A/N: My dear readers, I apologise for the long wait. I struggled for some time with the angle to take here. But now I have created plenty of chaos to carry on with. :) Thanks for reading!

Chapter 20

Harry stared, heart hammering. Extraction.

Voldemort came to stand behind him. Harry's stomach muscles tightened painfully. In the warping energy of the Dark Lord's magic the room looked distorted. The older wizard's fingers trailed over his neck, kneading the knotted muscles, and Harry felt strangely disconnected, as if he was looking down at himself from a distance.

"Oh you are my equal, I concur. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord." Voldemort barked a laugh. "I should have known that I would only have myself to compete with."

Harry rolled his eyes, unseen. Next he gave a shout of surprise as the man ripped his nails over his forehead. He felt a biting pain where blood began to flow through the sliced skin. Voldemort rubbed the wound gently, his left hand still kneading his neck.

Harry shook him off and pulled himself shakily out of the chair. The table at his back blocked any more movement. He wiped his forehead where the blood threatened to drip into his eyes. The wound stung, but at least his scar had stopped hurting and was merely warm now.

Voldemort appeared slightly surprised by this show of defiance. Careful not to look directly into the red orbs, Harry made an effort to relax his shoulders. He was not going to feel intimidated.

Voldemort absently smelled, then tasted the blood on his right hand. The urge to look away was almost too much, but Harry managed to swallow his disgust. The scar pulsed and Voldemort smiled, sensing his discomfort.

They remained like this for some time, Harry not daring to escape but too numb to speak. Voldemort's magic had settled, only incidentally brushing against him, like drifting leaves.

"Sizzles on the tongue," the man hummed. "It senses the closeness of its kin."

Harry scowled – was this supposed to make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside? Voldemort's fingers made a tiny movement. He was starting to recognise these little gestures, he realised next when he was pushed in the back by wandless magic, forced to follow as the man strode out a side door onto the landing.

The thick rug muffled the sound of their boots as they walked. Just four seconds into this and Harry began to feel like a real-life puppet. Voldemort touched his hand upon a locked door, which opened to reveal what was apparently the study. The desk was built from black stone, the carvings of eagles clearly wizard-made. The same theme was cut into the walled shelves behind the carved chair. Not quite fitting the Slytherin legacy, Harry mused, but its splendour probably appealed to Voldemort.

"I can walk by myself, you know," he bit out as the grip was lifted. He took the visitor's chair and curled up, making himself comfortable like this was the Slytherin common room - might as well return the lack of curtesy while he still could.

Voldemort, already seated behind his desk, leaned forward at that. He hissed: "Then you can come closer by yourself."

Harry made an ungainly hop forward with the chair. Voldemort's annoyance flashed through the bond. Next the same force from a minute earlier slammed his stomach into the table's edge. Harry let out a breath of anger before his expression was sufficiently controlled again.

Voldemort splayed the tips of his cold, cold fingers on the sides of Harry's face. Little ice-cubes they were, pressing hard into his temples. He jerked away to no use.

Voldemort's thumbs dug into his carotid artery, making him see spots. He still refused to look into the man's eyes, glaring pointedly at the metallic quill holder on his left. The sudden fear in his chest didn't help in calming his thoughts. He had always been terrible at Occlumency…

The Dark Lord sighed. Then he said: "Potter, I dug up your mother's grave."

"What?" He looked up in outrage to meet the ruby gaze - before he realised this was exactly what Riddle wanted.

The foreign mind slipped through his own, making him shudder in disgust. The man's crushing will draped over his panicky thoughts, muffling them. He felt claustrophobic and hazy, which was fortunate, since he couldn't seem to remember what it was he shouldn't be thinking right now.

A whisper dripped down the blank walls of his mind.

Think of the night your parents died.

This drew up an image of a skeleton, his mother's, floating over upturned earth.

There was distinct exasperation on the other end, a mental sigh. Interesting, the level of detail you put into that.

But- so you didn't…? Harry stuttered.

Of course not. What use do I have for a seventeen year old corpse? A sense of bewilderment floated towards him, which felt decidedly weird since it wasn't his own. He knew how little the man cared to be surprised: he could hardly be faking this, which meant – thank Merlin – it had really been only a trick.

Now, think of Godric's Hollow, Voldemort's mental voice continued. It held an edge of eagerness now. You are in a crib, looking up at your mother. She's struck by a green flash-

Like a switch being turned, the mention of green light was all that was needed to draw up the scene. Next, right in front of him, his mother crumbled out of sight. A tall form took shape at the foot of his bed. He was probably crying, but he couldn't feel his body… Then another green flash, coming right at him. This one bounced back to the caster, who sagged downwards like his mom had seconds before.

