Harry Potter: The Boy Who Was Used
Verity Arkwright reports the alarming developments in Potter's ongoing case
Since we at The Daily Prophet were given the news of Harry Potter's internment in Auror custody, information about the arrest and the charges have been restricted from public access. However, recently, we have been provided with an official report regarding a closed trial that took place earlier this week.
Unfortunately, Mr Potter had been in absentia for his trial. We have been informed that Mr Potter was severely injured in his efforts to evade arrest. He is expected to make a full recovery, however it was decided that for his security and wellbeing, he would be spared the undue stress of a formal hearing. The considerations made in his case may surprise readers, especially when Mr Potter has been charged with serious crimes against the Ministry. What has come to light through Mr Potter's own cooperation with the authorities and interviews with his officers paints a very different picture to the one that has publicly circulated throughout Mr Potter's young life. The Wizengamot has ruled that the charges against Mr Potter be dropped as a result and have issued the seventeen-year-old wizard with a Rehabilitation Order for him to recover and heal with professional support.
Details about Mr Potter's contract with the Ministry have not been released. What we do know is that he spent his entire life being controlled and had no say about his autonomy. He was denied a healthy home environment throughout his childhood years, left abandoned in a muggle household without any exposure to magic, then deprived of any adult support. For any young wizard, these circumstances would be inexcusable. That it was Harry Potter himself who had been abused by those he trusted to have his best interests at heart is a scandal. We have been learning about how he was encouraged into dangerous situations and not once taken seriously at his word when he believed his life was threatened.
Since discovering the role that Albus Dumbledore had in isolating Mr Potter from professionals in place who could help, it has been decreed that he was not responsible for his actions. Mr Potter was used and manipulated into believing that he had to fight in a conflict, sacrificing his own life in the process. Considering his history and how his parents lost their lives, the expectation for the young wizard to throw away his future and his happiness was cruelty beyond comprehension.
The Minister For Magic, Pius Thicknesse, will be releasing a formal statement regarding other dissidents and supporters of Dumbledore. They will be given a chance to present themselves and submit to justice. Those who surrender peacefully will be treated with clemency and fairness. Too many have lost their lives in this conflict.
The page of the newspaper hadn't been well cared for since its arrival. Torn from the front sheet, the edges were crumpled where they had been gripped by desperate fingers. Water marks had caused some ink to bleed, now dried in splodges. The content of the article had been the primary cause of the watermarks. The choice of photograph was what left the pain lingering and festering like a wound gone bad.
Hermione hadn't even known such a photograph existed, but she knew Harry had a photograph album with pictures of his parents. She never once asked him about it, only ever catching a corner of the red album when he finished through his trunk. In truth, she had never asked him where he got it from. One day, he just seemed to possess photographs that he viewed in private, tucking away that lonely, lost part of his life that he had no one to share with. Now, seeing such a tragic, personal photograph of the three Potters together, a moving picture with a baby Harry being held in his mother's arms… it was the most heartbreaking thing Hermione had ever seen. The photograph even had a caption.
Left: James Potter, 20. Right: Lily Potter, 20, with Harry Potter, six months old.
Where had the photograph come from? Hermione didn't recognise wherever they were, standing in front of a water fountain somewhere. It could likely be Godric's Hollow, but it was definitely from a time before they feared for Harry's life and went into hiding. They were so… happy. Harry was adorable with his pudgy cheeks and tuft of black hair. His eyes shone in the photograph; though there was no colour, Hermione could picture the shade of green. Then there was his mum and dad, so vibrant with life, so young.
The article that accompanied the picture was equally gut-wrenching even if the truth had been distorted to fit the narrative. Whether or not it was due to Hermione's suspicions, it was clear that Voldemort now wanted Harry to be alive and a member of his new society. Harry was to be 'rehabilitated'. The thought of Harry being psychologically manipulated had her throwing up into the early hours of the morning. He could resist the Imperius Curse, but for how long could he keep that up? He'd already been in captivity for twelve days…
Each time she read the article, she couldn't help but marvel at how genius the propaganda was. Ron had vehemently argued against the slurs on Dumbledore and the Order. Harry hadn't been forced into anything, he protested. Yet, Hermione wasn't so sure. Had Harry ever been given the option to not fight against Voldemort? He'd been forced into competing in the Triwizard Tournament even though Dumbledore believed that he'd been entered against his will. Then where was the support for him while Umbridge tormented and slandered him? He'd been ignored and neglected by those he trusted to help. After he lost his only parental figure, he then was burdened with a destiny – kill or be killed. There was no other option for him.
