A/N: When I wrote Snape's dialogue for this chapter, I realized something because I could see parallels with my earlier writing. In chapter 6, Snape acts in a way that I can no longer see him doing. It hadn't occurred to me at the time – some 12 years ago – that Snape would never resort to using such a punishment on a student. I won't mention it here so as not to confuse new readers. I improved the scene end it now ends slightly different (minor changes). I also made improvements in a few dialogues in chapter 32 (only minor changes).
Enjoy!
Chapter 33
He jerked upwards. For a moment the vast room was as unfamiliar as it was yesterday. He rubbed a scrubby cheek. He'd been dozing off on the rug in the expansive heat of the huge, medieval-looking fireplace. It pushed out of the grate to warm him three meters away. The imprints of the coarse wool made the skin there patchy. He felt something urgent as he usual did nowadays, when coming out of a dream he would later recall. Perhaps sooner if he went through the day in his mind, step by step.
A considerate amount of time after their strange talk, Snape finally finished up his potions along with the one he'd been set to. Before he was led away the headmaster gave him something remarkable: a shimmering bundle of something that sparkled even in the low light. It drifted slowly downwards over his toes – his suddenly invisible toes.
He reached down to hold up the Invisibility Cloak, feeling its solid presence. Snape's deadpan stare told him he'd better keep his positive emotions in check.
"For now you must remain unseen. Always wear the cloak, unless I tell you otherwise."
He put it on and felt instantly better. They left to ascend the dungeon staircase. Passing the entrance hall, the deep silence pressed against them. A stillness in the castle of children kept busy in their classrooms, just like countless other Thursdays before Voldemort had reached his bloody fingers into the great hall and ripped half the teacher body from their stations.
Up silent staircases, with mostly silent portraits, Snape holding a steady pace while Harry followed with shaky legs – falling sleeping during the day like this always left him in a drunk-like state, which is why he tried to avoid it. Snape had to wait for him to catch up a few times, chagrined, but eventually they reached the seventh floor, where Snape paced back and forth in front of a familiar spot that led to the Room of Requirement.
He half hoped to see the room of hidden things behind the new door, but of course what Snape had shaped was nothing that messy. First to catch his eyes was the daylight, direct sunlight even, which he'd never seen here before. A multitude of impossibly tall windows showed a glorious view of the Hogwarts grounds: its deep green colour stretching wide, the woods in the distance, the mountain peaks beyond. The curving glass filled up one whole side of the Room. He smothered a smirk: clearly Snape hated the eternal torchlight he had to work with in the dungeons.
Snape's imagination shaped the Room into a large oval space, the longest distance about half that of the Great Hall. The curved wall opposite held rows and rows of bookcases that stretched without a ceiling in sight. Not only books did they hold, also jars and cauldrons. Snape would not be brewing potions, right? Was there such a thing as object permanence here? At intervals near the books: benches and sofas to read them, in drab colours. A huge fireplace split the vast shelves down the middle, with a merry fire and a pot of tea on. The door to the outside was locked from the inside with three bolts – they curved and twisted quite unlike the bolts that used to be on his bedroom door in Privet Drive. The floor was a kind of well-kept hard wooden material, ballroom-smooth, which made the space feel more grounded in reality.
His classmates had made an adventurous version of the Room for the party. Wasn't it only four days ago that he'd been right at this spot, smuggled out of the castle by the Order through the castle's bottomless recesses? Since then he'd faced a Dementor, felt Ron's torture through the mark and Voldemort's wrath through his scar. Snape had a point. He could at least try to make a life raft for himself in the storm tide that was Voldemort's will. Then again, his last defying act had probably swept away any material with which to build one.
"What's all this?" he'd asked and belatedly added a 'sir'.
Snape's shoulders loosened a fraction, as if drawing from a well of patience to merely stay in the same room as him. "You are looking at a study, Potter, I know it's a foreign concept. Since I have now been regretfully tasked with guarding you, you will be staying here until such time that I have made more permanent arrangements."
He blinked, met the mans' eyes but of course nothing showed. "You mean to say… I can stay at school? Attend classes? Sir," he added again when Snape's mouth turned sour. Oh, the politeness was already getting old with this back-stabbing bastard.
Snape's stare was flinty. "We'll have to consider the best place to keep you." His eyes fled sideways, impatient. "I have classes to teach. You know how the room works. Think up what you need. Bathroom facilities are behind the paneled door next to the windows. You may imagine for yourself a bedroom over there. An elf will bring you dinner at the usual time."
He felt a vague relief when the man walked off, muttering he'd be back at 6 tonight. But after unlocking the three locks wandlessly – the weird bolts just vanished – Snape stopped and looked back at him. The vague revulsion coming off the man again made him grasp the back of the settee behind him.
Snape whispered and blue light sprang up around Harry. "I'll hear an alarm should you try anything dangerous or particularly stupid" Snape sneered. "An elf will send you to me in that case. Let's be clear Potter, that the room defers to me as headmaster. Your usual desire to be elsewhere will remain just that."
Snape didn't like whatever he saw in the next few seconds apparently, since he drew and pointed his wand. Harry suppressed a flinch.
"I suggest not trying my patience for the coming days. Just a shade of disobedience and I will vanish this homely decor you see now. And I'll leave you with only blank walls for entertainment."
He raised his palms in complacence, which triggered Snape into lowering the wand and leaving. Someone, either Voldemort or Snape, still had his.
Reflection did not bring back the dream that he knew was no dream. It would come suddenly, like it did that time Ron had been tortured and it had been a message from Voldemort.
So as not to fall asleep again, he kept himself awake with a browsing of books, of potions' content and smell, of any kind of movement behind the fake glass. Aside from a bird now and then, this spot of the grounds remained quiet. He thought of Hagrid, which led to thoughts of all the Order members. He missed them already. What would they think of the call he'd made in the spur of the moment? Would they be disappointed like Snape, or would they understand if he explained the stakes?
A lot of potioneering books. A book on warding which he found more interesting but was far too complex to get through. The same with Transfiguration. He browsed through a book on what seemed to be Legilimency, though the author rambled of all kinds of mind arts and appeared to think you could just as easily Legilimise anyone across space and time. No basics of anything here, except the whole bookcases of all the past and current curricula of Hogwarts.
He took an oval-shaped walk, and another three. He ate some biscuits and tea left by an elf. He stopped in front of the fire and thought back on how he'd managed to make the flames pour out a while ago, with a rage that also worked to slam a door in Malfoy junior's face after he'd been punished by Malfoy senior. It was wandless magic, which felt extra urgent to get a hold of now without a wand. Voldemort had showed him it was about letting loose the magic already inside of him.
