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"Hedwig," Harry whispered, taking her carefully from her cage. It had taken him days of diligently searching Petunia's pockets when doing the laundry, but he'd finally found a hairclip and managed to pick open the padlock. "Hedwig, girl, be quiet. Be very, very quiet. Fly straight to him, and be careful - you don't have to deliver it if it'll cost your life, okay?" He drew a withering breath and buried his face in her downy feathers. "If you come back, come in the dead of night, and don't wait here."
Hedwig cooed softly, nudged her beak against his cheek, took the tiny little scroll of paper into her claws, and dove into the wild night.
*
V,
Why are you trying to kill me?
If I join you, will you spare me?
HP.
*
Proud and insolent youth,
Have you no self respect? Surely your precious Order are chomping at the bits to explain every little detail to you, pampered as you are. Ask them why you must die for me to prevail: that fool Dumbledore knows, so do not waste my time.
To even consider sparing you, I require you take the Dark Mark at the very least. Pathetic and uneducated as you are, you would not appreciate the honour that would be.
How did your owl even find my location?
Lord Voldemort.
*
"Hedwig!" Harry whispered, glancing briefly onto the street to make sure it was safe before ducking down once more - he had been conditioned well to avoid prying eyes, as much as he hated it.
Come in, Hedwig, he thought, gripping his filthy sheets in bruised hands. I'm ready for you.
Silent as the night the wind carried her inside, where she swooped low to land beside him on the floor.
He checked her over quickly, feeling her down for irregularities. She endured it with grace that only came from familiarity and watched him closely when he gave a soft breath and smoothed down her feathers.
"He didn't hurt you?" he murmured, low as his voice could go. "Good. Take this to him, girl - be swift and be safe, and don't be seen, love, yeah?"
His stomach growled. He winced, still in the shadows as he waited, and when no sign of life came, he sent Hedwig a pleading look. "And if you could spare me something," he breathed, "I'd… I'd really appreciate it."
*
LV,
Sorry for late response, couldn't get paper. What is Order? D tells nothing. I know nothing. No contact. No answers. Not safe.
I will take mark if spares me. I will learn. It is honour. (Sorry ran out space)
HP.
PS: Hedwig clever. Not my doing.
*
HP,
In the envelope you will find a blank parchment upon which you shall write your response, as I will not take your horrible grammar for a single second.
You mean to tell me you have not been informed of the Order of the Phoenix, the fool’s answer to my honorable Inner Circle? You have not been informed of why you are their poster boy, their saviour, their hero? If that is indeed the case, why in good heaven’s name have they not - and why are you asking me?
I may feel inclined to spare you, shall you fill my parchment with information. Anything you seem fit.
Impress me.
Lord Voldemort.
*
“You have anything, girl?” he muttered, opening the window further so Hedwig could slip inside. In her talons was a young rabbit - wild, bless her heart - and in her beak, like a miracle from above, was a strip of bacon.
Showering her with praise and thanks, Harry took the rabbit from her talons and shoved the cold bacon right into his mouth. The rabbit was a worse process, far more violent, though he did it over the worn sheet he would be able to shove in the washing machine just a few days later. With trembling hands he pulled the limbs apart, stripping hide from flesh - he’d gotten good at this, after many failures before. Minimal blood spilled onto the sheet before he located the organs, swallowing the still warm liver without time to savour it, followed by both lungs and heart. Flesh was harder, but he had to survive, and so he tore it from the bone and swallowed without chewing.
Licking his fingers clean, he let Hedwig to the remains - the parts he didn’t dare eat from fear of poisoning. She swallowed down both meat and offal, and would take the hide with her when she left. The bones he would bury in the garden, when he got the chance, hid in a bloodied shirt too mangled to wear.
Hedwig nudged her beak against his cheek, eyes questioning. “Yeah,” Harry whispered, “I’ve got one for you.” He fumbled the rolled-up parchment toward her, watching her take it in careful claws. “To him yeah? Please be quick.” He put a hand to his aching ribs. “Don’t know how much longer I can last.”
*
Lord Voldemort,
Thank you for the parchment. Where do I even begin? After you killed my parents, I was taken to mum’s muggle sister, her husband and their son. For ten years I slept in their cupboard; did their gardening, their chores, cooked their foood. Every summer they send me back here, even when I beg not to. They gave me a room when the letters came, but they barred the windows and put locks on the door. I’m let out to do chores and get fed through a catflap - cold soup, mostly, and only every other day.
I don’t know what to do.
(the parchment is blotched with tears.)
I’ve never heard about the Order before. Dumbledore has never told me anything about anything before, and either he’s forbidden everyone from contacting me, or they’ve all deserted me after the failure of seventh year. It’s not like I can leave, either - I might be off age, but I’ve no money, and even if I somehow made it to Gringotts, I don’t have the key to my vault. Even if I could have a new key made, I know nothing about anything and I’m so, so lost.
My adress is 4th Privet Drive, Little Hangleton, Surrey. My relatives are Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley. I leave the house to garden on Tuesdays and Fridays - I can get away with leaving the property once, but only once. Kill me or save me, I don’t care. I’m dying soon either way, whether it’s by my relatives or you… but if I can spare my life by giving it to your service, I will.
Please send another parchment again. I’m only allowed near the post notes once a week.
HP.
*
Potter,
Expect me there Friday, July 20th.
LV.
*
The locks unlatched. Harry looked up at the colors that bled into his drab room, staring blankly at Petunia’s face peering inside. “Garden,” she snapped, “weeding, watering. And the roses need pruning.”
Harry rose from his bed, keeping his head down as he approached the door. Petunia stepped aside to let him through, expression unchanging.
“Wait,” she said. “Your owl. Where is it?”
“She died,” said Harry dully.
Petunia paused, then shut his door. “Good riddance. Where did you trash it? Nowhere the neighbours would see, I should hope.”
Harry walked past her and made for the stairs. He considered his options; he was far enough from her that he could duck if she went for a violent approach, and if Voldemort held up on his promise… “I ate her.”
A beat, then Petunia snapped, “freak!” and went to smack him upside the head. He ducked, but was so lightheaded he stumbled, lost his footing, and landed sideways right on the stairs. Murmuring a soft curse he scrambled upright to make a run for the door; Petunia wouldn’t chase him outside, and he could do the gardening, and he would pray.
A faster death than starvation awaited him outside, no matter the method.
*
The soil, wet beneath his hands, made way for him when he dug into it to uproot weeds. He knew well where his meals were buried and avoided those spots, experienced with this process and enjoying the monotone process.
Having finished this bed, Harry sat back on his knees to wipe sweat of his forehead. It was while he sat there he glanced up over the hedge and made eye contact with a man. He was tall, pudgy, with a mop of sandy hair and wore a long, black coat that must be stifling in the summer heat.
His eyes were red.
Harry staggered to his feet. Looking back to make sure Petunia wasn’t watching, he scampered through the lawn and across the road, approaching the man, whose face tilted down to keep eye contact. His expression didn’t change whatsoever even as Harry came to a stop before him and said, “are you going to kill me?”
“No,” said Dark Lord Voldemort. He held out a gloved hand, palm up, fingers curved.
Harry placed his palm in his, and the world warped.
*
Christine Abbet, Healer Log, July 20th, 1999.
Patient name: Harry James Potter.
Patient date of birth: July 31st, 1980.
Patient status: stable, recovering.
Regular mediscan show results of numerous past injuries, among them basilisk bite, broken bones healed wrong, cracked ribs at the time of arrival, malnutrition and dehydration, as well as eye damage. There are signs of early childhood brain damage, though the patient’s magic seems to have healed it just as well as any intervention would. See attached file for full list of injuries. Nearly all physical trauma is reversible, see attached list of suggested nutrition plan and benefits of lessening eye damage.
Healer’s Note: my Lord, whatever those muggles did to him, he must be having a tough time. I highly suggest letting Mind Healer Huxley speak with him if his well being is your priority. With utmost respect, I also request a private meeting to discuss with you the dual state of his soul.
Humbly, Healer Abbet.
*
Israel Huxley, Mind Healer Log, July 22nd, 1999.
Patient name: Harry James Potter.
Patient date of birth: July 31st, 1980.
Patient status: low to medium risk; will not seek his death, but suffers from suicidal ideation.
Patient very clearly struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, generalized anxiety and major depression. Has had a traumatic, abusive upbringing and admits to nightmares and flash backs on a near daily basis.