What sort of choice was that to expect a teenager to make? And Harry had no one fighting in his corner, no one telling him to leave the country and save himself. He could have been smuggled out, his identity changed, and started a new life in a different country. His parents had died for him. She simply couldn't imagine the Potters ever wanting their only son to fight in a war that he couldn't possibly win.
Curled up in her sleeping bag, Hermione used the brightening light of the morning to read the article again. There wasn't much light in their current location, just a slip of light that made it through the gaps under the curtains. The curtains had to stay drawn while they were in hiding. The stuffy, dusty space didn't make for a comfortable hideout, but it was safe and secret. From how Ron's snores reverberated in the small, dark space, he was perfectly comfortable with the accommodations.
It had been a whirlwind of panic when the Ministry fell. Kingsley managed to reach The Burrow before the Death Eaters. There was little time for goodbyes as they fell upon their emergency plans. Ron barely managed to hug his parents before he and Hermione were ripped away. Kingsley delivered them to a safehouse, using his old connections. As it turned out, Kingsley had trained as a junior Auror during the first conflict under the mentorship of Frank Longbottom. His connections to the family remained intact. As a result, Ron and Hermione were sequestered away in the Longbottom family home.
It had only been a few days. They kept hidden at all times, especially when the Aurors showed up to question Neville and his grandmother. All families and associates of Harry's were being questioned and their houses searched for fugitives. Thankfully, Neville and his grandmother weren't in the Order. They were just picked up because they were considered associates but weren't suspects. The Aurors did a half-hearted search, not noticing the attic at all.
They saw little of Neville. The house was being watched from what they understood. The family house elf delivered their meals and kept them looked after, also bringing the morning paper for them to stay in the loop. Tucked on her bunk, Hermione remained awake, dreading what the next paper would reveal about the world beyond. A world where Harry was all alone, surrounded by enemies.
It was a few hours until Ron snorted himself awake. He stretched and moved from his own bunk, clumsily trudging in their cramped quarters as he went to make his way to their small water closet. He briefly paused and Hermione felt his attention. She didn't stir, feigning sleep. He mumbled something and went to do his business.
Matters between them were tense. They argued often, both frustrated, both scared, and they didn't have a safe way to vent their stresses. Ron worried about his family, the separation making him sullen and bitter. Hermione suspected that he levelled some blame on Harry and she inwardly dared him to say as much aloud. Ron had the choice to go back to his family and hand himself in for questioning. He had the choice to take the Rehabilitation offer and live in safety. She didn't. She was a muggleborn. There was no offer for her, just a snapped wand and a cell in Azkaban.
For her part, she missed Harry and feared for him with every breath of her being. They barely even had a chance to speak to him before they whisked away from Privet Drive.
No time for farewells.
It hurt, like breathing with fragments of glass in her lungs, when she read in the paper that he'd been 'severely injured'. They knew from Hagrid that the crash had been brutal, but from that fight onwards, they had no idea what had been done to Harry. Overheard conversations between the Order members had been painful enough to handle. Talk of torture and interrogations, degrading conditions and restraints… the sheer thought of Harry hanging from shackles… bleeding and alone…
Her dark thoughts were interrupted when Ron returned from the bathroom. He sighed when he caught sight of Hermione's wide, awake eyes. He rubbed a hand over his tired face.
"Didn't sleep?" He asked thickly.
"No," she said simply back.
Rolling onto her side, she clutched at the scrap of newspaper. Her eyes were dewing once more. Ron mumbled something as he went back to his own bunk. She hadn't had the chance to tell Ron her suspicions behind why Harry had been spared. From how he was reacting, she didn't want to give him another potential reason to be hostile towards Harry. Ron was hurt and, as always, his reflex action was to find something to target.
Gentle trapping sounded from the trapdoor that led up to the concealed attic space. Hermione shuffled forwards on her elbows, leaning her arm down to the handle of the small hatch. Pulling up the burnished brass handle, the mechanism clicked. The trapdoor lifted upwards, unlocked. Then she saw fingers pushing up the door. A pair of inquisitive eyes peered up at her from the door, familiar brown eyes.
"Hey," Neville whispered. "The coast is clear. Gran has breakfast ready and Kingsley will be arriving in half an hour."
Hermione's stomach let out a creaking growl. She heard Neville's huff of amusement, having heard it. She flushed, sitting up.
"Are you sure it's safe?"
"Positive. The Aurors haven't been back since yesterday. We think they are too undermanned to watch over every magical residence in the country on the off chance you guys show up for shelter."
"Okay… we'll be down. Can you leave the hatch open?"