Make your magic flow from your fingertips. Thinking of the wildness of flying on his Firebolt had worked last time. He closed his eyes to imagine it, opened them and held out his palms. Release, freedom…
There was no change. Some anger, perhaps? But when Voldemort had shown him, with the trick-track discs, he hadn't been angry. He had felt a lot of focus, or perhaps eagerness to succeed. He tried again to urge the fire upwards and saw a change: a few flames licked higher, then still more. His face split in a grin, but it slid off as he thought back of the moment, that moment – with Voldemort's wand, the decision to stop living himself so Voldemort lived one-seventh less. That had been despair, but also something reckless within him which never thought anything through. Something essentially stupid.
A soft noise behind him. He turned. The door opened: Snape was back.
He stiffened but then willed his arms to fall lax. He was beckoned towards a couch. It was soft, which is why he'd avoided it – he wouldn't want to have to wake up to Snape's cantankerous stare.
Snape sat down next to him and drew close to unwind the dittany-soaked bandages, which had dried a bit on the outside. Next he pulled out a jar of something that looked buttery when opened. A next step of healing then, which had to be a good sign. He was told to look at the shadowy ceiling and the cold substance was dabbed onto the skin there, which still stung mildly.
Snape's palms suddenly held fresh soaked bandages. He was wrapping Harry up next. It reminded him of a particular moment in the Muggle schoolyard long ago: a father was fastening his daughter's scarf during a cold day of winter. He tensed but let his feelings drift again. He diverted his attention to the thrumming of blood in his ears.
He was staring straight ahead into the fire. He sensed Snape sitting back when he was done. Quiet descended. Snape's profession was in line for once with his well-being, as weird as it was to see. The man was as meticulous as if Harry were a potion in mid-brew; a brew then which the man hated but needed to see to anyway, with an outcome that was dubious, hardly worth anything except to his master. The whole thing, Harry, added up to something unpalatable but necessary. You're just a mediocre boy.
Madame Pomfrey should be the one doing this. He felt a tremble in his jaw as Snape still did not move, or speak, only looked him over. Probably for signs of desperation, of why he had done it. He looked down and studied his hands, the light of the fire still an afterimage on his eyelids.
"Could've put that on myself, sir." Whatever 'that' was, the wound no longer stung.
"I know that you can," Snape articulated clearly, as if talking to a slow person, "But you have shown me no indication that you will. How can I trust you to take care of yourself?"
He bit into his cheek. His face felt hot. "It feels better, so… Are we done now?"
Snape was studying him still, waiting? Ah. "Thank you, sir. It feels better."
He gasped as the man grasped his chin hard. A rough twist of his neck followed. He knew the jolt of this was so he'd meet the beady eyes, but even then it was impossible to avoid the stare completely, so close: it was like an invisible anchor drawing him in, which made his chest burn with helpless fear.
"Legilimens"
He yelped, jerked back but there was nowhere to go before he felt Snape's calm cool presence nudging on the inside of his skull.
The previous day spun out in front of them both. Dean, Neville and himself arguing with Neville's mother. Voldemort's horrid presence in the room suddenly, the torture, the mind-blowing hit by Dean. Running, the thrill of both fear and success because Voldemort followed – Dean would be safe. Apparition and Voldemort's blood warm, on his clothes, his obsessive hold when he had him.
It took precious seconds to come up with something distracting, the murder of Umbridge – it must be a sign of his state of mind that his first attempt was a scene about killing. She had stood in the fire-line of his wand, perplexed at her fate…
But the image was wrenched away: he was back in that moment of silence when he'd fallen onto the Dark Lord's chest, and the horrid parody of the arms around him which pulled weirdly at his lungs, ridiculous…
He growled – but he'd never learned to push out the Potion's Master properly and whose fault was that? And Snape was not only a master, he knew his mind like few others. The memory effortlessly continued onwards: Riddle's wand twisted around to his neck, thinking he could always kill himself, he could do it now, the seventh piece.
Snape froze the scene, a mental eye-blink.
Inside this moment Harry considered, though without words, that had the Unbreakable Vow actually worked this should not be possible. He wouldn't even be thinking about a seventh piece, it would be blocked. So Voldemort had been right, the Vow hadn't worked – was that why he'd seen nor heard of Watanabe after his torture?
Just how much Snape knew depended on whether a Legilimens could understand these things that occurred to him beyond literal thoughts.
Snape drew back finally, about to cut off the connection but Harry leaned forward, seizing on a feeling, as if attached by a rope. Because suddenly with the same wordless insight, this setting recalled to him another one with Snape across from him, at the same distance – a chess game, something he'd forgotten. But he hadn't been him – he was Voldemort then.
He had perhaps milliseconds with his thoughts exposed like this, so he whispered with fervent intent: "Protego."
The spell burst from his raised palm as if through a wand. Like his practice with the fire before had loosened his magic. The potion master moved quickly but at this distance nothing could block the inversion of the spell – the switch from inside Harry's mind into Snape's.
It flowed and ebbed around him now, that cold, cold place that was Snape, like a dark ocean trying to drag him under. He imagined solid stone underneath his non-existent feet, warmth, then the Headmaster's study in more detail and the board between them – there were a lot of little pawns in that moment, but he was Snape now so how to reverse the positions?
Snape's sharp brain was to his benefit for once – he did it for him, couldn't resist perhaps to fill in the blanks. The scene sizzled and burst to detailed life around them: fine black cloth around him and a deathly-coloured devil in front of him. Faulty details were corrected: pieces vanished and appeared elsewhere, changed colour to fit the memory. Snape was now their mental anchor.
He thought like a yearning on the moment in his dream when Voldemort would pick up the tower-like piece and it happened:
"I don't want any irreversible solutions at this time, Severus," Voldemort spoke. "It all comes back to your old intel, in fact. Since I can use him so well for it, now that I've negated the threat from the prophecy he can still be a hero for the masses. His survival has grown on me, perhaps. Time will tell if he'll remain my... companion in faith-"
The scene went dark as Snape threw him out. Next he manhandled Harry into one corner of the settee. As Snape stood and blessedly backed off, his face was as usual without any expression.
He took a breath. "No irreversible solutions, what kind of solutions did he mean?" But that wasn't the disturbing thing, it was something else...
Eyebrows raised, Snape dwindled the fire with a spell to lean back against the hearth behind him: surely he did not expect an answer?
He twisted to get a look of the man. He was no match like this, but that could be corrected. Snape's Mark was enticingly close. Already the cold shape in his mind gave him a calm sort of satisfaction.
"Why did you see that, Potter?" Snape spat. He'd gotten underneath the tight veneer. "I felt your recognition, your fore-knowledge of the scene. You've watched this before, how? You will tell me now-"
"Riddle confided in me." In a manner of speaking.
"Yesterday evening? Liar." Snape's gaze did not falter as he went on after a beat: "You saw it while you slept."
"Ten points to Slytherin."