Keep an eye on him, my Lord. In my professional opinion, a potions regime to balance chemicals and hormones in addition to regular check-ups will be the ideal plan forward.
*
"There," said Voldemort, smoothing down the scratchy cloth of the robes. "How is it?"
Harry looked up at him in their reflection, and did not startle at his waxy, serpentine face, nor the embers of his eyes. "Fine," he said, and looked back at himself.
He didn't look like himself. His hair had been tamed by a diligent house elf and his cheeks were no longer so hollow; he wore glasses with the right prescription, and to top it all of, he had been decked out in full pureblood gear, gloves, stifling neckline and all.
"Tsk," said Voldemort, and lifted a hand to Harry’s face. He winced, then, unable to help the expectation of being slapped. But no, Voldemort only placed cool, smooth fingers against Harry's cheek. "What did I say about lying?"
"Sorry, sir," said Harry. His hands were fists in his sleeves.
"Good," murmured Voldemort, retreating his fingers from Harry's cheek to instead rest in his hair. "Now. Why?"
"I," said Harry, and swallowed, and fought for words. "I don't want to offend you. Sir."
"And I," said Voldemort, clawed nails scraping against Harry's scalp before he withdrew, "do not want you uncomfortable. Tell me."
Harry closed his eyes and muttered, "too hot."
"And?"
"And itchy. Around the neck."
The silence lay heavy. Unable to bear the uncertainty, Harry opened his eyes just the slightest bit.
Voldemort was smiling. "Excellent. I do not enjoy those high necklines myself; we shall find something more suiting. For now - for casual wear - I have some excellent cashmere shirts you might enjoy." He paused, and Harry felt those eyes boring into him through the mirror. "Why so surprised, hmm?"
"I hadn't expected to be, er, so well treated," Harry admitted. "I thought - well - I don't know what I thought."
Voldemort chuckled. It was warmer than his laugh - less deranged, perhaps. "I care for what is mine."
"Right," said Harry, and his gut churned. "Of course, sir."
*
-Dear Harry,
I’m not surE how to say this. Grandmother had Dumbledore visiting a few days ago, and they put up wards, but I’m off age - well, it doesn’t matter. I overheard them talking about how You’ve gone missing, which was really scary. I thought you might’ve been ignoring me, but now I’m thinking you maybe haven’t gotten my letters at all. Today, whEn I came back from the greenhouse, Hedwig was waiting for me on my desk, and - well - she’s a real clever owl, so I thought you might be asking for help, or something, so - well - are you safe? Is there anything I can do to help you?
Have you fled the people you were staying with? I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more - I hope they didn’t take the energy bars. Older wixen people can be so daft, I’m still furious at grandmother for dismissing your situation. Not as furious as you, mind.
I don’t know what to think anymore. Are you really missing, or has Dumbledore stolen you away again?
Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.
Thinking of you,
N.
*
“Neville Longbottom, I presume,” said Voldemort, peering over Harry’s shoulder to read alongside him. The long sleeves of his shirt draped down Harry’s front; they smelled of lavender. He reached a clawed nail to tap the capitalized letters. “And this, I presume, a code - eye. ”
“Neville and I discussed a lot of plans for the Tournament,” Harry admitted, warm around the heart at the thought of his friend. “He was a great help. Only reason I survived. But, well, we were pretty paranoid…”
“Wise,” said Voldemort simply.
“The dash at the beginning, it means there’s a code in there, and eye, it’s an invitation to answer with code, too. It, er, is shorthand for ‘I’m looking for your response.’” Harry was still earning Voldemort’s trust, as Voldemort was still earning his - honesty was Harry’s payment, as Harry’s safety was Voldemort’s. “How should I respond?”
Voldemort huffed, amused, and swept around Harry’s chair to pour himself a glass of some amber liquid. “However you wish.”
*
-Dear Neville,
I’ve escapeD the Dursley’s, yeah. DOn’t worry, I’m perfectly safe where I am, but Not a loT of people know. I got myself out of there, and I’m being Taken well care of where I am. If everything goes as planned, I’ll return to Hogwarts as usual for Eight year and I’ll update you then - letters aren’t safe. There’s a lot of stuff happening, but most of it’s good, and I’m Learning a lot. Don’t worry about me, okay? I didn’t send Hedwig, but she must’ve known you wanted to check, so she came. She's been staying with me and is being treated like a queen, so you needn't worry about her, either.
I’ve not been ignoring you and I’d Love to keep writing this summer - I’ve not heard from anyone else after I left the owl wards around number four.
There’s A huge library where I am, so I copieD some interesting books on obscure plants, which I’ve attached in case you haven’t heard of them. I hope your summer has been better than mine!
With gratitude,
H.
(code reads: DONT TELL AD)
*
-Dear Harry,
Happy birthday! I don’t know if you can fly where you are, so I didn’t send you the broomkit yet - you’ll get it at school. I could get you a journal, though! Fred and George have been visiting a lOt, I’m helping them with some more niche herbology for their business. They say it’s a nightmare at the Burrow. Oh, right, the journal - they’ve helped me set it up, so it’s a gift from them, too. Don’t worry, they won’t be saying anything to the ones you’re worried about - they tooK an oath. We’re all very relieved you’re safe, and they asked me to tell me they support you, wherever you are. They’re pretty pissed at Dumbledore for seeming more worried about where you’ve gone off to than your actual wellbeing. For the record, I agree with both those stances.
Thank you so much for the books you sent! I’ve been Looking for them a while, but the researcher who published them is Very controversial on account of her being a dark witch, so the books aren’t in circulation with most bookshops. Not that the books you sent are dark, the ministry is just pretty strict on that kind of thing. If you find any more of her herbology writings in that library, could you send me some-?
Your friend,
N.
(code reads: OK LV?)
*
-Dear Neville,
The journal is amazing! Those runes are mightY impressive, and I’ve been reliably informed the spellwork is masterfully done. Private notes will be really helpful for the upcoming schoolyEar, so I really appreciate it!
‘Course I’ll Send you more books, I’m learning a spell to locate books in a library, so that’ll be great practice.
I’ll be going to Diagon Alley in two days’ time. I’ll be at our table at five o’clock, if you want to meet.
Your friend,
H.
(code reads: YES)
*
The pillow under Harry's buttocks softened the hardwood floors, but it was Voldemort's cushioned chair supporting his back that made the seat comfortable. He was trying to read a book on magical first aid that Voldemort had prescribed while Voldemort turned pages above him, but he couldn't focus. Their visit to the Hall of Prophecies the following day weighed heavy in his mind.
“Lord,” he called quietly. He knew very well he would be receiving the Mark soon, unless the prophecy was bad news, so he was preparing himself to call him by the proper title, even though he wasn’t quite yet his Lord.
Voldemort hummed noncommittally. “Speak.”
Harry swallowed, then swallowed again, and asked as politely as he could, “may I make a request?”
“Face me.”
Harry shifted to his knees and, rather undignified but unwilling to rise, shuffled around the chair to sit at Voldemort’s feet. He lifted his face to look at him, his calculating eyes, the facial expressions so subtle he was only barely starting to understand them.
“Very well,” said Voldemort, and leaned his elbows on his knees, reaching one hand to Harry’s braids - hand brushing across his head with such gentleness Harry would call it reverence on anyone else. “Speak.”
“If,” said Harry, and paused, then swallowed again. His sight blurred; horrified, he tried to blink the tears away, but failed. The potions to balance his chemical deficiencies had worked well, which meant he’d been crying more these last few days than the last ten years of his life. It was embarrassing. “If,” Harry tried again, “the prophecy, tomorrow… if it’s… if you have to kill me…” Voldemort’s expression did not change. “Can you promise it’ll be quick?”
Voldemort watched him. His lipless mouth tweaked in a thin smile; his hand dropped to cradle Harry’s cheek, swiftly mirrored on the other side. “Yes,” he said. “I am a merciful Lord. I shall fulfill your request.” Saying so, he bent his head and touched his cold mouth to Harry’s scar. It did not hurt. It did not feel anything in particular.
More tears trailed Harry’s cheeks, not from fear, but relief.
*
Neville shifted in the wicker chair just in the corner of Sundae Smiles, where he and Harry had gone several times during the cold days of seventh year, since they both were off age and allowed to leave castle grounds. Despite the name, Sundae Smiles had both cold and hot treats, and on those cold, hopeless days, warm butterbeer and brownies with melted bits of chocolate were small specks of joy.
