that he recognised and those he didn't. All dressed as though for a ball. He spotted Rookwood and then refocused on Voldemort.
"…Har-im-hotep's spy is here," Harry muttered, trying to walk his erection off with not much driveway remaining. Thankful at least for his robes.
"The event is plus-one. It seems she has been directed to interfere with your… friends."
"And you're allowing that?"
The Dark Lord didn't answer, and directed him up the left set of semi-spiralled staircases instead. They were greeted at the top by Corban and a range of strangers that Harry assumed were his family. Two older women and three men that he'd never met. All of them bowing so low Harry half-expected someone to lose their centre of gravity.
Yaxley opened the double doors and stepped aside to fall behind the Dark Lord. Harry continued pushing his luck by walking beside him.
The castle's entry room was dark wood from the floor halfway to the high ceiling—panelled walls dressed with dozens of portraits from the Victorian era. None of them moving, almost jarring to lay his eyes on portraits that were simply paint.
Voldemort led them confidently through the castle, obviously not his first time there, into a large dining room with an ornate ceiling—alternating diamond and fleur-de-lis shapes framing hanging chandeliers. Two giant tables skirted with green upholstered dining chairs.
Trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres levitated around by House Elves, and a few people already inside, drinking and chatting until they noticed the Dark Lord. A collective bow trailed around the room in response.
"See? A crown." Harry kept to Parseltongue, though he knew the odds were good that if Aaliyah was in earshot, she'd understand him.
It was as though a shroud had lifted as soon as they'd entered the dining room; whispering became high-volume political elbow touching.
Blaise Zabini's mother had been in the room already, and she was the first to approach Voldemort—in favour of her own son, who had arrived with Crabbe and Daphne Greengrass.
"Do you wish to see me in a crown? Is that why you will not cease mentioning it?" Barely a whisper.
"My Lord," she bowed low a second time when she reached them, a man with a haughty air about him following her—nose in the air, wearing what must have been twenty badges on his bright red blazer. "You have met my husband," she gestured at the man, then she looked at Harry.
"I wouldn't mind seeing you in a crown. Only because it'd be fun to watch your ego swallow the sun while I swallow your-"
"…Sir Francis Newmont de Burgh the Fourth," Zabini's mother interrupted Harry's Parseltongue.
"Wow." He deadpanned, "Mice to neat you."
There was a weighted silence that forced Harry to re-evaluate what he'd said. "…She interrupted me. I was talking, and you were talking, and she just went over the top of me." He decided to take offence instead of embarrassment. Pleased to watch their awkward disdain become discomfort at the serpent tongue and the sharp look on Harry's face.
"You will think before you speak. And behave," Voldemort said, tone sending aggressive goosebumps up Harry's spine, "Where is your decorum, Demetria," the Dark Lord continued in English. "Do not interrupt him."
She seemed affronted as though it was fair game to speak over him. Appalled to find that wasn't the case. It made Harry suck his teeth so that the smirk wasn't ridiculous.
Cassiopeia jabbed Harry sharply in the ribs to announce herself, Nagini beside her. Dressed in ruby and sapphire floor-length gowns, respectively.
Their arrival stopped his next comment. Something about how he didn't like the way Zabini's mother looked at the Dark Lord. With reverence, as was to be expected, but also an easily identifiable hunger.
He didn't need to think about it for long; Voldemort took Nagini and Cassiopeia as a means to escape, turning away from Demetria and her husband to face a pair of suited officials, talking fast.
Introducing themselves as Delta Antwork and Aurora Lyre from the Department of International Magical Co-operation. Harry tuned the women out to scan the room.
He found Ginny watching him, holding an hors d'oeuvre and a flute of champagne—no one batting an eye that she was too young to drink. Eris, Avalon, and Cedrum with her. Locked in discussion with another set of Ministry officials that Ginny was also ignoring.
Ruby, Reed, Pollux, Aaliyah, and Luna were caught in a similar situation, though Luna waved at him when he caught her eye.
Draco was occupied keeping Pansy busy while under the watchful eye of his parents. Lucius and Narcissa dragged him around the room while he dragged Pansy—who seemed far more interested in a range of other groups, particularly Harry's. Which he thought was insane.
"How are you, Limpet?" Cassiopeia muttered, forcing a stemmed glass into his hand, her nails like daggers, difficult to avoid.
"So fucking great." He sipped and then drained the champagne.
Nagini had taken a whole tray of food and sat at the table—the only one sitting—crossing her legs and shotting snacks.
While Voldemort was being incessantly talked at by a parade of officials and Death Eaters, and though he was saying all the right words in return, He knew the Dark Lord was paying far more attention to Harry and the vampire.
Cassiopeia snatched another glass from a nearby tray and put it in his hands. "See that?" She pointed at Aaliyah.
"…Yep." He didn't bother asking if she knew why, confident she wouldn't tell him in front of Voldemort, sure that he didn't want her to.
