A/N: I think this website might be really, actually, finally dying out now, at least concerning HP fanfiction, or people just don't have the patience for my now 14-year writing stint, so the amount of reviews is drying up. Nevertheless, I will stubbornly continue to upload here as well aside from the A3O place where you can also find me - to those who are sticking around, a warm thanks to you!
~ January: I made slight changes to the dialogues after reread and after beta check.
Warning: self-harm.
Chapter 36
Outside Snape's door, he decided the hospital wing was not a bad idea after all: it would get his pain fixed and he now had little risk of detection, since dinner time was on for at least half an hour. No Malfoy to watch him either.
Entering the infirmary, he saw three of the beds had curtains drawn. He crossed the long space to come to a stop at the healer's office, a chamber next to the main wing. The large door was open. Madame Pomfrey sat behind her desk, checking empty potion flasks and noting things down on parchment. She gestured for him to come over through the ancient arch. There were beds here as well. It smelled of antiseptic.
He greeted her: "Good evening, ma'am."
She smiled warmly. "Ah, Mr. Potter, it's good to see you again." Her face fell into professional mode as she studied his face. "What happened here?"
"That's eh- Riddle, I mean the Dark Lord. It doesn't hurt now. I'm here about something else, well, something else he did."
She looked vaguely disgusted but it blended away into a kind smile. "What can I do for you?"
He slowly blinked at her to catch the start of the memory. "I was- he tortured me. Two days ago. Snape- Professor Snape gave me a painkiller, but it's worn off. So I wondered…"
She nodded, turned to a locked cabinet of warm-red wood in the corner. Behind the glass doors were rows of small bottles.
While she checked her stocks she questioned him about the curse, earlier painkillers, when the pain started returning… After a minute of this she knew enough. Pomfrey handed him three bottles of a mild painkiller, one per day, and gave him another to swallow now. She confirmed that it would probably take another two day's until he was pain-free, based on the Moonsund's efficacy.
Walking down towards the entry hall, the sounds of cutlery indicated dinner was still going on. He ignored his hunger – he'd rather ask the elves for something later than risk making an entrance. He waited for his 'guard' in a shadowy part of the curved rock that marked Slytherin's domain. Eventually, students trickled past. Malfoy appeared, but he did not enter the stairwell. He cursed silently: the blond was going up the stairs to the hospital wing, because of course that's where he'd been told to go.
He deliberated for just two seconds as he watched the first students leave, before giving in – why should he make things hard for himself instead of Malfoy? Draco was nearly out of sight when he got a lock on his Mark: the boy stumbled, only just visible halfway up the stairs, took hold of the railing and bowed his head, shoulders heaving. Now, look behind…
Malfoy turned back down with a resigned air. He looked intense and worried as he came to a stop before the entrance doors, eyes glancing everywhere. He actually thought this was Voldemort calling him – he should know by now the more likely candidate. Harry came upwards so Malfoy could see him. Draco looked startled, then scowled as he walked over. He opened his mouth, closed it.
He felt a burst of nerves. "What?"
"Just when I thought you weren't like the others."
He led out a breath, turned down the stone steps. Draco followed beside him, fuming still.
"Tell me what you mean, Malfoy." His stomach wasn't as confused: hurting someone deliberately, cruel...
They stopped at a stretch of wall that guarded the entrance to the common room; Malfoy grumbled the password. As they passed through the arch that appeared, Malfoy threw him a mocking "Make me," then walked off to the other seventh years at the back. He stared as people made a place for Malfoy on one of the couches. If he wanted to he could focus and sense what Malfoy felt about him, but that would mean acknowledging he cared.
Homework then: a lot of ground to cover, and it sounded better than seeking any sort of conversation here. He walked the stone-hewed corridor towards the boy's dormitories. Just before he was out of earshot he heard someone say: "Is it true we've got Potter now for Seeker?"
He grinned for a moment, before his mirth slid away: this place reminded him of a certain deranged Slytherin he would be meeting again on Sunday.
The silver lanterns flared to life in the dorms. The fireplace in the center of the large space was already spreading warmth. This room was oddly shaped – one could describe it as flower-shaped, with the beds shoved into each of the roundish petals, several meters between them. Perhaps magic was only able to do so much against tons of stone and lake. Seventh year meant much larger sleeping quarters, it turned out. He couldn't imagine that happening in Gryffindor Tower, with each level the same exact circle of space as the one on top or below it.
He took a wooden seat at the table next to the fireplace, which held all kinds of books and newspapers, then got his Transfiguration and Charms texts from his bag. He closed the zipper and threw the bag hard towards the vicinity of his own bed to have it out of sight – it was some kind of velvety dark royal blue and was linked in his mind to Voldemort's property, so the less seen of it the better.
No one wanted to miss the opportunity to socialize in the common room, to gamble, perhaps to drink illegal things, or just to play a game of Exploding Snap in case of the younger inhabitants. So: no one around here. After some time, and a third attempt at deciphering a chart of wand movements for a transfiguration, he glanced behind him towards his fourposter and the trunk lying next to it.
Perhaps a certain item was in there. But if he went and looked, would Voldemort check his mind later for this moment, and confiscate it? Best assume Voldemort would not for such a routine activity, or he'd never be able to muster up any kind of strategy. A Legilimens couldn't read literal thoughts, Snape had said: he saw things as they played out.
If asked he could say the tooth was a reminder, a keepsake of a battle he was proud of.
He stalked to the out-sized briefcase next to his bed – Voldemort's – fell to his knees and searched for his old school cloak. He had carefully not thought of it when he'd put the bit of fang in his robe pocket some weeks ago. The Horcrux had closed his throat on a whim then – luckily it was no longer controlling him physically.
He found his cloak. And there, the pocket was weighted down… He turned to check the door, then carefully pulled out the basilisk fang. The tooth was as wide as his fist at the base, yellowish with age, hollow but still it would work just fine. The end of it looked sharp, despite its size. His right hand slid down to just above the pointy end and he felt a thrill of strange excitement.
Not only useful to destroy other pieces out there. Here he had his solution if the worst scenario came true – a Dark Lord that reigned on and on, likely becoming more rather than less deranged, and himself ripped along as Voldemort's back-up immortality. He was Voldemort's fail-safe; then this tooth here was his own fail-safe. In case Dumbledore had tried out all other possible solutions, and saw no other way to separate them.
Voldemort and Dumbledore were smart enough to fix him if they worked together, he thought with a grin. He imagined the conversation: Dark Lord sir, you both have an equal interest in this, and between the two of you, well, I have no doubt we'll have this whole nasty soul-sharing business done with before the year's end – what say you?
He chuckled to himself. Crouching down he carefully settled the fang back into its pocket, where it stuck out a bit; he covered it with the fabric of the robe, shoved all of it to the bottom of the trunk for good measure.
He'd have to think on getting to the other horcruxes, and get them here. They must be better guarded now than ever. Perhaps he was also in a better position to find them, if he kept a steady head. He'd have to play meek for a while though, before he'd try another search.
Walking back to the table he saw sandwiches on a plate set out next to his Transfiguration essay. Was Dobby looking out for him? Munching on one, he turned back to the mundane routine of homework. There was only the sound of water lapping the stones around him. Soon after, others came in; Goyle payed him little mind as the boy took a seat opposite him at the table, while Zabini and Malfoy both settled down for the night early. Nott as well. He still had his curtains open like Malfoy, perhaps because he was working on something and needed more light from the lanterns.
"Nott." Malfoy whispered, but it carried in the quiet.
"Hm." Nott said, seated at the edge of his four poster, looking down at a square object in his hands.
"I have another one coming in. You have him," he jerked his head to clearly indicate Harry, "till I return." Without expecting a response, Malfoy turned and left.