Now, Neville prodded at his pistachio ice cream without much gusto. He was too nervous to eat; it was ten to five, and Harry would show up soon.
The books had been what made the pieces click; Harry's confirmation had thrown him off, and he'd spent long hours in the greenhouses thinking about what to do. In the end, Harry's unending loyalty was what won Neville over: his friendship and protection was worth fighting for.
A jingle from the door had him look up, and he inhaled sharply at the sight: Harry.
And he wasn’t alone. An older man was with him, impeccably dressed with a mop of sandy hair and a hand on Harry’s back. His eyes, though gray, were intense, and Neville knew at once who he was.
“Hi,” Neville greeted quietly. He glanced from Harry, to the Dark Lord, and back.
“Good afternoon,” said the Dark Lord, smiling faintly, before the familiar sensation of a complex privacy ward rose around them. “Neville Longbottom, I presume.”
Neville, too dry-mouthed to speak, nodded. “I know who you are,” he croaked, when he regained his voice.
“Good,” he said, and sat. “No need for introductions, then.”
“Neville,” said Harry, smiling openly from the other side of the table. “Looking great, mate.”
“Thanks,” said Neville. “Magic’s a bit stronger, after I picked up the Longbottom heirship.”
“Oh!” said Harry. “You finally did that? Good on you.”
Neville smiled. The tattoo on his shoulderblade, the Longbottom sigil, twinged. “You’re looking great yourself.” It was true: Harry had filled out, filling his expensive, gold-trimmed robes well. He’d grown his hair out, probably with a potion, and braided it into dutch braids that pulled it away from his face; his old glasses had been replaced with rectangular ones that fit the shape of his face excellently. His scar was not visible at all. Had Neville not known him so well, he wouldn’t have recognized him. “Not been rejected by the heirship, then?”
“Nah,” said Harry, pushing up his left sleeve to show the Potter sigil on his skin. “Considering taking the lordship, actually. Tabarius here’s been letting me borrow some books on the political system, and it needs major changing.”
“Mmm,” said the Dark Lord, placing his folded hands on the table to give Harry a thin smile. “I could use that help.”
Neville looked between them again. “So… you’re working together, then?”
Harry and the Dark Lord shared a look. “You could say that,” said Harry, and smiled, too - though his was nervous; worried. “I’ve been trying to get out of that house for ages. He? He’s the only one who’s listened.”
“I listened,” Neville protested.
“Yeah,” said Harry, “but no one listened to you .”
Neville put his head in his hands. “That’s fair. I just… okay. Is he, er.” He looked up at the Dark Lord, feeling rather faint. “Are you going to kill me? Sir? Er, my, er, my Lord?”
The Dark Lord chuckled. “Kill you? Not at all; Harry would be quite cross with me. His well being is my… utmost priority.”
“Right,” said Neville. To Harry, he meekly said, “please stay my friend.”
Harry laughed. It was such a refreshing sound it greatly improved Neville’s mood. “So long as you keep a secret, we’re good.”
“About that,” said the Dark Lord. “I do require an oath from you, Heir Longbottom.”
“Yeah, of course - I’ll, er, I’ll do that. Just - a question, though - Harry - what are you going to tell Dumbledore, and everyone?”
“Oh,” said Harry, and smiled widely. “I think you’ll find out.”
*
The Daily Prophet, morning edition, August 4th, 1999.
RAISED BY MUGGLES: BOY-WHO-LIVED TELLS ALL
After the mysterious events of the Samhain that ended the last war, Harry Potter, one of the heroes of our age, was not sent to live with a proper wixen family like we all assumed. He was, in fact, placed with the muggle family of his late mother, Lily Potter, by none other than Albus Dumbledore, defeater of Grindelwalt and Potter’s future headmaster. In this muggle household Potter was beaten by his cousin, abused by his uncle, and starved by his aunt for eighteen years without anyone ever interferring despite his neighbour, a squib, insists Dumbledore kept an eye on the young man.
Earlier this summer, after numerous pleas for help fell on deaf ears, Potter took matters into his own hands and escaped the household. In an interview with us, Potter explains he has taken up residence by an acquaintance of his late father, who chooses to remain anonymous. He assures us he is safe and doing well, but urges the public to ask themselves - what sort of man would leave a child to be abused? “I certainly have lost all faith I ever had in him,” says Potter. “I’ve considered transferring to Durmstrang, but I have friends at Hogwarts and only two years left, so I’m going back.” When asked how he’ll cope with Dumbledore’s close quarters, Potter simply smiled and said, “I’ve filed a restraining order. If he breaks that, the aurors will be alerted. I think I’ll be fine.”
For a full transcript with this brave survivor, see page 17.
*
My dear boy,
Please reconsider your decisions. I only want the best for you, and we sorely need you for the war effort. I understand you are upset, but you do not have the full picture, and I promise it was for good reason. Had I known it was so bad, I would have found a better home for you. Please trust me, Harry. We’re all very worried about you, and would like you back.
I believe I know who you are with, and believe me when I say whatever he is telling you is a lie. You aren’t safe.
-Albus.
*
Harry,
I’m so relieved you’re free now! I hope everything is well with your new home and you’re eating a lot of good food. Daddy and I are very proud of you for speaking up, and he has written a very strongly worded letter to the headmaster. The Quibbler is going to run an article on him in a few days; I hope you enjoy it.
You’re welcome to visit me and daddy if you ever want! I have some interesting reads on wrackspurt sightings you might enjoy!
With love, Luna.
*
What the hell are you playing at, mate? I mean, good on you for getting away, but Dumbledore says you’ve gone off to live with You-Know-Who, of all people? It’s ridiculous, so he’s probably covering up who you’re really with - which is even weirder! Write soon, okay, and let us know where you are, please. -Ron.
I agree with Ron, Harry. You might not be safe where you are! I’m really sorry we haven’t been able to help you before, or answer your letters, but Dumbledore said it wasn’t safe, and he knows these things best. I know things have been hard for you after Cedric, but you can’t just run away from everything just because of that! We’re here for you. Please talk to us. -Hermione.
*
Hermione, Ron,
If you wanted me to talk to you, you would have written me before. I’ll see you at Hogwarts, and we’ll take it from there.
Harry.
*
Harry,
Bloody brilliant! Stick it to the man, have your voice heard, and so on and so forth. Really proud of you for speaking out, must’ve been hard - you’ve got our support. Tell us if you ever need anything, yeah?
Y’know, old Dumbles is actively encouraging us to not finish our N.E.W.Ts? He’s nuts. It’s like no one believes in our genius, you know? We’ve got your back.
See you soon,
your favourite terrors.
*
The ritual room, whose glass-wrapped walls displayed the full moon rising above the dark treeline and naught else, was cold. Harry had quickly changed from his robes into silken harem trousers instead, their low waist clinging to his hips to display the dark symbols Voldemort had painted on with his bare fingers only half an hour prior. From there he began to dress himself in the gold and silver jewelry his Potter house elf - who worked alongside Voldemort’s - had brought him. They were heavy things adorning his head and hair, clips and gems for his ears and throat, bracelets connected with thin chains to rings upon his fingers and jeweled chains crossing his bare chest; shimmering things that caught in the light and made him feel, for lack of a better word, worshipped .
“Ready,” he called, after pulling a hand across his braids to ensure the beads were all in place.
“Excellent,” came Voldemort’s low murmur. “Let me see you.”
Drawing a deep breath, Harry stepped out from behind the changing curtain. Voldemort stood on the other side of the room, wearing only a shimmering, black cloak that left his bare chest exposed. Like the rest of him, it was uncanny - caught somewhere between human and serpent, like the echo of scales clung to his skin, unseen, but felt.
“Ahh,” he said, watching Harry with hungry eyes. “Aren’t you just magnificent. ”
Harry’s face warmed, but he didn’t look away. Marring Voldemort’s skin were dark markings in the same ink that covered Harry’s, though the patterns were different. They drew the gaze; his skin buzzed, something just beneath the surface whispering and reaching, wanting out .
“There is still some time before we finish the ritual circle,” Voldemort said, voice naught but a baritone murmur laying heavy on the thick atmosphere. “Allow me to explain. When you became my untethered horcrux, I did not solidify my soul fragment’s attachment to you.”
Harry walked toward him, bare feet making no sound as they touched upon the cold stone floors.
“It has never been done on any living host before,” Voldemort continued, gaze unwavering, “so I have spent the days since I learned of your… status… adjusting the usual ritual. It has been combined with the ritual for marking you, which shall also be executed tonight.”