With the Dark Lord in his mind observing the tragedy, the memory became at once enriched with details that his one-year old self could never have noticed. The room appeared bigger. Furniture had popped up - it made it look tangible, more real, like it could have been a regular nursery, instead of the stage on which a war was decided.

A shadow arose from the vicinity of the fallen figure. Something else his baby self had failed to notice. Voldemort didn't seem surprised, but Harry wondered how he could have witnessed himself as a disembodied spirit. The thing hovered for a moment over the cradle, then crawled in, coming closer and closer until his vision was filled with a black mist…

It touched his forehead.

His baby self wailed. Harry flinched back from the noise – it was seemingly coming from his own mouth. The scene became blurry. White-hot pain shot through his skull, forming into a bone-grinding headache. His own mental scream soon joined the baby's.

Voldemort was muttering something on the edge of hearing, projecting clear excitement. Harry couldn't focus enough to make it out - but was that a third presence he was hearing, echoing back a cold inquiry?

Frustrated at his failure to grasp the goings on inside his own mind, Harry tried to ignore the pain and focus on the mental voices. He must have been partially successful since the sounds of pain gradually faded out, becoming back-ground noise to the conversation playing out between Voldemort and the presence at the back of his mind.

After all, the third voice was saying, you made it clear from the beginning that I'm to be 'kept safe'.

The situation has changed. Your vessel has become unreliable, Voldemort told it patiently. There was a hint of reluctance in the thought, as if he didn't want Harry to hear.

I am content with it, though I thank you for your concern, the other – the Horcrux Tom Riddle, he realised – sarcastically returned. It was exceedingly strange, Harry reflected, to witness a conversation between two strangers inside your own head. In fact this whole thing felt like an out-of-body experience.

Voldemort's annoyance flared once more, his presence churning like a furnace inside Harry's head. We will discuss the details later, he spoke with clear menace.

Harry felt light-headed all of a sudden, there was a rushing sound in his ears –

You think the boy won't- was all he caught before he blacked out.

888

Hermione imagined how her mother would feel if she saw her now, rumpled and hungry, roaming the streets of London. Every time she despaired over her situation, and the likelihood of her getting caught, she thought of all the Muggle-borns out there, forced into jobs at best, tortured and murdered at worst, trying to make a living in this god-forsaken part of Europe.

Wheels. Imagine she had thought Tom Riddle subtle, back in sixth year.

Her breaths sounded too loud in the silence of after-dinnertime. The hat she had stolen a few blocks back to cover her hair gave her a much-needed feeling of anonymity. She was both relieved and afraid of the encroaching darkness. The long shadows of the lampposts threw the concrete into a repetitive pattern, an immense carpet of possibility if you didn't know where to go.

She did. Kind of. If you walked on in a straight line, you were bound to walk right into it: the Muggle border, a gigantic piece of warding surrounding a large and ever-expanding part of London, which separated the Muggle world from the magical one.

For all intents and purposes Riddle only owned as much of England as he could steal from within the cities. But of course if you had magic on your side, such a distinction was irrelevant. It was not necessary, plain and simple, to put as much effort into the rural areas when you governed all the country's infrastructure.

She stood still, checked the spell once more to see if she was still going east. She was, but she better keep more to the left from now on.

Laughter came from a nearby café. She yearned to take part in the warmth and cosiness she saw inside. But it was too much of a risk.

She began to walk a little faster, not sure how far she had to go. Would she even recognise it, were she standing with her nose pressed to the rebellious part of the Border? She knew much less of the goings-on in the Resistance as Ron did. She couldn't afford to know, she had thought, as closely supervised as she was in her job of administrator. Now she wished she had attended all of the meetings, danger be damned.

She only had the smallest of bags in her inside pocket. It was still a size too large to fit properly though, and it scraped painfully against the wounds on her chest.

She wasn't quite healed yet, from that evening. Sick man-child. If Harry ever did manage to get rid of the Horcrux, boy did she want to see the face of that bastard when he heard the news.

The salve that Madame Pomfrey had given her helped to dull the cursed scars, but she couldn't very well administer her own backside by herself. She just had to hope she'd reach the outpost tonight.

888

Harry watched the area where a maze of invisible wards was sizzling in the air. Here, around the entrance gate, they were most tangible. Aside from authorised Apparition this was the only opening to the outside world, and therefore the place where the wards were anchored.