"Hey, actually, I'll come up. It's really awkward getting down," Neville said, pushing the door all the way so they could descend down the ladder. The sound stirred Ron back into wakefulness and he scrambled up, blearily looking over. Neville then fully ascended, dropping himself at the stop of the ladder, legs dangling down in the space.
"You could do with stretching your legs and getting some sunlight," Neville said wisely as light from the bright house below entered their shelter. "It's a shame we can't go out in the garden or go for a walk."
Hermione sheepishly smiled at him as she extracted herself from the sleeping bag. She hadn't changed out of her clothes in case they needed to leave in an instant. Her hair fell around her face in an alarming tangle that she would have to sort out before presenting herself in front of the austere Augusta Longbottom.
"I'm going to freshen up," she said to Neville as she carefully stood, making sure she didn't hit her head on the rafters. She left to squeeze her way into the small bathroom adjoined to the attic room. It had been abandoned for a while since the secret space hadn't needed a use until then. It was still serviceable enough. Hermione washed her face and brushed her teeth, tackling her mane last. By the time she returned, she walked in on a surprisingly heated conversation between Neville and Ron. It stopped the moment she opened the door. She eyed both suspiciously, but they turned their heads, keeping silent.
Ron was now standing with his arms folded obstinately. Neville shook his head, wearing a resigned look. He flashed Hermione an awkward smile as she entered, frowning. She had a good idea what they were talking about.
"Let's go, shall we?" She offered, desperate to get out of that cramped space with nothing but Ron's fractious temper as company.
It had been humbling upon first arriving at the cottage where Neville lived with his grandmother. It shocked Hermione how little she knew about his homelife, aside from his alarming stories about his eccentric extended family. Rosebrook Cottage didn't possess the gloomy air that Grimmauld Place extruded in its dark roots and macabre displays. It was clearly very old, the floorboards creaking relentlessly. Chunky wooden rafters ran overhead, the corridors narrow and rickety. The attic wasn't the only cramped space. Unlike The Burrow, there was no need to build up from the ground up to house a large family. Aside from the groaning of the old stonework, the cottage was peaceful. Home to just an elderly witch and her grandson.
Ron and Hermione kept out of sight of the windows, relying on Neville to shield them as he shut doors ahead of them and kept curtains drawn. Leading them downstairs, he brought them both into the parlour, ushering them over to the table. Already laid out were plates and cutlery. Breakfast was served with dishes of sausages and bacon, a stack of toast, eggs and all sorts of pots with accompanying trimmings.
"Neville, this is really unnecessary," Hermione whispered to him, astonished at the effort put into the breakfast.
"Please, just take a seat. We need to talk," Neville said meaningfully as Ron already slid into a seat, his eyes bright as he took in the full spread in front of him. "Here… take this."
Neville glanced over his shoulder to where the sitting room led from the parlour. His gran must have already had breakfast and wasn't to be disturbed. Hermione had already noticed how Neville didn't spend much time around his grandmother and, from how strict she was, Hermione didn't really blame him. Neville reached in his pocket, passing Hermione a folded piece of parchment, before he then took his seat opposite Ron. Hermione frowned reproachfully at Ron who had already started to load his plate. Neville settled down, taking some toast to butter.
Hermione opened the parchment, then looked up at Neville in surprise.
"Your Hogwarts letter?"
"It arrived this morning," Neville confirmed grimly, "the good news is that Professor McGonagall hasn't been forced out, though she's still the Deputy head."
Sitting down, Hermione scanned over the letter's contents. It was no different to the usual ones sent out and Neville hadn't provided her with the accompanying book list.
"If she isn't the Headmistress then who…?"
"Snape," Neville answered bitterly. Ron then choked on a bit of sausage, causing Neville to thump him on the back just as he would if they were having breakfast in the Great Hall. Ron shared a look with Hermione, aghast.
"But he killed Dumbledore… how can they possibly have him as the headmaster?" Ron croaked out.
"Voldemort obviously wants control of the school, Ron," Hermione said coolly, setting the letter down on the table.
"I was warned when the Aurors questioned me that attendance is compulsory," Neville said as he set down his toast, not meeting their eyes. "It seems like they want all the magical children under one roof, all held as hostages. I have a feeling that Harry will be attending as well… as an example and as a hostage himself."
"I can't imagine You-Know-Who caring about Harry taking his bloody NEWTs," Ron said scathingly.
"I don't know…" Neville looked away thoughtfully. "It makes sense. When Umbridge was around, Hogwarts did end up sort of like a prison. It was easy for her to control the post and the fires to stop anyone from getting information in and out. If the castle was on lockdown with all exits sealed… I mean, there are dungeons."
Ron stared at the letter that Hermione put down on the table. It was obvious what he was thinking, his brow furrowed as he glared.
