A/N: Thank you for the reviews! This chapter was a difficult one. It took several rewrites before I was happy with it. Writing Voldemort just right is especially tricky (and I'd love to hear if I got it right!). Thanks for waiting and enjoy.

Chapter 19

Harry turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. It was hard to breathe all of a sudden, as if an icicle was stuck in his throat. The cold spread from there, numbing his thoughts. Even in this numbness, he was filled with the awful conviction that something had clicked into place, something had come full circle. It was a nauseating thought that reverberated outward, making hackles rise on his skin.

The lack of oxygen kicked his body back into action. He coughed, focusing on drawing air into his lungs.

"Harry." Hermione's voice was very close now. "Harry, I'm not even sure."

He heard a chuckle leave his lips.

"Harry…." Hermione sounded like she regretted speaking at all.

There was a claustrophobic air to the darkness.

The collection of jagged pieces which made up the glass dome of his new life, now glittered tauntingly, whole at last. Distant and factual, he observed himself, his own scientific object. That one word uttered, and the time of the Knowing was bulging outwards.

It was a vacuum without colour. He feared that soon, it would cover him and everything around him in joyless, grey dust.

The edges of his shock gave way to something else: morbid curiosity. Had he known, deep down, and just refused to see?

The clues had been staring him in the face! His scar. The visions, which had gotten stronger in time rather than weaker. Was that his own magic becoming more like Voldemort's, or that rotting piece of soul gleefully distorting its companion and rebuilding it in its own image?

The parseltongue for fuck's sake. Ever since Tom Riddle pointed out the similarities, he had wondered about that one: how could a blunt shot of Avada Kedavra gone wrong gift him with such a refined instrument?

More things started to make sense. The fact that Harry had been locked in a luxurious mansion and not a dungeon cell; Voldemort's own home where not even his Death Eaters were allowed to enter, except for Watanabe. He'd enjoyed Harry's pain, no surprise there, yet always made sure to… compensate, neutralize the damage afterwards.

Just like he'd done now. Harry rubbed at his eyes, wanting to ignore the shame he always felt thinking about that day. He had been so weak. That's how the Dark Lord had found him, beaten to a pulp by his schoolmates. The Muggle way, even.

He is not to be touched, Voldemort's voice echoed in his thoughts mockingly.

Little one.

A shudder went up his back. He opened his eyes. Yep, still blind.

Voldemort had been the one to order Snape to teach him the Dark Arts, not Dumbledore. The Dark Lord couldn't stand the idea that his own Horcrux was less than a master in the field, of course. And who knew, maybe he'd thought Harry would develop a fondness for it.

Hadn't he? Although Snape was a horrid teacher Harry welcomed the training. It made him feel more prepared to deal with… things.

Another chuckle escaped him. Fate had played a cruel joke on the both of them. The Dark Lord would rather have used anything else for a vessel than the body of his fated enemy. Voldemort would have ripped it out if he could, gladly killing Harry in the process. Maybe that was still a possibility. Because nothing and no one could ever be worthy of a piece of his soul.

Oh the irony.

He didn't know how long he sat there sunken in thought, when suddenly he couldn't bear to think anymore, it gave him such horrible insights, and so he paced on unsteady feet, window – bed – window – bed, but still the wires in his brain continued to make sense. His thoughts kept coming back to the same conclusions:

He was an anchor of Voldemort's immortality.

One way or another, he had to be killed.

Voldemort knew this. That's why he hadn't told him. Keeping this from Harry was actually a compliment, in a weird way. He knew what Harry was capable of, what he was prepared to lose.

And to think that all this time everyone had been so proud of the Boy-Who-Survived. His life was one completely fucked-up paradox. Someplace somewhere, the gods were laughing.

His breaths turned into short bursts, making him dizzy. The seconds dripped out slowly. Time itself, he considered, wouldn't be able to take the bite off this one. You couldn't really stop being a Horcrux.

He still felt very weak, and so he sat down once more. Hermione's hand came up to grasp his shoulder. What he wouldn't give to be able to see his friend's eyes right now, to let her gaze steady him. His blindness wouldn't budge for at least a day, which was hard to accept all of a sudden. Being forced to experience this while he was locked in the confines of his own consciousness, with no external stimulus to distract himself, made him want to scream. He figured that if he remained at the center of it, he might become quite literally senseless.

"I have to go," he heard himself say.

Although fine tremors shook his limbs, he felt strangely calm as he touched down on the cold floor. By now he knew exactly which direction the door was. He let go of the bed to step into nothingness.

"Where are you going?" Hermione was by his side immediately, a hand on his arm.

"Getting out of here."

He rested for a moment against the doorframe. His ears picked up the bustle of movement in the corridor. The personnel was bound to recognize him. He had to try, though. When would he get such a chance again? No one would expect him to go off now, just a day before he could see again.

"Take me to Dumbledore, please."

"I don't know where he is."

"Then take me to someone who does, damn it!"

