A/N: My warm gratitude to every person who left a review: they've all been a big help in keeping me motivated! Thanks for waiting. As always, I'm curious to know your thoughts on this story.
A side note since an Unbreakable Vow is mentioned in this chapter: in my version of events the Vow between Narcissa and Snape never happened – I'm ignoring it because I just love that old coot Dumbledore too much.
Chapter 23
Arthur wiped the blood from his forehead, ducking another slicing hex that came at him from his anonymous attacker. His faux Death Eater mask had slipped off in the heat of battle.
The Ministry hearths were cold, out of commission at night. The few wall torches not doused or destroyed by battle barely lit the fast-moving figures around him.
They were fighting the 'outer shell' Albus had mentioned, which turned out to be a tough nut to crack. What the Dark Lord's army lacked in spellwork or strategy, it made up for in force. When the first wave of soldiers hit the Atrium level, Albus had proceeded to near singlehandedly force them to their knees.
But this wasn't the old Dumbledore with a sheer bottomless amount of magic at his fingertips – he always held complete control whenever Arthur had been lucky enough to watch the sorcerer in a fight. His mentor had looked agitated when Arthur saw him running past afterwards. He was gone before Arthur could guage him. Albus had a key role to play in the actual target of the mission, on the lowest floor: warding the Department of Mysteries.
They seemed to barely get the upper hand when the next horde of Voldemort's army arrived. And not soldiers from the new recruitment either, who were clearly still wet behind the ears, but the familiar masked figures of the Inner Circle. Perhaps they had underestimated how readily Voldemort would summon his most capable.
To his right Tonks, in the form of a boy, was absorbing a barrage of attacks from multiple angles, pushed back into a wall, almost losing the fight to keep standing. She held her own though, throwing exotic curses from her time in the Caribbean over her excellent shields. Two men lay nearby, victims of Sturgis Podmore's binding spells, their green and silver attire a sign they were plain soldiers.
A grim tableaux was forming to his left. Rosier had discovered Kingsley beneath his fake Death Eater mask – Shacklebolt had become infamous among the Death Eaters for the damage he'd caused at the Battle of Hogwarts.
Ropes tied Kingsley's hands to his chest, his wand nowhere in sight, while Rosier cut into the ex-Auror with clear relish. Kingsley stood hunched, defenceless, as Arthur saw Rosier summoning nearby bits of glass from a crushed chandelier. He had to struggle to keep his gaze on his own opponent when he heard the man's next incantation – a Magnes corpus.
Kingsley's hysterical screech, though predicted, still made Arthur's knees weak with emotion. Right that instant another of the damn slicing hexes caught him, ripping through his upper thigh. Inwardly cursing, Arthur put up a shield, stumbling to favour his good leg.
"That the only thing you can do?" he shouted in frustration.
The white-masked figure raised his wand higher, a tad dramatic – and paid for it when Arthur's spell choked him with his own cloak. Staggering towards the falling body, mindful of the figures and spells moving around him, Arthur wrenched the mask away. He had to know.
Crabbe senior's eyes were bulging, lifeless.
Swallowing, he let go of the head and looked around the chaos of the Atrium for a new target.
The first part of the operation had gone swimmingly: no tricky warding to get through, which could mean the Unspeakables had all been killed. Predictable in his arrogance, Voldemort had not bothered to tend to the wards himself. Breaking them had been a breeze for Bill.
The fight seemed to be well balanced, with both sides struggling to get the upper hand. Stunned and chained-up enemy soldiers lay strewn everywhere, silent witnesses. A few figures in black lay unmoving – though whether Order or enemy was hard to tell, which had of course been the whole point.
Notwithstanding the potential losses, Arthur still believed this was the hardest blow they were likely going to land in the near future, at a time when the Dark Lord's army was still in its formative stages. The fight in the Atrium was merely a distraction: knowing Albus, they must have retaken the Ministry from Level Nine downwards by now.
The considerable barriers Dumbledore had set would keep Voldemort occupied long enough for them to relocate or otherwise destroy the mysterious experiments inside the Department of Mysteries in the coming days, as well as all recordkeeping. The amount of information one place could hold on wizarding society was incredible. Arthur refused to think about what could happen if that particular department ever returned in the hands of the Dark Lord.
Right now though, they had what they came for.
His heart wrenched as his eyes landed on his sons. Fred and George were both wearing equally grim smiles. Once more his eyes were drawn to Kingsley's unmoving form, covered in blood. Remus started stumbling towards him, bleeding heavily from a head wound. He was carrying someone in his arms, holding up a wide shield to protect the both of them against the stray spells. The way his jaw was set told Arthur all he needed to know. The mask of the figure had been ripped off at some point – upon closer inspection he saw with a wrench in his stomach that it was Hestia Jones.
