A/N: A big thank you to those who reviewed! Criticism, thoughts, ideas, everything is more than welcome!

Update 16th of April: I revised a few scenes in chapters 21-23 and added material in a few places where my fancy struck :) (especially this chapter). I think the chronological order is fixed now - let me know if you still notice something amiss.

In case you're wondering: Harry is not going to become the next manifestation of Tom Riddle. That said though, where does one essence end and the other begin?

Chapter 21

The croak of the stones shifting signalled the end of his tense stroll up to the seventh floor. Draco bit into his hand to distract himself from the nerves. It didn't help. Far too soon the door to the Headmaster's study swung open and he was forced to walk inside.

Severus was seated behind the large desk, a curtain of black hair concealing his expression. Draco slowly sat down in the visitor's chair. Snape looked up suddenly to pin him with a glare.

"You know why you are here?" he asked in a calm, almost bored tone.

Draco nodded, staring down at his lap.

"Tell me."

"I was ordered to babysit Potter. When I went to check on him Sunday, he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Then the idiot went and almost got himself killed, and I should have - I should have been there."

"'Where he was supposed to be'? He was supposed to be with you."

The disappointment in his tone was thick. Draco buried his nails in the arm rests before braving that awful black stare. "Okay, so I should've spend my Sunday following around the golden boy like a puppy? Professor, you must know how important the first weekend is, to catch up, you know, get a feel for the mood in the House."

"I see," Snape said with fake thoughtfulness. "You were neglecting the task set to you by the Dark Lord, so that you could affirm your status in Slytherin."

Draco, who had been slouched down up till now, sat ramrod straight at the mention of the Dark Lord. "No, I didn't- I wasn't aware that I had to watch him all the time!"

"I suppose you think the word 'shadowing' means something like 'dropping by once in a while'?" Snape's voice dripped with venom.

Draco noticed his arms were shaking. He pushed them harder against the chair. "The- he told me to be unobtrusive about it, so I thought-"

"You didn't think. You should have come to me. I could have told you several techniques with which to observe and never be seen."

Of course, Snape was a master spy. Why didn't he think of that? He lowered his voice to a whisper: "What will happen now?"

Snape didn't reply right away. Draco resisted the urge to swallow.

"You remind me of Potter. Barely a week goes by and already you manage to screw things up in spectacular fashion."

Draco ignored the bait, his expression remorseful.

"Our Lord is annoyed with you. Go to Malfoy Manor to receive your punishment. Your parents will be there."

"You mean he's going to punish me?"

Snape inclined his head.

Draco drew in a sharp breath. He'd been confident that Slughorn would be the one to reprimand him. He wouldn't for a moment have thought…

"Why not… why there?"

"The Dark Lord does not receive visitors," Snape said sharply, indicating his displeasure with this line of questioning. "He's at your parents' at the moment, concerning other matters."

Lord Voldemort wanted his mom and dad to watch while he tortured their son, in other words. A part of him felt like running, but it was easily repressed – he wasn't a Gryffindor after all.

"You may use my floo."

"Right. Thanks, Professor."

Draco got up and walked with wooden legs over to the hearth. He grasped a pinch of floo powder. There was a heavy feeling in his gut as he watched the flames turn green, before they whirled him away.

888

"You know Potter," Bellatrix said as they stood in Voldemort's bedchamber, continuing to hold him at wand-point. "When I started my service to the Dark Lord, I was just a snotty little brat, like you were until recently. I didn't know wand tip from handle." Her eyes drifted towards her own wand, and she stroked the curves at the base. "But as young as I was, I knew this was what our world had been waiting for. The glorious power and knowledge of the Dark Lord, a legacy of great wizards and witches harkening back to the ancient times of the Founders.

"Wizardom had been slipping into complacency back then, not realizing that the growth of the Muggle population is a threat to our way of life. Muggle culture was already seeping through the cracks of the Ministry."

Bellatrix leaned against the side of the sofa in repose, her legs crossed at the ankles. She looked decidedly normal, her gaze calm as her eyes drifted between him and the fire in the hearth. A somewhat sane Bellatrix was not much of an improvement from the Bellatrix he used to know. But maybe he didn't know her at all, and the part she put up for her enemies had been only an act. Or maybe, his restless mind went on, maybe this was just another manifestation of the same kind of crazy.