Snape ignored this. "Your continued whimsical attitude under these circumstances astounds me, Potter. Even when you might suffer torture or worse, you keep seeking out these visions. But then you do have a death wish, do you not?" A twitch of lips, mocking.
I do not. "I don't seek them out-"
"But you forgot. If you had applied yourself properly to my Occlumency lessons you would have had perfect recall after you woke up – yes I felt your surprise. You are an open book, especially your feelings inside my own mind."
It was pure chance that Snape's closeness had made him think of the memory, of sitting just as close but with the board between them. But what else did Voldemort say? Ahero for the masses, but also a companion in faith…
If only he'd kept that strategic edge that the Horcrux had given him after they had merged: with Riddle's sharp tongue he could wiggle more out of Snape. But now it was like the horcrux had never controlled his thoughts or body in the first place. Like it had all been only his imagination. But then, something had changed. Mere days ago he'd seen Ron's torture in a dream too. Voldemort had forced his mind to be present for the scene. That hadn't happened before, before the whole dementor business, right?
"It's a good thing the Dark Lord does not have to worry about your power of retention. The opposite may also be true: he may check on you through the connection, but you don't remember." Snapes eyes gleamed at the horror that twisted his lips.
Snape was right, he had forgotten both scenes for a time after waking: he should do better. And the emotions Voldemort gave off through their link were different as well now, he was sure. They were more... intense, more varied? More something.
So. Was Legilimency a stream of conscious thing, did he realize Harry was one of seven pieces now? But the thing that had nagged him before welled up now, a sensation like falling-
"Old intel. Your old intel, he said. And-"
Snape cut him off: "Such insight, Potter, that you understand that being a spy means acting on intelligence".
He held up a hand to continue. "And the prophecy."
"You are merely his shield, Potter. He'll always want you near to-"
"Now who's the liar," he snapped. "It was you, the death eater that day the prophecy was heard at the Hog's Head. You told Voldemort the prophecy!"
He jumped backwards off the couch, tripped, caught his balance with a flat hand on a nearby rickety table full of books. There was an intense buzz sizzling under his skin.
"You bastard," he whispered. "You killed them, you killed my parents." Not Sirius, not Pettigrew really. It all started with Snape.
He felt at the icy presence of Snape's mark. It spoke to him even more now that he was electrified with a kind of blood-lust, or oncoming catharsis perhaps. Something else that had sunk down in the recesses of his brain – the last time he'd managed to hurt Snape this way, and Voldemort's curious response: It's good that you found a more appropriate candidate for your revenge.
It made sense now, this was what he'd meant with Snape being a candidate for revenge, what Voldemort felt Snape owed him for his part in orphaning him. The Dark Lord hadn't minded then, it had amused him even, and he certainly wouldn't mind now that he had more pressing things to snap at Harry for. He only needed to think it and it would be so – Snape should burn.
But he was airborne in the next second, his stomach protesting the abrupt movement. Snape's wand was hurling him at nauseating speed. He twisted, saw the walls getting closer and got an arm up just in time to crash sideways into a bookcase. The second of impact against the shelves felt like they must've reached into his very bones.
He was barely present, on the ground but he should move. His elbow burst with pain. It had caught the first impact along with his burning side. Every shallow breath held the promise of more if he expanded his lungs. He shook his aching head, filled his lungs despite it. Where was Snape? He didn't need to look.
To focus he closed his eyes – caught and pulled.
There was no sound, but there hadn't been the first time. Harry stumbled closer to the cold connection drifting in the middle distance, damaged arm tight against his flaming side and the other grasping – at wood, bookcases, a lamp. As he walked he regripped the Mark, because otherwise his hold would lessen.
Mere meters divided them now in the huge oval room , darkened windows to their left giving a sense of isolation from everything else but the other person. Another twist at the magical curse connecting them – he imagined trying to rip it out of the skin – and there, Snape's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared with pain.
A thrill of power settled his stomach nicely. "You didn't know I can do this without touching now," he wheezed, "Just by feeling that ugly thing in the room… did you?"
The first time he'd managed to draw pain from the Dark Mark, it had been with Draco Malfoy, in the common room. Or perhaps even earlier, that time when they'd fought in a corridor. In the dungeons he hadn't thought about it, it had just been his anger. He'd managed to hurt Malfoy through his mark across the room. Horcrux Riddle had shown it to him in fact, how to sense and grip from afar.
"Occupational hazard," Snape murmured with no expression whatsoever. But there, his breaths were becoming heavier, more shallow, his midsection rising and falling…
Snape was still talking:
"-was only a matter of time, with your lack of discipline or even morality, the Golden Boy can do what he wants..."
Snape, teaching him about morality? He should not take the bate... "What do you mean – only a matter of time before what?" Each breath felt like something bruising still, biting along his ribs.
"Before you would try to copy him, with his own power. "The curtain of hair was shaking a little around his bowed head now. Ah.
Snape had drawn another breath through what had to be ever-increasing pain since Harry was stacking it up nicely. He suffered so prettily, Voldemort had said, but he shook the thought away with a shudder –
His teacher raised his wand, eyes a blank stare. The hand was steady. He should really do something, duck, run… but he felt frozen in the line of fire.
He twisted again.
Snape flinched now, finally. "Clearly we need to work on…. impulse control," he said, then started an incantation.
He tried to lurch away from the spell; a brown blur that grew as it neared, which turned out to be a net from thin rope. It snagged around him and pinched, digging red lines into the skin, choking him. He clamped down on a Muggle curse, which would cost air.
He struggled upwards only to trip again, twisting mid-fall to present his good arm. The stones slammed into him and again his lungs felt too empty. Red light shimmered around him – he was out.
888
He jolted awake to stare blankly at the gleam of the wooden floor around him, the closeness of the room and the light of one torch on the wall near the door. He was lying on a bed with cheerful Gryffindor colours which he'd imagined up earlier. He was in his bedroom in the Room of Requirement. The wood had to conceal the real masonry beneath, but oh well, this looked less cold at least. He stood and reached the door, opened it and realized his left hand was connected to an arm, ribs, lungs that aside from a nagging pain, all felt considerably better.
Just a few clouds bedecked the skies – the sun's angle implied it was already mid-morning and he'd slept throughout the night. Well-rested, and after last night's horrid news that was a strange feeling. He glanced down as he stepped further in the library-like vast space. He chucked the white hospital gown – that bad? – to see. Below it, blessedly, underwear.
His chest held purple bruises in several places. A layer of something brownish shimmered over his left side, where a shelf had dug into him with the force of a bludger but in a much smaller area – and perhaps therefore it had made a nasty impact: below the unfamiliar salve he saw a dark purple-red area, which was the same part of him that was aching the most. Blunt-force trauma was the words that doctors used when things didn't penetrate the skin, in that Muggle series aunt Petunia liked to watch and which he could hear from inside his cupboard when he was little.