If he considered the last hour, these two had a fragmented idea of guarding him. He willed himself to turn to Nott. The trick here was not setting your face, it was keeping it that way during disparaging or otherwise weird conversations. Horcrux Riddle had taught him much, but had taken the finer details with him, it felt like.
"What's coming, Nott," he said with exaggerated interest, walking over to his own bed. "Another one of Malfoy's rare brainwaves?"
"Nothing to concern yourself with," Nott sneered.
"Well, I bet it's liquor he's getting from outside. Or something else?" It was nearing curfew, few people still about to witness.
"Shut up, Potter."
Nott was holding an indecipherable instrument or decorative thing, made of different sorts of lacquered wood; the cube had odds and ends sticking out and covering the surface, like a multidimensional puzzle. While he watched Nott pulled large and small shapes partway out of the thing, like it was a Swiss pocket knife. He rubbed them with some kind of oily rag, then clicked them back into their positions inside the cube. Little buttons and gears opened up to reveal deeper layers.
"It's something you don't want the teachers to know," he said with certainty.
Nott gave him a skeptical stare while his fingers twisted and rubbed the equipment. Entertainment? A safe?
He raised his brows. "You think I'll tell a teacher?"
"You know nothing about subtlety, Potter. Besides, I remember… last year you had your mind pulled open every other day by Snape, didn't you? And now you see him every day, good to know. Malfoy told me, he's so well informed…" He grinned.
"He no longer does that."
"Sure, Potter. No one will ever read your mind again. My secrets are safe with you."
He turned to put away his schoolwork. He was starting to dislike the boy's grasp of his situation.
"He must hate it. What do you have to do?"
Nott was staring down at a tricky little lever that was sticking out of the cube still: he tried sliding it back home but it resisted. "What's been going on between you two anyway," Nott went on, undeterred by his silence as he pulled at several other bits and pieces before again trying the stubborn bit without success. He went on: "He really has it in for you and that's been the case for ages."
"So nice of you to care. According to him I seek attention just like my father."
Nott shook his head. Went on with his project in silence.
If he had his invisibility cloak he could just follow Malfoy and see whatever he was dealing in. But it was still in his pouch, which Tadders had took away or banished. The cloak would come in handy for lots of things.
"How often does he have these meetings?"
"Ask him." Theodore had closed his contraption and put it in his trunk. It was one enforced with metal bands and opened with a whispered password. Afterwards he pulled out a set of pajama bottoms and closed his curtains to Harry's gaze.
888
His bruises were turning blue-gray the next day. Snape had been right: still nothing in the papers. Voldemort's visual punishment had not been about public shaming. He wanted Harry to be embarrassed among his classmates, and to let them enjoy their speculation perhaps. His fellow seventh year's would remember this next year, when they were forced to leave the castle's secure environment for a place in Voldemort's regime, whatever it would be. But still: the point of this wasn't clear.
Friday lessons went better than Thursday's: his pain had dwindled to near nothing. During Charms, Flitwick reminded them of the term assignment, for which they needed to wrap up their research projects soon. He couldn't even remember one of those for any of his classes. During the study period in the afternoon, he copied each assignment they'd gotten from Zabini's notes. He would just have to ask the teachers at the end of each class for clarification, and speed things up.
888
Saturday started out with Quidditch training: the first match with Huffinclaw was next weekend. He asked Malfoy accompanying him: why the long face?
"You know very well, Potter," Draco hissed back, looking a bit intimidating in the voluminous Quidditch gear – he'd grown half a head taller than him now. "You stole my shine. Besides I hate the Keeper position."
He barked a laugh, leaning on the Nimbus 2001 that the team still played with. "Come off it, Malfoy. Why wouldn't you be good at Keeping? Seeker doesn't even come naturally to you."
Darkness of the early hour around them; the other players seemed like shadows as they took off from the frosty grass. Ramone Urquhart yelled at them to get off their lazy legs and into the air.
Draco blinked at his cheerfulness, but his sour mood of the past days remained: "Well," he muttered, swinging around his broom, "Why the hell didn't you stay with your own little fan club, anyway."
Afterwards, Urquhart wanted to boost morale, so close to an 'official' game, so naturally they went for a warm drink in the courtyard. It was deserted. He realised soon that warm drink meant: Glühwein. Someone had procured a cauldron and put on a fire to heat the smuggled flask of red liquid. They all watched it heat up. Little anise stars floated in it, as well as cinnamon sticks and some unclear green herbs. He wondered whether this was originally a Muggle drink or not, since Samual was heating and ladling cups so expertly it seemed more of a magical ritual.
Cho chuckled as she drank her first mouthful and said: "We didn't even have breakfast yet."
"Don't think it contains any alcohol, now that it's been heated," Harpers said. Their team stood in a circle around the cauldron – let's hope Snape didn't spot them on his morning round of the Greenhouses.
Samual shook his head. "I've kept it far below boiling point just for that reason."
"So to get us drunk?" Vaisey joined in – a Chaser like Cho; last names were still unclear since no one addressed anyone else that way.
"Well," Urquhart chuckled. "It doesn't hurt, does it – times being as they are. Am I right, Potter?"
He could definitely feel an alcohol burn going down. "Sure, as long as I'm sober by tomorrow morning."
They all sniggered, even Malfoy. This was starting to feel like a good idea, switching teams. Get them to lower their guard.
"What's on your schedule, then?" Cho asked, her long black hair swinging his way. The stuff was strong enough to make his brain floaty, with no food to temper the hit, and he realised he was looking at her too long: she had quite a symmetrical face and large eyes.
He took a large swig, loving the herbs and spices mingling with the wine, deliberating. He was stalling – he'd walked himself right into that one, hadn't he? Oh what did he care. He thought back to a documentary that the Dursley's had found impressive when he was young: alcohol was like poison. They left off the Saturday wine after that, up until the night that Vernon decided to celebrate getting a raise at work.
It wouldn't kill him.
"I have to go to him." Another sip: just this glass and no more.
Blinks and stares around him. "Does he… check up on you?" Cho asked softly again.
"Weekly. We share lunch, it's lovely."
"Imagine that, Potter," Malfoy chuckled, pouring himself another ladle. "Going to him totally pissed. How would he react."
It wasn't really a question, but his restless mind set to the challenge.
"He'd be astounded, at first; the sheer audacity," he mused, wiggling his legs through the combined high of post-sport and booze. Then he'd go all menacing." He raised his brows in a circle to catch their gazes; attentive and somewhat horrified faces looked back. "Potter!" he snapped in a high voice. "What in Salazar's name… Are you being drunk in my presence?"
Malfoy was shaking with soundless laughter - he leaned away for a moment to get some breath back, apparently. Chang had raised a hand to her mouth, while Samual and Harpers, both beaters on the team, were chuckling incredulously.
"Merlin, you're too convincing with those eyes," Urquhart said, suppressing mirth.
"Let's hear it then," he continued in the same high voice. "What does our Chosen One really think of me? Are you inebriated enough for that question?" He paused. "You know," he clarified in a normal tone, "It needs to be all about him. So I think that's what he'd want to know most of all."
They were all laughing, someone patted him on the back, telling him he was alright. He stared down at his empty cup. Muttered to it: "Fuck, he's going to see this at some point, I bet."
"What do you mean?" Samual.
"Well," he gestured. "Never mind, let's not talk about this again, ay?"
"Sure thing," the boy grinned back along with Cho. The others nodded sagely: Malfoy though looked made of stone.
888
That Sunday: 'mass'. After a spot of floo powder his hands found purchase around the warm steel that wrapped the drawing room fireplace. The Dark Lord, the near-white of his skin contrasting with the thick black robes, rose up from his chair at the head of the long table. Harry went towards him, as one approaches a cliff.
The man's robes moved with him as if delayed, like he was walking underwater. Harry could just make out a map of some rural areas which he'd been perusing: arrow-like shapes were moving on it in different directions and colours, like an outsized version of the Marauder's map. Then it vanished.