"I'm talking some twenty years after the death of Grindelwald and his foolish quest to lead us out of hiding," Bellatrix went on. "His legacy caused the old dilemma's surrounding the Statute of Secrecy to resurface. As a consequence the Statute was reinterpreted. Muggles were considered harmless and ignorant; they needed to be protected and cherished like any other animal on the earth. Wizardry was there to guide the way on their path of 'evolution'. It was our responsibility to try and understand their culture so that one day, hopefully, they would come to understand us, and the Statute would no longer be needed." She chuckled.

Her face turned to stone so quickly that Harry tensed in anticipation. "They had forgotten," she spat, "why it was constructed in the first place: to protect our people against the Muggles' hate of the unknown, which has nearly destroyed us in the seventeen hundreds. Such hatred can't be reasoned with. The ignorant are to be repressed or otherwise, avoided."

She tilted her head upwards, as if dappled in sunlight. Harry wondered where she was going with all this. He was intrigued by her effort to make him understand. Though it wasn't a history lesson she wanted to convey.

Her tone was soft when she continued. "And then came a man who understood the simmering threat, who saw the way the Ministry constrained Purebloods, the way it shaved off our rich customs of hundreds of years and reduced them to a few Ministry-approved wand-bound spells and rituals. As if magic can be bound by rule of law! Our magical prowess is limited only by our imagination."

She showed him a smile full of teeth. "It's a public secret that Dumbledore and the Ministry have kept well hidden from our youngsters. Our Lord has pulverised their backward policies. The walls of Hogwarts will resound once more with the unchained magics for which they've been build. "

Bellatrix looked lost in thought. A minute must have passed before her gaze snapped down to lock onto his. Harry felt ensnared by it. There was a hunger there he couldn't place.

"My life's work," she whispered, then her tone turned harsh – and when she spoke he realised her thoughts had jumped again, gravitated back to their natural dwellings. "For thirteen years, you took it away from me. You made him suffer unimaginable horrors. Crawling from animal life to animal life, their baser bodies a torture to his sentience."

Her chin lifted. "You are his reckoning. You made him suffer and so you have suffered, and shall suffer still, until those thirteen years have been repaid."

Harry shuddered as a coldness swept over his back. Something seemed to have taken hold in her, her incantation giving Voldemort a near tangible presence in the room. Harry noticed then that he was unconsciously waiting for a pain in his scar that didn't come.

Lestrange stood, walking into his personal space to draw her wand along his left cheek. He knew she was tracing the silver line there, where Nagini had slapped him.

"I had some difficulty at first accepting your continued existence." She smiled. It turned terrible after two seconds. "But I never doubted him. I see now the yield of his decision to keep you alive while prolonging your suffering, as his power inside you which you so unjustly received as a babe takes hold."

Harry had to keep from swallowing – she would hear, feel the click of his throat. That sounded disgusting. Like a virus consuming him, a parasite. Which in a way, it was. Her breaths were heavy against the side of his face now. He couldn't tell whether she was exited or angry.

"My jealousy made me short-sighted at first. I was plebeian. The Dark Lord of course saw the benefits that would come from nourishing that power, essentially protecting his own magic – which is precious and must be cherished above all others. By allowing you to attend Hogwarts, he's merely ensuring its growth. It's consumption. So you see, I understand now why he allows you to play."

Her left hand reached upwards to clasp underneath his forearm, drawing his fingertips to her Dark Mark. The moment they connected he felt awash in oily warmth, as if sinking into a bath made from warm honey – quite different from Snape's ice-cave feel, he thought. It raked in lazy waves over his body, as if searching him out. His heartrate increased, which a part of him was astonished to witness. (The part that was never flustered, had only felt the rhythm of this organ this clearly twice or thrice before). And was it his own mind making it flow downwards, or was that her doing?

Her mouth now whispered against his ear. "For seventeen years I was dedicated to destroying you, his one threat. But it turns out, Prophecies are only as real as we make them."

The grip of her arm was starting to hurt. Her normal voice was actually quite low, he thought.