He felt a strange thrill imagining their power.

When he'd woken up that morning (or actually, early afternoon), it was to the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. He could remember nothing beyond the moment he lost awareness in Voldemort's study. His scar was silent, the expected headache absent. Rubbing it didn't even produce a twinge of pain as it always had before.

It was early afternoon and the Dark Lord had yet to make an appearance. Rather than feeling relieved, his stomach was knotted up in fear. Did it mean the extraction had worked? He didn't feel any different. Then again, you couldn't actually feel your soul, just like you couldn't feel your brain. Was the Horcrux still there, was the quiet in his scar merely a sign of the man's absence? Or was Voldemort exulting right now, hauling his wayward soul-piece to wherever he kept his precious collection?

It would have been a relieve not to have Tom Riddle traipsing around in his brain anymore, if only it didn't make him worse than useless in the eyes of the Dark Lord right now. He was the Chosen One after all, as well as the only living person aside from Ron and Hermione who knew about Tom's secret. Not a reassuring combination.

888

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he finally strolled back. Judging by the sun, he figured it had to be around midday. His feet walked him to the manor but he felt reluctant to go inside. He took a seat on the veranda with its leisurely upholstered chairs. A curious calm had seeped into him. He wondered if that was despite or because of the fact that any moment now, he might get a visit from the grim reaper. He gave a mental shrug. He had felt disconnected from events ever since Hermione had uttered those horrible words.

He should be feeling worried. He should be wanting to run. But he felt lethargic.

Actually, there was one person he could ask for advice.

He closed his eyes and imagined Watanabe – the man he thought him to be, the Dark Mark which he had sensed in a bout of anger at the junior Death Eater meeting. It had felt warm, mellowing, like a tiny sun was burning on the man's arm. Thinking back on that small window of time, he realised that Watanabe's Mark was the first to give him a sense of energy, rather than draining it. Ironically, he could also remember that it was pulling at their connection, like it was… extracting something.

In the space of these thoughts, he made a mental stretch towards the Death Eaters' network. There was no Summoning to work with this time, no afterimage of a Mark. But certainly the Dark Lord didn't need a Mark nearby every time he summoned a servant.

Harry clenched his teeth, willing it, like he had willed the Room of Requirement into being so many times.

His magic stayed stubbornly silent but he kept at it, envisioning behind closed eyelids as much as he could of the man's presence, his character, his quietly devoted – yes that was it - devoted Dark Mark.

Suddenly a rustle of cloth, a voice.

"Harry?"

He opened his eyes.

There Watanabe stood, in the flesh, straightening from a half-bow. His bewildered eyes revealed more emotion than they ever had before in Harry's presence.

Watanabe darted a glance around the premises. After a moment of waiting, or indecision, he lowered himself gracefully into the chair next to him, all expression seeped away as he studied Harry.

"Are you alright?"

Harry cocked his head. "Depends on the situation."

"Where is Lord Voldemort?"

Harry shrugged one shoulder.

"Is he angry with you?"

Being angry and wanting to kill someone were practically exchangeable concepts in the Dark Lord's mind. Harry nodded, staring at the gravel beneath his boots. "He is deciding right now on the permanence of my punishment."

Watanabe sat back, his shoulders falling in a soundless sigh. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that you are disturbing his followers and summoning them behind his back?"

The admonishment was clear in his tone. Harry nodded again.

"I have heard… rumours," Watanabe went on in an undertone, "about your status as his pupil. They, that is to say, some of my colleagues, think he is grooming you for command, allowing you leeway to explore his powerbase, in order to acquire the skills you need to command his forces."

"And what do you think?"

He paused. "I think it unlikely. It is against Lord Voldemort's nature to regard anyone as an equal."

Funny you should say that, Harry thought. Then he wondered what he should reveal – did it matter at this point?

"He doesn't," Harry agreed. "The night he tried to kill me as a baby, the killing curse backfired. It tore away some of his magical power, which he transferred to me, unwillingly of course. And since babies tend to grow…"

"… their magical powers grow with them." Watanabe finished, his eyes fixed on Harry's face. After a month of getting the cold shoulder, the attention was slightly unnerving.

"Your power level is far below his own," his friend mused, breaking the gaze. "But your magical characters are compatible. Whatever he creates you can manipulate. That causes all kinds of security issues."

For a few moments, the sound of birds floated between them. Harry kept silent, hoping the man would continue. His head snapped up when he heard a chuckle.