"Harry, you can't really expect to-"

"Alright, you want to help me or not?" he fumed, blindly staring her way.

"Course I do," Hermione quietly answered. "Come here, I'll put you under a Disillusionment." Harry stepped closer. She incanted the charm for them both, with the tell-tale feeling of an egg gliding over his head.

"Can you Apparate us out?"

"We can't - you can't Apparate or Disapparate in public buildings anymore, it's one of the new decrees. Come on, the exit is just one floor down."

Now that he had made up his mind to leave, his resolve tore and scrambled again, halting his stride. For a whole week he'd stayed inside the bubble that was Hogwarts. He had played it safe, timidly attending his lessons. Hermione and Ron though, and Neville and all the others from the resistance, they were making offers, risking their lives to set up schemes and going off on dangerous meetings with what was left of the Order (or so he presumed).

He could have slipped out alongside them, but he hadn't. He'd been afraid of what would happen to the people left behind. Voldemort could trace anyone anywhere. He knew exactly where to strike where it hurt the most.

But pretending time was over. His skin felt like it was crawling with maggots. The killer of his parents – the reason for his own miserable existence, the very thing he fought against – resided in his very own body, right underneath his skin. Could it hear him? Was it a separate entity in his head?

He bit his lip hard when it occurred to him that he couldn't drag Hermione into this. If anything went wrong…

"I'm sorry," Hermione cut into his thoughts suddenly. "I shouldn't have just- I mean…" she stuttered into silence.

"You'd rather I never found out, you mean? Gee, thanks," he said, stung.

"If it meant things would continue the way they are, then maybe!" she said. "Because there's not much to complain about, is there? You're free to go wherever you like if you stay within school grounds. And you get to finish your education on top of that. Things could be a lot worse." She took a deep breath. "If he finds out that I told you though, who knows what might happen."

"What do you think will happen?"

There was a horrible laugh. "It's fairly obvious, isn't it? He can hardly kill you for knowing about this, but me… "

He will see this conversation. Unwillingly the dungeon scene came to mind that Voldemort had forced on him. This time around, it was Hermione's empty eye sockets that stared up at him accusingly from where she hung. He tugged at his hair, trying to get rid of the image.

"Unless of course," she went on with an edge of hysterics in her tone, "you know someone here who could perform a narrow-tuned Obliviate without asking questions."

His heart hammered with the speed of a bullet train. It made his magic sizzle like electricity against his skin, jolting him out of a sickening spiral of fear. The solution was obvious. Only one person would be able to get them out of this mess.

With renewed purpose, a sense of calm returned. His muscles relaxed, his focus narrowed. He grasped her hand. "You'd better go. Find Dumbledore. Tell him about- about this. I will- "

"You're coming with me," she cut in.

He shook his head. "If he catches us together he'll know that you know." Harry squeezed her hand to convey his resolution. "I can serve as bait. That way you'll have a head start. But you have to go now."

She scoffed. "I'm not going to leave you-"

He hissed, jerking his hand back: "This is ridiculous. Try using that logical brain on yourself for once. If we go together and we don't make it, you know he'll kill you on first sight. Please, Hermione. Imagine our position were reversed, what would you say then?"

She was silent for a while. Was she angry?

"I'd tell me to go," she said finally. Her voice was muffled, thick.

Harry hugged her. She was crying for real now, her whole body shaking against him. "It'll be alright," he whispered into her hair. "Dumbledore can solve just about anything, you know."

"Can he solve you?" she murmured.

He froze at that, thoughts cluttering into quietness like flies caught in honey. The familiar flowery shampoo scent of her hair managed to calm his wild heart rate. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Later, I'll deal with that later.

"What will you do now?"

Yes what was he going to do? Stumble about in the hopes of finding the exit? Well, everything was better than waiting to be escorted back into Voldemort's claws.

"I don't know yet." He held her at arm's length, guessing the height of her face. "My first concern right now is that you get out of here before anyone notices."

She withdrew and sniffed loudly a few times. A hand fell ever so carefully onto his right cheek. Her tone was solemn as she said: "Don't give them any reason to punish you. It's important that you keep your temper, Harry. Being his… "horcrux," she whispered the word, "you're actually very safe. Try to use this to your advantage. Take after Malfoy, for all I care. He's not actually half bad when he doesn't open his mouth too much."

Harry chuckled. "He isn't," he agreed.

"Take care Harry," Hermione said. The tone of finality made his gut lurch.

She went.

Her fading footsteps echoed like the rattling sound of a medieval gate being pulled down. The only comfort he had in this blackish nightmare was walking out, and he might never see her again.

Alone, he felt nausea coming on, trapped in his own thoughts. They swarmed like insects around him, festering in a swamp of fear that he couldn't seem to push down, no matter that it was useless right now.

He found his bed and sat, his arms around his knees. He didn't know when his translucency would wear off, so he'd wait a few minutes to give her a head start, then find the exit - it was just one floor down after all.