“Yes, Lord,” Harry breathed, and when Voldemort began to move along the circle’s outer ring, Harry mirrored him without a thought. “Shall I bear the mark on my left arm, then?”
“No,” said Voldemort. “With the completed horcrux attachment, it will be anchored… to your scar.”
“Ah,” said Harry. “Ironic.”
Voldemort’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Fitting, no?” As he said so, the last sliver of the moon cleared the treeline, and the circle beneath their feet burst into a silver glow. “Ah - it is time. Stand in the circle and face the moon.”
Inclining his head, Harry stepped across the glowing boundary and shuddered at the powerful sensation. This felt ancient - this felt right.
Counter-clockwise, Voldemort traced the circle, pale feet bare against the stone. He moved like a shadow, word- and wandlessly lighting the seven candles surrounding the glowing lines.
The tension waxed. Harry kept his eyes trained on the moon, struggling to keep his breath calm. This was his last chance to turn back - his last chance to say transfer it somewhere else and kill me , or to simply level his wand at his own chest and cast the Killing Curse.
There was no desire in him whatsoever to do so, no apprehension, no fear - only a primordial sense of being here , of being now , of being right.
A low gong rang through the air as the candle directly before Harry lit, and the air rippled with the sheer force of the magic coming alive.
Voldemort came to a stop before him, backlit by the swollen moon, the sharp lines of his face highlighted by the blue flickering of the black candles. He lifted into the air a silver blade, one long metal tool, handle wrought and set with amethyst.
Harry trailed the move with his eyes, and his trepidation grew. The silver gleamed in the moonlight.
In a flash the dagger struck, a white streak in the night as it parted the soft flesh of a palm. “With this blood, as consumed by you,” said Voldemort, and offered his palm, welling with blood, to Harry. “I strengthen you.”
It took a moment for Harry to catch on.
His breath caught. Voldemort often touched him, light touches he’d seen mirrored in the Death Eater meetings he watched in disguise, but never had he invited Harry to touch him , nor had the thought crossed Harry’s mind.
Now he raised his hands to Voldemort’s, taking it gently and meeting no resistance when he brought it to his mouth. Hesitant at first, he licked the wound - then, bolstered by the thick blood, he licked again, tongue broad against Voldemort’s palm. Red smeared against white, staining Harry’s lips and teeth - it woke him, returned him, and when Voldemort at last withdrew his hand, Harry gasped for air like a drowning man.
Voldemort’s eyes were aglow, more intense than ever, when he raised the blade to Harry’s throat. “With this blood, as consumed by I,” he murmured, and with one quick motion nicked Harry’s skin, “you strengthen me.” He took Harry’s head and tilted it back, then put his mouth to the wound. Harry’s breath shuddered at the contact, the hot, forked tongue that lapped at his feverish flesh, the sensation of the suction - Voldemort’s grip tightened on his face, and Harry gasped, and clung to him, and felt it tremble through his entire body.
Voldemort moved back, mouth spotted red with Harry’s blood. His pupils were blown wide. Magic danced within them. “With this blood,” he said, voice hoarse, “as consumed by you and I - our union complete.” His fingers curled beneath Harry’s chin, digging into the flesh beneath, and tilted it upward.
Their mouths met, blood on blood, and Harry parted his lips and pushed into it, delirious with the high of ancient magic and the copper of Voldemort’s blood. Tongue brushed against tongue, and Harry made a soft sound into Voldemort’s mouth, which he answered by pulling him closer before breaking apart.
Voldemort kept eye contact and licked his bitten lower lip. “With this blood, as united with us, I ask you to serve and obey me, raise your wand as sword and shield for me, and seek refuge with me before any other. Will you?”
“I will,” Harry breathed.
Voldemort pressed his thumb into the blood pooling in the hollow of Harry’s throat, then the rivulets running down his palm, before stroking it across Harry’s scar and saying, “then so mote it be.”
The gong rung once more as every candle went out, and the rush of magic settling was so strong Harry staggered beneath it. Voldemort caught him, laughing softly. “You understand you are mine, now?”
Harry leaned against him, marveling at how warm a non-human could be. “Always was,” he muttered, tilting his head back to meet Voldemort’s gaze. It was true; it was fate's design. “Just made it official.”
Voldemort hummed. “We have to get coloured lenses for you before September; one has taken on a striking crimson.”
“Huh,” said Harry, because what else was there to say? Voldemort’s soul had just been anchored to him beyond removal; it was bound to leave a mark. “That kiss,” he said instead. “Was it necessary for the ritual?”
“No,” said Voldemort, and smiled.
*
House Potter document, filed under 20th century, section C: heir- and lordships.
Harry James Potter, born July 31st 1980, declares on this date, August 10th 1999, that he is informed of and prepared to undertake the duties and responsibilities of taking the House Potter Lordship. With magic and gold as our witness, so shall it be.
Signature of client: HJ Potter
Signature of House Potter confidant: GripHook VII.
*
Pup,
I need your help. I’ve been trapped in this stupid house for way too long, and Dumbledore won’t let me write you, and I’m furious at him for not telling me about your situation - you could have lived with me, I wanted you to live with me, Harry.
I’ve managed to escape their watchful eyes, the junior marauders helped me, but I don’t know how long I have before they find me. You have to help me, please, Harry, I need someone to come pick me up. I’ll go to a Mind Healer like you told me to, I don’t even care if it’s bloody you-know-who you’ve found shelter with, I just want to be with you. I can’t fight against you, Harry, you’re all I have left. Kreacher will tell you my location when he gives you this letter, but if he doesn’t, just call him back - you’re heir to House Black, so he should listen.
Please help me. I’m scared.
-Padfoot
*
[Order of the Phoenix meeting, August 13th, 14:02, as transcribed by Remus Lupin on August 13th, 18:16]
Albus Dumbledore : Thank you all for coming on such short notice. As many of you already know, Sirius went missing late last night, and as (HEADQUARTERS) is all but impenetrable, he must have left on his own accord. If anyone has any information on his whereabouts, I kindly ask you speak up.
Hermione Granger : He can’t have come far, can he? He doesn’t have a wand!
Nymphadora Tonks: Yeah, true. He can’t apparate.
Elphias Doge: Or call the Knightbus!
Kingsley Shacklebolt : He’s wanted by both You-Know-Who’s men and the Ministry. He’s in grave danger out there.
Albus Dumbledore: Not to mention all the intel he possesses about the Order. We must find him before he can share the information.
Alastor Moody : And when we get him back, he must be kept away from more intel.
Ron Weasley : Like you’ve done with Harry, you mean? [Be]cause that went so well.
Albus Dumbledore : Now, dear boy, the kidnapping of Harry proves why controlling the information is so essential -
Remus Lupin, interrupting : Not this again, Albus. His wellbeing is the most important thing, isn’t it? As is Sirius’ - I want to know my friend is safe before anything else.
Molly Weasley, entering the room : Albus! So sorry to interrupt, but Hedwig just dropped off a letter!
Hermione Granger: From Harry?
Ron Weasley: That’s his handwriting! It’s addressed to us.
Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley read letter from Harry Potter.
Hermione Granger: Sirius is with Harry!
Ron Weasley : He says he’s safe, too.
Kingsley Shacklebolt: If Albus is right and Potter has been tricked into trusting You-Know-Who, then Sirius is most decidely not safe.
Albus Dumbledore : We will have to change our plans, then.
Remus Lupin : That’s it? We’re not going to try and get him back? Neither of them?
Albus Dumbledore : I assure you, Remus, Harry’s life is my utmost priority. He is essential for defeating Voldemort.
Ron Weasley: And that’s it, is it? You don’t care because he’s Harry, you care because he’s the Boy-Who-Lived!
Arthur Weasley : Settle down, Ron.
Ron Weasley : This is ridiculous. Harry’s being brainwashed by that noseless prick as we speak, and none of you care as long as Dumbledore’s fancy smoke-puffers say he’s still alive!
Molly Weasley: That’s enough!
Albus Dumbledore : I see this discussion is getting nowhere. I call the meeting ended now, and if anyone hears anything else from Harry or Sirius, alert me immediately.
[End transcription.]
*
[Meeting of the Inner Circle, August 13th, 17:00, as transcribed by Harry James Potter. In attendance:
Walden Macnair.
Malfoy Senior.
Malfoy Junior.