Now they stood facing, the tall wizard and the small-for-his-age 17 year old. Voldemort's focus was always a bit eerie, but he could not sense his mood as the man drawled:
"How was your week."
A simple question that had him blink a few times. "It was alright, sir," he muttered, bowing his head in acknowledgment.
Voldemort's hand came down to cover the back of his neck, cold and imposing.
"Tell me."
Not much to tell. "I went to classes. I'm catching up with homework in the evenings. There was a dinner on Friday with Slughorn and his…" slugs. "club."
"And how did he welcome you back?"
These dinners were held more often than the resulting conversations seemed to warrant. Slughorn sat at the head of a table of around fifteen students, more than were present at Harry's first dinner – well, Malfoy was invited for starters. The bulky man had seemed content to chat up others and ignore him most of the time, not that he cared. He'd ignored Malfoy as well, though, his gaze trailing over the boy but not seeing. He had clearly been pressured into inviting him, a pyrrhic victory for Draco.
During Potions earlier that week Slughorn had studied him for a moment, disapproving. It reminded him of a smattering of primary school teachers who'd trailed their eyes over his bruises growing up, visible on warm days when he wore only tees. He'd always thought they must have imagined an altercation with classmates, or why else had they not said anything? Harry was causing him mental dissonance, and so he'd resolved to ignore him.
"Fine. He was busy playing the host, so we didn't manage to talk."
That, he realised, had taken a beat too long.
Voldemort's hand squeezed. He shoved him away. It wasn't a hard shove, still he almost tripped. Riddle tsked as he considered him.
"Lying already, Harry?" he taunted him. "Now why would Horace have mixed feelings about you, his little gem?"
His scar flamed. Bugger all. He'd forgotten for a moment last year, stalking Slughorn and his secret knowledge of horcruxes.
The Dark Lord's lipless mouth curled in victory.
"Come." Riddle gestured sharply to Harry's usual chair left of his own. "Lunchtime."
Lunch sparkled on the table and they sat: lentil soup and bread. The switch was disorientating. Riddle looked out of place as he took sips of soup and chewed bread – like watching a theater play.
"You've exposed him, Potter. He feels ashamed to be part of my journey of immortality. And you remind him weekly."
The warm soup was a good excuse to keep his head bowed. Why had he not obliviated the man then? He realised he was frowning, and before he could think of some innocuous subject to discuss Voldemort came close to guessing his thoughts:
"You wonder why I haven't killed him for his knowledge. I do wonder that myself." The Dark Lord stared off into the distance, as if mulling this over.
"His type, the self serving coward, I know well. I've allowed him to keep the knowledge, but he will die if he ever speaks about it to anyone but me." He turned to watch him. "And you are lucky Potter, that Dumbledore never got his answer."
He wondered whether that lack of knowledge really mattered in the large scheme of things: Dumbledore always acted on what he described as 'best guesses', not facts.
"So you lie today," Riddle went on softly, "and you lied to me mere days ago, isn't that right, Harry?"
Irritation on Voldemort's end of their link warned him more of that was simmering. It was still a surprise to be able to predict him like this and probably vice versa – something that floated between them unvoiced since the Dementor attack, the merging.
He lowered his spoon and the bit of bread. What else had he lied about? He couldn't recall. He wheezed next as the pain in his scar tipped over into agony. Bowing his head he covered his eyes with his hands, now sensitive to light, tried to breathe around the pain.
"Your little friend 'Colin' the one that shot me," the Dark Lord spat. "Tell me his real name."
"His- his name sir? It's-" he could risk it now, he must be hiding somewhere, "it's Dean Thomas."
Voldemort sat back, irritation waning behind the blank mask, sensing the truth of his words. The pain in his scar receded until he no longer sensed anything from it. "We will find him."
Nausea stirred in his stomach and he shoved away his bowl.
"And what should we do with you, Harry, for all these lies you keep telling me?"
"I will stop lying, sir."
Voldemort gave a shake of his head. "You know how this works." He brandished his wand to put it on the table, stroking it lightly. "Let's hear the deterrent that you need to show me your obedience. If I am not convinced of your answer, we'll see all this lunch go to waste."
He closed his eyes briefly. What would he recommend as a deterrent against lying, against trying to protect others... Lucius Malfoy would be a great deterrent, whatever the punishment. No. "You… you torture one of my classmates. Sir."
"Look at me." He did. "Legilimens."
Voldemort hadn't even moved his wand. He jerked back. At once the mental thoughts of seconds ago were examined – memories triggered by the answer in his mind: the whip, Malfoy's enjoyment with each hit. Riddle drew out of his memories and they regarded each other.
"Oh you're-" he started to fume, but held back wisely on the 'evil'.
Voldemort studied his posture of misery, eyes half-closed. "Lucius has developed quite a taste for you… He has no common sense ruling his desires. You are right to be on your guard with him."
A taste.
"A fine suggestion, Harry."
He clammed teeth over his lips to keep in Muggle curses.
"Yes, tell me," Riddle goaded, tone soft. He imagined flinging a plate. But he looked down: perhaps that would speed up this lunch.
"I thought not."
It felt inevitable, really, that he would lie again at some point, he couldn't seem to help trying to protect others that way… He closed his eyes, dizzy. He had told the monster of his nightmare…
"Yes?"
He yelped at a burning along his scalp: Riddle had wrenched back his hair, holding him by the roots of it. "Talk."
"What would- would you summon him-" he stammered then shut up: however Riddle would go about it, he would do it anyway.
"I think," Riddle mused, "I would simply let him fetch you to keep for an evening, if you lie to me again." He let him go, lips twisting with disgust.
"Now eat your food." He waited until Harry took a sip. "What do you think of your new teachers this years?"
He must be easily bored, to keep switching the subject. He forced himself to stop thinking anything and respond: "Well, the Carrows..." he considered his words. "I have to get used to them, I guess."
The man gave the smallest head tilt to go on.
"They- they want us to torture animals with all kinds of dark spells. After class, they told us we'll have to practice on each other next week."
The Dark Lord's eyes were half-closed again – amusement or boredom? This bizarrely made him think of Hermione: whenever he or Ron would talk and it took more than ten seconds to finish, her eyes would squeeze and dart around, impatient. He was sure in those moments she had already leapt to the conclusion of what he wanted to say.
"Good. Performing under pressure is how one learns to push their magic."
"Yes, but do we-"
"You've been coddled at this school. Time to turn that around. The students need adversity in order for us to see strength of character. Who may assist my cause and who may serve."
"That's why you want us to duel, see the stock. The winners, I suppose they'll get to be part of your army, right sir?" Perhaps too much. "My Lord."
"In time, perhaps." Voldemort stopped eating and his bowl, still quite full, vanished. "So, now you've seen some friends again. Who live because of my generosity. Has this made our Boy-Who-Lived feel less conflicted about his title?"
Ah. He bit out: "Yes. I don't- I'm not conflicted any more. I have to help my friends."
Riddle sat back to sip something out of a stone goblet that had just appeared. "We shall see whether your dedication to your friends is true, won't we. Now, onto recent developments." He put down the heavy thing and went on:
"Ahead of our winter trip I've allowed for an appointment with a few foreign… friends. Next week on Sunday. Tensions are mounting. Throughout England, we are dealing with infiltrations in wizarding places of strategic value. Disturbingly these are not our own people. Two foreign countries are meddling with our affairs, Germany and France. They've sent forces to aid the rebels of the old Order."
He blinked a few times to process the sudden sharing of actual news about the state of the war: it was a thrill to hear it. Quite transparent though, to imply the Order was outdated, or consisted of rebels: he could shove that down his throat.
"Though their actions are covert, this is of course an act of war against the United Kingdom, and I will treat it as such."