"You have sunken into that magnificent magic, I can taste it around you, smell it from your sweat. Your maturing body is becoming a better host. That is what you are, an expandable host," she exclaimed mockingly. "My Lord's magic will bind you more deeply to our goals than any prison could. You can escape, it doesn't matter – you'll never be free of him, of nurturing his legacy. In the end, you'll be recreated in his image. The image of your parents' murderer."

The glee in her voice was sickening, as was the sudden warmth in his groin. You'll never be free of him.

He pushed her away like she was spreading a toxic substance. Bellatrix took one high-heeled step back, eyes knowing, shining like a cat's. She turned abruptly to pace back to the bed. She kicked off her high heels, then lay down on her side on the coverlet.

The position showed off the curve of her hip and stomach. He caught himself staring and bit the inside of his lip hard, careful to refocus his thoughts towards the titles on the spines in the lonely bookcase.

In the space of a day, his mind had turned into a foreign country.

He was very glad right now that his expression had remained rigidly blank. It was getting rather difficult actually. Emotion was something only contemplated deep within the mental shield, if ever.

The other's associations were burrowed like ghostly companions alongside his own – reach one, you reach the other (like there was a constant debate going on except that both sides had already won, or something). These mental comments made it clear that Voldemort was repulsed by all this feeling, this reacting and subjecting to outside influences which most other people exhibited all the time – though Slytherins in general were the exception. He had never bothered to consider why (in Salazar's name) many projected their vulnerability so willingly and proudly. Then again, Riddle never considered anything aside from himself for too long, since everyone else was untalented and inferior.

He thought she was finished with him, but then her voice started up again. He was careful to keep his eyes on the books.

"You must understand, I have given him more of myself than anyone else. Although they'll tell you different. Many of his servants are as interesting to him as spoiled children. Their wealth and connections make them useful to the Dark Lord, and they turn to putty in his hands. But their privileged upbringing had made of them weak and unimaginative wizards and witches, spoilt and coddled as they are, used to getting what they want, feeling entitled to a place in the new world order. Their sense of superiority has dulled their brains.

His eyes gravitated, unwillingly. She stood tall like a warrior. "They call themselves his servants, but they never learned what it means to work for something, to give away your magic and love it, to sacrifice your health for a higher purpose than your own. Here's something to keep in mind, Potter: they are only as valuable as the price they're willing to pay to save themselves and their pathetic families."

"But, as nature teaches us, the fittest among us are the most enduring. A select few of us are not held back by such considerations." Her eyes drew a line of fire down his body. "And in you our Lord saw his own potential. He has given you the immense honour of a choice, between death and serving him."

"I don't serve him," Harry spat. "I became his heir."

She tsked. "You don't have to pretend with me. We both know he'd never tolerate an heir."

You're quite right and that's precisely why you're wrong, he thought with irony. Aloud he said: "That jealousy you mentioned earlier, sure you left it all behind?"

"Crucio."

Harry jerked at the sound but it was too late. The yellowish streak had caught up to him in an instant and he shut his mouth over the pain. His mind dug into the memory of the marvellous old tree in the garden: touching it and feeling its branches and thirsty roots.

His eyes had become moist by the time she released the spell. He was lying on the soft rug that covered the floor, Bellatrix standing over him like an angel of doom. His thoughts were adrift, dulled by the pain that was not leaving his shaking limbs yet. It was impossible to get to her Mark in this state.

He growled, and in no time at all, the foreign helplessness he was feeling had turned into rage.

She was his servant. The gall she had to wound him like this!

"Yes, yes…" he heard her breathy moan. She whispered something he couldn't catch, something that made his skin burn where it touched the carpet. He writhed to escape the feeling of his back being scraped raw – stupid, stupid, hyper sensatio, only making it worse.

He forced his body in an upright position to try and stand. Too late he noticed Bellatrix slipping around him to slash her wand at his unprotected back. He knew pain from the whip, but this, this felt like a knife was pushed in to the hilt.