Watanabe was smiling slightly, gaze far away, shaking his head in that reserved way of his. "You must have gotten under his skin. He must have known this ever since that trick you pulled at the battle of Hogwarts. Maybe even before that."

Harry grinned back. "What can I say, the man has an ego the size of a basilisk. I guess it's quite a downer, killing your own magic. And the fact that I speak parseltongue can't hurt."

"It's exceedingly rare," Watanabe agreed. "He wouldn't want to be hasty. He'd want to be sure you can't be persuaded to join his cause."

It was no surprise to Harry that Voldemort thought the material of the Prophecy too delicate to share with his right-hand man.

They settled into a companionable silence. It was a cloudy day, summer's warmth trapped in the air. Watanabe looked completely at ease studying a nearby tree, like he hadn't just been snatched away from something important.

Bolstered by the friendly atmosphere Harry asked: "How did you come to know him? There is no mention of you in any stories I heard about the first war, or afterwards."

"That's because I wasn't here." Watanabe's gaze was shuttered, blocking any more questions on the subject.

Harry felt horribly inadequate again. He hastily looked down, focusing on the squirming feeling in his stomach. The request he had wanted to make lay stale in his mouth. How could he fuck this up so fast?

Watanabe clasped his hands on his folded knees. "So," he relented, and the rigidity in his expression melted somewhat, "you are becoming a liability, and he is wondering if in fact he shouldn't dispose of you after all."

Harry nodded.

"And you want me to talk him out of it?" the man asked slowly.

Harry snorted. "I don't think that's possible. No, it's something else." He hesitated, searching the man's gaze. It was blank as usual.

"You've been… like a mentor to me." Harry willed away the ridiculous urge to blush. "Even though Voldemort has taken over, you showed me that this – this world can still be an interesting place. That I could still make a difference."

He darted a glance. Watanabe's gaze held something sharp. He went on: "From what I can see, you are among the Dark Lord's most loyal followers. Still, I'd like to think you're not afraid to speak your mind, and that if there's something you strongly believe in, you would act on it."

It was this strength of character that made him admire the man. An admiring tone had in fact slipped into his speech - he wished he'd kept it back.

"I would like to think so as well."

Harry bit his lip. This time, he managed to hold his friend's gaze. "What would you do? If you were me, I mean. You know him well… " he cut himself off, realising he was babbling.

Watanabe thought for a moment. "You just told me the answer yourself, Harry. Show him what he's about to lose."

888

He felt vaguely nauseous, waiting for Voldemort to show up, Nagini's weight crushing down on his shoulders and arms. He had made a search of every nook and cranny and gave up after an hour, thinking she must have been locked up for good with all the other Horcruxes now, when suddenly she was there, slithering onto the chair that Watanabe had vacated an hour ago.

He made use of the time to admire the glitter of her scales. Even the gathering clouds could not manage to dull it.

He had an inkling of why she was here, right when Voldemort was about to make an entrance. She would be a perfect back-up for when things would… leak. If she functioned well with one Horcrux, why not make it two? Neat and tidy. It didn't help his nerves any.

However, she was also the perfect instrument to show the man what he'd be missing. The snake tongue was the only bargaining chip left he could think of. He wasn't sure how to go about looking seemingly swayed to Voldemort's cause, which was what Watanabe seemed to be hinting at. He could be Slytherin, sure, but wasn't this just a tad outside the bounds of credibility? Voldemort would see right through it.

He hadn't the heart to correct Watanabe's optimism, just when things seemed to be all right between them again. As a member of the Inner Circle, Watanabe was the wrong audience for making a point about the gruesome world that Voldemort was creating.

"Then eventually, he will dispose of me as well," Nagini was hissing into his musings. Harry gave a stroke to her scales. He wanted to tell her he wasn't sure if Voldemort had gotten the soul-piece out, but since that wouldn't help his case, he wrestled the urge down.

He felt the magic before he saw the man. Nagini sensed it too of course, curling more tightly around his torso. "Preposterous," she murmured in his ear. "I have been his one companion, in all his life! I am irreplaceable!"

"What are you blathering on about Nagini?" Voldemort interrupted, swiftly striding towards them from the manor front doors.

"Is it true?" she returned, angry now. "Have you extracted the soul-piece? Are you going to kill Potter?" Harry bit his tongue. He wished she wasn't quite so forward so soon.

Voldemort was just a few feet away, glancing between them. He concluded something, judging by the twitch of his lips. "I might. Do you want him?"

