A/N: I was having some trouble writing. I'm too much of a perfectionist I suppose. Now I'm thinking: so what if it's not perfect? You can always find something that you don't like in what you create. So that explains the longer than normal length between updates. And I'm happy with the way this chapter turned out. Please review and let me know what you think!

Does anyone like to beta this fic? Please send me a message!

Chapter 10

His clothes arrived the next day. Harry stared at the rich fabrics and colours that were spread out over a round table in the drawing room. His thoughts turned to the witch who guarded him.

He'd asked Watanabe what would happen to his guard as they strolled back towards the manor the other day. The man shot him a sharp glance before turning his gaze back towards their destination.

"She will be dealt with as our Lord sees fit," he'd stated.

"What does that mean?"

"Tortured, killed or spared depending on whether she is an asset."

Harry swallowed against the nausea climbing up his stomach.

"Actions have consequences, Potter," the man remarked. After that, the rest of the walk had passed in silence.

His dress robes were a dark green, just like the ones Seamus had lend him for Slughorn's party, now a lifetime ago. They were nearly identical, but these had silver-thread snake patterns framing the borders. Which reminded him unpleasantly of Nagini. At her arrival this morning she had ignored him. She had slithered up the curved banister, probably to reclaim her favourite spot in front of the fire.

A sudden flash of insight froze his hands on the soft fabric. Dumbledore had given Harry the Sword of Gryffindor. He'd handed him the weapon with which to kill her!

Harry slapped a palm over his forehead and grimaced, feeling like a complete fool. How could he have forgotten their last conversation? He hastily touched at his neck to feel for the pouch. He felt a jolt as his hands encountered nothing. Voldemort must have removed it, he thought despairingly while his fingertips touched the sensitive skin. He couldn't remember checking for the pouch earlier: had he worn it during his stroll through the grounds, or when he fell asleep under the strangely sentient tree?

As Harry gathered the different robes and shirts, he admitted to himself that he'd forgotten because of the awful events proceeding it. The battle at Hogwarts had put Dumbledore's last lesson out of his mind completely.

Harry took the curving staircase towards his bedroom. Upstairs he dried his eyes on the pile of clothing in his arms, annoyed with himself. Carelessly throwing the clothing on his bed, Harry cast off the borrowed robes he'd been wearing for several days now and picked out a black set of robes and pants. They felt very soft and light, hinting at expensive quality.

He walked over to the wall-length mirror and looked at his reflection. His green eyes stared back listlessly, dulled with exhaustion and fear for his friends. The silver-black collar of the robes couldn't quite cover the darkening bruises around his neck, the result of the Dark Lord's punishment.

His eyes widened as he noticed a strange silver gleam on one cheek. He stepped closer and tilted his head towards the light. It covered part of his left cheek, subtly, just a touch lighter than his own skin colour. It felt cold to the touch. That was where Nagini had slapped him.

Then he noticed his chin-length hair. It was much longer than he remembered it being. Indeed, it nearly behaved itself today. He bit his lip in thought. Clearly more time had passed than he'd been aware of.

A sudden, overpowering frustration send his magic tingling along his skin, yearning to be released through a wand. He was sick of being kept in the dark, not knowing whether his friends lived or died and not being able to do anything about it. A crackle sounded and he whirled towards the source: behind him the fire which the elf had kept burning in spite of the mild weather, had taken on a life of it's own, curling outwards over the mantle and turning purple in some places. He gaped at the sight for a moment before closing his eyes and reeling in his emotions. When he opened them, the fire was down to a normal hearth-enclosed size.

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Remus Lupin sniffed, his sharp hearing picking up the sounds of a rabbit shifting in the undergrowth on his left. His stomach was hollow with hunger. He didn't feel like eating rabbit, though. Straightening from his crouch, he saw lights in the far distance beyond the mass of trees. He turned and stalked that way. At this point the forest appeared as a deeper blackness in the starless night. Nevertheless, the roots of the trees and the foliage were clear shapes to his sharp eyes, and he manoeuvred deftly towards the forests' edge.

The lights turned out to be the streetlights from a small village. A man stepped out one of the houses nearest to where Remus stood and, grasping a broomstick, took to the sky. He flew along the village edge and out of sight.