Nott Senior.
Crabbe Senior.
Crabbe Junior.
Goyle Senior.
Goyle Junior.
Amycus Carrow.
Alecto Carrow.
Harry Potter, disguised.
Absent with other business:
Avery Junior.
Corban Yaxley.
Severus Snape. ]
Lord Voldemort: Welcome, old and new, to my high table. Among us today are freshly inducted the Serpent, Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle - a moment of gratitude for their diligence to the cause.
Silence, approximately 7 seconds.
Lord Voldemort : Ah, and that is precisely the topic of today’s announcements: the cause. It saddens me to admit, but I see, now, that before my defeat eighteen years ago, we were losing the war. Can anyone tell me why? Don’t be shy, now.
Harry Potter: My Lord - your methods, perhaps?
Lord Voldemort: Precisely, Serpent. Our methods, gentle folk, are what caused our demise. For did we not, toward the end, spend resources and time on slaughtering and pillage? Indeed we did. Hence I propose a more trustworthy approach: politics. We shall wage war no more, but campaigns, brutal campaigns to bring our opponents down and restore Magical Britain to its former glory.
Cheering, approximately 2 seconds.
Lord Voldemort: We shall listen to the truth, and not let old myths and misgivings blind our sight. We want to prosper, not suffocate! Therefore, those of you who are not involved in politics currently, I urge you to take up your position and argue for what is right.
Lord Voldemort : That is all for tonight. Go with great success, gentle folk, and go well!
[End of transcription.]
*
(Page of journal labeled “Horcruxes and Their Relationship to Their Creator”, page title “hosts”, dated August 14th.)
Where horcruxes hosted in inorganic matters are best described as ‘vessels’, my interest in horcruxes hosted by a living host has only increased ever since the ritual on completing the bond was performed between mine and I. Before the anchoring, the relationship between host and creator seemed only to be one-way; creator affecting host. My host inherited my ability to speak Parseltongue, and would feel second-hand emotions. After the anchoring, this relation has not only broadened, but also become reflected: my host now pulls on my magic if needed, as do I on his, and as he experiences my emotions second-hand, so do I experience his. He seems to have a more precise affinity for the Dark Arts. I must admit I reap benefits from this connection also: his ability to logic and reason bleeds into me, more strongly so whenever we are physically near one another. It gets, in other words, easier to think - it is as though the nearness of my soul eases the yawning void left behind after tearing it to pieces.
I would not go back on my previous decisions, nor would I undo them if I could, but the rejuvenating presence that is my host has given me resolve to do what I can for my clarity of mind. Whether this effect can also be gained from having inorganic horcruxes near remains to be seen.
*
Neville,
If you’re available tomorrow, my mentor would like to meet with you to discuss options for the future. The person I told you about that time we snuck out after curfew to drink by the Great Loch will be there, too, for the same reason. I will of course be present the entire time, and you have nothing at all to fear - there are just some details we want to iron out. If you accept, we’ll send a house elf to the edge of your wards at noon.
Your friend,
H.
*
Harry,
I’ll be there.
N.
*
Neville was taken to a drawing room by a house elf who introduced herself as Whisk, and though he tried to discern the location of the home he was in, he couldn’t for the life figure it out. It was none of the manors or houses he’d visited during his pureblood upbringing, which he supposed was good.
In lavish, velvet chairs of blue and silver sat Harry, and opposite him, a haunted man of skin and bone. Sirius Black didn’t look well, but Neville assumed he still looked miles better than when he’d escaped Azkaban.
“Neville!” Harry greeted, rising to his feet to offer the bow of an equal greeting each other. Flattered, Neville returned the bow. “Meet Sirius, my godfather.”
“Hey,” said Black, standing from his seat, not to bow, but rather unceremoniously shake Neville’s hand. “Sirius Black, but if you use my last name, I might hex you.” A wink followed this, so it was probably a joke.
“Noted,” said Neville. “Then, er, call me Neville. I’m Heir Longbottom.”
“Yeah,” said Sirius, sounding both fond and distant at once. “You’ve got a lot of Alice in you.”
“Come, sit,” said Harry, guiding Neville to take a seat beside Sirius. Only when Harry returned to oppose them did Neville do a double take; no longer were Harry’s eyes identical. His scar, too, was changed. It had always been an angry, swollen thing, but now it had settled, faded to a gentle pink, not so raised as it once had been. The eye its lowest lightning branch cut through bore the change, as it no longer shone darling green - rather, it had taken on the piercing red Neville had seen in the face of only one other man. “Harry,” he said, keeping his voice low, “what happened to your eye?”
“Hm? Oh!” Harry raised a hand to touch the underside of his affected eye. “It’s, er. We’ll talk about it later, when my Lord arrives. He’s a bit preoccupied at the moment - some of the more, ah, bloodthirsty Death Eaters caused some problems.”
“I see,” said Neville meekly, and didn’t mention the title used. Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. “Um - Sirius - I know how Harry ended up here, but how about you?”
Sirius made a wobbling gesture with his hand as he threw the other over the back of his chair, adopting a stunningly relaxed position, considering their environment. “Everyone knew Harry’d gone and found himself shelter,” he said, “and Dumbledore’s convinced it’s the Dark Lord, but that Harry doesn’t know. But I had more faith in him than that.” He flashed Harry a wolfish grin. “I wouldn’t fight against Harry if it was the end of the bloody world, so I let him know. And here I am. With him in all, booyah!”
“Booyah,” echoed Harry, with the dry tone of someone who’s heard the same thing several times a day for the last three days. “He even agreed to a Mind Healer. He goes to the same as me - best in Britain, my Lord tells me.”
“That’s good,” said Neville. He’d told Harry to get a Mind Healer several times over the last year, but Harry had no real motivation and no idea where to start looking for someone trustworthy. Neville would have called him paranoid, if he weren’t the Boy-Who-Lived.
The heavy wooden door swung open, and a low, mellow voice called, “apologies for the delay.”
Sirius scrambled to get his limbs into a more respectful position. Neville’s spine went ramrod straight, and he forced himself to take a deep breath, and wait the appropriate time before he raised his eyes to the newcomer.
There stood Dark Lord Voldemort in all his glory, wearing dark red robes with a waistcoat white as bone underneath. His face seemed hollow, skin stretched across bone, something like scales gleaming in a smattering across his cheekbones and his proud brow. The red of his eyes matched the splatter on his cheek, and Neville swallowed thickly - who would show up to a meeting like this with blood on his face?
“My Lord,” Harry murmured, rising to bow his head slightly. He hissed something in Parseltongue, and Voldemort blinked, raising a hand to his cheek.
When his fingers came back bloodied, he chuckled softly. “So it seems,” he said, and drew a white handkerchief from his pocket. It wiped the blood off like it was nothing more than water and did not stain.
“Question,” said Sirius, either very bravely, or very stupidly
Voldemort’s expression did not change as his gaze turned to Sirius. “Speak.”
“What did you do to them?”
This far away, Neville couldn’t be sure if the twitch of Voldemort’s lips was a trick of the light or a smile snuffed before it could unfold. “The same as they did to the muggleborn.”
Sirius relaxed into his chair, a vindictive gleam to his eyes. “Good.”
Voldemort’s attention now turned to Neville. “Welcome to my home, Heir Longbottom.”
“Thank you, Lord,” said Neville. Well, it was more like a squeak, but he wasn’t keen on admitting that.
Sweeping through the room, Voldemort took a seat in Harry’s couch. “I have invited you here to shed light on my cause and ideals, so you may choose where you stand in upcoming conflicts.”
“Not the war?” said Sirius, surprise clear in his voice.
“There will be no war,” said Harry quietly. “Not if we can avoid it.”
“Politics,” said Voldemort, and there must be something in his tone that Harry could decipher, for he rolled his eyes. “Campaigns. We have a few years, perhaps a decade or two, before we reach true danger. I will spend the time wisely.”
“I get trying to change things through politics,” said Sirius, “but if you come in guns blazing, you’re not going to achieve much.”
Harry sighed. “Sirius…”
“No,” said Voldemort, raising his hand. “Let him speak, he has a point. Lord Black. Have you ever heard of the foot-in-the-door technique?”
“Ah,” said Neville, because he had.
Voldemort inclined his head toward him. “Precisely. I shall begin by campaigning for tighter support systems for magical children, receiving warnings as early as their first or second year, and visiting the families to ensure it is a proper household for a magical child.”