"Four severely wounded," Remus rasped, swaying on his feet.
Arthur nodded. Make that five, he thought.
Time to abort the mission, as per Albus' instructions. His Patronus sprung from his wand in a burst of light, blinding to whoever looked at it directly. The weasel flew to circle the boundaries of the now-slippery floor – the signal for retreat.
888
Harry surveyed the wreckage around him also known as the Ministry Atrium.
A Death Eater mask lay nearby, which flew to his open palm with a thought. It was not of his own making, the material thinner, different.
He dropped it as if burned, anger seething beneath his skin.
The familiar toasty scent of spells gone awry permeated the air. His servants were kneeling down all around him, most in various stages of injury. His soldiers knelt or lay in one line against the far wall, either dead or waiting to be released from the curses put on them. He briefly noted the loss as unimportant and replaceable, before gazing over the bowed heads of his inner circle.
"Lucius, stay. The rest of you: dismissed."
After due prostrating the group of white masks dissolved. The mass at the back spurred to life once more, Healers crossing back and forth with stretchers.
In a more private setting, Lucius knew to stand. His hands were fluttering at his sides in an unusual bout of nerves.
"Report."
Lucius stared at Harry's boots. "My Lord, as my letter explained, we were caught by-"
"The relevant details, Lucius."
Malfoy gave a jerky nod.
"The Order struck at Level Nine, at approximately twelve thirty tonight. They must have cut a hole through the stone that's blocking the main entrance... we detected no hint of activity on the ground floor. That's the only one that used to be accessible from the outside. They struck with about twenty. Dumbledore was with them."
Lucius shifted as he mentioned the name.
"They've destroyed the wards. They incapacitated two of our Unspeakables, I've been told. Dumbledore put up a new ward in place of the old one, at the staircase to Courtroom Ten. He was gone by the time our forces arrived."
Lucius eyes rose to meet his for just a second. "We have put our best Cursebreakers on the job, my Lord. I expect they'll be able to crack it any moment now."
Harry suspected otherwise, but this was not the time or place to discuss it.
Hurrying to be done with his ordeal, Lucius described the Death Eaters' arrival and the Order's hasty retreat. Harry was barely listening.
The Order had gained control of the entire Department of Mysteries, however fleeting. Something he couldn't afford. Not now, not at this vulnerable juncture of his reign.
"Someone has been playing you, Lucius," he hissed, effectively silencing his servant. "Has your political intuition left you so soon after our victory? All that Firewhiskey you've been drinking with Evan has dulled your wits."
"No, my Lord, I-"
"You disagree?"
Malfoy shook his head, paling. A few more beats of Voldemort's raging stare and the younger man bowed to the floor – a quite unimaginative plead for mercy, Voldemort thought. He turned away, reaching out for Bella's Mark in order to dampen the ire that was clouding his thinking.
888
Harry jerked awake, suppressing a wince at the burn in his scar, which was probably what tore his consciousness away from the Dark Lord's. Voldemort's initial anger had thickened.
He sat up slowly, flicking Bella's wand to send a ball of light to the middle of the room. Its familiar corners grounded him: that battle was miles away.
The vision surprised him. It had been a while. So long in fact, he'd forgotten how sharp it felt to his senses – the way the thick smell of blood –unremarkable to Voldemort – had lodged like a tang in his throat, or the way the monster's magic thickened the air. He felt a bit nauseous thinking about the thrill of power he felt like a drug inside Voldemort's mind. If anyone deserved it though, he thought darkly, it was Malfoy senior.
Voldemort was looking for Bella.
Harry's mouth went dry. Bella.
Heart hammering, he stumbled from the bed and onto the darkened landing. With a Lumos he descended the stairs to the first floor, running past a number of doors until he found the one from last night.
A day. She was now under the curse's influence for a day. He'd…forgotten.
At this point he was fully awake, and Tom's cold confidence stroked over his nerves, smoothing out his movements and the heartbeat pounding against his chest.
He tried the handle, which warmed before yielding. The chandelier flared to life at a wave of his wand, along with the embers smouldering in the hearth. His gaze stilled on a bundle of life next to Voldemort's bed. The owner of the wand he was holding was twitching her head every once in a while, as if in the grips of a nightmare.
Harry let out a slow breath of relief. He wasn't quite sure what he expected to find, but the pull of instinct last night had dulled his recollection.
Watching the embers he tried to recall what happened. He'd started things off with a Crucio, he thought, and the spells had left his wand in a blur from there. Her wand had been warm in his palm as if alive. The sequence had felt familiar like a routine Quidditch manoeuvre, effortless – his routine, he thought grimly.