"Ron…" Hermione tried softly, looking at him directly. His blue eyes met hers. "We don't know what they've done to Harry to make him surrender. Give him the benefit of the doubt."
"Wait… you aren't thinking that he's just given up because he wants to go back to Hogwarts, are you?" Neville asked, bewildered, staring at Ron. Anger then sharpened in his usual kind eyes. "You can't really think that."
Ron looked away, having the grace to look ashamed. "I just… I don't know, Nev. The Harry I know would never surrender to him. He would rather die."
"Are you disappointed that he hasn't?" Neville said coldly, then set down his hands on the table. The atmosphere changed at once. "That he didn't make some noble sacrifice like some hero in a children's story. Dying in a war isn't something to glorify… and it's definitely not fair to expect a friend to die rather than want to live."
"Th-that isn't what I'm saying at all!" Ron flustered, turning to look at Hermione for help. "I'm not saying that. It's just… Harry's the bravest person I know. He's survived so much and now he just… just stops. I just… can't believe that he would do this out of his own free will."
"Are you really that naive?" Hermione asked him then, unable to believe what she was hearing. "Harry is doing all that he can to survive. Neville is right. We can't expect Harry to martyr himself, not when he has lost so much. You can't possibly understand what he's going through right now."
Ron's ears had turned a dangerous shade of red. He set down his cutlery, angrily looking away. Neville awkwardly scooped scrambled egg on his toast, meeting Hermione's gaze briefly across the table. She felt a stab of guilt for lecturing Ron in front of Neville, but he needed to hear it. The silence stretched, painfully awkward as they ate quietly. Ron's temper at least seemed to cool once he'd finished his portion of breakfast. He sipped sullenly at his pumpkin juice, shooting furtive looks over in Nevillie's direction.
"D'you think it would be possible to get a message or anything to Harry?" Ron asked, his voice noticeably subdued. "That stuff about him in the paper yesterday made it sound like he's been let off."
Neville considered the question, but didn't get to answer. They heard the roaring rush of fire coming from the sitting room. At the sound of the floo, all of them rose tentatively to their feet, sharing looks. It had to be Kingsley. Hermione heard his deep baritone rumble low as he spoke, clearly meeting with Augusta who had been waiting in the sitting room. Neville nervously extracted himself from his seat. Hermione hovered, looking to take her plate. Neville waved her down.
"It's okay. Gracie can sort."
Hermione scowled, not wishing to give their family house elf any more work, but she relented, leaving her empty plate behind. Kingsley then emerged through the narrow arch that connected the parlour to the sitting room. He had to duck to clear the low rafter. Behind him, a foot shorter, came Augusta. Her frilled robes were a contrast against Kingsley's practical muggle garments. He gave each of them a nod in greeting, then hurried to join them.
"I can't stay long," he said quickly, getting right to the reason why he had risked the trip. Augusta lingered in the archway, surveying their business but not getting involved.
Kingsley ran a hand over his mouth, visibly stressed, and passed Hermione. He pushed her empty plate to the side, then with his wand, magicked a brown card file out of thin air. He placed the file on the table, giving Ron and Hermione in particular pointed looks.
"It wasn't easy getting my hands on these, but I assure you, they are real. Take a look. I have to return them… but you deserve to see them."
Dread filled Hermione at once.
"What are they?" She asked before Ron could get there before her. He drew closer to her side. Neville hung back, watching anxiously.
"Photographs. They were taken at Diagon Alley before the Aurors there could confiscate them. One of my contacts… she reached out and gave me these," Kingsley drew a deep breath, his fingers fiddling with the string that bound the file. "Harry was seen in public."
Hermione gasped sharply, her hands moving before she could think. Kingsley didn't stop her, moving back so she could open the file herself. Flipping back the cover, she exposed a set of large, freshly developed magical photographs. Taking care not to over-handle them, she held her fingers back. Instead, she leaned over, her heart kicking up into an erratic gallop.
Harry…
It was him, but he looked different. The photograph had been captured in the opulent foyer of Gringotts, slightly blurry at the edges where figures in the crowd had been slowed so that the image could focus on the subject of the photograph. Harry's head was turned, looking right at the camera as the picture was captured, his attention likely snatched by the flash as it went off. His hair wasn't the usual chaotic riot of messy black locks, but carefully coiffed and preened, gleaming under the lights above him. He wore glasses that weren't his usual pair, glinting gold as he turned his head slowly. He looked… princely. Dressed in attire far smarter and expensive looking than anything she'd seen him in before, he appeared each bit the famous son of the magical world he'd been heralded as.