Voldemort's eyes gleamed eagerly in contrast to his words. Someone was drawing him out to play… The man cocked his head as if listening to a far-off sound, his gaze on the windows and the outside:
"A handful of ministers and rulers on the continent aided me before – this was near the end of my first reign. Factions of governments that provided me their soldiers under the guise of trade." He turned back to regard him. "Next week you will meet two of these factions who are now rekindling our former alliances."
As long as these allies were prepared to give and not receive anything back, though.
More than two years ago, in the graveyard, Voldemort had mused who would come when called and who would not. Not many they were in total: perhaps a mere twenty people had managed to let the entire ministry fall. The political stage of wizarding Europe must be tight-knit as well. The players knew each other, and they knew Voldemort: he didn't like to be kept waiting on the matter of loyalty.
"So," he began through numb lips, "Which wizarding places are… under attack now, sir?"
"That you do not need to know. You will make sure you impress these delegates. You will let them know how you aim to set out your own course… how helping these creatures with your Foundation makes you feel you can work from inside my new system... you want to stop the rebels from wreaking havoc on our country. Well," he stroked his wand, stare unblinking. "In your own words."
Harry sat back as well, feeling disbelieve set into his face. Of course it was all a necessary farce anyway, to make his position slightly less hostage-like, but still...
"But I haven't even got started."
"Professor McGonagall will help you with that in the coming week," Riddle said dismissively.
"We'll meet leaders, sir? Do they- do they rule countries?" Ugh he sounded young.
"No country acknowledges my government as of yet," he said, clearly humouring him, "though I have members of parliament abroad that are coming to my aid. All of this in an unofficial capacity. They are leaders of factions, as well as military leaders who are unhappy with their politicians. They hold sway inside their respective governments. And they will lend their influence to me." He gave a cold smile, as if imagining it now.
"Alas, that fun will have to wait. Next week is a social call, for appearances." He cocked his head. "But all the small talk, the drivel people want to share… I detest it. So you will distract them for me, won't you?"
"Right." He thought of his face, which he was doing often this week. "This will distract them, alright."
The barest hint of a smile: "That's not the kind of distraction I am going for."
He winced as Riddle held his wand to his face. Voldemort spoke in an undertone and he felt coldness wash over him, making him shiver. He felt at his face.
"I removed the bruises."
He stared.
"Yes, Potter, some things I can heal," Voldemort said, amused by his surprise. "Now. You have learned obedience, I believe?"
"Yes."
He jolted from a sting at his chest. "Yes, my Lord."
888
Monday's first class. Magical history was part of Elementary Magic, which meant: Binns. Besides, no one could possibly remove the ghost from employment whether the world turned left or right. There was no Finch in sight today, so aside from the Carrows in the afternoon, one less creep to worry about today. They were covering the history of the dark arts – for what else was there to talk about, he thought with an eye-roll.
Binns droned on; people conversed just like old times. It was relaxing, until he caught onto Luna's and Neville's conversation, seated next to him:
"Maybe Terry's got a point, actually," Neville was saying in an undertone. He was nudging Luna and glancing at said Head Boy, seated in the front.
"Neville, what have I been telling you?" Luna whispered back as she leaned towards him: a light blue origami swan swung from one ear. "I don't care if Riddle finds out. I'd be worried if, say, one of his ministry lackeys finds out and shuts it down. But him, no."
"Huh," Neville uttered, reflecting his own puzzlement.
Luna waved her hand as if to stave off protest. "I'm not important to the regime. My father was, though. As is his legacy. However, I have nothing to do with the old Quibbler."
"Well…" Neville whispered with some hesitation. There was a problem with this reasoning indeed, and they both sensed it. He remembered Xenophilius had been killed at the end of last year, due to publishing things in the now-defunct Quibbler about Voldemort's moves.
"I'm just making use of my knowledge and my father's old network in publishing, so that I can introduce Muggle things to Hogwarts. I'm thinking music, arts, a section about jewellery. It's just entertainment."
"What?" he whispered. "You're kidding."
Luna grinned at him. It was easy to see it working: it sounded so innocuous, but underneath he sensed cold rebellion.
Neville turned to him, bend towards his ear. "Me and Terry, we're trying to get her to stop this crazy idea. She might get in trouble with this."
He nodded, leaned over as well so that Luna one seat further, could hear. "Perhaps if you make a public thing out of it, it'll lose it's sting because it's so out in the open. A student market or something? Or a student club about different cultures…"
"So, not a… correspondence, you think." Her eyes widened meaningfully: not a student paper.
"I agree with Neville, that would look like a… " he lowered his voice further, "protest thing. It's just too on the nose to create a new paper for that. Although," he grimaced. "Don't tell me any more, I don't want to hear anything about this, alright?" He gave a light smile to soften the harsh words, but he knew already they'd caught his meaning.
888
The duelling competition started on Tuesday night, and would be held each week for the next four weeks. Most of the seventh years had in mind the way Lockhart and Snape had faced off years ago. But as they shuffled into the great hall that night – a bit like second years in fact – the scene that met the eye was… unexpectedly official and festive.
A long forty minutes of waiting later, plain water was sloshing over the rim of his cup, as he turned to study the duelling platform. It ran half the length of the great hall, with the house tables cleared away, and so was larger than the set-up they'd seen in second year. More things were different. His classmates were glad to kick back a butterbeer: these refreshments were set out on tall round tables to the right near the window. The tables were easy to lean against.
Of course the teachers need only watch the action. But for themselves, alcohol was the last thing anyone needed in his opinion. He told this to some non-Slytherins and a few listened. Still, for Neville the first sips of his butterbeer made his shoulders relax, so perhaps he shouldn't discounts the benefits too soon.
He wondered what they were all waiting around for. The jazzy, languid music in the background was distracting, clashing with their collective anxiety. The teachers seemed to appear just as relaxed standing a smattering of side-tables away, talking and taking careful sips from their drinks – a sign they were nervous anyway. Perhaps, Luna had whispered to him earlier over her pumpkin juice, the competition marked the start of the festive season. This was an actual thing with purebloods.
It was one of those moments in school where the grown-ups seemed on a different level of reality. Here they were, children about to fight each other with little constraints, and the adults were starting it off with a society event?
He felt a flutter of anticipation in his chest and his scar, light but so sudden that he knew it wasn't his own. He was still surprised when Voldemort walked in through the double doors, in a spectre of white skin and black, swirling cloth. As people started to realise this was not another teacher, the languid atmosphere changed.
For Harry and the teachers his presence, though nerve-battering, was a regular occurrence: drinks were put down and the grown-ups watched the Dark Lord approach politely. Many must be reminded of the short battle of Hogwarts, when Voldemort had walked this same route in this hall. Around him though, his classmates tensed, gasped. Nearby, Luna and Neville had stopped chuckling about a willful tree in the greenhouses: they crept behind a table, not that it would help. According to the official student paper, which was led by Slytherins of course, the Dark Lord visited the castle once in a while, but was never seen.
He felt the last of his good mood vanish for sure enough, Riddle gave a glance his way as he joined the teachers. It was interesting however, to watch Flitwick wrap his head around sharing drinks with Voldemort, who started up a conversation with him in a relaxed manner. His teacher had switched the pumpkin juice to his left hand; his right must be near his cloak pocket, which would be of no use either because duelling master or not, this close he would be too late.
"Shit. Why did they have to make this mandatory," Parvati whispered to Padma. "Why can't he occupy himself with only his precious Slytherins, they can just duel each other."
Malfoy turned from his little group to her. "How boring that would be," he sneered. "I want a chance to let loose, don't you?"
"Try some of that strong stuff, Malfoy, so you won't feel any restraint," Neville suggested. This managed to raise most of the brows in the vicinity. His friend was wearing a tight smile, which was positively taunting for him.
Malfoy put down his butterbeer and sidled up to him. "I certainly don't need to be sober to duel you, Longbottom."