Harry swallowed against a sudden dryness in his mouth. His blood was thrumming against his temples. Who said the Dark Lord couldn't be passionate…
It was getting easier to recognise Tom's thinking and how it affected him: he could block that feeling, he discovered, by thinking of someone dear to him. This time he imagined Hermione, safe with the Order, and the bloodthirst became jarring, grotesque, a separate state of mind that he could switch off like a television screen.
Feeling back in control he rolled up her sleeve to study the Dark Mark. It was pitch black, the skin around it painfully inflamed.
He bit his lip. Voldemort would be quite angry with her when she didn't respond. Though not as angry as the man would be with him, when she told him why.
But Bellatrix loathed disappointing her Lord more than she loved Harry's pain. He counted on that, anyway. Voldemort appeared quite occupied with Lucius– he probably wouldn't notice the delay.
With quiet steps he retreated back to the doorway. He whispered the counter-spell to the Revoking of Regrets curse he'd left her with – an easy one but only if you happened to be its caster. Harry murmured an Ennervate next.
He glanced down at the glint of wood. This was the hard part.
He willed his hand to loosen – it almost didn't want to let go of the handle.
Bellatrix groaned, waking.
Before he could think better of it he threw the wand in the room, hurrying out the door before she might notice his presence.
Back in his own room, his body heat was still trapped in the bedcovers. He burrowed into them gratefully.
When the pain in his scar lessened to the sensation of nails scraping his forehead, he knew she had responded to his call – Voldemort was merely annoyed now.
Endearingly ruthless Bella had that same calming effect on him now as she had at twenty. She had always been a stirring presence among his mostly male following.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut as his thoughts caught up to him, a sudden despair lodged in the back of his throat, wondering when the novelty of these feelings would wear off.
888
"Go on, tell him what you told me," Cho Chang murmured, kneeling down on her high heels to eye-level with the distraught third year Hufflepuff next to her, a hand on his hunched shoulder. The curtain of her black hair swung elegantly before settling down. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere."
Snape raised an eyebrow at that.
James Tuckett appeared to bolster himself before looking up, way up, at Snape's tall form standing near the door to his private laboratory, from which he'd just been summoned to his office.
It was burning at his back like a mental itch. It the boy didn't bloody start talking soon…
It was then that he noticed the bruises on Tuckett's jaw the size of fingertips, like his chin had been gripped hard for some time.
"Pro- professor Carrow-" the boy began.
"Which one?" Snape interrupted.
"The woman, sir. She thought I was the one passing that note with the-"
Chang shook her head wildly to stop whatever juicy detail Tuckett was about to spill, and he fell silent. "The note doesn't matter," she said in a reassuring tone. "Just tell him what she did."
Snape wondered for a moment how these two had met.
Meanwhile, a heavy pendulum was swinging behind Snape's eyelids. In silent admonishment it went, left, right, left, right, each stroke counting down to the exact moment four and a half minutes from now, at which point his batch of twenty Blood-Replenishing potions would need to be stirred to the next stage. It they got spoiled…
The boy's soft voice brought him back to the situation in his office. It was a tone, Snape thought, his left hand starting to squeeze the nails into his palm, which believed there was still a body of reason to be found in this world, in this case represented by Snape.
"She held me back after class, and then she… she told me to take off my robes," he stammered, "and she- said,"– and Snape couldn't care less what his jagged colleague had spewed – " 'This is what happens when naughty little boys get up to no good in my class.' And then she put a curse on my behind…" His face reddened and he fidgeted, looking away.
Chang frowned at this before deciding to take over, tilting her face upwards: "She used some kind of Flagrante, Headmaster, and I don't know the counter. Madame Pomfrey hasn't seen it before either. She sent us to you in the hope that you might've."
And so it begins.
He didn't like the fear in her eyes. Like most of the older years she held no delusions about him, and had realised his current position meant he was a dangerous man. He quickly dismissed an ungraceful flicker of annoyance – she was the one who had opted to retake seventh year, even though her N.E.W.T. grades during the chaotic period of the Dark Lord's takeover had been quite acceptable, all things considered.
Ironically, his façade was the only protection they had. "Let me see."
Cheeks burning, the boy took off his robes and pants and turned around.
Snape inhaled silently in surprise.
Tuckett's boxers had been soaked in Murtlap Essence by Madame Pomfrey, judging from the smell, which would've only relieved the pain by a fraction. His regard for the boy rising slightly, Snape bowed to study the red skin visible through the holes in the shredded garment. The amount of blistering told him it was a partial-thickness burn. The buttocks were completely scalded. A Locatam, then.
Pulling his wand – he noticed Chang stiffening beside him before he remembered to send her out of the door with a pointed glare – he vanished the shredded part, at which the boy froze, which he ignored. He then started chanting the specialised counter, which was quite the regular in the Auror department. Two minutes later, the blistering started to lessen, with Tuckett hanging his head in relief. It would require at least a week of treatment with burn-healing paste. The boy was lucky he had two doses ready in the back.