Remus stood still, thinking on what to do next. Should he knock on one of the doors and ask if they had any leftovers from the evening's meal? Most houses were dark. It was unlikely that they would invite a stranger in at this hour.

"Allan!" he heard the sudden cry from the house that the man had exited earlier. A woman burst out of the door and up the streets. She ran around the corner to the open area of grass where her husband had taken off earlier. "Allan, you forgot your…" she sighed then, realising he was gone.

Remus could smell the beads of sweat on her brow, under her armpits. He licked his lips, the thrill of the scent sharpening his nails. His shoulders loosened. His mind focused, empty of thoughts.

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Harry dreamed. It was raining. A flag was waving in the wind, slathered and dripping with raindrops. It was black and had a skull in the center, a snake squirming from its mouth. Harry looked down and Ron did the same, smiling a grim smile.

"That's how it is now Harry. No more Gryffindor, no more houses. Just this." Harry saw a skulled badge the size of an orange on his robes.

Harry grabbed his arm. "How are you doing Ron? Is everyone alright?"

Ron shrugged. "What do you care, you're not here," he said without inflection as if it were that simple. Maybe it was.

"I'm sorry Ron, I'm going to find you as soon as I can!" Harry squeezed, trying to convey his determination.

Ron shrugged him off and walked away. Harry tried to follow, but the figure of his best friend became smaller and smaller in the distance, until he disappeared completely. Harry stopped and looked out over the lake, thinking maybe Ron had gone in. Something was pressing down on his head, tightening like a huge rubber band was wrapped around it. His hands felt nothing there. He tried to concentrate on the water; he was certain that Ron had disappeared into the waves.

The water's surface stilled. It was now a glassy reflection of the sky. A rotting, moulding arm stuck out, then another and Harry's eyes snapped up, avoiding the horrible sight.

He was standing in a small boat. Dumbledore stood on an island in front of him, his beard awash in green light. Harry's heart stumbled a beat, though his face betrayed nothing of his turmoil.

"Dumbledore." Fury swelled inside him like a beast of unstoppable strength. His wand slashed the air and Dumbledore fell back off the island, disappearing into the greedy limbs. Harry's eyes were pulled towards the green light. He flew, landing in the spot where Dumbledore had stood earlier. His large fingers were gripping the edges of a basin and he looked down. Water filled about three-quarters of it. He whisked it out of existence with a gesture.

The push and pull-like sensation in his head eased as he stared at the locket that now appeared at the bottom of the basin. He slowly pulled it out, feeling for something more than the metal against his fingertips but finding… nothing.

He pried the locket open with delicate fingers and stared at its content. Inside was a small piece of paper. His eyes slid over the writing then closed tightly, though not before Harry had read the last line:

I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.

Harry woke. He was lying on the library couch, whose soft appeal had drawn him into closing his eyes earlier that afternoon. A moan of pain filled the silence of the room. The band around his head had tightened.

Locked inside Voldemort's rage, he could only lie very still while his brain felt on fire from his scar. His stomach rebelled but he managed to ignore it as he turned all his thoughts to the softness of the fabric under his cheek. He stroked the cushion that lay against his stomach, feeling hundreds of tiny hairs bending under his fingertips.

Then wind rushed past his face and he opened his eyes. Voldemort stood in front of him, only two paces away.

Harry yelled in shock, a guttural sound.

Voldemort studied his prone form with narrowed eyes. "Get up," he said.

Harry pushed away from the couch. His agony was making him sluggish apparently, because Voldemort hissed again, his rage now slithering out from under his cool exterior:

"Get up!"

He had drawn his wand. Harry held up a placating hand and sat, then carefully stood.

Voldemort did not throw a curse as Harry half expected. Already his mind was being wrung out, as the Dark Lord squeezed from it scene after scene of Harry's lessons with Dumbledore.

"NO!" Harry shouted and whirled his head. Voldemort grabbed his chin, making him look into those terrible eyes again. Harry felt his legs freeze to the ground and at the same time, his knees locked in place. When Voldemort's wand touched his temple his eyelids opened wide, beyond his command.