Perhaps this was Pomfrey's doing – but she would've woken him, surely? No. It was Snape who didn't want people to know he was here, two-faced Snape healing him, murderer Snape.
He shivered in the cold air. Should find clothes first.
All the garments he wore nowadays came from that one day he'd visited Diagon Alley, what seemed a year ago but was only a few months. For just his robes and some slacks he'd picked out himself, he'd thought then. But the shop owner had send him dozens of things in the same size and cloth. Nowadays he could dream the colour schemes, since he saw them every day: dark green and pitch black mostly, with some variations in indigo blue and burgundy. Thick velvet, wool, some dragonskin for a tunic he'd never worn. The fact that Voldemort must have wanted him to shun all his old stuff, his Gryffindor outfits, his cast-offs from the Dursleys, the Weasley sweaters, to only wear what he wanted him to wear because the rest had all vanished, well... he'd stopped thinking about it after that.
He turned back towards his bedroom. Sure enough he found familiar fabrics in a baroque closet in the corner, stacks and stacks of them. He dressed, chose the burgundy cloak and looked around for a wand he didn't expect to find. And of course it wasn't here. Would he ever get it back, after what he'd pulled off? He went out again to stand near the vast hearth, undecided. The fire crackled at his back, an earthy sound that was somewhat comforting in what was otherwise a silent hollow space.
He walked his stiff joints lose on bare feet – surely there were socks but the grains along his nerve endings felt nice. He refused to let his thoughts wander back to the man who put him here. When he came to a random dinner table near the windows he saw the plate of eggs and toast steaming under a heating charm and stopped.
"Dobby?" he said loudly.
A few seconds passed and Dobby appeared. He was in the process of wiping his small hands clean on an apron sporting the disturbing new Hogwarts cressed with the Slytherin symbol right in the middle.
They blinked at each other. "Dobby," he crouched to get to eye level, "how are you?"
The elf's ears twitched. "Harry Potter sir, it's so good to see you! Dobby is well, thank you."
"And how are Winky and the other elves?"
Well, and no, not drinking. They went through the list of house elves and how they were faring. Tired, still, Dobby assured him.
"I'm going to see what I can do for all of you," he repeated as he did the previous time, more because he wanted to than because it was a realistic scenario.
Dobby had to leave soon to tend to his considerable duties, and the silence was back in the room. He walked over to a shelf with a cauldron, picked it up and threw it hard at the wooden floor. It didn't crack. But there were glasses as well, Erlenmeyer-like contraptions near the windows. He picked one tall vase-like piece from a set and threw it against a window.
It smashed with a beautiful sparkling sound, glass bits falling down. Could he make them float? That would be a nice surprise for Snape later. He proceeded to smash other glasses, until the ground around him was littered with pieces. He hesitated: he wasn't wearing shoes and it was making him weirdly want to test Snape's spell on him. But he didn't want to see him any earlier than he had to. And so he carefully stepped back. He strolled for a bit to get warm.
Finally, when the pain on his left side was becoming something to breath around, he caved and drew towards the couch near the fire, which was out now, with a book on war tactics. The introduction and first chapters held his attention for a long time, so long that lunch appeared on the table.
To the left of his plate of pumpkin sandwiches, he was studying the bloody illustrations of Renaissance battle scenes, in which large armies of magical people had fought each other, when with a sudden swoosh a tall, slim figure stepped out of the hearth and into the room. He turned with an aborted move to draw his still-absent wand from his sleeve.
McGonagall straightened and took in the room for a moment, before focusing on Harry. She was without a hat but wore a dashing set of blue-grey Ravenclaw robes with eagles bearing down over the shoulders – an unusual amount of colour compared to what she usually dressed in, or used to.
"Professor! How did you..."
"Oh I am quite familiar with Severus' wards," her lips twitched. "Good to see the elves are keeping you well fed. Bon appetit." She gestured. "Please do continue. May I?"
"Of course," he murmured and she sat down in the old wooden chair next to him. All of them looked like Headmaster's chairs, handcrafted with ornaments and miniature crenelations – a bit overdone for a regular diner table. The Room probably had all sorts of old things to spare.
Another plate with sandwiches appeared and she took one in a shaky hand. He noticed one side of her face was streaked red.
He froze. "Ma'am, you alright?"
She nodded while chewing. "It looks worse than it feels. We are lucky that Madame Pomfrey has been practicing healing for as long as she has. She is well-versed in how to treat damaged nerve-endings." She took a sip of pumpkin juice – it looked strangely youthful of her.
"What about…" he gestured at his own left cheek. "Did he… I thought he only…" - slapped me, he swallowed back down.
"Yes? Oh." McGonagall conjured a huge mirror to hover next to her, frowned a little at what she saw, then tapped the bruising with her wand and a melodious tone, something he vaguely recalled Snape doing at some point. The bruises vanished along with the mirror and she gave him her full attention, brows raised with the demand he continue.
He looked at his empty plate. He didn't feel like telling her, or actually having any sort of conversation when the poisonous facts of today were still sinking in.
"Please, Mr. Potter, what were you going to say?"
Her unusual warm tone made him relent. "Thought he only did that to me, the… hitting." Just like how he's teaching me manners.
Minerva sniffed haughtily. "He does when one talks to him like a regular person with flaws and desires. I know a thing or two about how he works from our childhood, and he doesn't like to be reminded. Of a time when he was more human, but he would consider it a weakness."
Harry grimaced. "You were both at school around the same time, right? What did you tell him that he got so annoyed?" He felt a grin coming on despite himself, added: "Would've liked to see that."
She chuckled. "I believe it was more the tone I used that set him off, in the end. I don't want to urge on his sense of self-importance any more than he already does, you see." She finished her plate and he looked at his own barely eaten one. He thought of Ron and his appetite. He shoved it away and the plate vanished. A tea service popped on the table instead. Harry shook his head at this but took a full cup, cradling it for warmth.
He forced a smile. "Yeah, that will do it."
She took a cup as well, tilting her head considering. "Even his enemies bestow upon him the courtesy of respect, which he has done nothing whatsoever to deserve. Not even the tiniest bit." Her eyes fled to his over the rim of her teacup. "Exactly the opposite."
"Hey, no objection from this side."
She put down her cup – her hands still shook which made him wonder that either this was the best Madame Pomfrey could manage, or that she'd gotten a particular long shot of Cruciatus. He mused on how to ask what happened when she continued, apparently bracing herself:
"I'm so sorry Potter for how little you were able to taste of freedom."
He shrugged. "I liked your house."
"Yes, I do miss going to my summer house. But it serves a much more useful purpose now." She sighed. "Understandably some people, although they mean well, can't handle the pressure that Voldemort's regime puts on their families – they could be his enemies or his death eaters, either way. All I can say is that, knowing Augusta as I do, she must've been at her wits end."