Sirius rubbed his chin. “Yeah, that’s good. The next step?”
“We shall build our way up to total segregation,” said Voldemort, and his voice left no space for arguments.
Harry nodded. “I’m currently funding some major research on how blood actually affects magical cores, how muggle, er… breeding adds new genes to our smaller pools and how that correlates to squibs. And, er, stuff like that.”
Sirius snorted. “Okay,” he said, “I’m asking this just because Harry promised I wouldn’t be hexed. So.” He stapled his fingers together and leaned forward. “ Why ?”
“You know how muggles are,” said Harry. “Not all, sure, but a lot of them. And they’re - God, they’re bloody dangerous , Sirius. A protego might stop a bullet, but there’s no shield big enough to protect against bombs or atomic weapons.”
“Oh,” said Sirius. Neville privately echoed the statement. Harry had discussed these things with him before, aired his existential dread, the gnawing sense of impending doom, but he’d never said it so plainly.
“Of course it is also the way muggle influence is affecting our traditions and customs,” said Voldemort. “Halloween, Christmas - the incessant push for drowning our culture and history to make muggleborn and muggleraised children feel more welcome.”
Sirius was frowning. “Okay, another question, and don’t hex me , but - is that really so bad?”
At once Harry placed a hand on Voldemort’s elbow, shooting him a look that bordered on worried.
“I know your upbringing must’ve soured your relationship with our customs,” Harry said to Sirius, “but the majority haven’t had that experience. Now, think of the history wixen have with muggles - brutal killings, witch trials and witch hunts, murder and mauling… decades, centuries of it, on many occasions affecting many generations of families that still live in Britain. Can’t you see how having that culture slowly overtaking your own is infuriating?”
“Unjust,” Neville blurted. “That’s what Grandmother always says. My great-great-great grandfather, and his daughter, and her daughter, were hunted across half the country. I understand the issue.” He’d been raised on stories of their bravery and pain, and his grandmother, the first child who hadn’t been targeted, had brought that hurt onto his shoulders. It was a heavy burden.
“I see the issue, too,” said Sirius, “but look at it the other way - it’s only in recent years that muggleborns have been protected and supported by the general public, and there’s still way too much prejudice going on. That generational push-back, violence and trauma - it’s gotta be affecting them, too, right? It must feel like - like being shoved into a box you don’t fit in!”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “It’s another issue we want to work on. Raising magic children from a young age as members of the magic community eases a lot of that discomfort, and for any muggle relatives who have to be relocated for their own safety, some muggle customs and traditions should still carry over. There has to be a balance, and right now…”
“There is no balance,” said Voldemort coolly. “We are in danger of being snuffed out. I aim to eliminate that danger.”
“But,” said Harry, and his eyes were as kind as they always were, even if he hadn’t moved his hand from Voldemort’s arm - even if he sat so close to him they must feel each other’s heat. “He doesn’t expect… well.”
“I do not expect you to follow me,” said Voldemort, “although it would be folly not to. Shall you go against me, then on your public head be it, but it is a choice you shall have.”
Neville pulled on his sleeves, worrying them over and over again. “What - what does that mean, exactly?”
“You will not take my mark.”
“I’ve taken an… altered version of it,” Harry admitted. “We anchored it in my scar, for… well, to keep it from the public.”
Neville exhaled. “Your eye.”
“Yup. But the altered version - that’s the thing, see, it allows for a… well, a level beneath it, of sorts.” Harry pulled a hand through his curls. “The Dark Mark doesn’t allow for the marked to be bonded to anyone else. My mark… it does.”
Neville inhaled sharply. “You want us to take a pledge of loyalty to you,” he said, so shocked his stutter failed. “To bond us to you like servant and lord.”
“Sort of,” said Harry. “Less like servant, more like… warrior? Sword and shield? I’m still working on the name. I don’t expect you to take it,” he hurried to add, “I’m just letting you know the option is there - you wouldn’t be loyal to my Lord, but you’d be loyal to me .”
Sirius, who had crossed his arms, snorted. “That’s practically second-hand loyalty, at this point.”
Harry had the gall to be sheepish. “Er. Yeah.”
“You may think on it,” said Voldemort. “You have a week.”
Sirius sighed and flipped his woven hair from his face. “No need,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
Harry beamed. He looked so unlike the starved eleven year old boy Neville had first met, and yet so much like him, that he blurted, “can I talk to you for a bit, first, Harry?” With a quick glance to Voldemort, he added, “alone?”
“I’d love to,” said Harry. “My Lord?”
“Do not dally,” said Voldemort as he rose. “Dinner is served at five.”
“Of course,” Harry murmured, and bent his head in deference.
*
(The Book of Serpents, list of marked members. The writing is in parselscript.)
On this list shall only those with the Serpent’s Mark on their breast be written.
On the day of August 15th, 1999, Sirius Orion Black , Lord of House Black, chose to bear the Serpent’s Mark.
On the day of August 15th, 1999, Neville Frank Longbottom , Heir of House Longbottom, chose to bear the Serpent’s Mark.
*
British Ministry of Magic, Apparition Form 22-B, filled by secretary of the Apparition Office, suboffice to Department of Transport.
Applicant Name: Harry James Potter
Applicant Date of Birth: 31st July, 1980
Date of Application: 17th August, 1999
Previous Applications, Y/N: yes
Location of Previous Application: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Date of Previous Application: May 23rd, 1996
Result of Application: 43/60, passing grade 50<
Location of Current Application: British Ministry of Magic
Result of Current Application: 59.5/60
Apparition License Granted, Y/N: yes
*
Conclusive notes for Wizengamot meeting #4629, dated August 20th, 1999, as written by Wizengamot Scribe Percy Weasley.
The Potter Act for the Safety of Magical Children and Their Associates, as presented by Lucius Malfoy and co-written by Tiberius Gabriel Stowe and Harry James Potter, passes by vote of majority (in favour, 56 seats of 70). Until the time of total majority vote (in favour, greater than 65 seats of 70) or minority vote (in favour, lesser than 35 seats of 70) the Act remains active for so long as House Potter donates a minimum of 500 galleons each turn of the year. Implementation of The Potter Act begins promptly.
*
Harry paused in front of the compartment door. Hermione and Ron would be waiting inside - because they had been waiting inside for the last seven years - though he would not be facing them alone: Neville had promised to wait with them to act as buffer.
He had to admit he was scared. But there were many things he’d learned over the summer, not least of which was how to face his fears, and so he drew a sharp, shallow breath, and stepped inside.
They all turned to look at him, Neville with a small smile, Ron and Hermione with mixtures of relief, worry and apprehension. “Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, and had half-risen, likely to hug him, before she sunk back into her seat. “Harry, I’m really, really sorry - ”
“Neville,” said Harry, turning to his hatchling, as they’d decided to call them. “Privacy ward, if you please?” Neville had always been better at those than Harry, after all.
Neville spoke the incantation clearly, one Harry recognized as particularly strong, and he bowed his head in gratitude. “Thank you,” said Harry, and sat beside him, opposite of Ron. “Right. I promised we’d talk. So. Talk.”
Ron blurted, “we couldn’t go against Dumbledore, mate, he wouldn’t let any owls leave the house!”
“Not even the Burrow? Not the forests around your wards? Not the Owl Office in Diagon?” Harry wasn’t angry, only resigned. “Not that it would have mattered. He had wards around Privet, they wouldn’t have reached me. You, though,” he said to Hermione, “could have sent me muggle mail.”
She raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Merlin, I never thought of that.”
“I think the fact Hedwig didn’t appear to either of you spoke volumes,” said Neville, and his voice was more chill than Harry had ever heard it. Clearly, he’d taken Harry’s warnings, and his requests for support, to heart. “She’s the only letter-carrier who could pass the wards, from what I’ve heard.”
Ron slumped in his seat. “She visited you, I reckon.”
“Yeah,” said Neville.
They stewed on that, for a moment, and Harry waited as patiently as he could for them to sort out their thoughts.
“Dumbledore has been horrid!” Hermione eventually said. “He’s only cared about all the secrets you could’ve spilled, and how it was such a good choice to not tell you anything, but you got so fed up you fled , so clearly - ”
“I didn’t flee,” Harry said, and from their startled expressions, he worried his coloured lens had popped out in his cold fury, before he realized it was in response to his sharp tone. “Let’s get one thing straight. I was rescued .” He stood, unable to keep sitting when Voldemort wasn’t there to ground him. “I know Dumbledore spent the summer worrying I’d been taken by the Dark Lord without knowing.”