Harry's stomach burned as the Dark Lord looked in on his conversations with Dumbledore, whom the wizard in front of him had so carelessly cast into the Inferi's arms. Not a single detail did the Dark Lord find uninteresting. Harry hissed as the band around his head tightened impossibly. Voldemort's Legilimency hadn't hurt like this when he'd been captured earlier in the year. But then Voldemort had been in a congenial mood and it had felt weirdly pleasant.

Better that they were back to this, Harry thought, instead of that creepy congeniality. It was actually a relief, to associate the Dark Lord's nearness with only pain again.

Voldemort's face was set in grim lines when after several eons, he released Harry. Harry's knees unlocked themselves and he fell back onto the couch. Voldemort's magic hung heavy in the room. It scourged the exposed skin of his face and hands.

He bowed his head to shield it from the blaze. When he glanced up, the man was gone.

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Harry stood in the shadow of the staircase at the back of a rectangular hall in Malfoy Manor, fingering the olive in his cocktail glass.

He was bored as hell. Ever since he came to understand that the ball was adults only (except for him of course) and that there were no classmates from Hogwarts in sight, he'd decided to make himself as sparse as possible.

The waiter from earlier approached once more, silently offering to exchange his empty glass for a full one. He nodded his thanks and the man continued on his way, expertly dodging the dancing pairs towards the loudly babbling crowd that surrounded the dance floor on all sides.

What was his purpose here again? Oh yes, parading as Voldemort's treasured spoils of war, or some such nonsense, he thought sourly. Well, if he had to stand and look pretty he wasn't going to do it sober, he groused to himself and took another healthy swig of burning sugariness.

Every once in a while a witch or wizard would come up to him to make conversation. It was clearly a pretence to study him up close. He made it a game to parry their questions with his own until they left in a huff – though not before making a few choice insults, which only amused him more. It did make him wonder, for the first time, what the papers were telling the public about him.

Earlier he was astonished to see Professor McGonagall in the crowd. He yearned to speak to her, even if only in coded language, but to do that he had to step away from the shadows: he hated the stares of the Death Eaters who would follow his every move.

As he thought on this dilemma, it was solved by McGonagall striding over, her gleaming black heels clicking loudly on polished wood.

"Mr. Potter," she said, sounding relieved.

"Professor!" Harry's whisper was fierce with emotion.

McGonagall's hand touched his arm briefly. "How have you been, Potter?"

Many heads turned their way. Harry was keenly aware of how this must look: Hogwarts' former head of Gryffindor House and member of the Order of the Phoenix, conversing with Harry Potter. He fully expected one of the guards to storm their way over, but no one interfered. Harry suddenly didn't care about the stares, now that he could speak to a friend.

"Alright, actually. They haven't harmed me or anything." McGonagall's gaze turned disbelieving when her gaze flickered down, lingering on his neck.

Harry rubbed it unconsciously and felt his cheeks grow warm at what she must be thinking, seeing the blackening bruises. "Oh, that. Yeah, I eh… got into a bit of trouble."

McGonagall smiled warmly. "As is your usual penchant. Well, I'm glad to know you at least retain some of your rebellious nature," she said with a raised eyebrow. Harry grinned. His smile left his face in the next instant, as he thought of all he wanted to ask.

"How, how is…" he croaked, trailing off. He found he didn't dare to know.

Pain flit across McGonagall's face for a second before she answered: "Everyone is as well as can be expected. Have you been informed of- " Harry shook his head. McGonagall sighed. "I see." She studied the glass of red wine in her hand for a moment before continuing, the music in the background loud behind them. "Professor Sprout has been killed, as has Professor Vector, Professor Burbage and Alastor Moody. Several students from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff as well-"

"Who?" Harry interrupted. McGonagall gave him a handful of names, most of which he didn't recognize, except-

"- and Miss Weasley."

"NO!" Harry uttered in a loud whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to tear up so near the crowd.

"I'm so sorry Potter," he heard McGonagall say. He felt strange, lightheaded. Clasping the marble pillar next to him for support he caught her eyes and forced out: "Continue, please."

McGonagall's lips were very thin. She went on in the same low tone, with her back to the curious crowd: "Remus is missing, as is Albus."