Or should he let himself be caught and avoid any suspicion? If he acted like nothing happened, Voldemort wouldn't know why precisely Hermione had escaped. She'd be just another unremarkable Muggleborn who had fled the regime.

Or maybe, maybe they'll catch her first and put her into one of those Muggle devices the newspaper was talking about.

No, not Hermione, they needed her alive to dangle her over his head. Riddle knew she made for the perfect incentive to make him behave.

Running now would mean stumbling into people and people stumbling into him because of his near-invisibility. It was bound to end in failure. More importantly it would make for a severely cranky Dark Lord. If he stayed here though, Voldemort would need just one look into his mind to know.

Damn it. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

Harry sensed a sharpness in his vision as sudden as if a light bulb had been switched on in the pervasive blackness. A Dark Mark was near.

It felt packed tight with power, which was barely contained, like a great ball of ice, the way it wafted coldness. The man's magic seeped through his clothing right into his skin and Harry shivered, recalling what had happened the last time he'd sensed this particular one.

It was not Harry who had awakened it: it was Snape. Which meant…

Right on cue Harry's forehead burned as if a stove was pressed against it.

"What's going on?" he snapped.

A chuckle answered him. "And so it takes the removal of Potter's eyesight to finally make him perceptive. If only I'd known this earlier…"

Harry couldn't suppress a violent flinch as out of nowhere, fingers clenched like a vice around his upper arm.

"No games this time, Potter," Snape drawled from up close.

The familiar sensation of Apparation tugged at him. Being blind made the experience disturbing, and his stomach lurched in protest. The shift in space couldn't have taken more than two seconds. He was kept tight in Snape's grip, to his immense disgust. The burn in his scar cracked up a few degrees higher. He welcomed the pain for once, as it cleared the fog of fear from his head. Voldemort is here. Don't think about anything, distract him.

"So it was you who fucked up my eyes!" he spat, throwing all his weight into getting Snape off him, while shutting down any thoughts of Hermione in the process. He heard Snape's satisfying stumble. The grip though, was back right away.

A few seconds ago, for the first time since the battle, he was witness to Voldemort forcing his will onto a Dark Mark. As a spectator he could now sense the resulting ebb and flow of magic. Voldemort stood out like a void of negative space, a black hole carved out in the vast emptiness of his vision, although to describe it as something physically observable was incorrect. The same way one could pinpoint the location of a stare at their back, Harry knew exactly where Voldemort stood.

His legs still trembled, now not from fear but from exhaustion. Three days of bed rest had sunk into them.

Hating how weak he must look to these men, he let his anger with Snape fester, thoughts leaping back to that evening in the Room when the man's grip had kept him from coming to Hermione's aid. The painful truth of the past half hour still sat like a hundred pound vault in his stomach, but the ringing in his head fell away for a moment, replaced by an eerie focus. He tilted his head to where he thought Snape's eyes must be, somewhere above the well of wafting coldness that still remained drifting in the dark, an afterimage of Voldemort's command to Apparate.

Anchoring his conviction into that swirl of magic, he pushed down. There was no physical Mark to ground his will on. Still he felt it working: the flow became restless, turning in loops like an encaged tiger. The hand bit harder now, squeezing off the circulation in his arm. He pushed harder in return, knowing how humiliating this would be for this proud man. Voldemort chuckled and Snape stiffened, making dark satisfaction curl all the way into Harry's toes.

Snape finally yanked away his arm, staying completely silent. Harry couldn't even hear an elevated breathing. He found that, along with the physical connection, his grip on the Mark's afterimage had disappeared.

"Take him to his room," Voldemort said. He had come to stand beside Snape.

"Yes my Lord," Snape answered.

Harry felt him move closer. "Touch me again and you will suffer," he snarled. He was under no delusions that Voldemort would allow the torture a second time, but his concern for this completely fucked-up situation had found rock bottom.

There was one thing that mattered right now, and thinking about it was out of the question. Besides, what was there to worry about? The great Dark Lord had just become harmless overnight, wasn't that ironic.

The tip of a wand dug into his throat and he was shoved backward. The skin burned where it had touched the wand. Caught off guard, he nearly fell over.

"Let's go Potter," Snape said, distinctly bored-sounding. Harry felt something vile creep up his throat begging to come out. He held his tongue though, not wanting any more interaction with Voldemort.

His scar dulled as they walked, letting him know that it was just Snape accompanying him. They took several flights of stairs in silence. Although the fact that this was Voldemort's manor was depressing, he was still glad to recognize his surroundings again. Being blind in an unfamiliar environment had been exhausting.

He could imagine Snape's superior smirk right now, escorting a stone-blind Potter back into his cage. The git's aloofness under any circumstances made Harry's fists itch to try one of the Dursley's techniques.

He felt a smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth. He was a precious Horcrux now: didn't that mean he was inviolable, in a way? He could provoke Snape however he liked and he'd get away with it. Snape would just have to take it, just like Harry always had to take all the bullshit Snape dealt out in the classroom.