"To silence my hunger for a few hours? He is far more useful to me as a companion than as a meal. I don't tolerate a lot of companions."

Voldemort gave a nod and came to stand behind his chair. Harry sighed. He hated it when the man did that.

"I did not intend to imply that Potter is just a meal to you. I merely thought you'd want to try out something different."

Nagini made a sound like a hissy grumble.

"So have you?" Harry hissed, not caring that he was being blunt. "Extracted it?"

The devil behind his back stayed silent, one hand coming up to trace the result of his work on Harry's forehead. He flinched back, expecting to feel another slash of the nails. Voldemort's hand then moved for his arm - and suddenly he felt the harsh tug of Apparation.

They appeared inside Voldemort's study. Harry felt a burst of nerves as he realised that Nagini had stayed on the terrace. Had Voldemort blocked her from Apparating? Of course it would be upsetting for her to see him get killed…

The Dark Lord released him, moving to stand behind the desk. He was instructed to sit.

He felt like he had been pressed and stretched through a giant pasta maker, then haphazardly kneaded together again. He had to know. Knowing was better than what his imagination was conjuring up, surely. His voice shook a little when he asked: "So this is it?"

Voldemort threw him a narrow look. "Perhaps," he drawled, and his gaze held such weight, such terrible weight, and something broke -

Pain. Mind-narrowing, lung-crushing -

Like someone was slowly scraping away all the bones in his body. The weight of the pain made his legs fall away. His vision blackened with shock. But inexplicably, he was still standing-

Voldemort was possessing him.

Not again. No please. Let me go. Let me out…

From somewhere beyond the onslaught to his nerve endings, his eyes were jammed open. His vision became a psychedelic landscape. Blacked out and not at the same time, like an electrical charge was forcing his brain to keep on running past endurance. Voldemort's eyes bore into his on the opposite site of the desk. They were glassy, lifeless.

"Quiet," Voldemort intoned through Harry's throat.

His thoughts scattered to static in the background. The crushing pain had to be paid full attention. After an uncertain amount of time, he found back some coherence. He was sure of nothing, only that this was the end station.

You win, now let me go. Let me see my mum again.

The last part he had not meant to think out loud. An impression of Lily drifted to him as she appeared on photos, soft smile and auburn hair, and he considered there were worse things than meeting her in person. The cloud of thoughts changed then. Lily regarded him with wide, lifeless eyes from the floor of the nursery – but no, there she was, floating above her own grave…

Potter, do you want to have brain damage? Voldemort snapped from inside his mind.

No, he reflected back feebly. Forming the word cost enormous effort. He was horribly certain all of a sudden, that these were the last seconds of his own sanity ticking away… Kill me then… going to anyway… what's….the…

"Point?" a familiar voice drifted towards him and he jerked in surprise, opening his eyes to find himself back in the visitor's chair. Voldemort's eyes across from him were once more sharp with life. He was unable to move his head.

The pain. There used to be pain. It was gone. He wanted to sag in relief, but his body stayed firmly stuck against the chair. Now what?

Voldemort's lip curled in annoyance, and he realised he'd said that last thought out loud. Apparently he could still move his mouth.

He rubbed the tips of his fingers, which were completely numb. He was only a little dizzy, his thoughts slow. His sight had become blurred. He wondered if this was the result of a spell of some kind. Was the man reversing the recent improvements?

A dense mist formed in the lower half of his vision. He could still move his eyes, so he blinked them, which cleared the mist a bit.

"The point, Potter," Voldemort drawled, "is this." His wand twitched and something floated towards him – it was the foam or gas that was obscuring Harry's sight. He quickly blinked some more. The next silvery substance came loose like tears and was snatched up to cling to Voldemort's wand.

Harry couldn't help snorting at the sight: it looked absurdly like the Dark Lord was spinning candy floss.

Voldemort glanced down at his wand and a rare smile flitted over his face. Doubtlessly he had caught the Muggle reference.

"You know what that is, Potter?"

He failed to shake his head, snorts turning to poorly suppressed laughter.

"That is your brain leaking out."

"What?" Harry stammered, the mirth turning to dirt in his mouth. He tried to stand but it was no use trying to move. "What? But…."

"Let's take a look, shall we?" Voldemort said and placed the shimmering wand, which Harry realised was covered with memories, his memories, to his own temple. They clung there, halfway between floating gas and liquid.