Telling him not to move a muscle, he hurried into the laboratory to get the orange salve, sparing a glance for workbench on his way back. The concoctions were still in balance, simmering calmly.
Fully clothed once more, Tuckett was waiting like a statue, hands folded in front of him.
Wordlessly, Snape stuck out his hand with the jars of salve and drawled the instructions. The boy pocketed them with great care.
"Who passed the note?"
"I'm not sure," Tuckett murmured, still with bowed head.
"Look at me." Clearly hesitant, the third year straightened. Grey eyes locked with black.
The safety of the students was more important than one boy's privacy. Besides, he was careful to only take a focused look: "Think back to the moment when you first saw the note being passed around."
Tuckett's face blurred and then he was inside his mind, witnessing a third year Muggle Studies class play out. The boy's eyes were pinned to Alecto, but Snape could hear the Slytherins guffawing at his back in low whispers. He decided he'd seen enough.
"Off you go," he waved him to the door. "I will deal with the culprits." Tuckett fairly ran out. In the hallway, Chang shot him a frown before she closed it.
Back in the laboratory, a Tempus showed he had a generous forty seconds to spare.
Yet another wearisome task that fell on his shoulders alone: keeping his Slytherins in line – mostly the younger ones who didn't realise the stakes quite yet. He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. He needed a drink for this.
Not only was he supposed to keep the Infirmary stocks filled, which were currently depleting by the day… more importantly, the Dark Lord demanded his every spare moment to supply his finest with the best possible medical care.
And if that wasn't enough, it was because of the same bloody battle that took place yesterday that he had to secretly double his medicine production, in order to provide for the Order as well. Hit harder for its smaller size, the Order's needs were much more urgent than his fellow Death Eaters'. He didn't dare to delay brewing the first batch for the Dark Lord any longer (technically the second). He also thought about making it less potent, but figured the risks outweighed the benefits.
He shook his head, not wanting to think about how thin the ice was getting below his feet. Dousing the fires at the right mark, he proceeded to spell twenty ladles to stir clockwise, then counter clockwise at regular intervals. With everything set, he took a seat at the long table near the ingredients, which were perfectly diced and waiting for the following steps.
Already Voldemort had reprimanded him over the summer when, on a surprise visit to his storage rooms, Snape had to account for the scarcity of some of his ingredients (because of the war, he'd told him). He would rather not repeat that experience.
Time was of the essence, yet it slipped in gallons between his fingers. The demand for life-saving potion was simply too much for one person to satiate. Draco had offered to help and was surprisingly diligent, but couldn't be left unsupervised. Hermione Granger was aiding him as well, albeit unknowingly. Still: some potions, some ingredients were too important to risk spoiling even one batch.
Overexposure to the Dark Arts tented to rot one's ability to perform healing magics. Snape for that reason had always been careful to use the Arts sparingly. He had promptly become a rare commodity in Voldemort's ranks. Moreover, his position as a double spy and the need for appearances that came with it, made it easy to keep a distance from his colleagues. It protected him from the more grotesque urges of the Dark Lord's followers, never having to experience them himself.
For how much longer, he now wondered: that card had been dealt. He was unchained, supposedly. He knew his colleagues were waiting for him to act out his urges, now that he was third in command. Especially Bellatrix. He'd have to give them a show soon, or he would start to smell of weakness.
888
Harry had found a comfy little storage room that was perfect for thinking. In the quite of this morning, with Voldemort surely distracted by things to do with the satisfying events of last night, he wouldn't be interrupted anytime soon.
The room in question was the room with the fabrics – too many of them to count. Perhaps it was a hobby of Tadders, who had a unique fashion sense. He would ask him about it later.
Rolled and stacked, thick, thin, plush, floating in a solution of some kind, charred or ripped from spell burns, fabrics with reliefs of some kind, and all of them rectangular in form, and black. A black sea that begged to be jumped on like a bouncing castle, which was what Harry did next, feeling quite the eleven year old and not caring one wit.
After wearing himself out, he'd heated the fireplace (a fireplace in a room full of dry cloths – he would never understand wizards) and transfigured the rickety chair into a comfy fauteuil worthy of Dumbledore. He silently dubbed the room Albus' Alcove.
With heavy eyes, he set his thoughts to Horcruxes. He was in excellent company, after all. He hadn't been able to fall asleep again after the events of last night. Times like these he really missed the Dreamless Sleep potions Madame Pomfrey sometimes gave him, when he had an especially bad vision. His dependency on the stuff had probably worn off by now.
The locket from Slytherin was one, Dumbledore had said. Something from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.