Harry thought back to his dream of the cave, but decided this wasn't a good time to explain. Since he wasn't absolutely sure that Dumbledore was dead, he didn't have anything new to add.

"Potter." McGonagall's tone was urgent now. "Don't loose that spirit of yours, do you hear me? Not for anything."

His spirit. It was something Voldemort seemed to like about him as well, apparently: Still with that spirit, I see. He was jerked from his musings by McGonagall's hand over his. "Harry," McGonagall went on in that same intense tone, "I know everything must seem bleak now. As to Hogwarts and its students, don't trouble yourself. I can assure you that I am still allowed to teach, and so I am able to keep an eye out. I have known Vol- him a long time, since his childhood. We were classmates in another lifetime. If it is the least I can do, it is to assure you that I am not afraid to speak my mind near that man, and that I will do everything in my power to protect the students, as well as the remaining teachers."

This time Harry's eyes did tear up a little from the swell of feeling, both from her sure tone and the courage in her words.

A small smile played around her lips. She deliberately closed her eyes in an extended blink of assurance .

"How come you don't say his name?" It struck him as very un-McGonagallish.

"There is a curse on the name. If you speak it you may trigger a search party."

"Why?" Harry said, bewildered.

"Because anyone daring to speak his name is a threat to him. Don't use it Potter. Call him something else. I'm sure you can come up with something appropriate." Her brows raised again and he smiled despite himself.

"Professor, I also wondered: why are you here?"

"You mean, why am I allowed here? It is because I am a member of the Wizengamot."

"Really? There is still a Wizengamot?"

"Yes. If nothing else, the Dark Lord is a traditionalist. He values the old customs of wizardkind."

When Harry thought about it, it made sense. Just like Voldemort was a hoarder of trinkets, he hoarded wizarding culture as well. He also noticed something else: McGonagall spoke of Voldemort in the same knowing way that Dumbledore had. It then struck Harry how short the time of peace between the wizarding wars must appear to her.

Harry suddenly remembered something about Dumbledore's Chocolate Frog card. "Who is the Chief Warlock now?"

"It is not yet decided. Since the war began it has divided the Wizengamot as well as the wizarding world at large. He has chosen not to interfere in the process of choosing a new Chief Warlock. It will portray him as a generous and law-abiding ruler in the media, you see-"

McGonagall was cut short by the sound of a gong that reverberated to all corners of the building. It appeared to originate from the back of the vast room, where a string quartet had been playing. The musicians had already left the stage: it was now empty except for the instruments.

Voldemort appeared in a flurry of black in the middle of the stage. If it was Apparatition, he hadn't made a sound.

Harry felt nervous, standing so close. Their last encounter was now two weeks ago. He still shuddered to remember the hatred he'd felt as Voldemort attacked his mind.

The gong stopped, making the silence absolute. Voldemort studied his subjects for a few uncomfortable seconds. Then he spoke:

"Witches and wizards, friends and honoured guests." Harry heard him as clearly as if the Dark Lord were standing next to him. "I am pleased to see you all present at this festive gathering of our world's great minds."

Voldemort looked around as if taking in the splendour of guests, of crystal chandeliers, marble columns and rich green table cloth. "You represent all the talent and power inherent to wizardkind. I therefore count on your dedicated efforts to shape our new administration into something worthy of your ruler." A glass sparkled into being in his left hand. He raised it in a toast. "To talent and power."

The crowd watching him in awe raised their glasses as one and repeated: "To talent and power." Voldemort drank, and so did everyone else. Harry remained unmoving, clinging to the shadowy banister. As Voldemort's glass lowered, his eyes suddenly shot to Harry's for the span of two seconds, before turning back to the crowd. Harry shivered, feeling cold through his thick dress robes.

Voldemort disappeared into a back door then, a servant on his heels. The musicians took to the stage again. Dancing pairs trickled back onto the dance floor as they started in on a jazzy rhythm.

"Well Potter, I have to go mingle with the guests," McGonagall said, then whispered: "Actually, gather information." Harry nodded that he understood. McGonagall straightened and turned her heel, giving him a wink before departing.

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A crystal structure of the solar system stood just past the hall's entrance to the right. Instead of a sun, it had a slender pillar in the center. This was the only part of the structure that touched the ground, while the bodies of planets and their moons floated around it in nothingness, like balls of glass. The planet Jupiter was about the size of a baseball.