Boy, could he use a distraction right about now.

"So Snape," he began conversationally, "you had a thing for my mum, didn't you? That's why you were so pissed off at my dad. He was something else, wasn't he?" He grinned. "Handsome, funny, popular… You just couldn't compare. And because you are a petty man you wanted revenge, and so you turned to Voldemort." He ignored Snape's hiss at the name. "Although I'm sure that eventually he'll become bored with you as well…"

He stopped when he realized the lack of reaction from his audience. Snape was a master Occlumence: Harry didn't doubt that he could keep his emotions hidden even from the Dark Mark if he wanted to. He cursed his lack of sight for the umpteenth time – he was missing important clues here, all while Snape could observe him like a hawk.

"But not with you, right Potter?" Snape drawled suddenly, long after the silence had become thick and awkward.

Harry's heart stuttered for a beat. Did Snape know? "Still alive am I not?" he shot back, feigning cockiness.

The man didn't reply, just shoved him inside his room and closed the door. After the man's footsteps had faded he tried the handle, but of course it wouldn't budge.

So much for a distraction. He let his head fall against the door. Splaying his hands wide, he felt the coolness of the wood. The chair and bed would be a few meters to his back, the hearth was rustling to his left, the beautiful velvety dark-blue ceiling with its glittering chandelier would be hovering above. He wondered randomly if Nagini was home.

His fevered mind turned inevitably, unbidden, to thoughts of Hermione. Where would she go, now that every wizarding place was a potential trap? Maybe she would visit her parents. He hoped their new hiding place was a save one.

He forced his leaden legs over to the fireplace and sat down heavily on the rug. It was a ridiculous wizarding habit actually, he thought, keeping the hearth burning in late summer. Maybe that was just house elves always being overeager.

Speaking of… "Tadders!"

A plop sounded. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter sir. You is wanting anything?"

"I know I'm not allowed to leave the grounds, but can you get me out of this room?"

"You is allowed out when the Master has left."

Harry sighed. "When will that be?"

"After he has punished the herb-brewing servant."

Harry tilted his head, taking that in. "And what has he done?"

"He is being failing in his assignment, I has heard Master say, Mr. Potter sir."

Interesting. Was that why Voldemort had assigned Snape to become Harry's nurse? Despite his predicament this thought made him grin. What assignment had Snape failed to make him fall out of the Dark Lord's nonexistent grace? Wasn't Snape among his 'favourites'?

Drawing his focus inwards, he tried to sense the other wizards in the house. They were too far away, or perhaps Voldemort wasn't actively punishing Snape at the moment. Whatever the cause, he couldn't get any grip on the network.

"Would Mr. Potter sir be wanting anything?"

My wand please. "No, nothing. Thanks Tadders."

"Of course, Mr. Potter sir," Tadders answered. A plop sounded and Harry was alone once more.

He hoped fiercely that Voldemort would leave soon. He quickly focused on the feeling of the rug under his fingertips, afraid the turn of his thoughts would actually summon the man.

Something, a pressure like a giant's hands on his head, lifted. He rubbed at his scar. It felt like normal tissue. The handle of the door budged and he eagerly escaped into the hallway.

He was distinctly aware of the vast space around him. Keeping one hand on the wall, he slowly made his way down. The stairs were tricky, leading all the way into the dungeon level. A sudden coldness in the air let him know he should turn back up a few steps for the ground floor. From there it was easy, a few turns and he was out into the grounds. The warmth of the sun felt like a blessing, seeping away the tension in his body. He walked a few paces onto the grass, then lay down, hands behind his head. Repulsed with his own situation and sufficiently sure that Voldemort would not be back for some time, he turned his thoughts to Hermione.

888

Albus Dumbledore lifted his eyes from the swirl of dots on the magical map, and couldn't hold back a quiet laugh at the sight.

The werewolf's ears were sharp. "Not funny Albus. Why did you pick the one area which has rose bushes everywhere?"

His stomach muscles still burning from laughter, Albus pinked away a tear. "My dear Remus, the roses are what makes this garden. I did warn you about them, if I recall."

Remus sank down into the other luxurious lawn chair, a grumpy blend of bronzed skin and torn clothes. His forehead and nose looked like a raven had been scratching away at it. Exhausted though he was from the long night, the bags under his eyes had diminished somewhat, Albus was relieved to note.

"Next time I'm going back to the forest," the brown-eyed man went on sullenly, scowling.

His mirth subsiding somewhat, Albus poured a second cup of herbal tea with his good hand – although 'good' had become a relative term: there was a large chunk of flesh below his wrist ripped off by the Inferi that he would never get back. "Remus, if you get whisked off again in werewolf form the consequences are not likely to be as pleasant this time around. It's not worth the risk." That had been a week ago, and Dumbledore still felt the echo of frayed nerves thinking back on it.