The Dark Lord closed his eyes. Harry waited, fingers cold and sweaty. You couldn't just pull out all of someone's memories, right? He wouldn't be able to think anymore in that case, would he? He could think fine, he could imagine grass, and castles…

But then, the man wasn't after his memories.

Tom Riddle's Horcrux was hanging around somewhere in his brain. Perhaps his own soul was there also, in his mind – and once the Horcrux had entered his body it made sense that it would search for a companion to cling to, or maybe it was just plain physics that would make them stick together. Maybe, maybe removing everything else just made things easier for Tom: no more active brain left to put up a fight, just an empty shell sitting in the visitor's chair…

Voldemort's wand-hand hit the desk with a thud, pulling the cloud of memory strands with it, straight from his scull.

The man's magic pushed aggressively outwards. It took only a second for the air in the room to be drenched in magical surplus. His skin seared like it did when he sat a little too close to the common room fire.

Voldemort opened his eyes. His mouth was twitching with rage. He looked slightly insane.

Harry still couldn't move a finger. Against all reason, his scar was quiet.

"Why is it," Voldemort began in a whisper, "that when things bend inexplicably, unaccountably out of shape, it always involves you, Potter?"

Harry didn't know what to answer to that. His eyes were drawn to the wand, which was smoking slightly. Steam was wafting from the memories.

Wow. Let's all wave to Harry's ruined memories.

He swallowed. He should try to look at this rationally. His memories still seemed be in place, at least those he could think up now. Were those Tom's memories he was seeing then? Or just some of his own memories? The horribly thing about that was that of course you wouldn't know which ones were missing.

In the next moment Voldemort, whose fury seemed to have tampered down to great annoyance, jammed the wand against Harry's skull. Harry hissed, eyes watering as the scorching tip came into contact with his temple.

The wand's removal from his burned skin was blessedly fast, but then the memories sank in.

The matron's face, close to his own, was sunken in and full of disappointment. "You shall give it back, Tom. And tell John that you're sorry."

Harry threw the scarf into the room. He felt his lips turn down in disgust as he stared silently at the older boy, unblinking. John, fists balled, reacted quite violently:

"I'm going to get you back for this! You just wait, when it's winter I'll steal all your cloths and it's going to be so cold!"

The scene faded, a different landscape already taking its place, something with lots of bowing figures…

"Potter," the youthful visage of the Dark Lord was saying, the only figure that was standing upright - but now he was back in the study again, the black blur of the desk-

"Focus on me, let it drift by-"

Another plunge, this time-

– the grinning face of Lucius Malfoy, a dungeon cell. The terrible feel of cold leather trailing his bare back. "Such flawless skin you have…"

He wanted to real back from that voice but already he was wrenched away-

He was staring at his younger self. Little Harry winked at him from inside the Mirror of Erised, and a heavy weight fell into his pocket. But it faded-

The plump woman eyed him greedily. "Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone!"

The scene made way for the next one - Harry felt nausea burn in his stomach at the speed of the visions-

Bellatrix stood before him. She was scantily clad but it didn't bother him at all. Harry trailed his gaze slowly up her body. He caught her chin, pinching it cruelly. He didn't think her eyes could get any wider than they were.

"Tell me Bella, what makes you worthy of Lord Voldemort's attention?"

The scene whirled-

He was standing in a dark room, more spacious than the last one. Cho's face was coming closer and closer-

His physical body threatened to expel his lunch. This, finally, managed to draw his attention to his surroundings. The scenes stopped. He looked up warily. Voldemort's face was a study in stone.

"What-" Harry began, but snapped his mouth closed just in time. How to play this…

First he had to fix his foolishly open expression. He shoved his agitation behind a blank mindscape and with some effort, managed to relax. He was rewarded when he felt his face smoothing out completely.

He was glad for the distraction, or rather the focus that a half-baked plan brought. Because the more he thought about things, the more disgusted he became.

And it was so much, if he wanted it to be, like the Room of Hidden Things – towers stacking up to near-infinity, and if he took a peak they would fall over and surely crush him into dust. The appearance of control was vital: panic was not an unrealistic scenario at the moment. He was- he was sharing –

Shhh, nothing to be gained from thinking of that now.

Harry considered the angle to take here. It came to him at once, thinking back to his own words from earlier: What can I say, the man has an ego the size of a basilisk. They echoed differently now in his mind, strangely refreshing. Yes, something useful, he resolved grimly, was going to be gained from this.