At his immediate right was a witch who Hermione never expected to be depicted clutching Harry's arm tightly. Her long, wavy black hair was unmistakable. Neville's sharp draw of breath was enough to identify who had Harry under guard.
"I know it appears he is unharmed, but that he has Bellatrix Lestrange holding him captive, we can… be realistic about the conditions he's endured." Kingsley said solemnly. He then pointed at Harry's face. "If you look very closely, there are burst blood vessels still yet to heal in his eyes. It's an undeniable sign."
"The Cruciatus Curse," Neville said shakily, blood drained from his face. Kingsley flashed him a concerned look, then patted his shoulder.
"From the next picture, we can tell that Harry is being held against his will."
Hermione sniffed at once, willing herself not to cry, not yet. She had to see the rest. She moved the first photograph aside. The next… was worse.
Bellatrix had Harry down further down the chamber, pulling him into step. Closing in behind was an unknown Auror, who reached for the back of Harry's neck as he pressed his wand threateningly into Harry's side. They were marching him off. Harry then suddenly strained to the side, looking back over his shoulder. His face was harder to make out at the distance, but something was clearly happening. Something that had made them drag him away. He was agitated, shifting against the holds of his captors.
Hands shaking, Hermione moved on. Ron silently took that picture up, offering soft sniffs of his own.
The next photograph was outside, showing Harry and his escort leaving the bank. There were more Aurors, their robes blurry where they appeared to be controlling the crowd. Harry was in the centre of the activity with Bellatrix still attached to his arm. With him, on his otherside, was a very recognisable face.
"Malfoy," Hermione whispered, then gasped, "this is it. This is proof that they have him at Malfoy Manor."
"That fucking ferret," Ron seethed, putting the photograph of the struggle down, "and look, there's his mother too."
He pointed out another witch following her son out of the bank, dressed in robes that were far too formal for a simple shopping trip. Hermione didn't care about Mrs Malfoy. Her eyes were fixed on Harry as he looked dead ahead. That expression was one she knew. Harry did not want to be there at all. He was furious.
"It's a display," Augusta announced sternly from where she watched, "a show of strength. They are parading their spoils of war in public as a way to destabilise morale in their opposition."
"From what was witnessed firsthand, Harry's presence caused an uproar. Some protesters tried to get to him… they didn't get very far," Kingsley said gravely, moving the photographs back into the file. The first photograph with the clearest look at Harry's face was back at the top.
Hermione's heart ached as she looked upon him again. Surrounded by enemies, he looked so lost. She dared to look closer and see the evidence of torture that Kingsley brought up. Harry's eyes did appear bloodshot, his irises greener than usual in contrast against the pink.
"Why is he wearing all those fancy clothes?" Ron asked, leaning over the picture. "Harry doesn't own formal wear like that. Is that silk ?"
At Ron's question, Hermione paid closer attention to Harry's formal wear. He had black silk robes fitted around him, clearly professionally tailored. They came together at his waist, parting to show smart trousers and polished shoes. They reminded Hermione of how Sirius used to dress when he was at Grimmauld Place, favouring smart velvet jackets and the odd silken scarf tucked into his collar. The fashion they'd fitted Harry in was similar, with a white dress-shirt underneath. She had to admit, Harry suited the look, even if it was clear he'd been dressed up like it as a show.
"Harry's head of his family now," Neville said, sounding unnerved as he glanced over to his grandmother, "he has to look the part when conducting official business. It's… political stuff. To be taken seriously, you have to look the part."
"Is that why they took him to Gringotts?" Hermione asked, looking up at Kingsley. "Are they going to control his gold as well?"
"It… does appear to be that way, yes," Kingsley said, his eyes narrowing, "or, at the least, they want to get a good picture of his assets and accounts. The Potters were exceptional at business and amassed a great wealth through their potions. While they never flaunted their gold like the Malfoys, they were very rich. Harry would have inherited every galleon as the sole heir to the fortune. He was smart to put a Will into place when he did. It makes him more valuable alive than dead… quite literally."
Hermione took a step back from the table, turning away from the photographs. She wished she hadn't eaten first, the contents of her stomach threatening to resurface.
"What do we do, Hermione?" Ron whispered harshly as he followed her, his gaze urgently searching for her, seeking the answers. She had nothing, nothing. Slowly, she brought herself to the door, looking blankly out at an unfamiliar hallway in a house where she relied on the kindness of others. Her presence in that building put them all at risk, harbouring a muggleborn fugitive.
Ron could go back to his family. He'd have to be questioned, likely punished and sentenced as well as Harry had been, but he would live. He'd lose his freedom, another cog in Voldemort's machine, but he'd survive. If he surrendered, there was a chance.