Harry sat back to stare at the full plate of chocolate pieces and cookies that Dobby had probably just send down. "News sure travels fast."
"Mr. Longbottom told me."
"Ah. How is he doing, by the way?" And Dean, he wanted to ask but dared not.
"As well as can be expected. He's been… quieter than usual during classes since he came back from his grandmother's. But then yesterday afternoon, I saw him working quite diligently on a project with Hagrid. Something do do with setting up a Diricawl-friendly enclosure, Hagrid told me.
He imagined how that would go – very well probably: Neville's enthusiasm for plants combined with Hagrid's for magical animals. And his grandmother, what would the Order do with her? It wouldn't be what Voldemort did with traitors, that was for sure, but then what could it be, throwing her out of the Order?
She lifted her chin as he turned back to her – his teacher's eyes had caught onto the vicinity of his neck, the wound from the killing curse. She was wondering about it, and it pressed into him quite physically. He breathed around a sudden burst of adrenaline – from what he wasn't sure, memories of that moment, the way his mind had quietened, had become calm as a lake as he finally decided to let go, or from her seeing and knowing, perhaps?
"Did he do that?" she asked, every part the stern teacher.
He put down the cup to study its rims, grimacing and shrugging again.
She was about to urge him to speak, he sensed. "I don't really want to talk about it," he said and sighed when she sank back a little, resigned.
"You are now under watch with Professor Snape, I gather? Because I don't think you're staying here of your own volition. And only the headmaster can lock the Room of Requirement."
"Yes. The traitor."
She raised her brows. "You of all people know well that just because we don't like something, that doesn't mean we don't need to deal with the reality of it. As well the castle has truly accepted him, somewhat to my surprise. So he can't mean its residents harm."
He was laughing before he was quite aware. "Did you know that he…" He bit the inside of his cheek, all humour gone again. Did he really want to know if she had always known this?
"Yes?"
"Snape was the one who betrayed my parents to- to Voldemort."
She took a sharp breath and sat back, which was answer enough. "I did not know. I did wonder sometimes, what Albus meant, when I asked him what I could do to help Severus settle in – he seemed so restless and forlorn you see, in his early days of teaching. And it was the answer he gave; that some things one couldn't help with, they just needed time, and that in Severus case he was carrying with him a lot of regret." She shook her head. "My," she breathed, folding her hands over the new steaming cup the tea set had poured. "You're sure about this?"
"He all but confirmed it."
"He told you this?"
He played back the conversation in his thoughts. "I realised. And he didn't deny it."
"I've found that when it comes to Severus, things are rarely as straightforward as they seem."
Was she being deliberately obtuse? There was no other interpretation.
"Do you think he knew? Dumbledore," he asked, holding onto the tabletop with a tight grip. If he knew and forgave Snape for it… Then again, the man's judgment of people wasn't stellar to begin with, since Riddle had revealed he loved the Dark Lord Grindlewald.
She looked like she didn't want to respond. "Yes, most probably. You ended up in a fight, I'm guessing?"
"Alright so he regrets it," he tailed back to his previous point. "Of course he does. You know what? Let's ask him, because I can bring him here right now."
McGonagall frowned, not understanding.
He bend towards her, catching her eyes. "His Dark Mark."
"Really," she said, quite coldly all of a sudden. "We will wait, as we normally would for a teacher who is right at this very moment teaching a class. And I will not have you using that awful enslavement charm in my presence young man, thank you."
She stared at him like he'd been vandalizing some Hogwarts paintings just for the heck of it. It made it easy to imagine how she irritated Voldemort – he would have to ask her to do that again when he was around to witness it. She raised a brow, not unlike Snape, when he failed to respond. "Or at all, for that matter."
"What's he teaching then, ma'am? I thought he didn't need to, with his new position."
She waited a beat, then allowed the side-step: "He teaches Dark Arts for our seventh years. The curriculum has taken quite a turn as you know. And although we have instated a new teacher for this course, we want them to be as prepared as they can be for their N.E.W.T.S."
"They changed the requirements already, so they fit what Voldemort's wants to see?" It seemed fast in just a few months.
"Correct. Voldemort has always had a personal stake in that particular curriculum. Did you know he once came over to the castle for a job interview for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post? This was a long time ago." She proceeded to explain how Dumbledore had denied him, then took a few sips of her tea.
"Ma'am," he suddenly considered. "You didn't… you didn't have to cancel your classes to visit me, did you?"
"On Fridays I only teach in the mornings."
He nodded towards the windows, avoiding her searching eyes. His legs were restless and so he stood, feeling a jolt go through him again at Snape's betrayal.
Behind him: "Reparo."
A distance away, the scatterings of glass that he'd caused flew towards each other until all the instruments sat whole again. He saw that drops were no longer patting the windows, had perhaps stopped falling altogether. "I hate him. Snape."
"Understandable," Minerva said in a soft tone, and he turned back. "Though I should point out, hate is not conductive to thinking on your feet. And you will be needing a lot of that I expect, for whenever Voldemort returns. So I'd suggest you push that corrosive feeling away as much as you can. Focus on convincing him you'll stay here, so that you can continue your education. You take command of your future Potter, and you won't let the past dictate what you can do – even if that past consist of your parent's passing, perhaps especially for that reason. I know Lily and James wouldn't want you to become bitter over all this."
He blinked at the personal turn in the conversation. Well, with his remark he encouraged that. But it helped, he was breathing more easily. He nodded.
"Now," she clapped her hands. "Let's hear it, your thoughts on third-order Transfigurations. I gave them to you as homework a few days ago, you will remember."
"Er…." He didn't. She peered over her glasses at him, then a familiar study book for sixth years floated from the curricula shelves onto the table. She dived into a quiz to see which subjects rang familiar to him and which did not. Next he dutifully set to reading the subjects that had sunk away in the last few months. While he was busy with this, McGonagall took out a pile of letters and set to correspondence.
The afternoon passed for once like a normal one, with the reassuring sound of a scratching quill nearby. When the last of the sunlight had vanished down the windows and flickers of the chandeliers twinkled over the pages, Harry was surprised she was still here with him. He stopped reading and stood to watch the fire, then the dark beyond the windows.
There was a storm outside apparently: rain streaking the curved glass, but imagined by the Room or not, it left no sound. He yearned to stand outside suddenly, to feel the water sink into him from all sides. The Room was a thing of dreams, sure. But it did not compare to the outdoors.
The will he'd gathered around himself to give up living two days ago, still sat like an oily layer on his skin. It dripped into his ears muffling them, burned behind his eyelids, dulled his thoughts. He had one chance at it, and he was relieved that that chance had vanished now.
At some point Minerva put down the student essays she was marking with a pinched expression as if bracing herself. He looked up towards where she was staring: the door. Did she sense him coming or did she know it was now six o'clock?