Muttering something about pierced eyes not being worth the risk either, Remus nevertheless took a dutiful sip of the medicinal brew. Letting out a heart-felt sigh, he lay back and the chair at once accommodated the horizontal position. Apparently he was too lazy to spell clear the damage to his face. Albus went back to studying the dotted forces on the map.

"Any new developments?" Remus said with his eyes closed against the cloudless sky.

"I will be sure to tell you if there are. Drink your tea."

Remus straightened in order to take another sip, before laying down again. Out of the corner of his eyes, Albus could see him pull a thoughtful face. "Tastes better at least."

The lack of Wolfsbane had been a difficult hurdle to tackle but his friend took it in stride, clearly expecting little from life for the foreseeable future. That was for the best, of course. They all had to adjust their expectations, although Albus made sure to keep the morale high, encouraging an optimistic viewpoint. With the horridness that the papers were spewing, it was hard to stay true to this conviction sometimes.

It was frustrating how little they had achieved as of yet. The resistance' strength, briefly revived in the months following Tom's takeover of the country, now dwindled fast. The lack of accurate information made it impossible to measure the effect of their actions: where they targeting the right factions, had they caught onto all the Muggleborn escape routes, were Harry, Ron and Hermione carrying out the mission he had set for them? There was no way to be sure.

Cut off from most of his contacts, he had lost access to Tom's inner circle, the actual command center of the country. Whatever the Wizengamot decided (and Minerva was sure to keep him apprised) had been approved by Tom first. Albus' agent in those meetings had been out of touch, unwilling to risk the colossal cost that his exposure would bring to the war effort. And Albus agreed. In this case, the same as with Harry, no news was good news.

The Dark Lord carrying a heavily injured Harry Potter into St. Mungo's, therefore, was not good news.

He was distracted from his musings by a voice booming behind them: "Remus, yer back! Lookin' a bit ruffled. Here, lemme help yeh with that eh?"

Hagrid's large form walked out the back door of the large estate onto the lawn, already brandishing his wand-turned-walking stick. Remus held up a hand. "No need Hagrid, I'll do it myself. How's Elizabeth doing?"

As always their friend was easily distracted by thoughts of animals under his care. A shadow passed over his features. "Fine. She's recovering," he said, gruffly. "Sir?"

Albus looked up with a hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight. "Dear friend, when are you going to call me Albus?"

Hagrid scratched his beard. "Still have ter get used to it, I guess."

Albus vanished the map with a wave and stood to follow him into the coolness of the drawing room. The silvery liquid that shone like a light source on the table was as breathtaking to behold as always. Hagrid hadn't bothered with a stopper.

His chest clenched at the sight. Although they had done this little ritual a handful of times already, he became deeply unsettled each time. It made him feel his age like not much else could.

"Alright then, Professor."

Albus carefully took the bottle that Hagrid held out between two fingers. Two large gulps and the glass was empty. Immediately his stomach felt like it might burst with warmth, the potency of the blood astonishing. He felt reenergized and hollowed-out at the same time. He sat down on a kitchen chair and passed a hand over his eyes. Suddenly bone-tired, he willed the lightheadedness from the magical surplus to pass quickly.

Hagrid patted his shoulder. "She's fine, yeh know, she doesn't even feel it." His kind face regarded him with a serious expression. "I told yeh she understands."

"Yes Hagrid, you told me," Albus spoke, hand still covering his eyes.

He had tried to visit Elizabeth once. A creature from the Forbidden Forest, she now roamed the magical Everhawn forest that surrounded the estate. How Hagrid had managed to escape Hogwarts with a full-grown unicorn he would probably never find out. And that was after his friend had made sure to free all the wildlife that wanted to leave.

Dappled in moonlight she stood at the forest's edge. As he'd approached she became tense, drawing up her beautiful head to regard him solemnly, unblinking. He hadn't dared to go any closer, just sank down in the fallen leaves and closed his eyes. Focusing on the core of his magic, he'd let it convey to her his sorrow for her continued sacrifices, his gratitude for the reprieve he'd been given that she found him somehow worthy of, and finally, his unshakeable believe that with this blessing of prolonged life, he would have the world be rid of the evil ruling it.

888

As Harry got up the next morning, he contemplated the vague trails of a haunting dream, before deciding he couldn't remember what it had been about. He looked around at the familiar surroundings of his room with a feeling there was something going on that he absolutely didn't like. His heart jumped into his throat when he tried to pursue his memory. At once recollection flooded in and his skin started to crawl in an instant. He stood, needing to move.

On the way to the door he found a bundle of cloths on the chair by the desk. They were as soft as always and it occurred to him, looking closer at the fabric, that they were in fact his own from Hogwarts (well, as far as he owned anything these days). Harry strolled the hallways, letting his mind fill up with his surroundings - the fancily instrumented glass side tables, the landscape paintings and tapestries that passed to his left and right - before his feet froze.

He could see.