“Yeah, but - ”
“He was wrong.” He rounded on them, and their betrayal last year had stung, but their six years of friendship before then soothed the wound, so he decided to just rip the bandaid off and let them make their choice swiftly - for all their sakes. “I knew the whole time. Yes. The Dark Lord rescued me.”
Ron went white as bone. “He killed your parents .”
It wasn’t only anger and worry and mounting fear that affected him, but weeks and weeks of guilt as well, when he snapped, " you think I don't know that!? " Ron and Hermione flinched. Neville’s mouth only twisted a little, before he adopted a faintly exasperated expression. “ Fuck , Ron, I spent all of June and most of July thinking of nothing else,” Harry whispered, “but they’re dead, and I’m alive, and I had to make a choice, okay?”
“Surely,” Hermione croaked, wringing her hands together, “surely there’s another way, a way to - it’s not too late, you can still - ”
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose and drew on the fountain of calm Voldemort had promised to provide for this confrontation. “I was dying,” he said. “I am not exaggerating. Either I would die slowly from starvation, or the Dark Lord would give me a swift end. I wrote him, asking for his help.”
“How many times,” said Neville softly, “has Harry asked for help?”
“I,” said Hermione, looking between them with dawning understanding. “I couldn’t rightly say.”
“And how many times,” said Neville, giving her a steady look, the sort that proved his strength: not in the flashy, but in persistence. “Has he been heard?”
Ron made a meek sound. “Once,” he said, and when Harry faced him, he’d closed his eyes. “Once. In fifth year. When we came to get him with dad’s car.”
“Wrong,” said Harry quietly, and turned away from them, facing the window with a wince. It was raining, the droplets chasing each other down the glass, and he followed them with his gaze as he said, “twice. I’ve been heard twice. I said to him, I’m going to die, and I said to him, is there any way you can save me? And you know what he said?” His lip quirked in a humourless smile. This was the line that had saved him, in the end, repeated on loop in his mind like a mantra, a prayer, and he would never forget it. “He said, I’ll be there Friday 20th.”
Hermione drew a withering breath, then, with utter Gryffindor bravery and stupidity, whispered, “were you really starving?”
“I ate a rat, once,” said Harry, and met his own gaze in his reflection, the rivulets of rain carving rivers against his cheeks. “But sometimes, Hedwig would bring me rabbits. I got very good at skinning them with my bare hands, and even better at stomaching raw meat.” He turned to face them, their horrified looks, because even Neville hadn’t known that. “When the Dark Lord saved me, I hoped he would show mercy. I hoped it would be swift. And instead…”
He swallowed, throat burning, and looked to Neville for help.
“Instead,” said Neville, “he got him the best Healer in western Europe, and the best Mind Healer in Britain. How many potions did you take a day, that first week, Harry?”
“Seventeen,” Harry croaked. “Though I’m down to four, now.”
Ron, though still pale, looked sceptical. “You sure it wasn’t poison?”
The notion seemed so ridiculous now that Harry barked a laugh. “Poison? No. He hasn’t harmed a hair on my head. He’s fed me, clothed me, Healed me… told me all about your little Order, and Severus’ place as a spy, and the prophecy.” At Hermione’s sharp gasp, he blinked. “What, Dumbledore didn’t tell you? Damn. Yeah, prophecy about me having the power to conquer the Dark Lord, and other such nonsense. Didn’t say anything about me being required to do it, though, so we deigned to ignore it.”
Hermione shared a look with Ron. Neville subtly palmed his wand, nodding his chin to Harry: he’d stun them before they had time to bolt. Shakily, Hermione said, “for his hospitality… what did you have to do?”
Harry hesitated. He had to turn away from them again to admit to this. “Just before my birthday, he…” He grabbed hold of the windowsill, knuckles pale against the wood. “You heard about the raid, right? Down south? I attended, at his orders.” He chuckled, because if he didn’t, he might vomit at the memory again. “I watched him rip a man’s heart from his chest. And I - I decided. Then and there. That I would do whatever he wanted, anything he asked, if it meant I could get a chance to…” He paused to look for the word. “Persuade him of changing his tactics.”
“Not his cause?” said Ron, sounding rather affronted.
Harry met his gaze in the reflection. “I’ve found,” he murmured, “that saving all magical children is noble enough to cease outright murder of muggles. Until our research comes with sufficient statistics proving we need them, I cannot promise anything more.”
Hermione buried her face in her hands. In the window, he saw her shoulders shake.
“I should mention,” said Harry, and he’d become dull, now, because he knew he had dug this grave - might as well lie in it and choke on turned dirt. “I have not taken the mark - but I have taken something… similar. We’re tethered, now.” He leaned his forehead against the window. It was cool against his skin. “He is my Lord and master, as I am his… his… his host, his vessel, his anchor, his…” The words died on his lips, because there was no way he could put words to that connection, forged in magic and blood and destiny, the magnitism of knowing their meeting, their mark of equals, had been foretold before his birth.
“I just don’t understand,” said Ron. He sounded the way he did when confronting Malfoy - angry, about to hex someone, but keeping it together. “He killed your parents .”
Harry’s breath fogged the mirror. “Our union,” he hollowly stated, “has… changed me. Changed us. He felt my pain, all the grief I have carried, and apologized.”
Hermione inhaled sharply. In the window, he saw she reached for Ron’s hand.
“And you?” said Neville, when Harry made no move to continue.
He closed his eyes. “I felt his fear, his panic, his dread. I knew, I understood, why he had done it. And I forgave him.” And I meant it , he did not say. I meant it with my entire chest .
“You’re not going to leave him,” said Ron dully. “Are you?”
“I cannot.” He turned, then, to face them - Ron’s resignation, Hermione’s horror, their fear, their loss, their grief - Neville’s gentle reassurance, the softness of his eyes, his seemingly infinite well of kindness. “There is no border between he and I; no more. We are one, together, until we tire of life. For better,” he said, then lowered his voice to add, “or for worse.” He let the words hang in the air, to settle truly in their hearts, before he spoke again, hushed. "You were my first friends, and for that, I thank you. There will be no war, but I understand if you will not engage with… our side favorably. Should you wish it, my Lord has promised a truce with you and your families. An agreement of neutrality, should shit ever hit the fan."
They looked troubled by these news, as expected, so Harry nodded to Neville and crossed to stand beside him.
"Think on it," said Neville, and canceled his privacy ward so the Serpent and his hatchling could find a compartment of their own.
*
Journal of the Serpent and the Lord, one a gift from a friend, the other crafted by hand.
In Lord Voldemort’s controlled cursive was written, I estimate the Welcoming Feast to have ended by now, and you to be secure in your dormitory. How did your past allies take your relevation?
In Harry Potter’s scrawl, the response came, “I’m not sure, honestly. I didn’t let them speak much. Lots of repressed feelings, I guess.”
I see. I sensed… sorrow. Anger. I assume they did not seem supportive.
“Not very, no. But not outright rejection, either. Would an explanation for my feelings be welcome?”
If you wish.
“There was sorrow, yeah. And anger, too. Frustration, bitterness, resignation… I felt betrayed, and disappointed, and afraid. Melancholic, and nostalgic, and trapped. Relieved.”
Emotions are truly such a hassle.
“Sure, but I like them.”
You shall learn to control them, so they do not bleed into me. It would be most inconvenient should you interfere with my plans.
“Yes, my Lord.”
*
“I understand prof. umbridge is a factor in the anti-dumbledore campaign, but must she be in Hogwarts?”
Out of my hands, I’m afraid, even with Lucius on the Board. What is she like?
“Doing a great job of not teaching us anything, for one. I got detention first class.”
I cannot imagine you as anything but obedient.
“My friends would beg to differ, my Lord.”
Only for me, then.
“Yes.”
Whatever did you do to land detention?
“Pointed out the Prophet could say whatever the hell they want about Dumbledore, he’s a grown man, but since I’m still a student, I should be protected against press. Suggested the ministry wasn’t doing their jobs right. she didn’t like that. fucking bootlicker”
Capitalize your sentences, pet. Laziness is unbecoming of you.
“Not so much laziness as knowing to save my energy for what matters, now, is it, my Lord?”
Cheekiness is also unbecoming of you.
“You love it.”
No such thing.
“Whatever you say :)”
Go to bed, pet. We shall speak this weekend.