It was beautiful. The planets glowed a soft blue inside while the moons held an orange colour, which made for a strange but pleasant combination. The structure was also very educational, he found. In the time of an hour, he had noticed that where the earth's moon had moved only a few centimeters, one of tiny Mars's had already traveled about one eighth of the planet's orbit. A smile tugged at his lips as he realised this model must be a replication of the solar system in real time.

His stomach gave a small twinge of envy for Draco's privileged upbringing. He then silently admonished himself for this pathetic bout of self-pity.

Harry noticed his glass was empty again. As he looked around to find the waiter, he was surprised by how quiet it had become. The dance floor was empty. About a third of the guests now remained. He couldn't see McGonagall anywhere. She must have already left, he thought with a twinge. Or maybe the next portion of the evening was reserved only for special guests. In any case, it was very suspicious that wherever he looked he saw Voldemort's servants.

The Dark Lord had come back into the room and was now talking to a small group of followers. Or more likely instructing them, Harry considered as he looked at their submissive stances.

Unfortunate timing made him catch sight of Armando Moore. To Harry's horror, Moore had seen him as well and proceeded to briskly cross the expense of empty floor towards him. As the Death Eater drew near, immediately the sticky, sickly feeling Harry had felt at Slughorn's party returned. This was another reason why Harry preferred to stand as far away from the crowd as was still appropriate. The range of magical flavours and moods that bled through the Marks of Voldemort's servants, packed as they were in such numbers, was disconcerting to say the least.

Moore came to stand just a little too close for comfort, a gloating sneer splitting his face and making his hollow cheeks stand out.

"And how have you been, Potter?

Creeeep Harry's mind was screaming as he replied: "Fine."

"They must like you if they let you out, hm?" Bending close to his ear he whispered: "Too bad your little trick can't help you now."

Harry made as if to grasp at his arm. "You want to try that?"

Moore scowled although he did back off, holding his left arm back for good measure. "You're pathetic Potter. All dressed up as the Dark Lord's little puppet… I hope for your sake that you'll still be entertaining a year from now, but knowing the Dark Lord…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"I'll be sure to mention it to him," Harry retorted, just to be annoying. Sure enough, Moore's face twisted at the suggestion of such casual acquaintance.

If Harry let his eyes loose their focus, he could just make out the irritated prickling of Moore's magic under his Mark. Now if he could just get to it without actually touching it…

"You're a lowly half-blood Potter. You're not fit to dirty his shoes." Moore shrieked a laugh. "And you'll feel it Potter, oh how you will feel it, now that the true blood has triumphed, how you will be- "

"He's a half-blood too, did you know?" Harry cut in airily.

Moore went quiet for a moment. "What did you say?"

"I said: Your precious Dark Lord is a half-blood too!" Harry said, much louder – loud enough to make a dent in the noise of conversation, he noticed with a jolt.

Moore was struck speechless, as if he couldn't believe Harry had dared to say it again. Then he moved, quick as a spider, and before Harry could see so much as a wand wave he was down on all fours. His eyes were burning from a sticky substance that blurred his vision. Gradually a flaming pain made itself known. It burned all over his scalp as he felt something slide down his left ear. Taking off his bloody glasses, he felt himself grow sick as he saw – crystal clear to his near-sighted eyes – what appeared to be a bloody rag with black hairs on the other side crawl over his left cheek. It fell to the ground with a sickening slap. Both his ears were wet now, as was his neck.

He threw up all the drinks of the evening in two large heaves.

Harry sank back on his heels, stunned. The silence rung like the gong earlier in a fierce not-sound made by hundreds of guests. Harry gasped as humiliation lodged itself into his lungs. His fevered mind could dwell only on the horrible stillness around him, even though his skinned scalp was agonizing. He must be unrecognizable by now, just a bleeding head…

Moore however was not done. He now had the attention of the crowd, and he was going to put it to good use.

"Not so smart now, eh Potter? Be glad I left you your little brains." He laughed at his own bad joke. Then his voice went grim and he uttered: "Ad vulnus sentactus".*

Harry shrieked – shrieked until his throat was hoarse as small knifes dissected him from the outside. This was nothing like the internal scourging of the body as caused by the Cruciatus, but it was bad all the same.