The smallest details of brushstrokes, wooden carvings, the tiny symbols on the Egyptian-inspired tapestries, the pristineness of the table glass.

It was fascinating.

He jumped up and fairly ran down the stairs to the gardens. It turned out that the real tree branches were even more mesmerizing. High above, the trees separated into the most refined structures of wood and leave, far out of reach of human hands.

He touched his eyes. They no longer burned. He suddenly wished for a broom to look down on the world and take in all the little details like a hawk. He couldn't wait to find out how everything looked from the sky.

Feeling his growling stomach he walked inside. In the dining hall the food was already served, steaming under a warming charm. He smiled, then considered that Tadders would know where to look for a broom. The elf's name was already on his tongue before he caught himself. He'd rather try and search him out. Who knew what his master might be ordering him to do.

His hunch proved to be correct. He found him in one of the storage rooms on the ground floor, where all kinds of stones and jewels were kept on shelves. His upper body was completely buried in a huge wooden chest. Several items had already been fished from the treasure and placed on the lone table in the center of the room. They looked exotic, made from wood or gold or other metals, sometimes shining and sometimes blackened with age. Other than using them as decorative sculptures, their purpose remained elusive to Harry.

Sensing his presence Tadders straightened, black cloth gliding in place over bare feet. The ninja-like ensemble looked as outlandish as ever.

"Mr. Potter sir, is there anything I is being able to help you with?"

The sight of the shiny items collected by the elf made something sink down hard in Harry's mind.

"Tadders," he said, swallowing against a sudden dry throat, "have you seen a small pouch somewhere, made from black leather?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter sir," the elf replied in his usual matter-of-fact tone. "If you is meaning your pouch, I is having taken it from you when you arrived."

Harry let his head fall forward. "Why?"

"Master is wanting to be seeing young wizard only using master's cloths and things, and so I is having put all things from Mr. Potter away, so Master's sight is not being disturbed."

The logic of a house elf. Harry rubbed his face, suddenly much too weary for this early in the day. "Could you give it back, please?"

Tadders eyes, the only part visible underneath his garment, widened with worry as he shook his head. "No sir, I is getting rid of things not belonging to the House, of course."

"What?"

Far from wanting to lie down, he now wanted to wring the little creature's neck. Had Tadders actually…

The elf trembled and bowed. "I is having Banished the pouch to be far from Master's sight."

"Where is it?" he snarled, clutching at his hair in order not to shake the elf silly. Tadders just shook his head again, scrambling on his knees pathetically.

"You're not going to say, or you don't know where it is?" Harry asked, tone gone low.

"The first, Mr. Potter sir," Tadders mumbled at the ground.

Although he made a conscious effort to stay calm, his magic pushed out anyway, feral and persistent, making the sculptures tremble and fall onto the table and the ground with cracking sounds. He'd been this close to getting rid of Nagini's Horcrux for real. Now the gift he'd gotten from Albus Dumbledore, the only weapon with the power to destroy Horcruxes might be gone forever…

Before he was quite aware of it, his wandless magic had already slammed the elf against the wall. Tadders fell over, eyes closed.

At the sight of the pathetic pile of clothing, the surplus of energy faded along with the charged feeling on his skin, making way for rational thought. Kneeling down next to the black bundle he carefully turned Tadders on his back. Calling his name didn't yield any response. He frowned, chewing his lip. Was this serious, in house elf terms? Should he take him to St. Mungo's?

There was Voldemort's giant Apparation barrier to get through though.

Well damn. 'Dear readers, we are shocked to announce that our former hero Harry Potter has sunken to previously unimagined depths, killing a House-Elf in cold blood, in its own home.'

Harry pulled the mask from Tadders head, expecting… he didn't know what, but definitely not the sight of a perfectly normal House-Elf. He sighed with relief when he found no blood-like substances. He felt at the small chest. The elf's heart thudded faster than a human's, which was probably normal.

He straightened, considering his options. Only Watanabe was able to cross the barrier at will, aside from Riddle himself. His stomach turned at the thought of Watanabe's expression when he saw the mess he'd made. But actually, there was someone else who might be able to pass through…

"Dobby?"

After about six seconds, a cheerfully-coloured Dobby materialised in front of him.

"Harry Potter, sir! You is inviting Dobby for a visit?"

The gnawing at his stomach now started to burn a little. "Actually Dobby, I need your help. You see my friend here, Tadders, he uh… he got unwell and fell against the wall. He's such a good house elf, he's been working way too hard. Could you take him to Madame Pomfrey?"

You're getting better at this.

Dobby blinked, taking in the scene. "Of course Harry Potter sir, Dobby is bringing Tadders to Hogwarts right away." Dobby stooped down to take the other elf's arm and the both of them vanished.

Apparently Dobby's mysterious house elf magic even worked on Voldemort´s mighty barrier. Harry wondered why he hadn't thought of this possibility before. Fidgeting for five minutes to make sure Tadders was safely in Madame Pomfrey's care, he called again for Dobby.