He replaced the blank look with a smirk. "Ah, such memories. I nearly forgot, that little tryst with Bella. The one time you succumbed… But very satisfying. I remember such a strong body…"

Voldemort´s silence had grown deeper; a mark of his surprise. Harry revelled in the rare sight. Having the upper hand warmed his frayed nerves.

"But you don't, right?" he went on, a soft, confident murmur to his voice. "You don't know what I'm talking about. It was a weakness, so you cut it off. No," he corrected himself as understanding came with these words. "They were too rare, the memories, which made them fragile, and they broke off under the strain of the Killing Curse."

He felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland.

Actually, he should indeed be careful to allow himself only a specific bite of curiosity, and no more.

Mindful of this he dug in just enough to catch a drift of understanding that these memories were among the last vestiges of humanity that Voldemort shedded that night. It had nothing to do with love, or lust. It was the thought of needing anything, however trivial, from someone else.

He held back a twist of his face, pressing down on his own interest, ever mindful of the towering stacks. Inside, he was reeling. It was one thing to know, quite another to also understand.

On the bright side of things, his mind felt agile now. Also not unwelcome, it had the discipline of a rigorous machine he could switch off at any moment.

Looking at the Dark Lord now was like looking at a childhood friend – well, one that happened to grow up a power-hungry mass-murderer. The eyes were the key. Right now they conveyed a barely repressed urge for murder.

It was not enough. He had to… push.

"Does she remember, I wonder? Let's find out…"

Harry flicked off the wards holding him to the chair with a mere thought – they were quite willing. He stood, ignoring the wand trained at him. He was in equal measures thrilled and disgusted at what he was about to do. Above all, though, this new control had the fine advantage of making him significantly Not. Care.

Voldemort's magic fit like a glove. He could sense the shape of the network of Marks if he focused hard enough, like a third arm connected to his nervous system. The magic of Voldemort's servants was distant, each one nagging in a different way: reluctant, eager, afraid. Most were willing enough in their servitude, he realised. In the next moment he felt dizzy with the dual feelings of disappointment and pleasure.

He stomach churned rebelliously. He ignored it, returning his attention to the network. It was hard to match Marks and names but hers, he remembered, was a special kind of devotion. This made tracing his intended target easy: just find that tickle of yearning magic pushing at the gates, needing to be used by him, only him – god the sheer abandonment of self was, it was –

Suddenly a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He twisted to punch his attacker in the stomach, but Voldemort had anticipated this and threw him bodily against the wall.

Harry stumbled for a moment. He twisted to avoid the Crucio that was thrown after.

"My Lord?"

They both froze mid-motion, turning to stare at the unexpected visitor who had appeared out of nowhere. Harry's stomach gave a jolt as he took in the bowed head covered in black curls.

Bellatrix looked up from her crouched position, taking in the scene with a blink of her long lashes. She rose, wand already in hand, and turned to face Voldemort. All the while the man's face remained carved from stone. There was a question in her eyes. She looked prepared for anything, though.

"Bella," Voldemort returned airily as if this was all just perfectly as he wanted it. His gaze found Harry's. "The boy seems to have some trouble adjusting - would you help him settle in?"

Her wand was pointed at Harry's head the next second. "Certainly, my Lord."

Harry widened his eyes at the Dark Lord in warning – the magic pulsing through the brand on her arm was wide open to him, and he had no qualms left. A mocking grin was the only response he got, before Voldemort broke the stare, dismissing them both with a tilt of his head –

And his fortunes had turned, just like that.

Harry swallowed as his arm was pinched between polished black nails. Her face up close was disturbing to behold, with eyes that might just spontaneously combust from the sheer intensity of their expression.

Since the rewiring of his brain – or something, he didn't know the precise details... yet – Voldemort's magic was a constant background noise to his senses. The moment that the wards were pried open Harry felt it, a bit like sweat-glued cloth coming loose.

Bellatrix yanked him into Disapparation. They landed in a dark, cold environment. The smell of her hair reminded him of a memory, that time she had come back from the Auror raid on the Longbottoms…

The Longbottoms.

He pushed her away from him as hard as he could. She gave a cry of surprise. It turned into a low laugh.

The wall scones all burst to life. The dancing lights illuminated a huge, spacious bedchamber, though not one he recognised. Next the hearth followed, in which massive wooden beams had been piled to feed the flames. There was a large black night robe slung over the sofa near it. Otherwise the room had a Spartan feel to it: some kind of cabinet, covered beneath a cloth; one bookcase in the corner, a painting in the other. The frame was currently empty.