The door opened after a minute. His morose thoughts spiked now with his rage and the urge to do something, as the death eater who'd betrayed his family stood just inside, taking in the presence of his colleague.
He balled his fists and yanked at the icy mark – Snape was done teaching for the day, wasn't he?
Snape was striding the considerable half-length of the oval space, and halted only for a moment as his eyes sprang to him. Harry was eagerly watching but Snape did not flinch.
He took it up a notch – there, a movement of sleeves betrayed the clench of a fist.
The potion's master had drawn level with the table now as his eyes bored into Harry's. His fingers were calm as they spread over the back of a chair across from them.
"I thought we'd made an agreement Mr. Potter, no good behaviour means a rather dismal report to the Dark Lord."
The other professor had pursed her lips at the sight of her colleague, but at this she turned towards him sharply, as the situation occurred to her. "Potter, am I to understand-"
Snape yanked up his sleeve to show some of the reddish Mark. "Didn't you know Minerva? That is how Potter deals with things he doesn't like. Destruction. What does that remind me of, I wonder…" The last was said quietly, privately to Harry: Snape's eyebrows rose in a challenge.
The message was clear: desist, or I will tell her what you tried to do to yourself.
"Mr. Potter, really!" Minerva exclaimed with a disappointment that seared, raising both hands. He pulled back at this – the voice that had perfected scolding for decades. His thoughts felt scrambled. Why shouldn't he punish a man who deserved it? Didn't it fit the crime?
Meanwhile the adults were holding a wordless dialogue. McGonagall held one hand at her temple all the while, as if barely keeping her patience.
How did he know that Harry did not want word to get out about this, this thing he tried to do? Or did he mind, really?
He mentally shifted his focus away from the mark, letting it go. He mouthed to the man: I hate you.
A corner of Snape's mouth twitched with some amusement, or perhaps satisfaction at gaining the upper hand. "Our boy hero doesn't know how to play nice. That's right, it reminds me of his father."
But Snape's eyes glinted with a different message:
Next time you use the Mark, I will just tell her. Or perhaps: I'm not the one on a leash here, you are and it's your own fault.
He raised both brows – let him read his mind:
Don't think I will never do it again, that you have something to hold over me now.
"Well I don't believe you about helping me anyway, Snape. You helped murder my family."
Snape's nostrils flared. "It'll be sir for you, you little-"
"Severus!" McGonagall turned to the headmaster stiffly: "Let's discuss this calmly, as adults do. Potter told me about the prophecy, that you were the person who revealed it to Riddle. Did you have James and Lily in mind, specifically? And do sit down Severus, you're straining my neck."
Snape seemed to draw into himself, then slowly took the seat. Harry wanted to tear at him again, just to see something of that blank expression change, a flinch, but he only had words now-
"Why not blast me into furniture again, sir?
Snape tilted his head, folding his hands in front of him. "Your recent self-destructive habits," he said, almost too soft to hear, "I will not humour, Potter. Or perhaps... not so recent?"
Snape enjoyed this clearly. But he didn't know anything.
Minerva cut through Harry's unfocused musings on what to fling back: "Potter, let's hear him out first. Severus?" She addressed her colleague.
The headmaster's face was without expression once more. He drawled: "While I do not feel any need to explain myself to either of you, I will say that I did not know at the time whom it was that the Prophecy referred to."
"But you knew that someone would get targeted for this," McGonagall argued. "You probably made an educated guess-"
He, Harry, looked out at the silent rain slathering the windows on his left. No wisdom would come of this. Pointless to listen to more explanations from an accomplished liar, in fact he wanted to seal away his ears. But it worked to muse on whatever Snape was implying before – something to do with the memories he'd glimpsed during Occlumency? So many had passed between them, there could've been a glimpse of the cupboard, of his uncle's rage when he came home tired form work. An unhappy childhood, now Voldemort's prisoner and so perhaps he'd gone off his rocker?
No, these things did not logically connect, not in Snape's mind, or Harry should've caved under the new regime much earlier. He was just fishing. It was his profession as a spy.
"You can remove that now, it's as healed as it is going to get."
The pause was so long that the words finally reached him with delayed meaning. He tried to remember if his button-up covered the bandage.
McGonagall gestured towards the vicinity of his face and neck. "I thought I saw your poultice at work, Severus. What happened there?"
Although she clearly expected an answer, Harry just watched her. She meant well, of course. Snape finally prompted: "Well?" As if he was just as curious.
He looked at the table top. "It happened at close range, while I tried to get away from him." He waited but Snape said nothing. He loosened and removed the now dry bandage. Behind it something powdery came off, the salve had sunk in. He braced for her reaction – in the bathroom he'd checked out the bruising along his side, which was healing faster than he'd been used to after altercations with Dudley of Vernon, but he'd forgotten to check on this.
Minerva drew a breath at the sight. "That looks severe, still. Some sort of fire curse?"
His hands held loops of bandages and they twisted the length around his knuckles, which turned white. "I think it was something lethal that I heard about, and Riddle reflected it back to me."
His eyes shot to Snape's at this lie. His expression was as flat as usual. But he remained silent.
"Does it hurt?" she prodded and he shook his head.
"Something wandless, I presume," was Snape's only observation.
He blinked at that second lie. "Yes. I'm not sure what it was that came out."
Snape's half-closed gaze he always attributed to boredom, but now he wondered if it did not in fact signal the opposite: contemplation. "Good, so you won't be repeating it," he drawled, stressing the point with a slight raise of the black eyebrows. "Whatever you may think worth it to weaken him, it's never the Dark Lord who suffers in the end."
He scowled at the table top. Yes, yes, so kind of you to take a vested interest in keeping me alive. And also, you said something about finding a purpose, right? That's nice.
Minerva waved and the pot poured out three steaming cups. "Do you want Poppy to take a look as well?"
"Not needed, I treated what I could."
He swallowed at what was perhaps another lie for his benefit.
"Sorry to hear that Potter. Well," she took a sip and he did as well – a lot of calming spices. "Onto my next point. I think one thing we can agree on is the importance of Potters education."
Snape's looks did not vary much from dead-pan.
Minerva was used to it. "That is why I wanted to speak to you, Severus. He should resume classes as soon as possible."
"Pending the Dark Lord's decision on his future."
"I'm sitting right here, you know," he muttered – and wherever had they left off with the 'Snape sort of killed my parents' part?
"Yes," she nodded. "Pending that. For now I assume we have at least until this weekend – do you mind if he attends classes?"
"I do mind. He's not to leave my supervision." Snape widened his eyes a little in something that felt like skepticism – mocking Voldemort's directive? It couldn't be news to him that Voldemort was a paranoid fellow, right?
Minerva gazed at him now as she asked: "Would another member of staff do as well?"
"As long as you don't whisk him off and I know where he is at all times." He spread open his palms. "He disappears, it will be on your head. He should remain unseen for the time being."