"We follow Harry's example," she said quietly, "it's all we can do."
"What? What example?"
Turning, she made herself look into Ron's anguished face. She smiled sadly at him.
"We do what we must to survive."
It wasn't much of a surprise for Harry to discover that he was woefully underprepared to be in charge of his finances. Embarrassingly, he didn't actually know what he owned. He'd gone most of his life owning nothing, dependent on the so-called charity of his relatives. When he discovered that he had an inheritance, all he knew was that he had a pile of gold, having seen it for himself during that first visit to Gringotts. Since then, he'd never considered putting a value on what he possessed. It just never seemed important to him in the grand scheme of things.
After his trip to Gringotts with the Malfoys, he felt rather ashamed of himself. Generations of Potters had gone before him, a whole history that he was a part of, and he knew nothing about it. He'd taken a look at ledgers, detailing his family accounts, seeing signatures of his own father marked in the margins where he had made withdrawals and deposits from the same account, his grand father as well. Harry hadn't even known the name of his grandfather until then. He didn't know that Fleamont Potter had been an exceptional potion-maker and built up a fortune on the back of his success. As a result, he had amassed investments, holding shares in multiple businesses. Those shares had still been generating an income, shares that were now in Harry's name.
As it turned out, Harry wasn't just rich. He was loaded.
Getting to the appointment with the goblins had been stressful enough. The second Bellatrix apparated him in the middle of Diagon Alley, immediately hustled along by a waiting team of Aurors, there was a commotion. They formed tight ranks, boxing him in. Bellatrix never let go of his arm, her threatening hisses at the on-lookers not quite enough to warn them away. He was half-way up the marble steps to Gringotts before people were crying out his name, begging for his help.
He didn't get to see much of what was going on, not at the people who were forced to move on and go about their business. There were a few cameras, reporters manifesting as if sprouting out of the ground. One camera flash caught him waiting in the foyer, nervous and tense. Then suddenly someone managed to break through the wall of security, screaming for him. He had no clue if the bedraggled wizard had been trying to kill him or rescue him. He didn't get to see the aftermath, wrenched forcefully from the scene with a wand pressed against his ribs.
By the time he was standing in front of a formidable desk with Narcissa at his side, hands neatly folded in her lap, he was already overwhelmed. He sat in a half-daze, picking out the odd phrase that Narcissa used, requesting official sounding documents on his behalf. Before long, Harry had a quill pressed in his hand, scribbling his own signature in the Potter ledger as he formally took over as the owner of the Potter family vault, now in possession of his full inheritance. The family account was back under the management of a Potter.
Harry had to wait for Bellatrix to finish her own business at her vault before he was allowed to go to his. Lothgar, as the goblin entrusted to his account introduced himself as, explained that all of Harry's extended wealth had been moved into the Potter vault when he turned seventeen. His old trust vault was no longer needed.
He soon realised why. The Potter vault was massive . There wasn't enough time for him to explore his inheritance at length, but he was beginning to understand. He came from a long line of wizards, all with their own colourful history and achievements, and everything they owned, all their treasures, estates and gold, was now his.
It was a lot to process. He came away from the ordeal with a renewed determination. He wanted to find out where he came from. He would not settle for being left in convenient ignorance any longer. He was a Potter and he wanted to understand what that meant.
Once he was returned to Malfoy Manor, he only then remembered that the purpose of the trip had been a test. He was made to wait an entire day before finding out whether or not he had passed. It wasn't until the early evening of the following day when he received his summons. Escorted this time to the library, Harry stilled as he caught sight of Voldemort's silhouette at the window.
"You may leave us, Narcissa," came Voldemort's soft, assertive tone, ordering the Lady of the Manor about in her own home. Harry glanced over at her, but she didn't look his way, only offering her gracious bow in response. She turned on her heel, not giving Harry any further hints about the purpose of the meeting or why he'd been brought before Voldemort alone. There was no Rufus Scrimgeour kneeling on the floor, no Umbridge suspended from the ceiling. When the door clicked shut behind Narcissa, Harry was alone with his parents' killer.
" Join me, Harry ."
At the sound of Parseltongue, Harry's jaw loosened and he let out a small gasp. He held back a shudder, his back tensing as he braced himself for the unknown. It felt strange to hang his arms hanging at his sides, unrestrained and unburdened. Dressed smartly in all black, Harry brought himself to where Voldemort had positioned himself, facing the west as the sun began to dip behind the trees. There was a circular table before the window. It wasn't until Harry was within a few more steps' reach that he spotted what had been set up upon the table. He froze mid-stride.
There was a sword… not just any sword, but one adorned with gleaming rubies set in the hilt.