He, Harry, rolled his eyes and looked back at the teachers. McGonagall was haltingly drawn into conversation with the Dark Lord as well, while the Carrows watched on with what had to be exaggerated mirth. Surprising that the man didn't tell them all to bow and scrape. The night is still young.
Voldemort turned to glance his way again as if he sensed Harry's focus. He considered with a vague panic that through the link, perhaps he had.
"Where are the sixth years?" someone asked next to him. They had a separate competition, Millicent nearby explained: they'd been on the stage already just after dinner.
In that moment Voldemort, still holding his gaze, gave a tilt of his head: Come here.
He put down his water, mouth dry with nerves. Hunching his hands in his pocket, he slipped sideways from the cluster of classmates to cross the empty space towards the teachers. It caused a turning of eyes and postures.
He forced himself to within a polite distance of the man. He couldn't help a jolt at what happened next: the Dark Lord drew him alongside, his arm slipping around his back and his hand grasping his left shoulder. He'd only ever done this kind of thing away from the public eye, when he'd taught him some wandless magic.
Voldemort bend a little to whisper in his right ear, where the crowd's eyes couldn't reach them:
"You'll show me something entertaining, won't you Harry?"
Damn it – was he acting out a family visit? Harry gave a stiff nod, their heads nearly touching. Voldemort squeezed his shoulder.
He whispered: "Yes, sir." That Lord thing still needed an extra push to become sound… perhaps this was enough, when no one else could hear.
Riddle went on: "The Malfoy and Nott children receive special training from Gaius Finch."
Finch, who had been absent from his own class yesterday.
"Right. Sir."
Voldemort studied his group of classmates to their left. It was clear he wasn't here for the teachers; he was here to see what was on offer in this lot of soon-to-be graduates. Harry should at least get some psychology leverage over the greedy-looking Slytherins while he could: they wanted to see him humbled?
"I wonder, sir," he remarked. "The duel is free form, so say I draw either one of them... it's only fair I use the Mark, right?" Unforgivables were about the only things banned from usage.
Riddle turned his head to study him, eyes slightly narrowed. "That we cannot allow, Potter." His lips twitched ever so slightly before his features morphed back into stillness.
Revulsion swam in his gut again – at the buzz in his stomach, or at their nearness, or perhaps it was an itch to murder... Have a calm, bland face.
Voldemort's arm slid away and he said haughtily:
"Time to show me you've retained some of that training."
He gave him a little push towards his year mates. He hoped he kept his bland face as he walked back, for one thing was repeating in his mind:
What am I doing talking to him, what am I doing, what am I doing.
Behind him a signal had been given apparently. Flitwick announced with a Sonorus charm that the competition was about to begin and its rules: they would draw their first opponent from a cauldron that held one name card for each student. After all had done one duel, the winners and the losers would fight in separate pools so that in the end, after four weeks and eight rounds per student, your score reflected your current prowess and position within your year. This meant there could be more than one winner, if all won the same amount of rounds.
Each student would perform two duels tonight. After some murmurs and titters between classmates during the drawing process, all of them knew their first adversary. His was Terry Boot. Four duels could fit the platform at once, with invisible wards between the duels to block any interference. Students and teachers surrounded the platform on all sides for the best viewing – the platform was only about 30 centimetres in height, perhaps due to this.
He forgot about Voldemort as he watched the first eight contenders climb up and take on a duelling stance. It was hard to see and follow all these duels at once. They became mere snapshots: Millicent soon flattening Zabini with some kind of crushing curse; Cho needing some time to venture past Neville's considerable shields and dexterity, but she won with some kind of befuddlement charm; and he'd missed the moment that Ernie won from Nott, surprisingly, with a nasty curse that hurt. He'd rather seen that one go the other way, despite hating them both. The fourth duel he couldn't remember later.
Last year, when all seemed fine, they'd all been duelling as well during a few of Snape's Defence classes. Harry had been one of the last ones standing, in a different set-up, but he'd lost due to Malfoy's neat netting spell. That had been fun in a way; this was far more serious due to the presence of Voldemort standing near the platform, sometimes strolling around it while people scattered far out of his way. And he wasn't sure he could best any of them again – rumour went that with the war going on, many parents were pulling out all the stops with private tutoring.
On the second round he faced the Head Boy with trepidation, for he had no clue about him aside from the admirable way he was helping Luna against her often invisible bullies. They'd been tasked to bow and he immediately cast a whispered Flagrata next, which Snape had taught him: a nasty burning spell that distracted with it's pain. Predictably Boot used an Expelliarmus, which did not stop the curse from hitting Terry – true to what Snape had explained then about the curse often overpowering this specific counter.
Terry groaned and bend over in pain. Harry followed up with his own, much-sharpened Expelliarmus which send Terry's wand flying. After helping him off the stage and towards madame Pomfrey standing by, Terry send him a look of betrayal that seemed to stay stuck on his eyelids, making him slightly nauseous.
Then it was off to the next round; he drew Crabbe. He couldn't remember if he'd fought him last year. Crabbe got in the first shot, which he knew the specific counter for, luckily though he couldn't actually remember the curse he was blocking. Crabbe smirked and started skirting sideways. Although quite lumpy he was nimble. He dodged Harry's own curses or blocked them neatly.
"You know Bellatrix will want revenge, Potter," Crabbe remarked out of the blue, coming closer: he had to get distance but he'd been drawn into a corner... Crabbe went on: "Looking forward to seeing that."
He finally backed away, but still the boy's cutting curse was too fast to block and he felt a burning line start on his stomach. He looked down to see blood seep from his side.
"She's used this one on you before – Hyper Sensatio."
He jerked away with a gasp, but again too late: the burn became worse, and worse, and he was falling down and blacking out.
888
Wednesday consisted of hours of recovery in the hospital wing, apparently. By lunchtime madame Pomfrey finally had him fixed up and awake, to send on his way – blessedly painless. She had given him a free pass from classes and so he went to the library to distract himself: he had not even seen last evening's ending. Near six in the evening, he knew Snape could not be avoided and so he strode up to the headmaster's tower with leaden feat.
"We will be going to the training room for drills today," Snape began without preamble, lips curled downwards as he stood from his desk. "With your pathetic show last night and the Dark Lord watching, you're making me look inadequate."
"Good," he bit out.
"Respect," Snape snarled and waited.
"Professor," he said with a proper amount of disgust, for this was not the best time to be rude.
"Do that again Potter, and you will not like the consequences for our duelling practice." Snape looked to be holding back on violence, but then again he often looked like that.
He bit his lip.
They trudged down the winding steps and arrived swiftly at the Room, nearby on the seventh floor. The door opened to Snape's new office version of the space. Curving walls of books surrounded them. The world was dark outside the large windows.
Standing in the centre Snape threw a spell at the bookcases, which bounced off before it could reach the objects. Harry couldn't help but marvel at the way he went from stillness into movement in an eye blink. He could've used some of that last night.
Now he saw the three dummies in front of the shelves, as large as adults: it made him think back to the same sessions Snape had instigated last school year. The figures could move: they even got better the more you practised with them.
Snape lowered his arm slowly. "You'll recall the dummies: I've put them back to the level you were at before the end of last year." Before Voldemort had put an end to last year, yes. "You will use them for casting practice after our meetings each night, unless we duel like now."
"Let's begin," he went on in a dour tone, gesturing in front of him and Harry went to stand a few meters away. "Curses, all kinds."
He waited for his own blank mind to get a grip. Perhaps the entrails-expelling curse from the past summer? Snape had told him then 'no line of attack is out of bounds when dealing with an enemy'. He whispered the incantation.
Snape swatted the spell away.
"Soundless," he said, "Whispering is useless. Again."