His eyes snapped open. Perhaps… perhaps Voldemort was so confident he hadn't thought it necessary to move them from wherever he'd put them? He had snatched back the ring, true. But Nagini wasn't locked up, and Dumbledore thought she was a Horcrux…
Harry took a breath before closing his eyes again to shut out everything else. The real locket was probably larger than the one in his vision of the cave. All it would take was to think…
Harry felt a jolt when his thoughts were pulled to Umbridge walking around, alive – he had no idea why – but this was good, this was unexpected, it could only be his thoughts. The recollection shifted then, because she reminded him of shrivelled heads and that thief Mundungus Fletcher, and Grimmauld Place…
Realisation tingled over his skin, speeding his blood. That was Voldemort's real purpose when he demanded entrance to his godfather's old home: the locket. A nightmare from a week ago came back, which he now recognised as a vision. Umbridge was wearing it. Riddle had been so pissed off about that...
Harry's heart slammed wildly against his ribcage. And now she was dead, he thought dully – he had killed her… It figured.
He shivered, jerking his head to clear the irrational fear that sprung up at that thought.
What else… something from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw…
He waited patiently for a minute, but no sudden insight came. Of course it didn't help that he had no idea what the objects looked like. Harry sighed, rubbing his scar, which was merely tingling now. This was bad. If Riddle had already collected two of his horcruxes there was no reason to assume he'd stop there…
He had to go about this differently. What was behind all the locked doors of the manor, was there some place to easily store these items?
The attic.
Before he was quite aware, he'd gotten up and out the door onto the landing. At the grand staircase he climbed all the way to the third floor, but the ceiling gave no hint of a trapdoor.
He had to smile as out of nowhere a burst of laughter welled up in his stomach.
Stupid little brat.
Harry whirled around, heart hammering in his throat. For a moment he thought he'd heard his own voice saying something, out loud.
Slow, too, his thoughts whispered – what?
The realisation made his insides plunge. His own voice was speaking the words, but he sure didn't think them. Yeah, that wasn't insane at all.
With a sinking feeling, he realised it happened before. Several times in fact. He'd just been dismissing it, like a scared kid in the dark wishing away the monster in the corner.
Another wave of mirth pressed up against his windpipe. He scowled at the unholy glee of it. He wasn't hearing voices – it was his nice cohabitant talking.
Great, that was just…
He balled his fists. Welcome to my head, you bloody wanker, he thought back viciously. Feeling a bit trapped? Can't even use your own voice...
He felt his eyes widen as the words echoed in his ears. Did that mean he had been thinking all kinds of things, but it hadn't in fact been himself thinking them? All his ponderings – fake, a murderer's?
Harry yanked at his hair until the skin on his scalp started to burn. This was- this was enough to drive anyone crazy. Soon he could be shipped off to St. Mungo's permanent ward.
Say hi to Neville's parents.
His head whipped aside again, as if physically struck. Was he thinking that just now, or the other?
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as quick breaths filled the silence, his left hand scrabbling against his chest. He needed to block this...
He missed Hermione with a sudden deep ache that pulsed somewhere near his heart. But there was another friend quite nearby, in magical terms… "Dobby," he whispered. The elf appeared next to him in a beat, with a warm greeting and a tired smile.
Harry felt a hollow sort of guilt. "Dobby, how are things?"
Dobby nodded his head a few times, like he was falling asleep. "Dobby is fine, Harry Potter sir," he slurred.
With a burning stomach he recalled the insane working hours that the current staff was forcing on Hogwarts' elves. "Are they still giving you too much work to do?"
Dobby's ears drooped. "We is also having to clean all the teacher's houses this year, Harry Potter, and feed the Dark Lord's army. And so we is now only able to make four different options for each of Hogwarts dinners instead of nine." He shook his head sadly.
Seeing Dobby so wrung out, and knowing how proud the elves were of their work made Harry hate Snape with renewed vigour. He had to at least know about this – at worst, he'd ordered it.
"Is Harry Potter needing anything from Hogwarts?" Dobby asked, fidgeting to get back.
Harry grinned suddenly, knowing just the thing.
A few moments later, the familiar weight of his Firebolt was soothing in his hands. Dobby beamed from head to toe at being able to help. With a hurried bow and a pop, he was gone.
Harry set out to the first floor balcony and jumped straight down. The feeling of weightlessness overpowered all else. He flew at breakneck speed – brushing the tops of trees, making twists and turns, plunging down then soaring high upwards. He was wary of thinking about anything. He felt like a little kid in the dark who is terrified of hearing a sound.
The sight of the landscape below comforted him. The trees were not judging. Flying higher and higher, his eyes teared up in the wind. When his legs became numb and his arms were shaking with the effort of holding him upright – he was obviously out of practice – he plunged sharply, slowing down at the last possible second to jump to solid ground.