"Closer. Do not test my patience."
Intensely wary, Harry approached all the way, moving to stand opposite Voldemort with the table between them. He defensively crossed his arms, keeping himself out of his reach. He stared down at the blade, searching for the inscription on the shiny silver. Sure enough, just as it had been upon the sword those years ago, was the name 'Godric Gryffindor'.
Bizarrely, it wasn't the only object on the table.
"Is that a snitch?"
He saw Voldemort's mouth twitch in a brief smile, his gaze flicking down to Harry's mouth. He then reached for the small, golden ball on the table, holding it up to Harry's face, resting it on his palm.
"Take it."
Confused, Harry unfolded his arms. He cautiously reached for the ball, the metal cold to the sensitive pads of his fingertips. Nothing happened. Voldemort's brows furrowed for a moment.
"Albus Dumbledore left you these two items in his Will," Voldemort then said. "The Ministry had been… delaying the process. They found nothing suspect about either of these, other than the sword being a priceless artifact and goblin-made."
"I pulled the sword out of the Sorting Hat," Harry found himself saying, "I, um, used it to kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets."
"An act that made the sword all the more valuable," Voldemort mused, "but not in the way that you may think. Goblin-made weapons and valuables possess magic of their own. This blade was so enchanted to take on properties that make it stronger. Its blade will never dull or turn tarnished. It has taken on the deadly properties of basilisk venom."
Harry stared at the sword, thinking quickly. "It's poisoned."
"A mere cut from this blade would be fatal. Quite a weapon, do you not think, for Dumbledore's chosen warrior?"
Gaze snapping up to meet the pair that matched the blood-red rubies, Harry skipped a few crucial steps in decision making. All his mind picked up were three important words.
Fatal… weapon… warrior.
Desperately, he went for the lunge. Snitch in his left, he grabbed for the sword hilt with his right. It was right there. A deadly sword. His sword.
The very second his hand closed around the handle, he knew he'd made a terrible mistake. Blinding pain exploded in his head. He collapsed down at once, yelling out hoarsely. Both snitch and sword clattered on the floor with him. Relentless rage burned through Harry's head, tormenting him in the form of terrible pain. The small piece of Voldemort's soul was burning him up from within.
" Crucio !"
His yell tapered up instantly into a scream. His body contorted into a seizure, his nerves lashed with fierce agony. His back arched, arms locked in against him. The combined pain of the curse and the burning in his head had him screaming at the top of his voice. He couldn't take it… the pain… it was destroying him, crushing him.
Then it was over.
Voldemort sighed in disappointment. Harry stared up, his vision blurry behind the slew of tears that had formed from the pain. He took his time to recover, knowing from too much experience that he would only cause himself more pain if he moved too soon. Stooping over Harry, Voldemort collected the objects that Harry had dropped. He placed the snitch in one of Harry's limp hands, then the handle of the sword in the other.
"Both of these objects are worthless trinkets. The snitch… a pathetic keepsake. You may have it if you wish. And as for the sword… Harry, do you truly think I would arm you with such a weapon? It is a fake. A very good fake, but all the same. It is not the sword you used to kill my basilisk."
Harry rocked his head back, hitting it with force. How could he have been so stupid?
"It was a test," Harry stated.
"Yes… and you failed."
Furious, Harry threw the accursed sword away from himself. He started the hard task of pushing himself back up, his limbs shaking from the Cruciatus. He clutched the snitch close to him, needing at least something to ground him. As he climbed back to his feet, he used the table to steady himself. He wiped at his face with his shirt sleeve.
"Your killing instinct is new, however. Are your days of throwing disarming spells in a fight to the death behind you?"
The comment was odd. Harry blinked, trying to focus, looking up as if through a haze.
"Wh-what?"
"It was what gave you away in the flight from your muggle safehouse," Voldemort told him. "You went to disarm while facing multiple combatants… a strange tactic, to show mercy when your life is in danger. One that gave you away at once."
Harry couldn't think straight enough to understand what he was talking about. He chose to ignore it instead. He rested his hand against his feverish forehead. The pain there at least had stopped turning his mind into mush.
"You are learning… and this pleases Lord Voldemort. Oh, it pleases me immensely ." Voldemort moved swiftly, too unpredictable for Harry to keep up. He swept up behind Harry, crowding him. Harry cowed away, his hip striking the table as he started away, alarmed. "You did very well in front of my Death Eaters… and your visit to Gringotts was not a disaster. You are strong-willed and reckless, but not without promise. I truly believe that you can flourish, Harry. A little mental discipline will go a long way."