He slammed the table. "I'm right here."
"Sorry Harry," she gave him a smile which only irritated him more. "Perhaps you'll feel different when you know where I'm heading with this. I saw your gaze as you were looking out through the windows. How long has it been since you got a whiff of fresh air?"
A week or thereabout. "Too long."
Snape finally spoke, turning to him. "You may accompany me on my morning rounds, Potter. I attend to my collection of plants and ingredients in the greenhouses. In return I want to see stellar behaviour from you."
When Snape stopped he nodded, then had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Yes, sir." Just for now, at least.
"We'll see. Be ready to leave here at seven sharp tomorrow morning. You will assist the students who are working on maintenance and harvest of ingredients."
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And so the next morning, it was with a bounce in his step that he passed through the front doors to follow the dour shape of his teacher. It was a crispy morning and he enjoyed the play of the wind against his cheeks, the way the leaves of grass danced to it and the branches of trees, the ripples in the lake. Snape would show him the way around a part of the greenhouses under his supervision so that he could "make himself useful" by extracting the excess autumnal growth of valuable ingredients for potions.
It did make for a tropical atmosphere to switch to the damp environment inside the greenhouse. He chucked his Cloak on a table near the glass doors and looked around at the rows and rows of plants. The greenery bend over the aisles under their own weight – vegetables, unremarkable shrubs and outlandishly colourful flowers next to each other, plants that stuck to your clothing, some devil's snare that almost caught him even though it had a wooden framework around it. And near the middle of the space a few actual trees, one of which spilled an unknown brown powder into the air. There were some birds as well, though it was easier to hear them than spot them.
Neville and occasionally Cho worked here, Snape had supplied, and they'd been told to keep his presence secret. Neville greeted him warmly, though under Snape's stern gaze they were immediately set to work plucking leaves. Harry shared a bit in Neville's elation when Snape finally left for class and they got to take lunch alone. They took their sandwiches in the area where ingredients were left to dry and put into jars.
"How are things here?"
Neville shrugged, his face turning grim. He shook his head. "Gran. She's something."
"I'll say."
Neville started on what looked to be an elaborate apology, but Harry waved it away. "You couldn't have known."
"How is eh…"
"That fellow Voldemort?" Harry said teasingly. "I guess he'll be fine. Unfortunately. All thanks to Snape."
Before his thoughts could turn grim, Neville grinned impishly. "But the party was fun, right?"
He laughed. "Loads. Well, except for that last part." The chirping of birds drew his attention. "Say, there are birds living here as well?"
"Plenty," Neville nodded. "And lizards, spiders. Although Luna knows the animals here better than me."
"Is she in class now?"
"Yes, we mostly get together in the evenings in the common room. We don't share a lot of classes. We do have Care of Magical Creatures together – though I have to say Harry, I don't like it any longer. It's all about how to get magical creatures to do things for wizards. Same thing with Muggle studies." He gave a dramatic shudder. "And we share Transfiguration, with MgGonagall, that's nice." He looked at him. "She's bad-ass. She doesn't give an inch whenever Riddle is around, I've heard."
Yes I saw that, he thought but didn't say. "How do you find the work here?"
"It's alright actually." He shrugged. "Ever since found out what Herbology is about, I've wanted to know everything I can about magical plants. I want to take care of magical plants after Hogwarts, perhaps study them – at least I did before… all this. Now that he's seen what I can do, Snape lets me do the schedule for the watering system though, the harvest cycles, the equipment for maintenance… it's exciting. If you leave out his sparkling presence."
"Sounds great, Neville, I'm glad you're doing something that you love."
"I've been showing a few younger students around here as well. The ones they call blood traitors which is actually more than just the Muggleborns. Ron and Dean are both gone now you know? So we need knew people. They carry out maintenance. Mostly in the afternoons when, you know," Neville scanned the surrounding area but they were alone, "Snape isn't here to scare and belittle them."
"And Cho, she's here as well?"
He shrugged. "Cho was already doing a lot of work for the stocks in the dungeons. She's here about once a week to check on the stocks, the drying process, take valuable things to the dungeons."
After lunch they walked the greenhouses, with Neville pointing out the things that needed plucking, or repairs. Too soon Snape was back to whisk him away to the Room again: apparently the other students were coming, and he wasn't to be seen.
Though the time spend in the Room in the afternoon and at night was a dull affair, the silence too easy for reflection, the next few days started on a bright note, helping Neville with odds and ends. After breakfast Snape would sometimes walk his invisible-cloaked form to a specific part of the potion's outer gardens or greenhouse, to harvest or treat ingredients under supervision. Mostly though Neville was there and Snape seemed content to leave them to it, so long as Neville accompanied him always. An unexpected turn of events in which he could spend a lot of time with his friend, without any adults to spoil the conversation.
He still saw no one during the weekend aside from Neville, Snape and the occasional visit from an elf or MgGonagall. Things acquired a relaxing pattern all the same, a feeling that was so long ago for him he couldn't even recall – definitely before Voldemort's take-over.
Gradually, Snape's razor-like gaze on him lessened to something normal, perhaps because he showed no signs of jumping from heights, drowning in lakes or all manner of morbid possibilities that must've crossed Snape's mind. And because he left off on grasping the man's mark, despite the increase in blood-pressure that Snape's mere presence always gave him. If ever he really needed to make a point that way, the option was always there. Though he left off the formal address. He didn't care that Snape noticed, and perhaps added all these little slights up to a tantrum. Soon he would have a bigger problem to deal with than Snape.
Sure enough on a Tuesday morning, he was summoned to the gates. There had been no heads-up. His legs felt jelly-like as he strode alongside Snape and they branched away from their usual path. Snape wanted silence, probably. So he wasn't going to get it.
"You must have discussed a suitable punishment, haven't you sir? Been exchanging torture methods with Voldemort for my benefit? Or will it be a one-time thing – we both know you make one hell of a Living Death draught."
He looked at him sideways when the silence lengthened, expecting rage, but that face was just immovable. He swept his gaze back to the ground again, the waving grass a more calming sight than the nearing gates.
"In these types of uncertain situations," Snape said next to him in a low voice as if Harry hadn't spoken, his eyes still scanning their surroundings ahead, "I find that it helps to imagine them ahead of time anyway, to spin out different scenarios."
He was glad Snape didn't see his wide stare, which he hoped was smoothed down as he answered: "So, what do you think? Perhaps he will-"
"In silence, Potter," Snape scowled.
He scowled back. "Right."
He could easily imagine his own torture, more difficult was the death of a friend or friend-related horrors. Already there were the boar statues just meters away, and beyond them stood the man of his nightmares. Voldemort, in a warm cloak today, showed no outward reaction to their approach. Nothing about his stance suggested he'd been mortally wounded just a few days earlier.