"Yes, Harry Potter sir?" Dobby said with a big smile when he returned.

"Did Madame Pomfrey say if Tadders is going to get better?"

"Yes, Harry Potter, she is talking about a full recovery."

He sighed. "Thank Merlin. Dobby I have one more favour to ask. Could you help me… escape?"

His scar seared the moment the words were out. He clenched his teeth, hands cold with sweat as he waited for Dobby's reply.

Dobby's shoulders slumped. "Dobby is having tried sir. Harry Potter wasn't looking happy in Headmaster's house over the summer, but Dobby is not able to help because the Headmaster is Dobby's new master now and Dobby is having to obey him."

"What do you mean this is the Headmaster's house? This is Voldemort's house."

Dobby nodded miserably.

Harry took a step back, mouth dry. Of course. Snape had been publicly appointed as Headmaster by name, but it was Tom Riddle who had made the actual contract with Hogwarts, thereby bounding the castle's magic and becoming its real master. Of course the Dark Lord wouldn't allow anyone else to be in charge of the only place he (and Harry) could call home.

A gust of fear lapped at him with icy fingers, making goosebumps form on his arms. He didn't know why he found this little detail so unsettling. The pain in his scar just wouldn't go away. On top of that, experiencing the world in perfect vision had given him a headache as well as making him feel lightheaded.

"Harry Potter is looking white as a sheet!" Dobby exclaimed. Harry glanced down to see him tugging at his shirt. "Tadders is telling Dobby he's having made breakfast. Dobby will take care of Harry Potter." He pulled at Harry with surprising strength, who followed meekly towards the dining hall.

Still steaming away on the corner of the huge table was Tadders' hearty breakfast. Staring down at it from his usual place near the table's end, Harry knew he wouldn't be able to swallow one bite of it. He jumped when he felt a small hand descend on his shoulder.

Dobby wore an unusual serious expression. "Dobby will always help Harry Potter when it is possible. Harry Potter is just having to call for him, and wherever he is Dobby can help a little, even if not much."

Harry smiled despite himself. "Thanks Dobby, that means a lot."

He slammed his fork down on a piece of egg and took a tiny bite. He had almost killed Tadders: he figured the least he could do was eat the elf's breakfast.

While eating a modest serving, he was bombarded with questions about how he was doing with his classes and his friends. He kept things vague, aware of the pain in his scar. In return he was informed of the goings-on at Hogwarts: the castle's inhabitants never did consider that along with impeccable service, Hogwarts' house elves also offered constant spying to whomever let them enter their private meetings and chambers.

It was strange to think how much he had missed already in just a few days. Some of the elf´s stories were amusing, some disturbing: the Carrows for example, had instructed Filch to furnish and decorate an actual torture chamber, an order which the old squib obeyed with relish (or so Harry imagined). No one had been subjected to it as of yet, but the threat made all the students even more skittish and subdued than they were.

Dobby brightened after that. When he began a tale about an illegal student group gathering in the Room of Requirement, Harry hastily cut him off. Dobby bowed his leave, needing to get back to his duties. Harry urged him to stop by sometime, to which the elf agreed with clear delight.

After a fortifying cup of tea he started a search of all the logical places where a broom could be kept in and around the house. After a half hour of searching he had to concede to the logic that the Dark Lord didn't need a broom to fly. Dejectedly he settled in the library, a tome on wandless magic he'd been studying over the summer open on his lap. His concentration was shot from the start.

This place took him back, to high summer and lazy days alternating with scary encounters. He found that he actually missed Nagini's usual presence near the fire, which was… disgusting. Just… yeah.

Get real. You have to kill her at some point, you know.

Better to think of all the evil she had done: eating Muggles, nearly killing Mr. Weasley. And who knew the amount of poison she'd dealt out during the Battle of Hogwarts. On the other hand, their conversations were fun and interesting while everything else in his life was just plain shitty. He rubbed his scar absently. It was just this place. Once he was back among his friends, things would start to look up for sure.

He jumped up from a passage on the wandless use of knifes when a familiar plop sounded. Tadders was in front of him, arms spread wide.

"Tadders is back, Mr. Potter sir! And thanks to you he is being healthy and rested, thank you Mr. Potter!"

Harry scratched his head. It was hard to look away from his book all of a sudden. "Sure, Tadders. No need to thank me," he mumbled.

"Dinner is being served!" Tadders announced next.

Harry felt his eyebrows rise as he looked at the clock on the wall: it was already past six in the evening. He descended the stairs and settled down in the usual place, book propped open to his right. His headache was gone and his scar only gave a twinge of pain, which greatly helped his appetite.

At the sound of rustling cloth he looked up; immediately the hand holding his spoon fell slack against his plate.

Voldemort walked in through the double doors, taking the seat to his left at the head of the table like he did it every day. An empty plate and silverware materialised in front of him, while the pitcher of water hopped close.