He screamed. He felt the first stirrings of fear when the pain refused to Occlude away. The rareness of actually being afraid momentarily distracted him, the second thing to catch him off guard today – but it brought little relief. The pain stacked up, building onto itself the longer it existed, curtesy of the hypersensitivity curse. He turned and groped wildly around, but there was nothing to strike at, nothing to hit with…

He willed himself to calmness, intent on finding her form. She had drawn a few steps back to watch him from a distance. It was then that he felt it, the hum of magic at his fingertips that broke through the agony. The warmth that spread over his painful limbs was like a bonfire in winter, vaguely familiar. He let it loose with a roar.

Lestrange was thrown back like a weightless leaf. Next the fireplace exploded, green flames bursting to life and leaping onto the carpet and the ceiling. They flung around him in a dance, his friends, crawling towards her fallen figure. The heat was dizzying, yet all around him objects remained untouched by the fire's destructive force.

He strolled over, concealing the shake in his limbs with a swagger. The fire had formed into a nest of snakes. The biggest of them – her lovely head reminded him of Nagini – had circled around her neck. Through the intense green light he saw that her skin was smoking.

Her cat-like gaze widened as he planted a leg on each side of her stomach. Looking down at her was like looking at something from the past – before the cries of a babe had announced a long black sleep. But no, he'd seen these eyes last year, when she had laughed while killing Black, killing Sirius…

He tilted his head. She looked different from a second ago – then he realized it was the press of hatred on his lungs, not her features that had changed. There used to be a small amount of satisfaction when regarding her, his most devoted servant. He bowed down low over her form, dismissing the fire's existence with a thought. He held back a hiss as the movement burned along his bleeding back. He preferred this persona actually, when dealing with her.

"My dear Bella, don't act all informed when you're not. It's distasteful."

He disarmed her with a small burst of his magic, then cancelled the hyper sensation on himself. He rotated the wand to dig into the skin above her heart. Her neck had turned an interesting shade of brown-red from the burns. Her eyes were dull from agony.

As he considered what spell would serve his purpose, the answer came to him at once. Although never executed by Tom before, he recalled the theory. His mind depicted the steps to follow with clinical precision. His mental library, it seemed, was quite fast when it had a rudimentary idea or intention to work with.

The incantation was a long recitation in Latin. His voice changed to a monotone murmur. He blocked out the individual words, since understanding was not important for this curse. The ancient language relaxed his shoulders, the flow of magic quieting his rage.

The towers of books in his mind had been patient to explain, to answer the unspoken but nevertheless resonant question in his subconscious thoughts: no natural distinction had ever been found between dark and light magic. Only the intention of the user mattered, as did the effect of the spell on the amount of order or chaos in the environment.

And the key to making it all work, like Bellatrix said, was imagination.

So Malfoy senior's lectures were not merely propaganda after all. This was reassuring – if his intention was to preserve that which he loved, and to fight that which he hated… Although his mind had shifted – through shared thought patterns, memories and understanding, such ghastly understanding – he found that his intentions had not. He knew he could trust them: his convictions of right and wrong remained firm. He still wanted to save Hermione for example, to find Dumbledore, to get rid of the Horcruxes… including his own.

Torturing Bellatrix, therefore, did not bother his conscience at all – it was a treat he would give himself, for those long months of suffering under Voldemort's rule. And because he knew Neville would appreciate it.

When he was done he stood to observe the results.

Nothing happened at first. Then Bellatrix clawed at her chest, gasping and curling into a fetal position. This would entertain her for a while. He gave her a grim smile, then walked out the bedroom onto the landing.

He needed to do something about this bleeding.

888

"The German representatives have agreed upon the revisions," Arthur Weasley told the Order members seated around the rectangular Muggle conference table. It was a full gathering today. Except for those who absolutely couldn't afford to be there, everyone was present. Arthur rubbed his hands, exited despite himself. It was finally happening, the plan they had been working towards for the last three months.

He continued: "So, we've got the green light. To summarise: both operations will start at 2100 hours tonight. Kingsley and Tonks will coordinate the attack led by the Irish and the Resistance from the Beaver entrance. Bill, Fleur and myself will take the Spider entrance along with the French and German armies. Estimated flying time into cave level is two minutes. From there it'll take less than a minute to decrypt and reverse the wards and enter the Department of Mysteries. We assume the Death Eaters secured the floor with their own wards since breaking the previous ones two days ago. But just in case they didn't, in case their Unspeakables made only slight adjustments, one of our own Unspeakables will be there to guide us through."