His mind kept silent. His scar was quiet as well.
Harry swung his broom over his shoulder and walked back to the manor. Inside the hallway he placed the broom in the empty umbrella stand, ready for the next flight. He stumbled up the stairs towards his room. The attic would still be there in the morning and although evening was still an hour off, he was suddenly exhausted. If all Riddle could do was taunt him, well, that said enough about his power over Harry right?
888
It was when finishing up his dinner, while Harry was considering trying the attic again, that Voldemort walked in. Harry took a last sip of his butterbeer. He had the feeling he was going to need it.
Voldemort vanished the tableware midstride, then sat down across from Harry. He gestured Watanabe to stand between them, at the head of the table. The man vanished the chair in silence and took his position.
Harry's suspicions were confirmed when the Dark Lord turned back towards him. The man placed his elbow on the table, hand outstretched. Harry mirrored his pose, more confidently than he felt.
He'd read somewhere that breaking an Unbreakable Vow was deadly. Presumably that meant there was something worse than his and Riddle's death that the vow was meant to prevent.
The man was clearly hiding a dark sense of humour.
Their palms met. Harry tried to stop his churning thoughts by focusing on the weird sensation. Voldemort's hand was cold and buzzed against his skin. It looked strangely harmless there. Takumi stood unmoving between them, blank-faced, looking down at their joined palms.
The Dark Lord asked: "You've read the conditions of the Vow. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes." Harry raised his chin. "My companion and I, we demand-"
"Companion is it now?" Voldemort's mouth twitched. "Your abominable skills at deception aside, let me explain to you what's in there. I have transferred to you the earliest threads of my life – which is more honour than you deserve. You are carrying a self-aware pensieve of my memories – a magical painting, as it were; thinking is all it can do in real life."
Harry wanted to point out that wasn't quite true, but the words got stuck in his throat. He somehow doubted it would improve the situation.
"I demand a vow in return," he tried again. See, his voice was perfectly even.
This time the man's annoyance was more pronounced. "You dare to demand that I, Lord Voldemort take an Unbreakable Vow?" he hissed. "You actually believe you're in a position to make demands of me?"
Without warning the grip on his hand tightened. Voldemort pulled and Harry was forced to bend closer to keep his elbow in position on the table. The man's face remained without expression, which was all the more frightening. Next to them Watanabe stood unmoving, as if meditating.
"You are a putrid ooze of emotion," Voldemort snarled, though his eyes stayed dead. "If everything had gone as I planned, you'd be a soulless corpse."
The man's indifference settled as a chill deep underneath Harry's skin. The urge to flee had never been so strong, but Voldemort's iron grip kept him seated.
A smirk cut a frightening line over the Dark Lord's features. "The idea was very entertaining," he murmured. "You see, when I had my Horcrux safely stored away I was going to send you back to Albus – just so I could watch from a distance through your empty shell of a mind how the smile on that old coot's face would crumble when he saw what was left of his chosen one – how his expression would turn into horror and disgust-"
Sick glee skidded over his scar and Harry had to close his eyes, it was too much.
"- and I would make your living corpse speak such sad words…"
Then the Dark Lord's voice dropped: "'Professor, why did you run away from Hogwarts? Why did you leave me with him, I thought you cared about me…'"
It was uncanny, how the Dark Lord's intonation resembled his own. Harry noticed he was shaking. Tom's presence was vague, perhaps held off by the mention of his hated old Headmaster. He almost wished for him now. Almost.
Watanabe's wand coming to rest lightly over the back of Voldemort's hand brought them both back to the present. Voldemort's skewed smile vanished, his face a canvas of blankness once more.
"Takumi here will act as our Bonder. Now, you have not done this before, correct?"
Harry shook his head.
"As I explained in my letter, you will affirm each of my three demands either in the positive or negative way in which they are phrased."
Voldemort's letter that morning had told him how the Vow would go, which did nothing for his nerves. He would be trapped with these vows forever – except, you know, when he felt like dying…
That could even be a good thing if it destroyed the Horcrux as well, but Harry wasn't so sure anymore. The extraction attempt had failed, but Riddle had come loose somehow… Wasn't the Vow rather a sign of how confident the Dark Lord was about keeping his precious little soul part safe? Or worse, had he finally found a way to separate Harry's state from the Horcrux?
Voldemort's unwavering attention when he looked up plucked at his nerves. It was a relief when the man broke the silence.
"Then we shall begin. Any and all information regarding the presence of my Horcrux residing in your body, as well as any other information concerning my Horcruxes you will divulge only to me, and no one else."
"I will." A thread of red light proceeded to emanate from Watanabe's wand, coming to drift over their hands.