Harry tried a muscle relaxing curse next: he'd had to use it many times in fourth year with imposter-Moody, and so he knew better the feeling of the spell leaving his wand. This time the casting worked without talking.
Back and forth they went like this, Snape blocking each attempt and telling him to try a different curse each time. Finally, when half of his curses worked from soundless intent and Snape stopped snapping for the ones he couldn't manage, a feeling of relaxation came over him. It felt like Quidditch at its most intense, a satisfying feeling of warm, stretched muscles he realised he'd missed.
Snape went on the offensive next. He urged him to move and use the space to dodge or to try get underneath his shields. 'Try' was the best way to describe it.
"Say," Harry said in a lull; he was instructed to approach for a new attempt to strike. "I heard you're teaching the seventh years. So that's the Dark Arts, then?"
Something hit his shoulder and he flinched – a cutting curse, but one that looked different from last night. He was bleeding, an invisible patch growing on his robe.
"Sir," he said, in case that had to do with it.
Snape threw another one; he sidestepped.
"That is correct. Spell-specific blocks, now – surely my special tutoring of the Chosen One last year has not gone entirely down the drain? Recognise the movement of my wand, the form of the spell that emerges. And use the proper counter."
Snape cast: mist emerged looking like an exothermic curse or hex. He responded with the right block for that class of curses, but it bled away a due to his sloppy casting. Snape was right, he was out of practice.
So they now had two, no three teachers for Dark Arts and Defense: the Carrows and Snape. Of course McGonagall was right about this, but still no one else had mentioned Snape. Perhaps this had been common room talk while he was away.
After a burning hex floored him, he picked himself up one limb at a time; the pain was fading luckily, not burrowing deeper like real burns would.
"Speaking of teachers, I asked around…" He might as well ask Snape directly. "No one's seen Finch, we only have Binns now for Elementary Magic."
"Professor Gaius Finch was let go from his position."
Harry pulled up a generic block for the next rapid attack. He could not recall the right block fast enough, and besides the man's speed was turning his mind blank each time. Snape scowled and gradually slowed down, pausing longer in between salvos.
"Why, sir?"
"He has endangered students with his methods."
He stared, then bend over with laughter, sidestepped one volley, tried to block the next one. He fell again and just lay there, until Snape's mark twinged with sharp coldness. He stood, feeling heaviness set into his legs.
He wanted to at least make one curse strike true, but what Snape didn't block or cancel, he dodged easily. He realised at some point that his teacher had lowered his wand while he was still deliberating. Snape was not out of breath like him, nor was there sweat along his brow.
"Experience is key: you need practice for a successful attack. But you are holding back. When you attempt more violent spells you are not putting conviction behind them. So they peter out quickly. Without intention we are wasting our time here, Potter."
He swept his tongue over his teeth in thought. "Guess my heart is soft like that."
"Yes," Snape sighed in a manner that implied some deeper fault, of course. "You will show more effort tomorrow, or you'll be demonstration material for my next Dark Arts session." He pointed towards the fireplace: "Sit."
A worry for another day, then. Harry took a chair near the hearth, one of a pair, old with soft red upholstery and fine woodcraft. Both covered areas on the armrests and up the back. He sighed, pleasantly sore and leaned his head back to watch the near-endless ceiling. One did not invite Snape's gaze, and he felt he was allowed, after so much focus.
Snape was suddenly next to him to draw away his outer robe and vanish his shirt. He jerked back but Snape ignored this, murmured and the shoulder became hot, the wound closing probably. Harry turned back to watching the grey-blackness above.
He was let go. He looked down when a book was thrust onto his lap: Emerging the Victor: Duelling Techniques for the Advanced. He recalled borrowing it for Snape's lessons last year.
"Point me to the page where you've left off."
He sifted through the pages, recognising learning material. He indicated a new chapter about a third way into the thick tome.
Snape glanced at it. "For tomorrow you will first read back to the chapters on spell origin and blocks before continuing from this page. And I will see a thorough grasp of chapters eight and nine then."
With empty eyes the man stared at him from his seat, before he looked sideways at the windows, in thought. A new calculation: Snape would throw in another ingredient or mix up the stirring of one Harry Potter, see what changed.
"I thought you would be immune," he mused, sure enough. "He isn't either, absurd as that seems to me. Something you managed."
Startled he looked away from the ceiling and down at the dour man. The statement echoed Malfoy's in a way: I thought you would be better… Voldemort wasn't immune? In what way?
The headmaster went on: "He has a tell." Snape's eyelids lowered to near-closed. "When he considers something to be entertaining, let's say."
Harry's eyebrows rose as the silence held.
Snape sighed. "I just showed you, Potter."
He couldn't remember Riddle being entertained. Snape had been there to see it up close though, along with Flitwick and McGonagall.
Ah, that thing.
"He gestured me over, you know," he felt a need to clarify – Snape clearly meant he had been entertained as well by the Dark Lord... "You are saying just the fact that I walked up to him-"
"No," Snape drawled. "The way you talked."
Those five sentences? They'd had conversations three times that length.
Snape flicked a hand, annoyed:
"You are being obtuse. You talked in a casual, joking manner. It was clear to my colleagues in any case that you were waiting for his reaction." He smirked coldly. "Hoping."
His cheeks heated. He pursed his lips, scowling – if that was all Snape needed to think that he knew him, he wouldn't bother to correct him. But then he considered Snape's derisiveness.
"You were the one who told me to try."
It wasn't this advice that made him approach, though. Not curiosity, or danger. Both propelled all sorts towards Riddle but sheer exposure had dulled the adrenaline.
"So I did. Be grateful I'm giving you free advise here, Potter. Don't seek comfort where it cannot be found."
He clamped his numb arms onto the armrests. Comfort, really? They shared things, like blood, a soul, a prophecy my god it was disturbing, the illusion of familiarity. Where had the fear and disgust gone from the encounters at the graveyard, the ministry, the battle
Perhaps, if one was honest with oneself, you might think the dark Lord was like family: another abusive uncle or something. And too, Riddle understood the old, needy bits of Harry's brain, the unconscious thirst.
Besides, even if Snape were stretching things, his classmates could not have failed to notice that bloody arm Voldemort had around him. Looking back on it now, positively fatherly in Slytherin terms. In actual Dark Lord terms, though for Voldemort it was still only a device to use.
"I'm not seeking comfort from him-"
"He pets your head and you don't blink an eye. It was his intention, letting people see. Keep more of a distance next time in a public setting. The great hall is not the drawing room where you both must be sharing hot chocolate by the hearth-"
Snape cut himself off, shook his head. The cold wafted from his mark right into Harry's brain – the disgust had an echo in his own stomach. He couldn't recall being petted, did he mean metaphorically?
He chewed at the inside of his mouth until the twinges helped to suppress his first instinct. Snape was out to provoke him; see the change in the potion after say, exchanging newt's eye for salamander.
"So it will go over well, in your experience," he spat, "when I refuse his…" creepy parental ways "gestures in public, with all these teachers and classmates to witness."
Tea sprung up and sandwiches on the small leather-topped round table between them. Snape collected his cup and saucer, fingers skirting around the rim. Always the elves' infernal tea, as if to specifically sooth him in distressing situations.
"Ah, but you fear not his punishment but something else – his disappointment."
Harry stared. Picked up and sipped his tea. They were both ignoring the food.
"Your uncle was not close to you, clearly. What about your aunt, did she not show you any affection either?"
The nausea swam together with a painful burning. This again? "Sod off, Snape."
Snape's gaze on the tea widened for just a second, outraged at his cheek. He set the cup down and it made no sound. "That will be-"
"Must be nice," he went on through clenched teeth, "when you're a spy, you're ordered to give a fuck and you can just switch that on, right? Fake your interest for as long as it takes."