Arthur sighed heavily. "We have no control over the amount of Muggles that might witness something in case the whole thing goes pear-shaped. But since we vastly outnumber the enemy, we believe that the chances of that happening are small. Are there any questions?"

Ron was biting his lip and he knew the question on his youngest son's mind before it was asked.

"What if Riddle shows up?"

Albus spoke before Arthur could. Silence lapsed around him when he did. "It is possible, though unlikely. Knowing Tom, he will misjudge the strength of our attack. He will respond by sending us the outer shell of his army – the bluntest tools in the shed, so to speak. By the time he decides to activate his Inner Circle, we will have re-established control."

Albus looked around to address everyone. "As I mentioned in the beginning of this meeting, time works in our favour. Tom is distracted by something, has been so for two days now. My best guess is that it concerns our young friend Harry Potter – the next item on the agenda I believe?"

The man's searing blue gaze fell back onto Arthur, who hastily browsed to the last item on the parchment in front of him.

He nodded in affirmation. He knew the man well enough to know he was being gently urged to change the subject. Something paranoid wanted to flare up in his thoughts at that, but he repressed it with practiced ease. "Yes. Harry was last seen two days ago, in St. Mungo's recovering from the attack on him by three classmates. Riddle disappeared from our radar around that same time."

"I've been asking around under the cover of a fake detention he was supposed to attend," Nymphadora Tonks pinched in, "But nope, not the teachers nor the classmates are any the wiser."

Alastor Moody's magical eye swivelled to stare at the Muggle telly in the corner. "Have you counted in the fact that they simply don't trust ya?"

Tonks waved away the comment. "Most of the teachers are new to this, so we're all strangers in the same boat, in a way."

Moody shrugged as if that was neither here nor there.

"Oh don't worry, he's fine," someone said airily.

The eyes of everyone in the room turned towards the interruption. Luna Lovegood's smile was vaguely bemused as she notice the sudden attention. As usual, no one knew quite how to respond. No one of course, except the former Headmaster.

"Would you care to elaborate, Ms. Lovegood?"

"Well, I think it means that Tom is just concerned for Harry." Ignoring Fred and George's protests, she continued: "Neville told me that Harry's injuries were very severe. Tom must have been so angry. He properly locked Harry up again, like he did during summer. It's the only way he knows how to deal with something he cares about."

"He doesn't care for Harry," Ron said, incredulous. "What the hell, Luna? He just wants to make sure Harry stays alive to carry his own magic, like a back-up. And he keeps Harry for what it is that he represents."

"What do you think he represents?" Tonks asked.

Ron was silent for a beat, then said: "Hopelessness. He has 'turned' the symbol of the resistance, right? Or so everyone thinks," he finished dejectedly.

Moody grunted. "You think he'd allow people to call Potter his heir if it wasn't the real deal, boy? He had no trouble killing Potter before. No, something's changed. He's not trusting his own immortality as he used to. Somehow Potter has got him thinking, which means bad news for us."

"Bad ánd good news, Alastor," Albus corrected him gently, giving Luna a nod. "Ms. Lovegood is right. It is a harrowing ordeal that Harry is going through right now. But consider that Tom is actually looking after his wellbeing, however rudimentary. We may take comfort in the fact that Harry is as safe as he can possibly be – that is to say, safer in captivity than any of us free witches or wizards are in the whole of the United Kingdom."

The contemplative silence that followed was interrupted by a knock at the door. Arthur quickly looked over to watch Moody's magical eye swivel towards the sound. There was no change in the veteran's expression however, and Arthur relaxed again.

The door opened to a wave of Albus' wand. In walked Remus, along with… Hermione.

"'Mione!" Ron screamed, predictably jumping from his chair to engulf her in a hug. She looked flabbergasted by the volume of familiar faces. After greeting Ron and everyone present, she looked back at Remus' emaciated form to say: "you weren't kidding."