"Any knowledge about me that you glean from the Horcrux residing in your body, you will keep a secret from everyone but me."
"I will," Harry repeated after a beat.
When another red beam joined the first he looked away. Possible implications for the Prophecy were making panic flare in his chest. He blinked, dizzy. He wondered why Voldemort would bother with all this when he could just as well use an Obliviate.
He needed to breathe.
Inexplicably, an echo of birdsong reached his ears. The walls of the dining room fell away to reveal Hogwarts in the distance, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight. Harry shivered, wondering how this was happening.
He scowled when the image faded. Of course, it wasn't real – it was Tom interfering again. Annoyingly, it worked to stop the shaking. He looked down at his own hand entwined with the devil's opposite. He was hyperaware of the Dark Lord's red eyes, now slightly narrowed.
The man continued in a soft tone as if nothing had happened: "You will not deliberately instigate or contribute to events you know may directly or indirectly result in the damage or death of the Horcrux residing in your body."
"I won't," Harry growled. Jesus. It took effort not to wrench away his hand right then.
If he saw nothing of Voldemort until the end of the schoolyear, it would be too soon. Riddles left and right were turning him into a puppet. Cutting the figure they wanted out of the old frame, before polishing his new hinges to a shine.
The third thread wrapped around their clasped hands. Something hot spiked along his skin for a moment, signalling the end of the Vow. Watanabe lifted his wand and Voldemort released him. Harry sat back, ignoring them both with what he hoped was studied nonchalance.
"Thank you, Takumi," Voldemort clearly dismissed his servant, who gave a nod before vanishing in a whirl of robes.
The silence held for half a minute. Harry wondered what Watanabe could have done to be trusted so.
Voldemort sat back as well. "The next time you find yourself in a dangerous situation, you may call upon either Severus or Takumi through their Marks."
"You mean when Dumbledore shows up?"
His scar seared with sudden pain; seeing a muscle move in the Dark Lord's cheek at the mention of the old headmaster however, it was worth it.
"When you are in danger or severely wounded," the Dark Lord hissed, lips curling.
They regarded each other in silence.
"May I also use the Mark in case I need to defend myself?" Harry asked, hoping it sounded casual. If someone pulled another Bella on him…
"To vent all that revolting teenage angst like you've been doing, you mean?" Contrary to the disapproving tone, rare amusement glittered in the red eyes.
Harry, trying to keep his cheeks from reddening, took this for encouragement. Riddle in this case would welcome the offered scenario – always appear to agree with your patron, or something like that.
He raised his eyebrows slightly, switching to the snake language. "You're right it calms me. And I believe it will help with those followers of yours that are still confused about my position."
He was taking a huge gamble. There was no 'position' Voldemort had ever spoken of. The Dark Lord however... chuckled. He waved his palm, dismissing him. Harry blinked and stood.
He couldn't believe that had worked. He went before the man could change his mind.
888
The atmosphere in the Slytherin common room was tense when he stepped inside, transported through elf magic, with Tadders at his heel floating his luggage. With an arm gesture the elf whisked the suitcase upstairs. Then he bowed low before Harry, palms raised to present… his wand.
Harry took it, marvelling anew at getting it back. He shivered as a thrill of warmth snuck up his arm to spread through his limbs.
"Thanks, Tadders," he whispered. The elf's eyes – the only part of him visible through the black clothes – widened with happiness. He bowed a second time, then vanished.
Harry looked up. More stares met his than he thought was strictly warranted - probably nothing interesting had happened in a while. It was a step up from all the devoted sneering at least, though he knew the novelty would wear off soon.
Draco had sat up straight at his arrival. It was strange: he wasn't that bothered to see him. Or the others, actually. He had missed the easy environment of school, of familiar faces…
It was kind of depressing, he thought, when seeing a bunch of Slytherins made your day.
He ignored the press of eyes, walking with purpose towards the passageway leading to his dormitory. He really didn't feel like talking to them now. He was bone-tired from the ritual. They probably wanted to know where he'd been, or gossip about him when he turned his back...
He closed his eyes for a moment in relief when he reached the black dormitory door without any interruption. Inside, he sank onto the soft green duvet of his four-poster, shoulders drooping with exhaustion. He threw a dull stare at the suitcase next to it, not quite willing to unpack yet. Fortunately it was Friday evening: no waking early, no teachers to nag him about his missed classes…
He burrowed his head into his palms, rubbing them against his eyes. A week of classes to catch up on... I can't wait.
His palms froze as his thoughts went to Zacharius and what he was doing right now. Scrubbing Snape's greasy dungeon floors with a toothbrush hopefully, along with Nott. He thought the third boy had a vaguely familiar face… The image of the boy was sharp behind his eyelids. And suddenly, recognition: it was the East-European guy from summer class.