Harry swallowed. The undercurrent of Voldemort's magic was still there, but lower now, as if emerging from the floorboards underneath his feet. They must still be in the house, in one of the locked rooms on the second floor.

What the hell did Bellatrix want in Voldemort's bedroom?

The sight of her wide-eyed and stalking to the sofa distracted him from following that thought any further. Lestrange took the robe in both hands, then brought it up to her face to smell. She proceeded to browse down the whole cloth of black velvet in this way.

She was smelling the Dark Lord.

He closed his eyes against a sudden bout of nausea. A distinct foreign disgust at his own weakness brought him up short. He blinked. His mind had been cleared before he was aware of doing so.

Meanwhile Bellatrix had wrapped herself in the night robe, which was several sizes too big for her, and proceeded to lie down on the bed, her head buried in the cushions. The nausea was absent when he regarded her now – there was nothing but a mild curiosity left.

"Bella," he began, then bit his lip at the slip-up. He balled his fists, furious suddenly at the foreign hold over his mind. Or maybe the sense of familiarity it made him feel. His detachment turned his anger muddy though, unimportant. His arms fell lax to his sides.

The word worked to cut through Bellatrix' self-absorbed state. She turned her head, slowly rising to sit. She whispered:

"What did you call me?"

Harry sneered. "Just trying out the sound. Not quite the same as when he says it though, right?"

Her shimmering Bordeaux-red evening dress had become bunched up, and there was quite a bit of leg showing when she touched down upon the floor.

"Yes," she said. She closed in, putting a hand on his cheek. Her gaze fell were most did, just above his eyes.

He shook his head, her hand moving along with it. "Bella, Bella. He's just not that into you. How many more years will it take for you to realise this?"

A slight frown marred her perfectly sculptured face. She smelled nice, which made his fists want to ball up again.

"Something's different," she mused.

Both her thumbs came up to rub at his now-scarred scar. His hand came up to squeeze her throat. Unfortunately she was still half a head taller than him. Her eyes widened with pleasant surprise. "My, Mr. Potter, you are turning into quite the fetching little heir."

He squeezed harder. "You disappoint me, Ms. Lestrange. I thought you were above the rumours of the servant masses."

She smiled the sort of smile that used to creep him out. "You're right, Potter. Static noise, that's all they are to me, but I take my cues from the Dark Lord himself." She bowed towards him and he was afraid she was going to kiss his scar. Worse: she licked it. One hand moved to his neck, the other trailed firmly down his back.

There must be bruises forming from the pressure he put on her throat, but it seemed all the same to her. She whispered in his ear: "But I don't call them servants. That is, of course, your privilege."

Harry clenched his teeth at the unwanted memories now at the front of his thoughts. Gods, it was only because of the same foreign influence that he wasn't turning into a hysterical puddle on the floor.

"You're right, something is different," he whispered back. "I am more deeply linked to our Lord than ever before. I can now appreciate your value to him."

He trailed his wand-hand over her chin, then pinched it cruelly as he had seen Riddle doing in the memory. "I know what makes you worthy of Lord Voldemort's attention."

He knew distantly he was playing with fire, but right now his body still felt only about halfway his own. He was rewarded when her eyes showed recognition.

"He does not remember, you know," he told her. "I do."

She looked intrigued. After all, who could guess at the truth? He released her neck and chin, drawing up a cold expression once more. "So," he drawled. "You can yet improve my other self's low opinion by making yourself useful to me."

He let his magic seep into her Mark. He was sure she could feel the difference – the way that dusk made foreign shadows of well-known objects, or the way a strawberry tasted when it was filled with mould. Apparently her black pupils could get a little wider still.

Oh he'd torture her mind if he wanted to, but that was quite unnecessary. Yes, that was a neat trick wasn't it? However did he pull that off?

The hand against his back trembled. She released him, drawing back and lifting her chin.

"You have impressed me, little heir. Act or no, though, my loyalty remains with the Dark Lord." Her eyebrows rose. "And he has entrusted me with adjusting you to this new… situation."

Harry gave a mocking chuckle. "You don't even know what it is. He doesn't trust you that much, does he?"

Bellatrix' head tilted to the side. "You say it as if it would matter. Trust, real trust, is blind, Potter."

"Then you are a fool, to think he regards you any differently than his other disposable subjects."

Her wand was raised in an eye-blink. "I see you are ill-informed of the dynamics here. This is an important part of your education, Potter." A sharpness entered her voice. "Before you go ditching out orders you need to know your place a little better. The extend of your liberties, of my liberties… That's where I can help."

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