Remus smiled and gestured for her to take a seat at the table. Another wave of Albus' wand and cups of tea spun into existence in front of the visitors. The teapot let out a burst of steam and hopped close.

When the initial murmurs had died down Remus spoke: "Ms. Granger has come to us under unfortunate circumstances. Hermione, would you like to tell us why you are here?"

Hermione took a shaky breath. Then she began to tell her story.

888

The wounds on his back made him jittery. He couldn't confront Voldemort like this.

That is, assuming Voldemort hadn't seen through his charade the first time. He was counting on the size of the man's ego for that one. It had seemed a sure bet, acting a younger version of the man.

But then he just had to call in Bellatrix, hadn't he… By throwing her into the mix he had made himself a game of Russian roulette, as the Muggles called it.

Since it was not possible to reach Madame Pomfrey… Snape would have to do.

His lips tugged upwards as he felt out the specific chord in the jumble of harmonies from the network. It took almost no effort this time around. His stomach burned with excitement when in the blink of an eye, the faux headmaster stood bowed before him. There was also the urge to wring the man's neck with his bare hands, but he could do that any time he felt like, and now was not the time.

A second later Snape's head wrenched upwards, rage distorting the ragged lines of his face as he realized before whom he'd been kneeling. Of course Snape would think this was the Dark Lord calling: he had to have felt the very specific wards. It was a pity the ingenious transporting ability of the Mark didn't work both ways.

Quick as a viper he moved into Harry's personal space. Clawed hands made their way into Harry's already ruined robes.

"Charming the Dark Lord with that stolen magic of yours," Snape hissed, his breath hot on Harry's face. "As always, when in danger our true selves are most apparent."

A taut smile ripped over the man's features. The physical strength in his wiry frame was remarkable. "But I recognised your scrounging spinelessness from the moment you stained the stones of Hogwarts."

Harry remained silent. He had started taking a detached interest in his own reactions to others, which all seemed bewildering discoveries ever since Voldemort made candy floss out of his memories. Right now he was interested to note his own increasing heartbeat. There was also more energy in his balled hands, but he forced them to stillness.

Snape tilted his head slowly to the side, perhaps surprised by the lack of reaction. "In fact I take it back, Potter. You're not quite like your father – at least he had some merits of his own. You're more like Wormtail, thriving under the attention of those far more gifted and powerful than yourself."

Harry felt his eyes narrow despite the blankness of Occlusion that had become part of his routine.

Severus Snape, he thought coldly, had kneeled to him many times before, and always with gratitude.

'Rise, Severus,' Harry recalled saying that first time, to a younger version of his servant. 'I hear from Lucius you have quite the talent with poisons.'

'Yes, Lord Voldemort,' Snape had answered, solemn – not quite in his possession yet, but almost.

A shiver of revulsion crawled over his spine, shaking him from his reverie. Each time Snape kneeled in his memories, the satisfaction that Riddle had felt came along with it. If only he could un-recall.

He had no choice but to welcome these insights, though. They could help him understand Voldemort's persuasive power, the way his servants could be triggered.

"It must be painful to watch my swift rise in the ranks, isn't it, Severus?" Harry asked, quite unaware that his voice had dropped into a sibilant whisper. "Especially since yours has been such a… trying struggle."

The professor's gaze was flat as he studied Harry's face. His face had become as blank a slate as Harry's must be. Snape swept his eyes over his ravaged cloths, stilling on his stomach. Harry glanced down and blinked at the wound there. It looked vicious and deep.

The slicing curse had apparently leaped onto his belly. A frown slipped through his detachment, his audience forgotten. If his whole backside was like this, then where was the pain? Were these just phantom wounds? Was the curse in fact neurological and not exogenic, as it appeared?

He flinched when he became aware of the hand pressing against his cheek, a thumb lifting an eyelid. Snape's other hand was on the side of his neck, stilling the movement.

"Had a little chat with Bellatrix, I gather?" Snape murmured. The black voids of his pupils filled Harry's vision. "Remarkable shield you have there. Reminiscent of the Dark Lord's, in fact. Ah I see," he said to himself.

He dropped both hands and took a step back. "Apparently the Dark Lord's magic has provided you with the Occlumency skills of a master. Your body is not ready for it. I would advise you to drop your mental shields."