Harry stared, then quickly looked down as he became the object of the Dark Lord's full attention.

"Pass me a glass, would you Harry?" Voldemort said airily.

Harry felt his teeth start to chatter, but clenching his jaw kept it in check. Don't look and don't think of anything - he could do that, right? He reached for one of the spare glasses to his right and set it down next to Riddle's plate. It started to fill at once with water from the pitcher. The contours around him were still painfully sharp to his unadjusted brain, and he gratefully let his thoughts dwell on this fact.

The Dark Lord briefly studied the book before the stare was back, unblinking. What could have been a pleasant silence with any other person was different in the presence of the Dark Lord. Sitting so near, the quietness enclosed him like a vice: the slightest move and he might just end up bleeding from somewhere.

From the corner of his eyes he saw Voldemort helping himself to a serving of steak and taking up his knife and fork. The sound of cutlery was little better than the silence.

"Eat, you look thin."

Harry couldn't stop his eyes from widening in disbelief. While the Dark Lord was cutting the red meat and methodically putting bite-sized pieces into his mouth, he never once drew his eyes away from Harry.

"I think I lost my appetite, thanks." Harry shot him a quick look as to not appear to be avoiding him, holding his gaze just below eyelevel. Had Voldemort done something to his nose? It seemed more… normal now. Shouldn't he be getting less normal actually, with less Horcr – why are you thinking about that, look at your soup, it's green.

To his left Voldemort was chewing carefully on his meat, as if trying it on for size. Does he even have any teeth left from his father's corps? Harry thought randomly with a shiver. He became aware then of the man's heavy magic. It was dripping and pushing the air around him, like a curious viper sniffing him out. He quickly looked down again: the texture of the soup was really fascinating.

"You really have a way with my servants, Potter," Voldemort spoke suddenly, eyes gleaming. "Poor Tadders, his head didn't take the wall very well. And Severus, tortured by his most hated pupil … he suffers so gracefully don't you think?"

Harry's head snapped up and he cursed himself for it when he saw Voldemort's greedy expression. Cheeks colouring, he felt the sudden urge to drop through the stones beneath his feet - or perhaps into a bathtub to scrub away the Dark Lord's backward praise.

"It's good that you found a more appropriate candidate for your revenge," the man murmured next, voice low and slow.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Snape's git-ness didn't really compare to the loathing he reserved for the man he was now sharing dinner.

A spike of irritation pulsed through their bond. "Such fire you have inside you Harry, such… feelings." Voldemort hissed. "Yet like a typical Gryffindor you squander it, with your primitive urge to react where instead you should reflect."

He took a sip of water, the glass held between the very tips of his fingers. The gesture made him look almost human. "You are chained by your emotions," he went on, annoyance gritting through Harry's scar like sandpaper. "You let it control you, instead of harnessing that energy like a chisel for your magic as I have done, in order to reshape it into something precise and deadly."

Voldemort flicked a wrist and both their plates vanished at the same time. He then sat back languidly, tilting his head in a distinctly non-human way. "Imagine my surprise when I heard that you are establishing some credibility in Slytherin House." His eyes, now an unholy orange in the reflected light of the setting sun, were the only part alive in a deadened face. Harry wanted to look away, but that would mean admitting something, anything: agreement, disagreement, regret, guilt…

"Yes, about that," Harry broke in, disliking the direction of the conversation. "Since I'm- since I can see again, I think I'm well enough to go back to Hogwarts now."

Voldemort stroked his chin, thoughtful. "You will not be going back."

"What?" Harry breathed. "But… why?"

Below the table his nails dug into his legs. He added a "sir" when it looked like the man wouldn't be responding today. Then he winced.

"It's ironic, isn't it?" Voldemort said by way of reply, ignoring his blunder. "You and me, arch enemies yet bound together in the most intimate of ways..."

"I… don't know what you mean."

The air was stuck in his lungs. He coughed. A forceful blend of hatred and disgust bled from his scar, like a hot acid seeping holes into his skull. He gave a muffled groan, clutching at it with both hands, feeling the ever-present urge to cut a slice from his forehead.

When he peered through his fingers, the sight that met his eyes would stay with him for long a long time afterwards. Although Voldemort's face retained a blank mask, Harry read him well. Cold fury had turned the Dark Lord's stare flat. The entity next to him was not a man any longer, but a demon. Tendrils of shadow unfurled around the wizard, blurring the folds of his black robes, cloying and warping the sunlight except for his eyes, hellish eyes that burned their way into Harry's brain. And that voice - malicious and jagged and so soft.

"Oh but you do, dear Horcrux of mine. You are - you have always been - a nuisance. Since leaving you to your own devices has nearly led to the death of part of my soul, I am forced to minimise your interaction with others. Be grateful that I cannot kill you now, since that would mean killing part of myself."

Voldemort's lips curled into a vicious smile. "Consider yourself my guest for the foreseeable future. Depending on how the extraction process will go, your stay here will be rather short… or rather permanent."

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