All three of his attackers, shiny members of the junior Death Eaters club… He swallowed. He just had to make sure to watch out during the next meeting.
He tilted his head when a feeling came to him of derision. A scoff tried to bleed onto his face next – ironically meant for himself – but he blocked it with a deep scowl of his own, something he knew Riddle would find ungraceful. His posture was already looser than seconds ago, though. His arms and legs looked like his own, but felt foreign, borrowed.
He simply couldn't remember – when had he straightened his spine?
If he wasn't sure for a fact there was someone in his head, he'd have called himself a whack-job.
Horribly, tears were prickling in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them rapidly. He felt the sudden urge to punch his fist into the wall, just to hearthe bones crack.
See how dear Tom Marvolo Riddle liked that.
"Well?" Harry said briskly to the empty room, guessing Riddle had to hear him somehow. "Now I'm curious. Let's find out, shall we?"
He stood – and froze.
Draco Malfoy was framing the doorway. His wand was out – weirdly, in his left hand.
"You were talking…" he trailed off when the silence stretched, eyes cutting left and right.
Riddle's casual stance held. "And you were interrupting. What do you want, Malfoy?"
Malfoy blinked and walked in, closing the door and casting a Muffliato at it. "To talk to you."
Harry raised his eyebrows. Letting out a breath, Malfoy walked over to where the windows would be, in Gryffindor Tower. Instead a poster hung between the beds of a famous Slytherin or other. He turned his head slightly to speak over his left shoulder.
"Your- the ones that attacked you? They've been dealt with." As our Lord has seen fit, hung between them.
Harry didn't know how to feel about that.
As if in response, his right hand suddenly held a wand, twirling it between his fingers. He stared dumbly at the fluid dance from index to little finger, which looked like it took weeks of practice. It brought a welcome feeling of distance from the conversation. The silence build again until Draco's leg twitching pulled him out of his stupor.
"How?" Gods, he sounded arrogant.
No – Riddle did. Riddle had twisted his simple question into a haughty demand!
For a second it was like he'd missed a step on the stairs: his thoughts, now his voice…
Blood pounding in his ears, he clenched his teeth until it hurt. He kept his gaze on his wand, although it was a blur now. Was his cerebral passenger merely playing with him, bored? Or was this the beginning of a takeover – in fact, he couldn't for the life of him clench his hand into a fist…
As much as he wished it, Malfoy didn't vanish into thin air. A horrific future came to Harry then: one in which his mind was trapped in his own body, and Riddle had taken over, and no one had noticed-
Then again, perhaps they were just getting to know each other. Who knew with crazy Lord Voldydork.
He winced with the sudden pain on the tip of his tongue, tasting blood. Totally worth it.
Malfoy turned to face him fully. From the corner of his eye Harry noticed his gaze was restless, betraying his nerves. "Smith was expelled. Nott and Resnik have been heavily punished by their parents."
This close, the boy's Mark bled a prickling energy that tickled just at the edge of awareness. Harry had to resist the urge press down, just to stop the mental itch.
"Nott is still sleeping here," Malfoy went on to answer his unspoken question. Then muttered: "He won't be a bother though."
Harry still had his eyes trained on his wand. "Did you know," he murmured – and he didn't know why he said it – "that the Dark Lord values talent more than blood purity? If my mother hadn't fought against him, he would have let her join his ranks and let her serve him. Imagine that."
Later, Harry would realise that the Vow should have made it impossible for him to speak those words; information after all, which he could only have gleaned from the Horcrux.
He looked up to pin Malfoy with his gaze. Draco looked wary.
"I- didn't know that."
"Why do you serve him?" And he found his voice sounded like his own again.
"What?" Malfoy exclaimed. "Because- because I admire him." Two small red dots had appeared on his cheeks.
"What do you admire about him?"
Malfoy scowled. "I'm not here on a social call, Potter."
"Just curious Malfoy, it's a simple question."
"I'm not going to explain myself to you," Draco hissed back.
Harry shrugged. He glanced at Malfoy's wand arm, which had been folded stiffly in front of him from the moment he'd walked in the room. "And what about yourself?"
"What do you mean?"
Harry watched him carefully, not sure if Malfoy was pretending. "You were supposed to guard me, right? Is that…"
Malfoy tensed, then fumed: "The Dark Lord saw to my punishment himself. Happy now, Potter?"
It was the first time during their conversation that Draco really looked at him. What Harry saw surprised him: the usual loathing was absent, replaced by a seriousness that made him look mature. Trapped, like himself, and trying to make the best of it.
Malfoy's sense of duty – which he suspected was to his family first, the Dark Lord a close second – was like a well-kept garden, years in the making. All Harry had to do was plant a little seed.