Harry send him a lazy grin. Inwardly he made note of the man's sudden change in demeanour. "Nice try, Snape."

"You're feeling a high level of detachment, Potter," Snape went on, slow and intent. "That is your Occlusion blocking your senses, which prevents you from feeling the gallon of blood leaking out of your body as we speak. Your blood pressure is sinking into dangerous levels. You were wondering just now why you can't feel the pain, were you not?" He rose an eyebrow. "Same blissful state one gets from downing four shots of Firewhiskey."

Harry curled the corner of his mouth in amusement. "How do you know?"

"I speak from experience."

Harry´s legs were protesting against their upright position. He stumbled before finding a wall to lean against. Paranoia flaring, he groped around for his wand, before realizing it was still in his right hand. Inwardly he seethed with mortification. A curse was on his lips, but he remembered in time that Snape was here to treat his back.

"The whiskey, or the Occlusion?"

"Both." Snape's eyes were gleaming strangely, as if something amused him.

"Very well," Harry conceded. He tried to recall something specific about his wounds. A vapid trail of thought escaped his shields –Bellatrix smelling Voldemort's night robe. Then he remembered the hyper sensatio she had cast afterwards, the pain of it.

He hissed. The burning on his back had returned with a vengeance and his head felt weird, stuffed with wool. "Shit," he whispered to himself.

"Just so," Snape said calmly. He was holding out a vial of Blood-Replenisher. "If you smash this one, I will charm the next batch straight into your stomach."

Harry got a glimpse of his inside pocket: it held about seven bottles in a row, all the same red colour.

Harry pulled the stopper and gulped the whole thing in one go. A few residue droplets clung against the glass. This concoction, he considered, was becoming far too familiar for his taste.

In no time at all the stuffy feeling was gone, and the weakness in his limbs had lifted. Snape was studying the wounds on his back, murmuring an incantation, then another.

"This will do for now to start the healing process," Snape said. "Though I recommend a healer in the coming days."

Harry nodded. Thanks, was the word on his tongue but he couldn't get it passed his lips.

888

Come on, come on. It's right there.

Harry sat hunched over on his bed, eyes squeezed shut in concentration, muscles taut as if his physical body could help strengthen the magical effort.

The invisible wards of Voldemort's manor sparkled in his mind's eye, mocking him. Harry blew out a hard breath and tried again to make the connection. He was a keeper of that magic. It should work, damn it.

The impact was about the same as scratching the surface of a diamond. He straightened, grimacing at the protest from his bruised body.

He was glad to be alone, finally, so he could lick his wounds and think about his strategy. But it turned out being alone wasn't so relaxing after all.

His clash with Bella had proved exhausting in more ways than one. It had triggered memories, which triggered other memories… to the point that his head was bursting with them. At this rate, it would be no time at all before his thoughts and associations were mostly formed by the other. In fact, he considered, it came down to his own seventeen years of living versus the – what, fifty years of Voldemort's when the Horcrux was made?

Fifty-five years. Harry rolled his eyes at the stray thought – exactly his point. These random flickers of knowledge were popping up at every turn, and then more came with them just by association. He was stumbling into webs of knowledge with no end in sight – and wasn't it great to start the whole thing off with the exact way to maim the bodies so that the ritual would be most potent? The stench a day later? Lovely.

It had struck him that Voldemort's servants which were chained to himself were now accessible to him as well. This was a deeply disconcerting thought, and he tried not to dwell on it. His shoulders already felt weighted down by the imaginary stares of Death Eaters, like a constant ghost army in the room.

He had gotten averse to thinking in general. He needed to do something instead, but his body was less than willing at the moment. The disturbing encounter with Bellatrix an hour ago kept intruding on his thoughts, scattering his concentration.

Damn it. Harry scowled at the window when his next attempt on the wards proved just as useless. Voldemort renewed them regularly of course, he mused, which meant the magical signature was not very old. A timespan of his own age was between the magic in the ward and the Horcrux inside him, perhaps enough to make them incompatible. Still, he had managed to break the body-locking charm that Voldemort had placed on him earlier. Why shouldn't this work as well?