In the seconds of torture that crawled by Harry was sure that his skin should be riddled with puncture holes. He dared not open his eyes and accidentally see his body. He drew himself inwards, trying to will his mind to give the pain a place somewhere. But he couldn't focus, it was too all-consuming, it needed to stop...

Then above him: a burst of magic, a dull slap of body against stone, and the pain retreated a little.

He opened his eyes and saw he was lying on his back. Behind him someone screamed. He bent his head carefully to see what the hell was happening.

Without his glasses his sight was too blurry to discern his saviour. However, the blurriness brought the servants' magic into stark relieve. Something was different. Then he realised – a ghostly feeling but it was there: the links were pulsing, active. They blended together, an ocean of magic clenched viciously by the tight rage of the wizard standing over him – Voldemort.

"Severus," Voldemort hissed.

Soon a second blur of robes joined the first on his other side. Large hands carefully lifted him into a sitting position and a bottle touched his lips.

"Blood-replenishing potion," Snape whispered and Harry swallowed. Something was softly pressuring his head, a spell most likely. His glasses were placed in his hand, cleared of blood. Harry hurried to put them on and raised himself to a sitting position.

Moore's figure was pinned to the wall. Voldemort had his wand out and was in the middle of a curse. Moore however didn't move a muscle. Then, after a while, blood started to drip slowly from his nose onto his lips and the ground.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand and Moore fell over, eyes round and glassy.

The silence now had a sinister quality to it. Wizards and witches nearby watched them out of the corner of their eyes while they pretended to drink their glasses. With his awareness heightened, Harry sensed the change in the magic thrumming under their Marks: it had gone restless, afraid. Pure self preservation, he supposed, must keep their teeth clenched while their Marks burned underneath their fancy clothing. No one wanted to draw attention to himself in Voldemort's current state.

Harry carefully felt at the damage around his head, deciding to ignore the dark wizard as much as possible. The pressure he had sensed earlier was in fact a bandage. The rest of his body felt like it had been hung over a fire. He avoided looking at it, afraid of what he would see.

Voldemort turned his burning gaze on the room, and Harry's eyes were unwillingly drawn back to the Dark Lord.

"Potter is mine," he stated in a glacial voice. "He is not to be touched."

As he spoke, his magic pulled on the Marks for emphasis. Many wizards and witches hissed or groaned in pain.

His, am I? Harry thought affronted. His body had tensed at the word. He willed it to relax under the stares. Considering everything that had happened, it wasn't important enough to get angry over. Although the wordings were different each time, the people around him were simply telling the truth: his only use was to be Voldemort's symbol of victory, and nothing more.

Voldemort appeared calm as he strode over to Harry. Snape hooked a hand under Harry's arm and pulled him up. Harry had to lean all his weight on the older wizard to remain upright. His new position had the disadvantage of putting him right in Voldemort's space. He backed into Snape, scared of the wizard's simmering ire.

Voldemort's jaw was clenched, unnoticeable from far away. His eyes lifted to Snape standing behind Harry. "You have access."

Snape gripped firmly at Harry's shoulders. A silent exchange took place between the tall men. Voldemort's eyes were narrowed. Up close, Harry could see the small movement of his pupils from left to right.

Then Snape said: "My Lord," in a parting tone.

And for the umpteenth time, Harry was pulled into a Disapparation.

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Snape spoke a cleaning charm and then forced another potion into him. He tersely ordered Harry to go to sleep, since that would activate the healing properties of the potion.

During their slow trudge up to Harry's room, while Harry had to give Snape directions on where his bedroom was, he accidentally got a look at his own bleeding torso and legs. The green dress robes now where a drably grey colour.

At this rate, he wouldn't last till the end of the year.

He wanted nothing more than to rest. Still, he was afraid to close his eyes. In his rage Voldemort's mind was close to his own again, a persistent pressure against his scar. But sleep pulled him in, regardless.

*to gash the sense of touch", conjoining the words sensus and tactus – I assume that throughout the ages, the feeling of a spell may remain while language may shorten or simplify.

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