Snape bowed deeply, straightened. Both men studied the other, of similar height. Snape gave him a little shove next and he passed the wards, which felt like a waterfall at the point where they swept and pressed along his body, until he stood on the other side, no barriers at all between him and Voldemort.
He sensed the headmaster backing off; it seemed to tug at him physically with the wish to stay near a fellow human. The gates shut behind them with a cling. Voldemort's hand shot out to pull him close and the grounds fell away with the snap of Apparition.
They arrived in a tidy neighbourhood he recognized because of similar-type houses all around. Voldemort pushed him onto the neat lawn of Privat Drive without a word. Before he could gather some kind of strategy, Petunia was opening the door and staring up at Riddle with large eyes. She backed away, arms lax at her side, having recognized him somehow.
"Vernon!" she yelled. "Take Dudley-"
Lily, take Harry and go, it's him!
"Madame," Voldemort cut into her desperation. "Kitchen, Potter." Next he was striding past through the hall and into the doorway at the back, which indeed led to the kitchen.
Inside the little space, Vernon and Dudley looked to be halfway through a breakfast of pancakes. His uncle growled, stood and came around the small table, bulk still huge as ever. Voldemort was leaning back against the kitchen counter. The differences with the calm, thin Voldemort would be comical in a different setting. Harry stayed near the door.
"What is the meaning of this?" growled his uncle.
"Harry?" Dudley said softly as he stood as well. His pancake was about half that of Mr. Dursley, so perhaps he was finally sticking to his resolve to eat less vast amounts.
"So," Voldemort brought his family's attention back to him with a sneer as his eyes flit over the group. "Here they are, your family. Though not so fond of you as a family should be, are they? I know what that's like. Tell me Harry, is the feeling mutual?
He started at this, considered who could've told him that information. When he realized his own distraction he snared his thoughts back to the kitchen – he could dwell on it later. The Dursleys were frowning, Petunia had sneaked in to hold Dudley in her arms now. He'd long stopped to consider himself as a fellow child similar to Dudley, in need of love and care. But this was the adult's fault, he knew. Dudley had even stopped his Harry hunting after the Dementor incident.
His cousin gently shrugged off his mother to frown at Riddle with something fierce beneath the fear.
"That's right, we should have-" He send Harry a look and tried again. "Should've done more for you. But what about you, mister Voldesomething? You started this-"
His lips twitched but a jolt of worry send away the humour: Dudley put a hand on his own throat suddenly, hesitant like someone surprised. Next he was gasping soundlessly as Voldemort turned his way. After a moment of tense silence, Riddle said:
"It's hard to confront the truth of the years that you have failed him, which I see inside your measly minds you know very well. There is no hiding from Lord Voldemort. Time to make amends then, Muggle, don't you agree?"
Dudley sagged sideways now while Petunia and Vernon both held him up, the latter red-faced and throwing hateful looks their way.
"Take a guess Potter, as to why we are here." The Dark Lord gestured at Harry to approach, having clearly dismissed the Muggles. As he neared, the man's long sleeve crept over his shoulders so that he stood tugged against the man. A sharp squeeze around his right upper arm was probably in answer to his shudder at the move. His hands were trembling as well, and he knew he would be shaking if not for Riddle.
"Any chance, sir," Harry turned his head to be heard despite the rattling sounds from his cousin, "that you could let my cousin breath, so I can… hear myself think?"
Would it work, such an innocuous request? The moment crept on, Dudley on the floor now and still not breathing right. He was able to repress his flinch – perhaps something of the horcrux had stuck, then. He dared look up. Nothing showed on Voldemort's face, but there was a force now pressing against his scar from the inside, increasingly painful like a tiny flame drawing closer and closer to skin.
Ah yes, he kept forgetting. "My Lord."
Lots of coughing and an in-draw of breathf from Dudley. He closed his eyes in relief but opened them at once – he'd rather keep all his faculties clear and sound.
"Thank you."
Dudley went into standing position, aided by both his parents.
"I think," he hurried on to forestall Riddle's impatience, "You will punish me by torturing one of them."
There was the flame again, searing even closer. He flinched, jerked back but that was silly of course, since he was quite trapped.
"That does not match the severity of your misconduct, now does it?" Voldemort spat in Parseltongue. "You know already what will happen but I see you're good at deluding yourself. Not unlike your family."
His teeth started chattering with a new burst of proximity-induced adrenaline as he thought of a way out.
"Try better. And you will tell me why you deserve it."
Why? He'd been kidnapped, basically, so one notch against him, and yes, he'd drawn away Bellatrix. A good thing the Dursleys couldn't understand all of this.
He thought of Nagini to make the switch to Parseltongue: "You will… kill one of them."
It seemed now that all of them must fall at some point, all those who could be used against him. It was an old nightmare turned reality.
"And?" Voldemort squeezed his shoulder again, as if encouraging.
He slumped. "You want me to choose who it will be ." The claws on his right shoulder loosened. " Because, " he parsel-whispered and stopped. He hadn't really tried to escape , so that wasn't the right reason . " I used t he Dark Mark so the Order could catch Bellatrix." He scraped his throat and straightened, shrugged but the shoulder stayed on.
Ah. And that little matter. "And I tried to, ah, let me kill myself."
It went out weirdly in Parseltongue, sounding vaguely like someone else had done it.
The rage at these words slammed into him like a punch, parallel to the flare inside his scar, making his breaths heavy – just by hearing the words spoken aloud, it seemed, Voldemort was experiencing the betrayal anew.
Voldemort switched to English to include the Dursleys: "Who will it be?"
The airy suggestion sounded like a choice between different dinner options. Petunia sensed the stakes, though. She clutched at Dudley:
"Not my baby! Why are you doing this…" She turned to him then, eyes despairing. Well, don't look at me for that.
They deserved to see this coming, and so he ground out through his now painful chest: "Will it be… the killing curse?"
Dudley clutched at his stomach.
"I will cast it for you." Riddle waited for him to catch his deadened stare. "No use straining your soul."
Vernon was sobbing now too, hand plucking out a few hairs.
"Right," he said flatly, swallowing and looking away.
From the corner of his eye he saw his uncle stepping forward to swing an arm at Riddle. He got pushed back hard through magic, tripping and falling back onto the table. Vernon grimaced, turning a little purple in the face.
"I will do this," he heard himself ask, each word like a stone, "and you will leave the other two alone?"
Silence was his answer: Voldemort did not negotiate on anything.
There was a clear lesson here on what he could and could not do, what was his to possess and what wasn't – not his death, clearly. But there was no point in teaching this to someone who was about to be buried inside their own subconscious. That meant at least, between torture and the draught, it wouldn't be the draught. He tried to let the implications of that fill his mind completely, but the ache behind his eyelids wasn't cooperating.
He looked at the overly familiar faces around him, and chose.
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A/N: Curious to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Let me know :)