He let that reasoning seep through him. His mind felt sharp and cleaned out now, like it had recently gone for a maintenance check. It easily inclined towards this logic. With magic, as with all things, conviction was the better part of success.

But there was no change. The wards felt as untouched as ever.

Harry jumped from the bed, furious at everything. Finding a potions book on his desk, he threw it at the window.

Childish.

The book bounced off the window and fell back to the desk, unsatisfying. Harry stared at the title, momentarily distracted. It was called 'The Heedful Harvester'. He remembered perusing it from Voldemort's library a few months ago when he tried to murder Nagini, foolishly forgetting that there was only one weapon that could kill a Horcrux.

The pouch – he should torture the elf for its location. Then kill Nagini.

He should kill himself while he was at it - two Horcruxes in one go.

The decision came to him like an electrical current. His thoughts were leaping to ways in which to fall on the sword, when his throat suddenly closed up with hot, poisonous fear. He coughed, trying and failing to get some air into his system. Only after Occluding did he manage to take his first gulp of air.

He stood from where he had apparently fallen to the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow. He shook his head. It was necessary. This reaction was clearly the other's issues with mortality – he had never been afraid of death before. He knew it would happen eventually.

He laughed, looking at his own hands, which were still shaking. 'Flight of death', Voldemort called himself, and he was scared alright.

You're such a wussy, Tom, he said into his mind. But it felt phony, like talking to himself.

Perhaps he was being too hasty. This was so very definitive. He had vital knowledge at his disposal. He couldn't let all of that go to waste yet. He'd imagined all the different possibilities, just to avoid this sort of Gryffindor rashness.

And if this worked - if he was allowed out again… he would put it to good use.

888

Draco could feel the eyes of his father, who was standing in the corner, burning a hole into his back. He rose to his feet as commanded. Weirdly enough he felt calm – maybe because there was no escaping anyway.

Lord Voldemort stood next to him, gazing off into the gardens visible through the huge drawing room windows.

Draco had always been secretly fascinated by the way he was holding his wand: as if it were weightless, an afterthought.

"Have I overestimated you, Draco? Has this been too great a task for you to carry out?"

Draco let his eyes slip from the delicate hands to the floor, recalling his father's training. "I do not believe so, my Lord. I beg your forgiveness, even though I don't deserve it. I had miscalculated the danger that Potter was in, but I promise that I will do much better."

He felt Voldemort's eyes glide over his form. "You have done me a far greater disservice than a mere miscalculation. You neglected your duty."

Suddenly there were tears in his eyes (he was glad no one could see it). "I- I'm-"

"Crucio."

Draco screamed.

Voldemort had cancelled the curse after a certain amount of time. Draco barely noticed: the blistering of flames on the inside of his skin lessened only slightly.

"I am aware of the enmity between you and Potter. I hear from Lucius that, through no direction of his own, you have been making amends with him. I encourage this behaviour among my Slytherins. This is the only reason why I shall refrain from torturing you into a mental wreck."

The Dark Lord didn't care for empty threats, Draco thought, and a flicker of panic made his head spin. He managed to sit upright. He was not able to do so without breathing loudly around the pain, and his cheeks warmed with embarrassment.

"Look at me," Voldemort ordered. Draco's eyes drew upwards, into the demon glare. The man's voice cut like a knife into the silence:

"I trust that my visit will stress the importance of your task."

Draco nodded. He held tight to his blank expression, but he probably reeked of fear.

A cold smile made charming angles of the man's cheekbones. The red eyes remained lifeless.

Draco's Mark started to burn fiercely, and he knew the skin must be smoking. Voldemort's wand, which was still warm from the curse, stroked his cheek. The man's eyes widened a little in excitement, or perhaps mild amusement – you never knew.

He was probably being Legilimized. It was good then, Draco thought inanely, that he was too preoccupied by the aches in his body to think straight.

"Are you honoured, Draco?" Voldemort whispered.

He really is barking, Draco thought and said: "Yes, my Lord."

He was rewarded with the faintest smile. Draco was strangely glad of the anchor of those striking eyes. Voldemort's taste for torture was well known. If nothing else, at least he knew what was coming.