Within the first half hour, they were joined by reporters and their cameras. Fifteen or so, rotating around the room, questioning the prospective champions and Yaxley, photo-ops forced on the students. Only a few of them were not wildly uncomfortable shaking Corban's hand for the camera. Apart—thus far—from Harry, made immune by his proximity to Voldemort—photos taken candidly and from a healthy distance.
And so, he was as painfully bored as he was tense. Cassiopeia had left them in favour of Lydia; Harry could hear her laughing from the other end of the vast room. Twice, Tom had batted away Reed's mind. Hopefully, she'd gotten the hint the second time around that he was far too closely observed to leave his own head.
"You haven't eaten today," Harry said during a brief lull.
"I am busy," a predictable response.
"Too busy to remain alive?"
"Hilarious that you believe I might starve to death."
Harry shrugged and bit into an extravagant devilled egg. "I don't want you to lose the weight you've gained back."
Three Death Eaters—one of the Moreau brothers, Talpin Harlow, and a stranger—tried to approach, but Voldemort waved them away.
It was difficult not to stare at Ginny, and more difficult than that not to stare at the Dark Lord while everyone watched him.
"Explain it to me," the Dark Lord demanded, and Harry had forgotten what they were talking about.
"What do you mean? Explain weight loss?"
"You are an imbecile."
"…No, you're never clear."
Voldemort straightened, squared his shoulders, and visibly resisted the urge to step closer, "Explain to me why you are so invested in my health."
"Tom-" he almost said 'whoops' but kept going, "Tom already told you. Something happens to you, and we're caught in a power vacuum. You're standing in a room full of sharks right now. Any one of them- And besides all that, I think it's pretty obvious that I don't- don't want to watch you suffer—that I don't… Hate you."
The Dark Lord was immediately incensed; Harry could feel it like waves of heat, and he thought it was ridiculous above all else.
"…What? Why would that make you angry? I know you don't fucking hate me, either? I know you like the things I do to you." No one had approached them, their Parseltongue discussion becoming too intense to interrupt.
"I do not like you. There is not an ounce of affection in me for you. You hold a fragment of my soul. And while it has been… Decadent, to watch my Horcrux defile you, corrupt you absolutely, to watch you fall irrevocably into my hands under his guidance… Trust me, Harry, I find it breathtaking. You, however? You?" He laughed, eyes wild, "Are nothing. If I think of you in any capacity, it is to find awe in how far you have fallen—right before my feet."
Harry knew it was a carefully curated lie that the Dark Lord probably believed. He'd been about to tell him so when Voldemort's next words froze his blood.
"You want to hear what your mother said?" Vicious smile in his eyes, he stepped forward so that Harry was nearly touching his mask with his nose, "She said you would not kneel for me. That I could not break you, not her son, and yet I have you broken on your knees often-"
And it all shattered. Lost all meaning, held no weight, not a candle to the sudden thunderclap of fury, "You don't own me. Everything you have I gave to you—you took from me! You think I disgust you; you disgust yourself! You take what's mine, use it to hoard more power than you've ever had, breaking every rule and law—regaining your sanity and loved ones—and you hate me for it?! You killed my parents, Sirius, Ron, took everything; you can't stand ME? You're doing this because you're always fucking scared!"
'Harry, no, no, no, NO stop-' Tom desperately tried to prevent the vitriol he was spitting in plain English and take control of the violent unravelling in his head.
Curse ready to burst his skin, he didn't relent, walking backwards, "My Horcrux is right. You're a fucking monster. You're not worthy of any of this. You're not worthy of love. You want to be punished for what you are, begging for your destruction, Catholic-raised church-piano-playing orphan dandy-boy glaring at the scraps on his table; you're not—lord—of—anything!"
His Horcrux slammed against his head repeatedly, freight-train force, and Harry supposed he had another instant before the shocked silence became attempted murder. Tom realised the same. Blackness erupted from his skin and engulfed the room as he sprinted for the door.
Screaming pandemonium followed—he felt dozens of people fighting not to fall, their magic swallowed by his before it stood a chance of reaching him—but Tom didn't let him stop, the Dark Lord one of the few still standing. He could feel his light ripping into the dark. Tom felt his way out with the curse while Harry's entire mind unravelled, threatening to stall him.
'…Tom, what the hell is this?'
'You have to stop, stop it now. Do you realise what you've done?!' Undiluted and unrestrained panic, vaulting them down the stairs in a cloud of darkness.
Harry was having a hard time registering what he'd done. He'd outed them as working with Crux. Present for the dreams. A tiny blip in the blazing magnitude of the thing in his head, incomprehensibly massive, dwarfing every thought he'd ever had. Somehow his—made by him—but entirely foreign, painfully racing his heart.
Tom had decided not to run the entire length of the driveway while Harry spiralled. He exploded instead, shredding the wards within the span of a few quick heartbeats, bathing them in agony, then sprinting to Disapparate.
(AN: They shouldn't be invited to functions they're not domesticated. Forgive me y'all, sometimes you gotta break a few legs.)