*
Severus,
You know as well as I that Umbridge is a necessary evil in my plans, however, the well-being of our magical children is far more important. While preferable the generations raised under Dumbledore’s eye are not groomed for martyrdom and a warrior’s death, they must be able to trust their authorities.
I suggest you do all you can to remove her from her position, considering her use of cursed Blood Quills on students.
LV.
*
My Lord,
I shall see it done.
Your servant, as always,
SS.
*
Auror report after event of class B severity. Date: September 12th, 1999.
Umbridge, Dolores arrested at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on grounds of using cursed objects on minors. Search of her office, with warrant, resulted in confiscating evidence in form of a) three cursed Blood Quills and their case b) parchment with lines written in blood. Parchments will be sent off for testing of magical signatures, so the affected students’ parents, if underage, may be informed and offered compensation.
Arrest was successful and Miss Umbridge went peacefully.
Signed, Auror Nymphadora Tonks.
*
“My Lord.”
Pet.
“My former allies asked for further information about your goals. I told them. They will not follow either of us - Hermione cited she couldn’t condone, and that she would not forgive nor forget, your past actions - but they’re willing to take oaths of neutrality.”
Both? That is a surprise.
“Hermione doesn’t want her parents involved. Ron wants general neutrality for his family, but understands if some of them raise wand against you, you have the right to retaliate. He asks you do not punish the child for the father’s crimes, so to speak.”
Not a saying I thought a Weasley would be familiar with, I must admit .
“He didn’t put it in so eloquent terms. I get it from you, you know.”
Naturally. You may let them know I accept their terms, as long as they come with you this weekend to take the oath in person. Acceptable?
“Yes, Lord.”
*
Hermione kept her chin high as Harry led her and Ron through the dim manor, clearly familiar, and at ease, with his surroundings. He’d changed long before they left Hogwarts, and she balked at how dolled up he seemed, compared to his regular outfits.
She hadn’t wanted to listen to Harry, at first. But Neville had taken her aside and showed her the Serpent’s mark, a small lily right above the soft, inner flesh of his elbow. “They don’t want war,” he’d muttered. “If one comes, it’d be because of the Light. I don’t want to be the cause of a war, Hermione.”
After that Hermione couldn’t, in good conscience, refuse the offer. It didn’t keep her skin from crawling, though, as she clung to Ron’s hand and followed her first friend into Hell. “Harry,” she called softly, before he went to open the last set of doors. Harry turned. “I’m not leaving you. I can’t.” She was, after all, only human - and her loyalty went deep.
Harry smiled. It was a small, sad thing. “I know.”
Lord Voldemort was a horrifying sight. He didn’t look human - a horrid thing wearing a human’s skin, like someone had tried to reconstruct a human but only with a skeleton to go by.
And Harry bowed low when they entered the room, and when Voldemort beckoned him forward, he went. He let Voldemort’s clawed fingers curl around his wrist as he murmured something far too low for either Hermione or Ron to hear, and Harry smiled .
Then he sunk to his knees, back to Voldemort’s chair, and settled between his legs. Hermione’s suspicions - that Harry was not at all telling them the whole truth about the nature of their relationship - flared up again.
Her voice didn’t halt as she spoke her terms, and Voldemort spoke his, and once they accepted each other, the oath itself. Through it all Voldemort sat calm and stoic upon his throne, and Harry leaned his head against Voldemort’s knee, watching the proceedings while Voldemort slowly carded through his hair. Harry’s compliance, his content expression, was perhaps the most horrifying of the situation.
“You may leave,” said Voldemort, once Ron had spoken his own oath to life.
Hermione looked to Harry.
“Go,” said Harry, and gestured in their direction, a clear dismissal so reminiscent of Voldemort himself it made her heart ache. He’d wrapped an arm loosely around the Dark Lord’s leg, fingers slipped beneath the hem of his trousers to trace patterns against the strip of white skin.
Hermione spun on her heel and fled, unwilling to intrude on their intimacy a moment longer, and Ron was no slower than her. The door shut behind them, and they did not speak. Whisk the house elf led them to the Floo Chamber, and they did not speak. First when they’d apparated to the edge of Hogwarts’ wards did Ron turn his pale face to Hermione. “So,” he said, voice shaky. “Is it just me, or is Harry shagging the Dark Lord?”
Hermione buried her face in her hands.
*
BOY-WHO-LIVED TO ENTER POLITICAL SCENE
After the reveal of the Boy-Who-Lived’s mentor - one Tiberius Gabriel Stowe, who our readers might recall was a co-writer for the Potter Act, and who seems to have a promising platform for the Wizengamot voting in January - Potter has appeared as Lord Potter for the assembly this morning. Initial concerns about his young age were soon dropped, as he proved himself a formidable public speaker and politician. If this is the result of Stowe’s tutelage, this journalist predicts we can expect great things from them both.
*
My Lord,
I regret to inform you Draco Malfoy has been known on several occasions to let slip your political persona is, in fact, you. Harsh punishments have not waned this disturbing habit, although few outside his circle believe the rumour. Please advice.
Your servant,
SS.
*
S,
I will handle it.
LV.
*
“My Lord, a moment of your time, please.”
For you, always.
“We discussed the Serpent’s mark would mean the host could not take your mark. Did you go through with that?”
Yes, I did. If only to soothe your slobbering hound.
“Sirius doesn’t slobber. Does he? No, that’s - nevermind. May I offer my mark to those who do not want to take yours, but is afraid of retribution? Your followers know the Serpent has a mark, after all.”
I don’t see why not, if they are neutral or otherwise aligned with our cause. Though I do not see any reason why someone would fear retribution of taking my mark, but not yours .
“Mm. My Lord?”
Speak.
“You aren’t exactly known for being kind to your followers.”
I suppose not. Very well, you have a point - I shall permit this use of your mark. Who is it you wish to help?
“You’ll see it in the Serpent’s book, if they accept.”
*
(The Book of Serpents, list of marked members. The writing is in parselscript.)
On this list shall only those with the Serpent’s Mark on their body be written.
On the day of August 15th, 1999, Sirius Orion Black , Lord of House Black, chose to bear the Serpent’s Mark.
On the day of August 15th, 1999, Neville Frank Longbottom , Heir of House Longbottom, chose to bear the Serpent’s Mark.
On the day of October 10th, 1999, Theodore Talcatt Nott, Heir of House Nott, chose to bear the Serpent’s Mark.
On the day of October 11th, 1999, Daphne Diana Greengrass , Heir of House Greengrass, chose to bear the Serpent’s mark Mark.
*
Clever, pet.
“I do try.”
*
When Voldemort had received that first letter drenched in desperation, he thought it a trick. A bluff, or, at the very least, a poor joke. His mind changed at once when the parchment laced with Veritaserum spoke of abuse, and starvation, and death. His sworn enemy had begged to be killed at his wand.
Voldemort had considered it. Not at first, since he required the prophecy, but certainly once he had outlived his welcome… and then everything changed, because Healer Abbet unwittingly told him he was his horcrux. It depended on the prophecy, then, though Voldemort had hoped it would not doom his horcrux to death - and perhaps it would have, if Voldemort was not a stubborn, fiercely arrogant man. He would shape Harry Potter in his image, would own and have him bowing at his every will, and he would never think to raise wand against him.
(It would be many long years before he’d realize Harry Potter had whispered into his ear from the shadows, changing the entire trajectory of their country.)
Samhain was upon them, and his darling had brought his followers - his hatchlings - with him. All five of them wore masks, as custom as his favourite Death Eaters, though his sentimental pet had given them colorful, floral patterns, and their robes were white.
The Longbottom heir seemed to take his
“sword and shield” seriously, eyes wary as they scanned the crowd. Lord Black, too, though his posture seemed more relaxed, had positioned himself so he could shield his godson if needs must.
The Greengrass and Nott heirs were far more clearly there because they had sought protection, shoulders stiff and flanking their Serpent as he moved them closer into the ritual circle. His darling leaned back and muttered something to them, which must have brought some comfort, for their tension eased.
“We begin,” called Voldemort, and everyone present, clad in black and white alike, fanned out to surround the circle. As one, twenty-seven silver blades shone beneath the moon before they slashed into twenty-seven palms to let the soil and the dead drink their blood.
Through their link, his pet’s delight was a firework of colors and warmth, and Voldemort smiled cruelly, for he had won.
(On the other side of the circle, opposing his Lord and master, Harry gave a gasped breath of relief, for he, too, had won .)