Snape appeared to have reigned himself in once more, his voice a near whisper:
"Detention with Filch. And you'll be my next demonstration for the seventh years – I'll think of something humbling." He leaned forward, elbows on the armrests, cupping the tea with two hands. "I've seen flashes of your childhood Potter, or did you forget? I've felt the fear that was eating at you. And the want. For approval." His eyes widened in malice. "Love and such."
His face scrunched up in hatred, and he sneered back:
"That's right, all this love I held for the Dursleys. And now I must be looking for approval from every adult person, right – might as well be my parent's murderer." And Ginny's murderer. "You know nothing about these things."
Snape was on a roll: days ago he was squandering his parents' sacrifice as well he'd told him, with his need to purge himself of the horcrux. He felt mocked to the very core, both by Snape and his own twisted wants and flights of fancy. Because yes, why had he taken the risk of engaging Voldemort in conversation, just to make a few Slytherins… jealous, afraid, what? He wanted to stay silent but the fist in his stomach made him stutter on and on – as though by talking it through, he would better understand himself:
"And you think I though I'd get his approval by – by escaping all those times, or trapping Bellatrix? Or let's see, trying to off myself?"
Snape was saying something but he tuned it out to focus on the endless ceiling. He felt the chair against his body. Wrapped his hands around the wooden eagles that were carved into the armrest's ends. He slid his fingers into the beak's gaps.
The back was just as ornate, he'd seen a flash of it: oak leafs on the sides, and carved deer were touching his head. Some kind of hunting symbolism of old, perhaps, echoing some ancient hunters of the vast woods around the castle.
At least Snape did not impose physically. Still looking upwards he gently thudded his head backwards. Such a short distance yet pain spiked along his temple. It cut through the noise.
The ceiling really was a fresh experience now that his sight was glass-less and sharpened: he could see the exact height from where the old stone patterns trailed off gradually into a grey-black void – from substance to nothingness.
Oh: silence. Snape had stopped the monologue. He let his head meet wood again, the same spot up the back of his head.
"Stop that".
He slammed his head back harder: the chair gave a dull croak – and it trembled now, which could not be due to his physical movement.
The wood kept groaning – his magic must be stirring. Dull twinges turned sharper with this second blow, but it did not distract him much. And since it wasn't the bastard's call, he bend his head down to slam it backwards as hard as possible.
His scull bounced a little – ah the pain, what the hell was he doing? He imagined its content sloshing, Tom Riddle's little life essence and his own, merged and complaining together – although why should a soul reside in the brain?
Snape was sitting forward, his lower field of vision told him. The man was still but his wand was out, fingers clenched like Harry was now clenched, burrowed into the chair. He dared a look: Snape's eyes were a tad wider: incredulous, jarred?
It all worked to rouse Harry back to general alertness, which was unpleasant.
Snape spoke coldly: "If you think you can guilt-trip me with this act, Potter, you have another thing coming."
The back of head was burning as if scraped raw.
"Your recent attempt is starting to make sense. I've wondered how you could mean it so thoroughly, because the curse doesn't allow for anything less."
Shut up, he itched to say. He imagined letting more pain in to quiet his thoughts; it would prolong the prodding though, the stirring by the potions master. Pathetic.
Snape took a sip of tea. He expected a lecture, a verdict, but Snape went on where he'd left off:
"I've been told what she's like, your aunt Petunia."
In a flash the usual footage reel spun on after Snape said her name: a routine pathway of worn thoughts that had started the moment he came to Hogwarts. Physical distance had given him a safe space to reflect on his earlier childhood – her expressions of disgust, her neglect and her refusal to deal with Vernon's tempers.
Where did he get that name, had someone visited? Voldemort hadn't shared anything, because Snape was still trying to fish out the details.
Snape went on: "Your uncle mistreated you when you were little, obviously. I've not seen literal proof of course… Abuse. It explains a few things."
He watched Snape in horror, then thought with despair that if the man had any doubts his reaction was proof now. He bent down, folding himself onto his legs to clasp the back of his head with both hands, elbows covering his ears like shields. To hell with this…
Snape's voice was just above a whisper: "I'm not in your mind, Potter, though Morgana knows you wear your thoughts on your sleeve. As I said, your feelings were loud during our Occlumency sessions."
Harry's eyes were on the polished floor. Still with Snape so close, he saw the slow shake of his teacher's head – at such a lost cause, apparently. Pity from Snape, of all people.
Distaste flirted over the man's face as he went on, slow and taunting:
"Do you find the Dark Lord more… understanding? Perhaps you share a distaste of muggles? Or is it his charming cruelty you crave, just like home?
What was he getting out of this again: gloating with the Slytherins at the least. He couldn't think. He curled out of his hunched position. Straightening, he saw Snape watching him with mouth slightly open and eyes sharp, assessing.
Behind him, the chair squeaked as if in pain. He was living for Voldemort now, something that filled him with misery if he thought about it for longer than two seconds. And he bloody hell wasn't just going to sit here and take any more vitriol from traitor Snape, painkillers or no.
He let the chair take his head again, hard. And again with furious speed. The hurt spread further from that one point of contact – it worked like a charm to quiet things.
A blur of robes and Snape was standing next to him, wand out and held loosely – he was swift and silent just like Voldemort.
He closed his eyes. He was getting sweaty. The nausea blossomed further. Was he trying to stop it?
Yes: he murmured a cushioning charm at the chair. He felt such a desire to physically tackle the man – but he had the Mark for that didn't he…
Snape's annoyance bled through his voice, distracting him:
"I know you feel nothing at your uncle's death - no, nothing proper I should say. Is this what's triggering all this… unnecessary drama?"
The two words dragged at the hollow feeling in his chest, he saw his uncle fall down again and his stomach-
He bend sideways to throw up the lunch of hours earlier. He kept on staring down at the spatter. No chunks. That was always a good thing back 'home', because at least his stomach had processed some of it before the blows hit it.
Greasy black hairs swung awfully close in the next beat – his teacher crouching down. His head was floaty. Tears were dripping over his nose. Whatever this feeling was, this man had brought him to a place of desolation that Voldemort hadn't managed. If at first you don't succeed… let Snape try. You needed someone with real flesh and blood for that. Just days ago Harry had spat on the sacrifices of his loved ones, according to Snape, and now…
"Stop it," he uttered, more tears shaking out of him now, so weak, so weak. "I'm done for today. Let me out." Perhaps take some points and we're through. No, the point system had ended this year – Slughorn had used it though, confusing him, but that must've been why Pansy had laughed at him in Potions.
It must be catharsis for Snape: he'd killed his childhood bully, and now through his own bullying, he had found all of Harry's weak spots to twist; like a butcher might expertly sink his knife into flesh.
He should defend himself better. Neville, Hermione, Ron, Luna, what would they say? That he was being too hard on himself, and fuck Snape anyway.
"Potter."
He quickly raised and slammed his head back, but no pain - of course… He scratched his fingers over his cheeks, feeling then rip skin. He needed out, he was finally past a point of tolerance with the man's sadistic exercise into what made him tick, what to push for maximum effect. He thought of Sirius.
"Potter," Snape said, louder. "Snap out of it."
Snape's fingers came down over his own, moved them away to see bloody gouges probably - because his nails had grown over the summer when he hadn't bothered to trim them. He stopped moving and waited, mindlessly taking in the gleaming black buttons of the man's frock coat: Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
A hand ghosted over his forehead perhaps to feel his temperature, picking up the droplets of sweat he hadn't noticed until now. Next into his hairline the fingers shifted, prodding carefully at the back where he felt a swelling coming on.
Snape was murmuring Latin. A sensation of coldness where his hand curved around his skull, then pleasant warmth, and the pain dampened.
The pale face was quite near, so that he felt the man's slightly elevated breaths – he was worried. He needn't be: Sunday's check-up was many days away, and it wasn't even visible there, whatever it looked like up close.