Harry stopped his efforts to pull away once he saw that Voldemort was no longer pursuing and trying to corner him. He let out a breath, trying to ease the tension in his aching muscles.
"Does this mean that you will give me the chance to convince my friends to… to stand down?" Harry asked as calmly as he could. "Even muggleborns... like my friend Hermione? You won't... kill them?"
"I have no intention of culling muggleborns, Harry. If your friend can find a pureblood family to sponsor her, she may continue her education and serve. The same will be true of all muggleborns who register. As long as they have a sponsor to guide them with true wizarding values, they can find a place."
Harry searched Voldemort's face for deception, but he knew even if he was lying, Harry would never be able to know.
"I refused to be used by the Ministry… before. I didn't want to be a mascot, saying things I don't even agree with just to maintain a lie. This though… I don't want it to be a lie. I want it to be clear… that I have surrendered to you. No more smoke and mirrors, Voldemort. If you want to rule, no more hiding behind your puppet Minister. No more lies. "
He clenched his right fist as he said as much. To Harry's surprise, Voldemort's nostrils flared, showing a visible display of anger, but he could tell that it wasn't directed at him. Harry had no mastery of Occlumency and Voldemort had full access to his mind. His thoughts must have channeled across.
"Very well, Harry. I will need to make arrangements for this. A broadcast on the Wireless Network, live from a secure location, I believe will be convincing enough. Speak to your flock and bring them in line… and I will spare them from slaughter."
Before Harry had the chance to respond to the gruesome choice of vocabulary, Voldemort had swept away again. He watched, mouth moving wordlessly, as Voldemort strode towards a particular part of the library. He appeared to be searching, his wand raised as he inspected the spines of the tomes. Curious, Harry moved to see what he was doing. He stepped over the fake sword, pocketing the snitch.
"You said a broadcast," Harry said as he approached apprehensively, "You want me to make a radio broadcast? A speech?"
Voldemort did not get distracted from his search, but he answered.
"Printed propaganda alone will not suffice in this instance. What you are suggesting is a negotiation of terms… an official armistice to bring about the end of a war. You have some knowledge of history, Harry. You must know how wars come to an end… with a treaty ."
Eyes wide, Harry suddenly realised the significance of what he was doing. There was a word hanging in the balance between them, one he dared to not speak and hope that it could be achieved.
Peace.
"I'm to represent my side?" Harry asked even though he knew the answer. Who else was there with Dumbledore gone? He felt pressure settling upon his shoulders the moment Dumbledore's body was laid to rest.
"A momentous responsibility, is it not? To hold lives in the palms of your hands?"
Harry felt sick with the thought, but Voldemort was right. He had that responsibility whether he wanted it or not. He couldn't just stop being the Boy Who Lived.
"But first, I meant what I said about mental discipline."
Voldemort grasped at a book on the shelf, close to the bottom. Straightening, he paced right up to Harry, thrusting the tome at him. It was bound in purple leather. On the cover, there was an etching of a brain, surrounded with a ring that appeared to be a shield. Harry looked down, reading the title. There was no author.
Occlumens et Legilimens
"This is where I began. There used to be a copy in the Hogwarts library… and it is no coincidence that it was removed after I graduated."
Numbly, Harry reached for the book. His thoughts managed to catch up and he met Voldemort's gaze, confused and suspicious.
"You want me to learn occlumency?"
"Mind magic in general, actually," Voldemort said as Harry took the book in both hands. "It will benefit us both if you can shield as well as me. Knowledge of legilimency will be beneficial as well."
"But… doesn't this shield me from you? Make me… more of a threat?"
Voldemort then laughed, his cold, brutal laugh that Harry was all too intimate with. He leaned towards Harry, his smile sinister.
"Did the sword teach you nothing, Harry? I will not arm you with anything that I cannot counter. Nothing you can learn will surpass my superior knowledge and experience."
Harry shuddered, his fingers curling as he gripped the book. He nodded, not knowing what he was nodding to . His shoulders hunched, bracing, ready for a blow that he expected. He didn't expect to have Voldemort's hand on his shoulder, guiding him over to the nearest desk. Harry set the book down, understanding.
"I… I take it that you want me to read until dinner? Considering the time?" Harry gestured up to the window where they could see that the sun was close to setting.
"Remain here until collected, yes," Voldemort confirmed, "and Harry?"
Swallowing tightly, Harry forced himself straight. Voldemort was too close, as always, making Harry too aware of him physically. As it happened, Harry knew from sheer instinct what Voldemort wanted. His childhood went in the same vein. He had to catalogue his mistakes and present them when called up on them.
"I won't do it again," Harry said sullenly.
Just to be sure, Voldemort took the fake sword with him.