"I seem to be making it worse," Snape was muttering next to his left cheek, pensive as he studied him. He was tasked with keeping him whole, and with the picture he was getting, who knows what an unstable boy might do between here and Sunday?
He was lax in Snape's hands, which were carefully tilting his head this way and that still, spidery fingers feeling along his skull. Repulsively, shamefully, he wanted to let his eyes rest and sink down into that careful touch. This man still puzzled him. Cold, cruel Snape was attentive when it came to healing, certainly.
He remembered a boy that had fallen hard on the concrete jungle around primary school, sicking up as well: teacher storming over, parents called and fanning, murmuring about a concussion. He couldn't really have given himself a brain sprain with just this old wood here? A lump on his head, he'd had so many… Perhaps his magic was the culprit, it was somehow tweaking things, tweaking the chair … because why else would a mere thud on wood cause this much pain, cause him to throw up?
Snape was whispering again, or still – fear of brain swelling? He must remember for later, now that his head was so floaty, that this was something serious. This close to the man, he could smell some kind of soap or aftershave. Sirius had smelled of these things as well. He couldn't think of any other adult who had come this close, except for primary school's kind Ms. Dairy of course. Voldemort smelled of nothing.
The fingers felt and prodded as if the man could sense the invisible landscape inside, and perhaps he could - some kind of healing magic for the mind, or soft Legilimency… Not the granite, spidery hands of Voldemort but real, human. And gentle – but let's not think more on it.
Snape was sporting a little frown.
He closed his eyes. Stolen things. He hated his own blend of self-pity and childish yearning but one thought led to the next, like a tide. Perhaps from Snape's perspective he did need this – this nurturing. He was perceived as a basket case and his safety was paramount: to be kept alive, all kinds of things were warranted.
His teacher still sat crouched down next to him, one knee on the ground, taking his time probably to make sure he hadn't missed anything, whatever it was. After the Latin was finished, he still did not move, like a sentry. His warm hand, damp from Harry's sweat and tears, finally withdrew. It was ironic and biting, the knowledge that even in this rare seemingly caring moment – more refined than Sirius could've managed – Snape was scraping this act out of a black pit. Behind it: indifference, a consummate spy, a fact that may be shaking loose his very sanity.
He felt a little relieved nevertheless: here they'd found the boundary, surely? Snape could taunt him with it from this day onwards, true, but he could not catch him off-guard again to reproduce this moment.
As he scrambled for himself he heard Snape whisper his name:
"Potter."
"Yes," he answered dreamily, feeling out of his body.
"You are under the impression that I… enjoy this. You do not believe my actions are genuine. Correct." It wasn't really a question, for Snape didn't talk like that.
"Hm," the man went on after a pause. "So according to you at this moment I am… enjoying your pain."
He kept silent.
"I'm not," Snape drawled softly. "I don't enjoy this kind of thing."
"No," he mused softly, looking at his lap. "I don't think you enjoy it. You are good at your job."
"And what is my job?"
"Being a spy. You can fake anything."
"What am I faking now."
His insides scraped further. "I get the point. Care."
Snape's hand was hovering again, like it wanted to stroke back the sweat-soaked hair shielding his eyes, but that was ridiculous to even think.
"Hm. And if I were not faking it?"
"Don't do this," he whispered. "I get it. I have to get stronger."
"Stronger in what way?"
Tears slid over his cheeks again but he'd gotten used at least to take some distance from Snape's opinion.
"Perhaps you confuse me with him," Snape went on slowly. "I am not like him. I don't feel entertained by someone's anguish."
Didn't stop him once in the last six years. He finally turned to look at his teacher. "Were you there just now, when we had this conversation?"
Snape was silent. The man's knee had to be hurting him. Harry looked straight ahead again. "It's fine, you have your orders. But don't tell me you don't enjoy it"
"Let's hear what you mean by orders." Snape's voice lilted, like a honey trap inviting him to expand.
"No. We're done, sir." He wanted to rise but Snape pressed down on his shoulder.
"How can I trust your word if I cannot trust your actions?"
Again fearing the mission. "Your orders are to predict me. Control me. That's fine. Still I don't think you should exploit my… emotions. Teachers shouldn't do that right? But you're a vile bastard, so I shouldn't expect any different, should I."
Snape drew upright and away. He was pissed off, Harry knew from the quick movement. The gentle approach must be finished.
"Selfish little rascal."
The floaty feeling increased. The chair was creaking merrily and warm behind him. There were spots in his vision.
Snape had that pinched look about him: he drew himself upwards finally, and his hands were shaking…
"I feel..." Snape trailed off, staring away at nothing. "The Mark. It's not him, he's never felt like this. It's you; it's as if you're pulling away the skin."
Oh. He was getting used to block that extra sense apparently. He focused and found Snape's Mark no longer as cold as usual – more lukewarm.
He had to get him off his back. "May I go?" Now he understood Snape's words. "I just need a… a respite from this kind of thing. So yes – you are making things worse." Dramatic of the Chosen One: while others in this castle and elsewhere suffered, he wanted to get a break?
Snape looked away again. "It's something formless now, your anxiety, but given time… With the facts of last week as they are it's not something I can let rest, as much as we both want to."
Finally he felt something, anger. He pushed off to stand and backed away. "I know what this is about," he went on. "It's finally your hide that's on the line in case I- if I stop functioning for Voldemort like I should." He tossed an arm – it was difficult to think. "If I become a wreck or something. I understand." Anger fuelled his next words: "Now you understand me, sir. I can't give a rat's arse about your stake in all this."
"So going at it alone has worked wonders thus far?" Snape drawled, just as derisive. "You are too arrogant to accept help – even if it stares you in the face, Potter."
"Well," he smiled at the hollow of his insides, "Forgive me if I don't buy it from my bullying teacher, the master spy, Voldemort's highest ranked active death eater and all that."
Snape breathed out harshly. Then said in a brisk tone: "We'll have you checked in tonight in the infirmary, to be woken every few hours, to monitor the concussion."
Harry looked at the cases of books, because the stare was back.
"I cannot... give you more than this, Potter." Snape waved a hand between them. He sounded frustrated. He couldn't mean... whatever did he mean? He turned back but Snape's expression of course was blank. Next the man drawled:
"As you mentioned, I am observant and I can tell you what I see. You are confusing things. You confuse your own worth with your worth to him. And that utilitarian view is what you see in others as well. Your perception is skewed. You are a ward of this school. And so we will aid you in this."
We will help. That was nice. It was his job as a teacher and Death Eater. "Thank you." He deserved a medal for getting that out. "May I leave now, sir?"
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are exhausting, Potter. You suffer from nightmares?"
He shrugged.
"I can't give you Dreamless Sleep now." Snape's fingers seemed to close over an imaginary bottle right then. "Later, if needed." He studied him. "We will fortify you against him."
"We will?"
"Yes, you clearly need it."
He opened his mouth, closed it. "And that is going to go over well with him, I suppose? When he sees this… in my mind."
The edge of Snape's mouth twitched a smile before it was gone. "He may watch as it pleases him. Let's say he and I share a goal."
They had fallen silent. Snape's resolve sounded in his tone. But he felt too lethargic to feel anything.
Snape let out a slow breath, as if his exhaustion was catching. "Obeying him is a healthy habit you've acquired. But let's not… encourage him."
His eyes narrowed. "In what way? Sir."
"Consider your interaction with him as you would another teacher. Not a… guardian. If you keep that in mind, the role you want him to have, then you will start to sense the way to act in each new situation."
Snape would know a thing about acting.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed that, dear readers. What do you think of this chapter? Does it push your buttons and in what way? Please let me know anything you like to share. As mentioned, this really motivates my writing!
Harry surprised me with his bleakness here: it's Snape who just can't help himself from bringing it out in him, the opposite of what he should be aiming for. I love that duality and inner conflict in them both and I hope I conveyed this in the chapter.